11:07 a.m. - 2004-12-09
I Need More Coffee to Think of a Cute Title.
The people in my office do not know how to make coffee. They do not understand that the purpose of coffee is to get an immediate caffeine buzz so that you can avoid waking up in a puddle of drool with the imprint of your mouse pad on your face. Plus, the coffee is Folger's, which is beyond nasty. I've tried to convince our supply-ordering chick of this, but she said that the people upstairs like it. For what? Cleaning the grime off their engine parts? Watering their plants?
As a result of this coffee incompetence, I spend at least $5 a week getting coffee at alternate locations. My City Bites guy KNOWS what coffee is. He knows that coffee should:
(1) Not be transparent
(2) Not taste like it's been in the pot for a week when it's been there five minutes
(3) Have adequate amounts of caffeine.
Plus, he consumes a big-ass pot on his own every morning. Of course, they open at 7. By the time I get there around 8-ish (okay, 8:30, dammit), he's already had his rations and is bouncing off the walls. However, his propensity for giving me free refills, free cookies, and other free stuff makes up for the unacceptable hyperactivity before noon.
Some days, one or two cups from City Bites, despite their strength of character, are inadequate. Insomnia is an evil bitch, and she sometimes needs to be beaten severely rather than just slapped around a little. On those days, it's time for "The Buzz", which is an independently-owned coffee shop across the street that completely kicks Starbucks' lame corporate-giant ass. Specifically, it is time for one of my favorite things: a low-fat cinnamon latte with an extra shot. Their coffee is DEFINITELY non-transparent. It actually looks kind of like sewage. That's why I stopped watching them make it. Because it tastes very yummy, and you can practically feel your heartbeat accelerating while you drink it. It comes in a nice little cup with a lid, so you don't have to LOOK at it while you're drinking. Therefore, I don't need to know what it looks like.
However, this morning, due to my complete and utter laziness (as in, didn't want to walk downstairs again, much less across the street), I actually drank a cup of coffee from the office. After a disproportionately large amount of French Vanilla creamer and Splenda, it turned white. At least then I couldn't taste the shit.
In other tales from the office, tomorrow is the Christmas Party. Even though I hate the holidays, I have no problem consuming a nice lunch and free drinks, nor do I have a problem with the office being closed after said lunch. Actually, free food and drink are about the only GOOD things about the holidays. Lawyers do know how to party. I need to find out when some of the other good downtown drinking fests are, so I can make the rounds.
However, with the party being tomorrow, that means it's time to buy a gift for our office manager (who is really cool). The problem is, the same people who made boss's day such an adventure are the ones making a mountain out of a molehill about the Christmas gift. An e-mail was sent asking for contributions. Then another e-mail. Then another e-mail. And a rumor circulated that the person collecting the funds was marking names off a list�.
Okay, last time I checked, gifts should be VOLUNTARY. If people don't want to contribute, they shouldn't feel like they are going to be chastised for being (a) broke (b) lacking in holiday spirit or (c) all of the above. I hate office politics. I hate ass-kissers. And I hate people telling me what to do. However, I do like our office manager, since she actually attempts to remove politics when she can, is not really susceptible to ass-kissing, and really almost never says no when you ask for time off or whatever. I am not going to punish her because some of the people on staff are immature and bitchy. (These people are also the ones who find excuses to come to our floor and "see if we're working"; remind us of the "dress code rules" on Fridays when they have objection to our outfits; and pretty much have their tongues at the ready anytime a member of management walks by.)
Well, of course, Jesus's right-hand woman had something to say when we got the last e-mail. She throws a fit, yanks out her checkbook, writes a FIFTY DOLLAR CHECK (when they were asking for $5-$10), goes upstairs, and starts chewing ass about how they shouldn't be telling us what to do, I hope you're happy with this, blah blah blah. She kept ranting once she came back downstairs. This morning, she sent an apologetic e-mail to the nearby co-workers. One of them forwarded it to me:
Please accept this email as an apology for my angry outburst yesterday. When I reflect on my behavior, I am ashamed and embarrassed. My language was inexcusable.
I hope that I can restore your faith in my ability to control my emotions.
When I read that last line, I laughed so hard, I almost peed my pants.
Thanks to everyone who actually read my mental purgings from the last few days. Your comments were much appreciated.
