weekend cubicle slave
Sunday, April 22 2001
I spent all morning struggling with a stupid Hewlett Packard printer without ever getting it to work. Since it would cost more to ship it back than it's worth ($30), I suppose I'm stuck with it. Actually, though, the power supply and USB-to-parallel converter are probably worth $30 all by themselves.
In the afternoon John went with his sister Maria and a pair of Maria's extremely catty friends down to Manhattan Beach. Manhattan Beach is even more crowded than the Venice Boardwalk, and there is, John reports, a considerably higher concentration of beautiful people along with a lower concentration of freaks. Still, Maria's two catty friends found much to be catty about, particularly the abundance of obviously fake breasts. John figures the reason for thier cattiness is intense insecurity, a consequence of their conventional American dumpiness and, in the case of one of them, oversized horse gums, huge flashes of pink upon which it's difficult to gaze.
I took an afternoon nap and awoke with a particularly horrible case of the post-nap blahs. At my workplace I had a number of things I needed to do by Monday morning, and since I'd been unable to focus sufficiently on my professional tasks on Friday (because of continued web fallout from the FBI thing), I actually went into work this evening even though it was Sunday. I was just hoping to discretely scoot in, do a little work and then scoot out unnoticed, but my new boss happened to be there. I suppose it made a good impression to be seen coming into work on a Sunday without even being asked, but still, I don't want to get a reputation as a weekend-working gimp. In this time of underwater stock options and other demoralizing work-related financial issues, the era of the weekend cubicle slave is definitely over. And that's a good thing.
For linking purposes this article's URL is:feedback
previous | next