Occasionally my phone will ring at work with a vendor trying to sell me something. I can't be more specific about what it is they're selling, because the caller is never specific. It's always some kind of software program that will reinvent, renew, or refresh our marketing strategy.
These cold callers can never say how, or what their software does over the phone. The goal is to intrigue me into booking a meeting, and then wow me with something I've never seen before on a computer screen.
A perverted friend of mine once showed me a picture of two four-hundred pound lesbians with skin diseases having sex with a horse, and what appeared to be peanut butter. After that, it's always going to take a lot to show me something I've never seen before on a computer screen.
I gave in last week and agreed to a couple of sales guys coming out to show me software so cutting edge, it couldn't be described over the phone at all. All I gathered from the initial cold call was it had something to do with the Internet.
These sales guys have a tough job, and every once in a while I'll give somebody a chance. The particular guy who called was smart enough to have done some research, and he wasn't reading from a script. Feeling generous, I set up a meeting...despite having no actual power, budget or technical knowledge.
This is information I hold back to intrigue the occasional vendor into coming to see me, should there be a remote possibility their services can help with what I need. I want there to be a product out there that will solve all of my professional problems. Not only will it help me track engagement and surpass my key performance indicators, but it simultaneously screens for losers when I sneak on to the online dating site from work! What a product!
This was not that product. This wasn't any product I could use, and I give the original smooth talker credit for almost saving the presentation when it became obvious the product wasn't for me. He had me almost reconsidering, when his partner jumped in.
As far as wingmen go, if the smooth talker took his partner out to a bar nobody would be getting laid. Ever. Diplomacy, tact, good breath...none of these things mattered to the partner.
The partner started to go on at length about how he could see I was somebody who just didn't know how to use tools. Not only did I not know how to use tools, I didn't even realize I could use them at all.
Yes folks...in attempting to explain how our current marketing and communications strategy and database couldn't support the platform they were selling at this time due to resourcing issues and a current freeze on any IT projects connected to our database, I inadvertently revealed I don't have the learning capacity of a cro-magnon. I wouldn't even know to hit something with a rock if I had to break it open...which is a good thing whenever our database freezes I suppose.
The smooth talker tried to smooth it over, but I was done. I was also a little unsettled, remembering that my kitchen light is still burnt out because I can't find the pliers I need to get the screws out of the light fixture, and wondering if the partner had actually seen inside my head to know that.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Server of Satan
My laptop at home has been giving me attitude. It's sullen, it flashes me error messages and it's slow to do what I want, if it does anything at all.
I've been making repeated calls to my personal tech support who in turn, has been ignoring me just like technical support people do even when they're not your best friends and have never seen you snarf an entire bottle of champagne just because it was Tuesday.
My tech support finally called me back and left a message assuring he understood exactly what I need help with. According to my tech support I need some help with my laptop, but more importantly I need help finding a date, and I need help getting laid.
This was the entirety of his message. That and he was stoned, had a wonderful time at a conference, there was nothing on TV at the moment and I better not be not answering the phone because I was doing something really lame, like laundry.
I was in fact, doing laundry when he called.
In my defense, I was doing laundry in preparation for a date that I was hoping would solve problems two and three, although not necessarily on the same night.
After taking my online dating profile down, I've put it back up again to typically underwhelming response. I was bored without the promise of mortification and rejection, and if I was bored I'm sure my reader fan-base (hello both of you!) would be bored too.
I thought I had an edge this time around, because I didn't think I cared. When I send messages to guys and get no response back, I shrug my shoulders instead of wondering why they don't write back. When my inbox stays empty, I yawn with contempt. I'm not bothered. I have become a cynical, cold, hard shell. Obviously I'm ready for dating.
This was just tempting the universe though. By swearing I could handle any rejection and ridiculousness sitting across the table from me, the universe was forced to get creative. After all, I've already dealt with outright lies and that one weirdo with the vitamins.
I've sacrificed a sweater to a dying bird and endured one more discussion about cornbread than anybody ever needs, and nobody ever needs a discussion about cornbread.
My quest to find a man who will simply call when he says he will call has taken me to some new depths - but for the first time last night I found myself truly disrespected and offended, and I'm embarrassed at how I handled it.
Dave looked like he belonged on the cover of a men's magazine or that article in Cosmo revealing why men who appear able to fight fires, hunt grizzly with one hand and hoist you on to his lap with the other are sexy.
He was sharp, funny and he called me when he said he would call. This alone, made me want to break out the fancy panties.
Our first phone conversation lasted an hour and a half and he asked me...he asked me questions about myself. Like he actually cared. Thoughtful questions, about what I do and who I am. So far, he was unprecedented. Completely unprecedented.
We agreed to meet for a drink.
He chose a very new, trendy, lounge-like place that was so new and trendy we were the only customers. No seriously - we were the only two people there. He gave me the option of going some place else, and in hindsight that might have been the smartest choice I could have made but I thought it would be a trip to have an entire posh lounge to ourselves so we took our white pleather sofas and started to chat.
He wasn't as pretty in person as in his photographs, but still probably prettier than me. And so was the waitress -- Erika.
Dave and Erika were deep in conversation when I arrived, and I assumed he picked the place just because he had friends there. It turns out the owner is also a friend and I was happy to help him support his buddy in getting his business off the ground.
It stands to reason that being the only customers in a lounge that could host 200 would garner some attentive service. I was fully expecting to not have to catch Erika's eye when my wine glass ran out, but I wasn't banking on not being able to get rid of her.
Every six minutes like clockwork, Erika would come by our table. She wasn't checking on our drinks, she was bored. I know this, because she said so. Then she was just hanging out, then she admitted she was lurking and then she was seeing what we were up to and then she was just saying hello and then she was checking on us and then she was just wanting to chat and then she was just trying to pass the time.
Every six minutes, Erika would drop by and stay for eight minutes. It was just like an overly-attentive waiter comedy sketch, only more absurd. At one point it actually crossed my mind to look around for a hidden camera.
Don't think I didn't try to dissuade her. Women have looks that can only be perceived and therefore lethal to other women. I was giving this bitch looks that could have dropped a commercial airliner out of the sky. My eyeballs actually re-gelled into samurai swords, and still she came.
For his part, Dave invited her. She would walk up and Dave would stop whatever he was saying to me in mid-sentence, turn his body toward her and offer a joke or a question to get her talking.
They shared stories about mutual friends, places they had worked - it was a grand old time...if you weren't the extra chick molded to a white pleather sofa.
When she did leave, I would have to think hard to remind Dave where he had left in his conversation with me, and that was an effort. That's how much time passed while our server shared our date.
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without somehow insulting his friend and making myself out to be a catty bitch. We would settle back into some interesting conversation, and Erika would show up again. Dave would turn to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and get her talking. And I said nothing.
Suddenly Dave was ready to go. We had been there two hours, with approximately 40 minutes spent hanging out with the waitress. Dave went up to the bar to pay, and I overheard the waitress and my date exchanging names.
"I'm Dave by the way."
"I'm Erika - it's great to meet you Dave!"
Are you fucking kidding me?? All that time, I had assumed they were buddies. I thought so because they were talking when I showed up, I thought so because they both knew some common people and I thought so because I'm an idiot.
I said nothing while my date proceeded to use our date to date somebody else, and treat me like the interruption. I said nothing while every females nightmare of a server entertained herself on a boring shift by making me look like an ass, just because I couldn't think of what to say without coming across as "bitchy."
And I still can't. Dave and I parted ways five minutes out of the door and in case I hadn't got the hint or was profoundly brain-damaged and felt the urge to see him again, he made it clear it was not to be.
The first thing Dave had said to me when we sat down was how witty he thought I was. How very funny. Most women he met were not clever at all, and I was just the wittiest girl he'd ever met.
Apparently, having seen me in person for two hours, that was still the best and only compliment he could give me. He struck me as a guy who strives to be a gentlemen, and I assume he likes to leave his dates with a compliment. It seems I was a tough case, because he could only leave me with this heartfelt bit of flattery:
"You're a witty, witty girl. Don't ever change that."
Um. Okay.
I suppose if for some reason I did make the decision to change and or alter my essential nature, there would be nothing appealing left about me. I can't rely on my looks, so I better hope my dry wit is enough to carry me to the alter some day because I've got nothing else. Thanks Dave.
I would like to point out that for this, I missed America's Next Top Model. And that new show called "Life" I like so much about the cop who was wrongly imprisoned starring that dude from Band of Brothers who I find weirdly sexy. So thanks for that too Dave.
And thanks also, for not even giving me the basic respect you'd give...well...a waitress. I was too weak to say anything, and I'm mad at myself for that but thanks to you the next guy who so much as lets his eyes travel when I'm speaking to him will likely have a near death experience so profound he'll give up his worldly possessions and travel to Tibet with nothing but a leather bound journal and tooth floss.
I'll forgive myself though, probably while eating cheesecake and watching next week's America's Next Top Model. I love eating and watching really skinny people at the same time. It 's decadent.
I won't forgive you though. Good luck, and happy dating asshole.
I've been making repeated calls to my personal tech support who in turn, has been ignoring me just like technical support people do even when they're not your best friends and have never seen you snarf an entire bottle of champagne just because it was Tuesday.
My tech support finally called me back and left a message assuring he understood exactly what I need help with. According to my tech support I need some help with my laptop, but more importantly I need help finding a date, and I need help getting laid.
This was the entirety of his message. That and he was stoned, had a wonderful time at a conference, there was nothing on TV at the moment and I better not be not answering the phone because I was doing something really lame, like laundry.
I was in fact, doing laundry when he called.
In my defense, I was doing laundry in preparation for a date that I was hoping would solve problems two and three, although not necessarily on the same night.
After taking my online dating profile down, I've put it back up again to typically underwhelming response. I was bored without the promise of mortification and rejection, and if I was bored I'm sure my reader fan-base (hello both of you!) would be bored too.
I thought I had an edge this time around, because I didn't think I cared. When I send messages to guys and get no response back, I shrug my shoulders instead of wondering why they don't write back. When my inbox stays empty, I yawn with contempt. I'm not bothered. I have become a cynical, cold, hard shell. Obviously I'm ready for dating.
This was just tempting the universe though. By swearing I could handle any rejection and ridiculousness sitting across the table from me, the universe was forced to get creative. After all, I've already dealt with outright lies and that one weirdo with the vitamins.
I've sacrificed a sweater to a dying bird and endured one more discussion about cornbread than anybody ever needs, and nobody ever needs a discussion about cornbread.
My quest to find a man who will simply call when he says he will call has taken me to some new depths - but for the first time last night I found myself truly disrespected and offended, and I'm embarrassed at how I handled it.
Dave looked like he belonged on the cover of a men's magazine or that article in Cosmo revealing why men who appear able to fight fires, hunt grizzly with one hand and hoist you on to his lap with the other are sexy.
He was sharp, funny and he called me when he said he would call. This alone, made me want to break out the fancy panties.
Our first phone conversation lasted an hour and a half and he asked me...he asked me questions about myself. Like he actually cared. Thoughtful questions, about what I do and who I am. So far, he was unprecedented. Completely unprecedented.
We agreed to meet for a drink.
He chose a very new, trendy, lounge-like place that was so new and trendy we were the only customers. No seriously - we were the only two people there. He gave me the option of going some place else, and in hindsight that might have been the smartest choice I could have made but I thought it would be a trip to have an entire posh lounge to ourselves so we took our white pleather sofas and started to chat.
He wasn't as pretty in person as in his photographs, but still probably prettier than me. And so was the waitress -- Erika.
Dave and Erika were deep in conversation when I arrived, and I assumed he picked the place just because he had friends there. It turns out the owner is also a friend and I was happy to help him support his buddy in getting his business off the ground.
It stands to reason that being the only customers in a lounge that could host 200 would garner some attentive service. I was fully expecting to not have to catch Erika's eye when my wine glass ran out, but I wasn't banking on not being able to get rid of her.
Every six minutes like clockwork, Erika would come by our table. She wasn't checking on our drinks, she was bored. I know this, because she said so. Then she was just hanging out, then she admitted she was lurking and then she was seeing what we were up to and then she was just saying hello and then she was checking on us and then she was just wanting to chat and then she was just trying to pass the time.
Every six minutes, Erika would drop by and stay for eight minutes. It was just like an overly-attentive waiter comedy sketch, only more absurd. At one point it actually crossed my mind to look around for a hidden camera.
Don't think I didn't try to dissuade her. Women have looks that can only be perceived and therefore lethal to other women. I was giving this bitch looks that could have dropped a commercial airliner out of the sky. My eyeballs actually re-gelled into samurai swords, and still she came.
For his part, Dave invited her. She would walk up and Dave would stop whatever he was saying to me in mid-sentence, turn his body toward her and offer a joke or a question to get her talking.
They shared stories about mutual friends, places they had worked - it was a grand old time...if you weren't the extra chick molded to a white pleather sofa.
When she did leave, I would have to think hard to remind Dave where he had left in his conversation with me, and that was an effort. That's how much time passed while our server shared our date.
I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without somehow insulting his friend and making myself out to be a catty bitch. We would settle back into some interesting conversation, and Erika would show up again. Dave would turn to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and get her talking. And I said nothing.
Suddenly Dave was ready to go. We had been there two hours, with approximately 40 minutes spent hanging out with the waitress. Dave went up to the bar to pay, and I overheard the waitress and my date exchanging names.
"I'm Dave by the way."
"I'm Erika - it's great to meet you Dave!"
Are you fucking kidding me?? All that time, I had assumed they were buddies. I thought so because they were talking when I showed up, I thought so because they both knew some common people and I thought so because I'm an idiot.
I said nothing while my date proceeded to use our date to date somebody else, and treat me like the interruption. I said nothing while every females nightmare of a server entertained herself on a boring shift by making me look like an ass, just because I couldn't think of what to say without coming across as "bitchy."
And I still can't. Dave and I parted ways five minutes out of the door and in case I hadn't got the hint or was profoundly brain-damaged and felt the urge to see him again, he made it clear it was not to be.
The first thing Dave had said to me when we sat down was how witty he thought I was. How very funny. Most women he met were not clever at all, and I was just the wittiest girl he'd ever met.
Apparently, having seen me in person for two hours, that was still the best and only compliment he could give me. He struck me as a guy who strives to be a gentlemen, and I assume he likes to leave his dates with a compliment. It seems I was a tough case, because he could only leave me with this heartfelt bit of flattery:
"You're a witty, witty girl. Don't ever change that."
Um. Okay.
I suppose if for some reason I did make the decision to change and or alter my essential nature, there would be nothing appealing left about me. I can't rely on my looks, so I better hope my dry wit is enough to carry me to the alter some day because I've got nothing else. Thanks Dave.
I would like to point out that for this, I missed America's Next Top Model. And that new show called "Life" I like so much about the cop who was wrongly imprisoned starring that dude from Band of Brothers who I find weirdly sexy. So thanks for that too Dave.
And thanks also, for not even giving me the basic respect you'd give...well...a waitress. I was too weak to say anything, and I'm mad at myself for that but thanks to you the next guy who so much as lets his eyes travel when I'm speaking to him will likely have a near death experience so profound he'll give up his worldly possessions and travel to Tibet with nothing but a leather bound journal and tooth floss.
I'll forgive myself though, probably while eating cheesecake and watching next week's America's Next Top Model. I love eating and watching really skinny people at the same time. It 's decadent.
I won't forgive you though. Good luck, and happy dating asshole.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Summary.
This has not been a great week professionally. Looking back, I can't pinpoint one area where it all went wrong. That's how annoyed I am, and I still have one more day to go.
Since I can't even bring myself to complain about one thing over another, I'll settle for listing phrases that have actually left my mouth at some point in time, at work, this week:
"Was the cougar spotted close to where my car is parked or was it more near the trees where my car is parked?"
"So the VP based his hiring descision on the Secret? No...I'm not questioning I'm just...um....that's really interesting."
"Are you talking about the woman who thought I looked lonely or the woman who thought I was pregnant?"
"I'm totally aware that blueberries are good in muffins but I just really needed some fucking chocolate chips and I was totally deceived by the blueberries."
If I could just make it to Saturday without killing anybody, or being attacked by wild animals I should be fine, and there's not too many people who can say that about their office jobs.
Since I can't even bring myself to complain about one thing over another, I'll settle for listing phrases that have actually left my mouth at some point in time, at work, this week:
"Was the cougar spotted close to where my car is parked or was it more near the trees where my car is parked?"
"So the VP based his hiring descision on the Secret? No...I'm not questioning I'm just...um....that's really interesting."
"Are you talking about the woman who thought I looked lonely or the woman who thought I was pregnant?"
"I'm totally aware that blueberries are good in muffins but I just really needed some fucking chocolate chips and I was totally deceived by the blueberries."
If I could just make it to Saturday without killing anybody, or being attacked by wild animals I should be fine, and there's not too many people who can say that about their office jobs.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Jenny Craig, you #$%*ing bitch.
You always know it's time. Maybe it's the red creases in your skin clearly outlining where your pants and underpants were sitting at the same time you were.
Maybe it's the moment you're lying in bed and you think to yourself, "Did my duvet cover used to be bigger?"
Maybe it's that glimpse you catch of yourself in a store window and you stop and wonder if you gave birth to triplets the same evening you polished off half a bottle of passion fruit liqueur because that would be the only explanation as to how your hips got so large so quickly and why you can't remember anything that happened that night and you're wondering if you left the newborns in the coat check along with your favourite little Esprit sweater and damn you really should call that place to see if you can get your sweater back.
Yeah it's time. I really need to lose some weight.
Like 98.9% of the female species, I've said this before. I've also ran out and done something about it before, with varying degrees of success. The fact that I'm saying it again means my success has always been short-lived...and let's not anybody hold her breath for this time.
I'm hungry already.
My motivation is strong though. I have pants I couldn't even pull up over my elbow right now in my closet. I would like to wear them again before I have to leave instructions in my will to have my skeleton dug up and the pants put on only when it's confirmed my skeleton will fit into clothing sold at Le Chateau.
Even though it's not looking likely, I may have sex again some day. Right now the odds of me meeting somebody are about the same as winning the Nobel Peace Prize (this is a true fact - check with Las Vegas if you don't believe me).
Just in case the Nobel thing falls through and I actually have sex again instead, I thought it would be nice if my fancy lingerie didn't give me muffin top. There's nothing hotter than naked muffin top. At this point, I'd be happy if my flannel PJ pants didn't give me muffin top.
And so it begins. The hunger. The bitching. (Actually the bitching is really just a continuation of my usual state, only now I'm hungry). The deprivation. And did I mention I'm hungry?
Day one, starts now.
Maybe it's the moment you're lying in bed and you think to yourself, "Did my duvet cover used to be bigger?"
Maybe it's that glimpse you catch of yourself in a store window and you stop and wonder if you gave birth to triplets the same evening you polished off half a bottle of passion fruit liqueur because that would be the only explanation as to how your hips got so large so quickly and why you can't remember anything that happened that night and you're wondering if you left the newborns in the coat check along with your favourite little Esprit sweater and damn you really should call that place to see if you can get your sweater back.
Yeah it's time. I really need to lose some weight.
Like 98.9% of the female species, I've said this before. I've also ran out and done something about it before, with varying degrees of success. The fact that I'm saying it again means my success has always been short-lived...and let's not anybody hold her breath for this time.
I'm hungry already.
My motivation is strong though. I have pants I couldn't even pull up over my elbow right now in my closet. I would like to wear them again before I have to leave instructions in my will to have my skeleton dug up and the pants put on only when it's confirmed my skeleton will fit into clothing sold at Le Chateau.
Even though it's not looking likely, I may have sex again some day. Right now the odds of me meeting somebody are about the same as winning the Nobel Peace Prize (this is a true fact - check with Las Vegas if you don't believe me).
Just in case the Nobel thing falls through and I actually have sex again instead, I thought it would be nice if my fancy lingerie didn't give me muffin top. There's nothing hotter than naked muffin top. At this point, I'd be happy if my flannel PJ pants didn't give me muffin top.
And so it begins. The hunger. The bitching. (Actually the bitching is really just a continuation of my usual state, only now I'm hungry). The deprivation. And did I mention I'm hungry?
Day one, starts now.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Period to the maxx!
Um. Can we talk about something a bit personal for a moment? I've been seeing ads on TV for a new Playtex tampon.
Does the tampon come soaked in Vicodin so that I can truly have a happy period? No. Does the tampon vibrate, vacuum or perform any other service that I might in fact want or need? Not really.
According to the ads, Playtex has created the first ever, Sport Tampon. It's a "high-performance" tampon. As opposed to all of those other tampons who just never really gave it their all, better suited to watching from the sidelines.
Does the world need a Sport Tampon? Has this been an issue? A big feature of this product is a patented No-Slip Grip applicator. I'm not sure about anybody else, and perhaps this is a sign of my own ignorance, but this isn't a problem that comes up too often.
Perhaps I'm not the high-performance woman Platex is marketing to, as usually I'm standing fairly still while taking care of any tampon-related requirements. I'm not hanging off the side of a mountain, balancing on a surf board or crossing the finish line in the Iron Man while trying to work a tampon.
I've never thought, "If only my tampon were as high-performance as my life I could really give 110%." Were I to have this thought, I would naturally then crack a Mountain Dew, adjust my helmet and bungee jump off the side of the bridge I just climbed. While inserting my new high-performance tampon with my no-slip grip applicator of course.
Does the tampon come soaked in Vicodin so that I can truly have a happy period? No. Does the tampon vibrate, vacuum or perform any other service that I might in fact want or need? Not really.
According to the ads, Playtex has created the first ever, Sport Tampon. It's a "high-performance" tampon. As opposed to all of those other tampons who just never really gave it their all, better suited to watching from the sidelines.
Does the world need a Sport Tampon? Has this been an issue? A big feature of this product is a patented No-Slip Grip applicator. I'm not sure about anybody else, and perhaps this is a sign of my own ignorance, but this isn't a problem that comes up too often.
Perhaps I'm not the high-performance woman Platex is marketing to, as usually I'm standing fairly still while taking care of any tampon-related requirements. I'm not hanging off the side of a mountain, balancing on a surf board or crossing the finish line in the Iron Man while trying to work a tampon.
I've never thought, "If only my tampon were as high-performance as my life I could really give 110%." Were I to have this thought, I would naturally then crack a Mountain Dew, adjust my helmet and bungee jump off the side of the bridge I just climbed. While inserting my new high-performance tampon with my no-slip grip applicator of course.
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