You know when you wake up in the morning and get ready, how you take a shower and know what you're going to wear? You know those mornings? You're lathering up, you're taking a minute to enjoy your trimmed hedge, and you think: Those black low-waist pants. That'll be good. With an interesting stretchy top. That's the ticket.

Wednesday was one of those days for me. Angus was in Aachen, I had to hurry to get my ass off to London for what I am now calling Toastie Wednesdays (as in: Your ass is toast) project meetings, and I had to think about how to approach my day, seeing as I would shortly be lined up against red rings that turn my flesh brown.

So I get out of the shower, do the usual of makeup, deo, dreaming of sex, blow dry hair, wishing I was a Rockerfeller, get knickers on, get bra on, wishing I could win the lottery, and get the black trousers on. Strangely, they're a little loose. A lot loose, actually. I mean, I bought them a size big, but hanging off my hips? A glance at the clock tells me I'd better step on it-there's no time to rearrange trouser for skirts. It takes anywhere from 3 minutes to 15 minutes to get to the train station from our house, depending on traffic and how patient I can be with the 4x4 driving mothers that take up the road while dropping off their children at the private school at the end of the road, and I had to be on the 8:04 train to London.

I put on a white stretchy Gap shirt, keeping one extra button open just to show that I can be cool, I can play that funky music. I feel pleased. I feel comfortable. I look at my reflection in the mirror.

I look like a waiter at a Mexican restaurant.

I add a januty pearl belt.

I look like a waiter at a Mexican restaurant wearing a jaunty pearl belt.

I take off the shirt. I put on a purple sweater. I look like Grimace trying to go incognito. I take off the purple sweater. I put on a white sweater. I look like I should be out harpooning whales on the front of a skipper, swearing and saying: Hahr! Thar she blows! a lot and giggling at the innuendoes.

This is not going well. According to the clock I should leave the house in 1 minute. I scramble around in my closet and find a wrap-around shirt that I love but that I seldom wear. I throw it on, button my coat up, and race out of the house.

When I get to the office (after the requisite visit to Starbucks, where the bastards are no longer selling my gingerbread lattes), I get to the conference room where people are already setting up. It's like a rat race. Whoever gets to the LAN connection in the conference rooms first wins, and the rest of us have to be put out and beg for cheesy nibbles of internet connection. This is where being the project manager and owner of the Wednesday meetings has its perks.

Well...actually...that's the only perk of having this job.

Huh.

This job kinda' sucks, huh?

I take off my coat and commandeer the LAN connection, providing a hub that others can link to. I swing my coat off and hear a muffled gasping choking laugh. It's Ike, across from me, one of the technical leads.

"Oh. That shirt." he says, bright red.

I look down.

The wraparound is nicely exposing a large V of flesh, from the Swiss-dotted pink bra I am wearing to the top of my pink thong hanging over the top of my pants, which are threatening to go South for the winter and take the jaunty pearl belt with them. I yank the shirt closed and hitch up my trousers, noting grimly that the bottom of the shirt only just scrapes the top of the trousers while they're behaving. I suddenly remember the last time I wore this shirt-it was in a Wednesday meeting and I stood up, the tie of the closure catching on my armrest, and I neatly exposed a black lace bra to the surprised face of Ike.

I remember now why I haven't worn this shirt in a while.

I also now remember why I had been looking for a brooch.

I grin in apology, but I know Ike's not offended.

Ike smiles. "It's ok. I'm just back from holiday. I'm calm. I'm not stressed. I just want to get this mother fucking design draft out."

I look at him, raising my eyebrows. "'Mother fucking'? Where'd you go on holiday, Detroit?"

Philip, another project manager, races in. Philip looks remarkably like a Leprechaun and has the temper to match it. Philip specializes in getting involved where he doesn't belong, summarizing all of our projects and sending the reports to top management. His favorite activity is to send emails booking conference calls with about 7 minutes of warning, and said calls always take place at about 6:30 pm. I severely pissed him off with his last meeting call-he called a conference call from 6:30-7:30 pm on a Friday. I declined the invite with the following message: "It may come as a huge surprise, but I actually have a life, and said life begins at 5:30 pm on a Friday."

He races in.

"Helen, I have a call booked tonight at 6:30. You are joining, yes? I need your summary of your project."

"Ooh, sorry Philip." I say regretfully. "I would do, but tonight is my annual visit to my psychic."

He laughs. I don't move. The laughter titters away from his lips as he comes to a realization that I might not be joking. "Oh. OK. Right, sorry. I'll get your input from you tonight, afterwards then?"

I pretend to shake an invisible Magic 8 Ball. "Outlook not so good, Philip. It really depends on what my psychic tells me. I could join, or I could spend tonight meditating in front of patchouli, I simply don't know which way the spirits will guide me."

He smiles, confused, and dashes out.

Occasionally, I just love fucking with people's minds.

More people are hopping into the conference rooms. I reach for my Starbucks and, misjudging the tiny sipping spot, it splashes down the entire nubbin of my right boob.

"Fuck!" I cry out and head for the ladies room. I splash water on it and manage to get the coffee out, but now the shirt is plastered to my breast, highlighting (again) the Swiss-dotted pink bra I am wearing. I sigh and walk in. Ike nearly goes purple at the sight of me.

"Blimey!" calls out Ron. "You ok over there Project Mistress?" he asks, as the room full of men gawk.

"I'm lactating." I say flatly, and start the meeting.

The meeting starts. One of our vendors stands up and announces that there is a potential three week delay. Three weeks, in a plan that is so thin on time that an anorexic ant can't make its way between the Microsoft Project timeplans. I have been threatened with grievous bodily harm if this project is late, I have been told that it's the end of the world as we know it (go ahead. Sing it. You know you want to) if I'm as much as a week out of scope. They will blister me. They will crucify me. They will make me endlessly watch repeats of Weekend at Bernie's while dressed in a Lala Teletubby outfit. My career, for all intents and purposes, will be a smoldering ruin.

I look at the vendor representative, furious and in disbelief. The vendor representative is, not surprisingly, Hadrian. "I spoke to you last night on the phone at our 6 pm conference call. On that call I asked you twice if you were running late. I told you twice being late is unacceptable. You replied twice that you would not be late. And now you drop this on the table today?" I can't believe this guy. He is a complete waste of decent oral hygiene.

He looks at the table. "It's that other vendor's fault," he says, gesturing to a gobsmacked fellow Englishman. "I just didn't feel like talking about it last night."

The table goes nuts with people pointing fingers and accusing, screaming across the table. I sit there in shock. I have come so far in my life-recovering from being laid off from my job, where I co-led Company X's largest development project in history. I have a college degree and have been in this industry for 7 years. I am articulate, quick on my feet, not to mention the fact that I give a mean blow job.

And what do I think?

I need cheese. My mind screams wildly. I need to go home and eat some cheese.

The arguing continues.

We have gouda in there. And some dodgy feta. Buffalo mozzarella. We even have that French one, the one that's been in there a while and has just purchased a bungalow and hung out geraniums on the porch. I could eat that one. My mind scrambles desperately.

I get a grip. "This is unacceptable," I heard my dairy-loving mouth sayiny calmly. "Let's go through the plan and see what can be done to bring the timeplan back." Who is this calm chick talking? Who is this who is coming across so professional and ok? And why isn't she eating cheese?

We make our way through the meeting, my ulcer going off and my mind wailing for processed cow juice. The plan is well and truly fucked-we're talking prom night with no condoms. The relief is, I'm not in trouble for it (thus far)-there's no way I could've known about it as the issues took place in 4 different countries (and me without a passport) and weren't reported up (that's been remedied). Thursday will be spent in London trying to analyze what went wrong, and trying to build a dam as quickly as possible to stop the town and our little wooden shoes from flooding.

I make it through the day. I worked until about 8 pm, then I decided to get drunk and kill off all my Sims before watching Desperate Housewives. I got out two bottles of wine for myself, and made myself homemade macaroni and cheese, using up nearly half of every fucking cheese I had in there.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:30 AM | Comments (26) | Add Comment
Post contains 1766 words, total size 10 kb.

1 Well, that answers my question about how your Dream Job is going. How do you make home made macaroni and cheese?

Posted by: Irene at January 20, 2005 09:29 AM (YzTkY)

2 I've had those days, too, and I, too, have lost weight due to the stress. As far as I am concerned, that was the only payback for spending days on end totally terrified. You might, regarding your Starbucks accident, consider getting an insulated commuter mug, since this isn't your first accident. At least the mugs don't collapse and they have a smaller hole so that you won't get the coffee all over yourself if you miss. Best of luck. I'm cheering for you!

Posted by: RP at January 20, 2005 10:47 AM (X3Lfs)

3 If making you watch "Weekend at Bernies" is the worst they can do, you'll survive. ...if, on the other hand, they have a copy of "Weekend at Bernies 2" lying around... *shudder* *thinks happy thoughts*

Posted by: Z. Hendirez at January 20, 2005 12:31 PM (B4Nm7)

4 "Occasionally, I just love fucking with people's minds." Read back over your blog, babe. It's a bit more than occasionally. And it's such fun to watch you do it. "Annual visit to my psychic" indeed. *lol* That one's a classic. I may see if I can pull that one off.

Posted by: Easy at January 20, 2005 01:06 PM (VyZed)

5 Damn it woman I needed that laugh, you crack me up. I am constantly having to wash my shirt off in the bathrom because I spill something down the front of it, then I look like I am in a wet tee shirt contest!

Posted by: Cheryl at January 20, 2005 01:46 PM (jGybn)

6 Woohoo! Detroit, I wish I'd known he was vacationing here, my husband and I could have shown him around.

Posted by: Rebecca at January 20, 2005 02:02 PM (ZHfdF)

7 Helen, I think you need to seriously consider Scotchgarding your blouses. LOL

Posted by: Jim at January 20, 2005 02:18 PM (tyQ8y)

8 God - you made me laugh so hard I almost spilled coffee down the front of my blouse. You really need to talk to someone about writing a script - Desperate Housewives has nothing on you

Posted by: Kris at January 20, 2005 02:21 PM (yC8yv)

9 mmmmmmmmm cheeeeeeeeeeeese.

Posted by: sporty at January 20, 2005 03:34 PM (NsnoE)

10 I hate it when that happens - the shirt situation. Been there. There's that briefest of moments right before you remember WHY you haven't worn that particular piece of clothing - then the avalanche of what ifs and swearing that once and for all you will pitch or repair said article regardless of how much you love it, paid for it, etc. Needed that this morning!

Posted by: GrumpyBunny at January 20, 2005 03:34 PM (w3aVF)

11 Goodness girl! As much as you tread Toastie Wednesdays, I bet all the men you manage look forward to them. Just think of your occassional flashing as a superior motivational tool. I know I'd look more forward to meetings if every once in a while there was the possiblity of seeing junk. Wouldn't you?

Posted by: amy t. at January 20, 2005 03:41 PM (zPssd)

12 What? No more gingerbread lattes? The bastards! I will cry rivers when that happens here. My Starbucks ordered an extra supply just for me so hopefully they won't run out until at least March! I love my Starbucks. *swoon*

Posted by: anita at January 20, 2005 05:07 PM (WUM14)

13 The Pumpkin Latte's are a good stand in till next nov. Killing the sims.....how ya do it? Fire? Bladder? Mean Blowjobs? Those could hurt. Be Well.

Posted by: drew at January 20, 2005 05:11 PM (CBlhQ)

14 Ah dear, ROTFL^2... I haven't had so much fun since you went to the dentist... I'd say give up the blog and concentrate on a book but everyone would kill me... E@L

Posted by: expatatlarge at January 20, 2005 06:07 PM (QKr66)

15 Oh too funny....I mean, I feel your pain and all, but...too funny. Cheese...ahahahaha. Two bottles? And you're still typing today? Kudos to you!

Posted by: Amber at January 20, 2005 07:03 PM (zQE5D)

16 Sounds like it's time for Metamucil...

Posted by: Annette at January 20, 2005 07:35 PM (KF/HN)

17 That whole story had a very Bridgett Jones-esque air to it...and I love Bridgett Jones!

Posted by: Marc at January 20, 2005 08:46 PM (ky4tt)

18 These days right here? And we've all had them, surely. It was on a day just like this one when the brilliant concept of working to live vs. living to work was hatched. Most effective philosophy that it took me nearly fifteen years to practice. *shake* Without a doubt.

Posted by: Jennifer at January 20, 2005 11:17 PM (Mc6uB)

19 Ok I live in Detroit and I hardly ever say Mother Fucking because I went to a very nice private school where I was taught to say "What the Fuck homey" loudly. In a lady-like manner of course.

Posted by: Dee at January 20, 2005 11:57 PM (MPE5T)

20 But what did your Friday night psychic say? Surely you saw all this coming?

Posted by: simon at January 21, 2005 12:59 AM (JQ8pC)

21 Somewhere between the Magic 8 Ball and the cheese I remembered again why I secretly (not so secret now, is it, I guess) adore you.

Posted by: Sue at January 21, 2005 02:21 AM (vDAvD)

22 Helen.. if you haven't seen it.. you must watch Office Space.

Posted by: LarryConley at January 21, 2005 05:25 AM (hJJHG)

23 I am interested on how you follow-up with the people who lied to you the night before.

Posted by: iowa at January 22, 2005 09:12 PM (ODmFc)

24 You killed your Sims? And all this time I thought you were a pacifist.

Posted by: Victor at January 23, 2005 05:59 PM (etHvD)

25 I can't seem to kill my Sims! I keep trying, but they just keep having sex!

Posted by: Helen at January 23, 2005 06:13 PM (uFX1z)

26 Whew! You're back to being the lover-not-a-hater Helen we know and love! You have no idea how relieved I am.

Posted by: Victor at January 24, 2005 06:49 PM (L3qPK)

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