In my incredibly important role as an executive assistant, I have to talk to a lot of really retarded people (none of which is my boss, I’d like to emphasize, in case he ever reads this). But none of these is more retarded than the IT telemarketer. This is the guy who never EVER bothers to look up the name of the IT manager at your location but just calls and casually tells you–obviously on speakerphone, because his legs are kicked up on his desk and he’s busy practicing his old frat’s secret handshake–to connect him to whoever happens to be the head of your IT department. Having a superiority complex and an intense desire to lose my job over something stupid like being snotty to salesmen, I make absolutely no effort to mask the loathing in my voice from these cretins.
HOWEVER, I just received a call from one at an NYC company called Axispoint and was uncharacteristically nice to him, simply because I was coming off a delicious chicken meatball lunch and had really enjoyed IMing Dr. Boyfriend about being excited to “warm up my ‘balls” all morning long. But as soon as I uncharacteristically nicely told this guy that we don’t even keep an IT department at our location–particularly ironic since we’re a software company–he just went and HUNG UP ON ME.
Can you believe it? I am the one who hangs up on people. I am underpaid one who has to talk to retards all day. I have a singsong voice that demands telemarketers to stay on the line longer. But not this guy.
I checked my call log, and of course I have his number from my caller ID. So what should I do with it?
My dear Dr. Boyfriend has a series of uplifting catchphrases, my favourites being “everything’s coming up Kamran” and “it’s your world, squirrel”. For my birthday today, he sent me this:
And while I have no idea who invited the guy in the cowboy hat to my party, I appreciate the sentiment.
But I’ll tell you what–it’s rough having a birthday when you’re lactose intolerant. As you may remember, I’ve been working on becoming lactose tolerant, and while I do believe I’m making strides, what’s coming out of my bum today smells nasty. I keep running out of the bathroom as soon as I’m finished, because I don’t want to hang around and have to explain to my co-workers who weren’t in New Orleans with me this week, “I’m lactose intolerant, but there was an ice cream bar at lunch yesterday, and what was I supposed to do?! It’s my goddamned birthday!”
While there for the next three days in the Harrah’s Hotel and Casino, I plan to:
• not gamble
• not sightsee in any way
• not get drunk and show my boobs to anyone
• mostly lie about in my ridiculously-overpriced hotel room, devising ways to steal M&Ms from my minibar
Yaaaaay, work trips!
Our boyfriends are under the impression that my co-worker/super-New-York-BFF Sonya and I are trying to eat right and lose inches off our ever-expanding assets, but the truth is that most of our day is spent at my desk doing this:
And boy, are we pleased with ourselves about it:
My boyfriend, Kamran, recently moved from a regular, old associate office into a partner office at the law firm where he does patent whatnot, and late Saturday afternoon, he took me to work to show me how far he’s come.
From the old days in a dark little office where things like this were par for the course:
to this:
The glory! The majesty! Looking out upon the Empire State Building as you write patents and litigate the hell out of anyone who so much as coughs in your direction–that’s how you know you’ve made it!
But even now that he’s sittin’ pretty on top, Kamran will always be a physics-experiments-in-the-lab-lovin’ kind of nerd:
Congratulations, hotstuff.
