Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


Pitchin' a Bitch


OK. (And yes, all blog entries must begin with "OK".)

It was warmer today. And by warmer, I mean "My contacts didn't freeze to my eyeballs the nanosecond I walked outside".

My computer is still deceased. I am throwing myself upon the mercy of the ever-so-lovely gentlemen at the Cyber Warehouse tomorrow. The general consensus is that it's either a motherboard, ram or hard drive issue. I'm hoping for ram or motherboard, because I have no backups. (The damn CD ROM drive won't recognize a blank disc to write to- and hadn't for the past few weeks, so I've got nothin'.)

Bosslady is driving me batshit crazy.

Again. Like her. Like her mission. Think she's swell. She's not malicious, she's just scattered. But it's Driving. Me. Nuts.


Don't make me lie to the web guys (who are the smartest, swellest, nicest webdudes around) and tell them we have an article coming out in the paper over the weekend, directing people to our site, because you want them to rush your job. I hate lying to people, and frankly, we're not their only client. Also. Don't go out of town for two days, without telling me, and then bitch because I approved the changes so they'd be finished, and tell me you don't like them.

And don't call me at 8:30 at night, to ask me how to fix things on the site. Tell me what you want, and I will do it, but I may have been doing something (otherwise known as having a life) when you called, and don't have time to walk you through every single change, when I could just do it myself when I have time.

And if you ask me for a To Do list, and tell me you'll do the things on it over the weekend, I'm going to expect that you did them. But if you tell me that you looked at it, but that's it, then I'm going to be really cranky. Especially if you expected me to have everything done in 2 days (with no computer, therefore no list, and having to drive to the goddamn capitol building) and get snitty when I tell you that I haven't. Because when you do that, I reserve the right to get righteously angry on your ass. And where are the copies of checks I need to set up Quickbooks, you know- the ones I've been asking for since the first week of November. Slacker. I think those are a little higher priority than reprints of an article that came out last May.

Maybe I'm just being a surly little bitch, but frankly, I'm really starting to miss having a job, with a boss who knows what they're doing, with clear expectations of my duties, with real sick and vacation time, real live medical benefits, and co-workers. Maybe I'm just overreacting, but egads, this is starting to chafe a bit. At least at the little nonprofit that could (make you take back things you never stole) the resources were there that if something wasn't completed by FBD, I could do it myself. Here, I can't. And then the accountant calls me (in his obnoxious, condescending tone) and makes me feel like an asshole because stuff isn't done. I am not in a position where I can sit my boss down, and say "LOOK. You need to do this, and do it now." I'm also not in a position where I can start job hunting either. I haven't been there very long, and I can't even imagine how ungodly unbearable it would be to give her 2 weeks notice. (Not that she'd have difficulty finding someone to do my job- a monkey could do it- it's the dealing with her for 2 weeks.)


Welcome to Frustrationland. Population, Me.



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