LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Your mood could swing all over the map today, but remember to check your assumptions if you find yourself sliding into depression or boredom. You may just need to see things from a fresh perspective.
Laura’s Log:
You know it’s bad when you sit down with sisters in a packed coffeehouse and, five minutes later, all the surrounding tables are vacant. Lucy came out swinging: “Admit it. You have never been comfortable with the fact I’m a lesbian. And you have a fear that I’m going to turn Gretel that way, too.”
Estelle was flabbergasted, but managed to be articulate. “What you’re right about is I’m not comfortable around you. I know it disgusts you, but I’m uncomfortable about a lot of things. Tiger Woods. Ryan Seacrest. Even—I know this will shock you—Sarah Palin. I don’t care that you’re a lesbian. I care that you’re an angry person—not just an angry lesbian. You’re angry about everything. Laura and I wanted to meet at Starbucks, but going to a big corporate entity would have sent you over the edge. Although you seem to already be there.”
Lucy didn’t hear much of what Estelle had to say. She picked out the “angry lesbian” and went for the jugular. “Listen to you! Demonizing lesbians! We’re all angry! We’re the serial killers in movies! We’re Rosie O’Donnell going ballistic on that cute, petite Elizabeth puppet on ‘The View’.”
Ahem. My turn to step up as mediator. “Listen, let’s just calm down and—”
But Elizabeth was seething. “Yeah, all lesbians are angry. That’s exactly what I said. That Ellen Degeneres, why does she have to be so mean on ‘Idol’?”
A few more heated exchanges and Lucy stormed out. Not a moment too soon. A timid barista was edging toward our table, likely coming to ask us to keep it down. Pretty please. With Lucy’s grand exit, the worker retreated safety behind the counter, no doubt wondering if minimum wage was worth it. (Later, as we were leaving, I tossed an extra Toonie in the tip jar.)
It took Estelle twenty minutes to unwind. Would’ve been longer but then she remembered her digital camera in her purse. She pulled it out and showed the pics she’d snapped at Gretel’s last Taps for Tots session. All 117 of them. I really felt like I was there.
* * *
Woke up at 4:15 this morning, Tupper throwing up again. After some mopping and a walkie, I couldn’t get back to sleep. Dangerous thoughts came to mind. I’d lost Gabriel. Had I expected too much? What if he was my last shot? And what about Tupper? Was he in pain? How much longer did he have? Would I know when it was the right time to take him to the vet one last time? Would I do it? Why was Tim Urban still on “American Idol”? Why was I still watching? And what would I do after “Ugly Betty” was all over? Why didn’t I have a real life?
I tried to deceive myself with happy thoughts. But Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream only brings a smile when it’s stocked in the freezer. Bland low-fat vanilla frozen yogurt? Meh.
I thought of Lucy’s rage. We all knew it was pathological and needed treatment, but who would dare to bring it up? How did Carl(a) deal with it? I thought of Dad. Weeks (months?) ago, he’d said they were trying to force his retirement. He’d looked despondent. How was he doing? Unlike Lucy, or Mom even, he was so hard to read. Would he open up if I tried to go there or would he just be embarrassed for sharing in the first place and build a taller, thicker wall?
I looked to Tupper for comfort, but he was back to snoring. Oh, to be a dog. Why couldn’t I just vomit?
KEN’S JOURNAL:
WHEN SARA ASKED IF WE COULD MEET @ GRANDVIEW PARK THIS MORNING, I KNEW THERE HAD TO BE TROUBLE. SHE COULDN’T BE IN HER RIGHT MIND—WHY ELSE WLD SHE SUGGEST MTG WHERE WE CLD WATCH DERELICTS SHOOT UP & BEG FOR “BUS FARE”?
I SPED OVER B/C I DIDN’T LIKE THE IDEA OF HER SITTING THERE ALONE, BUT SHE WAS ALREADY ON A BENCH WHEN I PULLED UP. HADN’T EVEN SAT DOWN WHEN SHE SAID, “IF IT COMES TO IT, WLD YOU TAKE IN TRAVIS?”
I REALLY NEEDED TO SIT. “WHERE’D THAT COME FROM?”
“HE & JERRY HAD AN AWFUL WEEKEND. STARTED IN THE CAR ON THE WAY BACK FROM YOUR PLACE.”
“I DIDN’T MEAN TO—”
“NO, IT’S NOT YOU AT ALL. YOU WERE GREAT W/TRAVIS. REALLY! I SHLD’VE CALLED YOU ON THE WEEKEND TO SAY THANKS. THERE WAS JUST SO MUCH GOING ON. I ACTUALLY TOOK ETHAN & RUDY & BELLA TO THE AQUARIUM ON SATURDAY JUST TO GET THEM AWAY. AND ME AWAY. SUNDAY WAS MUCH BETTER. TRAVIS BARRICADED HIMSELF IN HIS ROOM GETTING HIGH & JERRY WAS HOLED UP IN HIS OFFICE.” SHE LOOKED @ ME & HER EYES WELLED UP. “HE’S 13, KEN. HOW DO WE MAKE IT ’TIL 18? IF HE STICKS AROUND THAT LONG. I HONESTLY DON’T KNOW.”
I DIDN’T HAVE ANY ANSWERS. I JUST PUT MY ARM AROUND SARA & SHE LEANED IN & BAWLED. TEARS WERE COMING SO EASILY OF LATE. AND TRAV WAS JUST THE 1ST TO HIT ADOLESCENCE. WHAT CHALLENGES WLD THE OTHER 3 BRING?
AFTER SHE’D CALMED—AN HR LATER!—I KNEW I CLDN’T LEAVE HER ALONE FOR THE DAY. I’D JUST HAVE TO TRUST THAT CARL WASN’T MESSING UP THE RENO, IGNORING ALL MY REQUESTS (“DEMANDS”, AS HE CALLED THEM). I TOOK HER TO VAN DUSEN GARDENS & LUNCH @ SHAUGHNESSY RESTAURANT. SOMETIMES WHEN THINGS GET TOO BIG, A LITTLE RESPITE IS THE BEST YOU CAN HOPE FOR.
Showing posts with label Ellen Degeneres. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ellen Degeneres. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
POP THE CORK!
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Let your creative energy lead the way today — you’ve got fewer limits than you think! See what’s possible by trying, rather than worrying, and you may find yourself in a brand new position by tomorrow.
Laura’s Log:
How much time should you put into preparing for a job interview? I’m guessing it’s somewhere between less than a week and, well, more than thirty seconds while waiting for the light to change on the corner of Broadway and Cambie. Guess which end of the spectrum I was on.
Yeah, I was sitting at home with Tupper curled up on my lap watching “The View”, empathizing with poor Dame Edna with nothing to say as the others ranted on American healthcare and wondering how many people didn’t realize it wasn’t Barbara Walters, when my cell rang.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Nothing.” Even with Tamara, I wasn’t about to confess to watching “The View”.
“Well, get over here. One of the partners says he’ll interview you for the assistant position. But you gotta get here in twenty minutes. He’s in meetings the rest of the day.”
With traffic, I was fifteen minutes away. Thankfully, I’d showered after my morning jog, but that left me with five minutes to tame my hair and pick out the “professional” outfit least in need of ironing. Forget the makeup. I rushed to the car, muttering hateful thoughts about Tamara. Maybe she still didn’t want me work at the firm after all.
A friendly receptionist escorted me right into Barry Lisduff’s office. “He’ll be with you in just a moment.” I stood in front of a framed photograph of an impossibly green pastoral setting, using the reflection in the glass as an aid for a collar adjustment and a final battle with a defiant tuft just above my left ear.
“Have you been?”
I turned and there stood a smiling, portly, balding man in his late thirties. His forehead glistened from the overhead lighting. Florescent? It didn’t seem fitting for a trendy advertising firm. But then neither did the image of Barry Lisduff. I needn’t have worried about ironing. He appeared to have been sleeping in his striped Hilfiger for at least the last four days.
“Been where?” I asked as I forced a congenial look. Never did tame the tuft.
“Ireland. Snapped that a half hour outside of Cork. Lovely place.”
“It looks amazing.” I cringed. Amazing. This was an ad firm. Was that the best I could come up with? Hadn’t I made fun of Ellen DeGeneres’ critiques on “Idol” for overusing the imprecise word as praise? Perhaps watching TV is indeed bad for you. (Horrid thought, no?)
After official introductions, we assumed our seats and Barry began his stream of consciousness interview. He’d say a word and ask for my first thought. Shoelaces: the bane of preschoolers and joggers alike. Rain: Vancouver plays the yang to Southern California’s yin. Justin Bieber: a live version of Alvin the Chipmunk. Bowling: who still does that? those shoes?! Sledge hockey: grit, guts, no glory for Canada. He shot out two dozen terms. I got the point. He was trying to determine if I could think on my feet and if I was up on current Pop Culture. It was an adrenaline rush of an interview, sort of like Password for Hire. I appreciated the quick succession of terms being thrown at me; it prevented me from beating myself up for a poor response. (I really don’t know how “hunky” slipped out when he said David Hasselhoff. Had I meant to say “hairy”?)
He paused, glanced at my résumé on his desk, took a sip from his coffee mug. In my head, I tried to formulate a response for “Why do you want to get into advertising?” He was bound to ask.
Barry Lisduff stared quizzically at me. Was my renegade patch of hair bothering him? I continued to smile under the pressure. Then he glanced at his watch, looked back at me and said, “Job’s yours. Can you start tomorrow?”
I bounced up off my chair. Thank God for the massive desk in between us or I would have hugged him. After two rounds of my saying, “Really?!” and him nodding, I accepted.
Tamara was in a meeting so I couldn’t immediately share the news with her. Driving home, it all seemed too good to be true. How did I pull that off? What about other candidates? What about my lack of training? What about what others in the firm were looking for?
What the hell was I getting myself into?
KEN’S JOURNAL:
GOT THE CALL FROM DENTON @ 5:30 LAST NITE, JUST AS I WAS HEADING OUT FOR MY WEEKLY RUN W/THE LADIES.
“THEY BLINKED.”
“WHAT?”
“I GOT YOU 5 WEEKS OF VACATION TIME AND 3 MONTHS’ SEVERANCE. CONSIDERING YOU WERE DRUNK ON THE JOB, THAT’S A COUP.”
“MAN, THAT’S AMAZING!” I SAID. “I OWE YOU, MAN.”
“DAMN RIGHT. YOU’RE TAKING ME TO LA TERRAZZA FOR DINNER NEXT WEEK. AND I’M DRINKING. YOU, I MIGHT ADVISE AGAINST IT.”
WHAT A LOAD OFF. I WAS SO PSYCHED, I SWEAR IT AFFECTED MY RUN. I KEPT UP W/THE MIDDLE PACK, WOMEN IN THEIR FORTIES (& A 23 YR OLD COMING OFF KNEE SURGERY). TOTALLY ROCKED IT!
THE SEVERANCE, THE RUN, THE CANUCKS’ WIN,…I’VE GOT A WHOLE NEW MINDSET TODAY. TWEAKED OUR BUSINESS PLAN, READ SOME INTERNET ARTICLES ON BEING A WINNING (aka WEALTHY) REAL ESTATE AGENT & THEN DROVE OVER TO LOOK @ OUR FUTURE REAL ESTATE OFFICE B/F CRUISING THRU THE DUNBAR NEIGHBOURHOOD & THE POSH POCKETS CLOSER TO UBC. SO MANY GORGEOUS HOMES, SO MUCH $$ TO BE HAD. MAN, I CAN DO THIS. MARTY & I CAN EFFIN’ DO THIS.
RE/MAX, WATCH YOUR BACK!
Laura’s Log:
How much time should you put into preparing for a job interview? I’m guessing it’s somewhere between less than a week and, well, more than thirty seconds while waiting for the light to change on the corner of Broadway and Cambie. Guess which end of the spectrum I was on.
Yeah, I was sitting at home with Tupper curled up on my lap watching “The View”, empathizing with poor Dame Edna with nothing to say as the others ranted on American healthcare and wondering how many people didn’t realize it wasn’t Barbara Walters, when my cell rang.
“What are you doing right now?”
“Nothing.” Even with Tamara, I wasn’t about to confess to watching “The View”.
“Well, get over here. One of the partners says he’ll interview you for the assistant position. But you gotta get here in twenty minutes. He’s in meetings the rest of the day.”
With traffic, I was fifteen minutes away. Thankfully, I’d showered after my morning jog, but that left me with five minutes to tame my hair and pick out the “professional” outfit least in need of ironing. Forget the makeup. I rushed to the car, muttering hateful thoughts about Tamara. Maybe she still didn’t want me work at the firm after all.
A friendly receptionist escorted me right into Barry Lisduff’s office. “He’ll be with you in just a moment.” I stood in front of a framed photograph of an impossibly green pastoral setting, using the reflection in the glass as an aid for a collar adjustment and a final battle with a defiant tuft just above my left ear.
“Have you been?”
I turned and there stood a smiling, portly, balding man in his late thirties. His forehead glistened from the overhead lighting. Florescent? It didn’t seem fitting for a trendy advertising firm. But then neither did the image of Barry Lisduff. I needn’t have worried about ironing. He appeared to have been sleeping in his striped Hilfiger for at least the last four days.
“Been where?” I asked as I forced a congenial look. Never did tame the tuft.
“Ireland. Snapped that a half hour outside of Cork. Lovely place.”
“It looks amazing.” I cringed. Amazing. This was an ad firm. Was that the best I could come up with? Hadn’t I made fun of Ellen DeGeneres’ critiques on “Idol” for overusing the imprecise word as praise? Perhaps watching TV is indeed bad for you. (Horrid thought, no?)
After official introductions, we assumed our seats and Barry began his stream of consciousness interview. He’d say a word and ask for my first thought. Shoelaces: the bane of preschoolers and joggers alike. Rain: Vancouver plays the yang to Southern California’s yin. Justin Bieber: a live version of Alvin the Chipmunk. Bowling: who still does that? those shoes?! Sledge hockey: grit, guts, no glory for Canada. He shot out two dozen terms. I got the point. He was trying to determine if I could think on my feet and if I was up on current Pop Culture. It was an adrenaline rush of an interview, sort of like Password for Hire. I appreciated the quick succession of terms being thrown at me; it prevented me from beating myself up for a poor response. (I really don’t know how “hunky” slipped out when he said David Hasselhoff. Had I meant to say “hairy”?)
He paused, glanced at my résumé on his desk, took a sip from his coffee mug. In my head, I tried to formulate a response for “Why do you want to get into advertising?” He was bound to ask.
Barry Lisduff stared quizzically at me. Was my renegade patch of hair bothering him? I continued to smile under the pressure. Then he glanced at his watch, looked back at me and said, “Job’s yours. Can you start tomorrow?”
I bounced up off my chair. Thank God for the massive desk in between us or I would have hugged him. After two rounds of my saying, “Really?!” and him nodding, I accepted.
Tamara was in a meeting so I couldn’t immediately share the news with her. Driving home, it all seemed too good to be true. How did I pull that off? What about other candidates? What about my lack of training? What about what others in the firm were looking for?
What the hell was I getting myself into?
KEN’S JOURNAL:
GOT THE CALL FROM DENTON @ 5:30 LAST NITE, JUST AS I WAS HEADING OUT FOR MY WEEKLY RUN W/THE LADIES.
“THEY BLINKED.”
“WHAT?”
“I GOT YOU 5 WEEKS OF VACATION TIME AND 3 MONTHS’ SEVERANCE. CONSIDERING YOU WERE DRUNK ON THE JOB, THAT’S A COUP.”
“MAN, THAT’S AMAZING!” I SAID. “I OWE YOU, MAN.”
“DAMN RIGHT. YOU’RE TAKING ME TO LA TERRAZZA FOR DINNER NEXT WEEK. AND I’M DRINKING. YOU, I MIGHT ADVISE AGAINST IT.”
WHAT A LOAD OFF. I WAS SO PSYCHED, I SWEAR IT AFFECTED MY RUN. I KEPT UP W/THE MIDDLE PACK, WOMEN IN THEIR FORTIES (& A 23 YR OLD COMING OFF KNEE SURGERY). TOTALLY ROCKED IT!
THE SEVERANCE, THE RUN, THE CANUCKS’ WIN,…I’VE GOT A WHOLE NEW MINDSET TODAY. TWEAKED OUR BUSINESS PLAN, READ SOME INTERNET ARTICLES ON BEING A WINNING (aka WEALTHY) REAL ESTATE AGENT & THEN DROVE OVER TO LOOK @ OUR FUTURE REAL ESTATE OFFICE B/F CRUISING THRU THE DUNBAR NEIGHBOURHOOD & THE POSH POCKETS CLOSER TO UBC. SO MANY GORGEOUS HOMES, SO MUCH $$ TO BE HAD. MAN, I CAN DO THIS. MARTY & I CAN EFFIN’ DO THIS.
RE/MAX, WATCH YOUR BACK!
Thursday, March 4, 2010
FOAMING AT THE MOUTH...OR THEREABOUTS
March 4, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with someone else's needs today -- which is hardly a new thing for you. This time, though, you may have conflicting needs of your own. It's time to make a hard call!
Laura’s Log:
Just got back from my first lesbian date. And, unlike what is apparently happening to Dana Delany on “Desperate Housewives”, I’m not switching teams this late in the game.
While at Lucy’s place a couple of nights ago, I met Isabelle, a talented young artist whose Booby Trap, a photo collage of women’s breast implants, has been hanging over the mantel at Lucy’s apartment for three months. Mom calls the purchase an overreaction to Lucy’s lingering teen trauma over flat-chestedness. (Lucy’s a size bigger than me. Does that mean I should have mannequin breasts mounted on a wall at my place? Come on in, folks. Feel free to rock climb Mount Pamela.) I can go either way on Booby Trap as a work of art. Love the title and the idea, but staring at a hundred exposed breasts is off-putting.
Anyway, Lucy and Carl(a)’s newest art acquisition is one of Isabelle’s oil paintings, Rage, No. 425. It’s an abstract of red and orange swirls superimposed on a pale blue surface. While I don’t necessarily feel a connection to the title, the use of color and the heavy strokes are visually appealing. It led me to a lengthy conversation with Isabelle in the kitchen as another lesbian poet recited a diatribe against men who had unjustly misappropriated bad hair. “Take back the mullet!” she yelled to a few hoots and wild applause. (Really?! It just goes to show how far gay rights have come in Canada. Is this really the last battleground?) As the applause died down, Isabelle and I became so engrossed in our talk that we didn’t realize we’d finished off a large bowl of the surprisingly tasty avocado-based vegan chocolate mousse, much to Lucy’s extreme annoyance (Rage, No. 426).
Isabelle suggested we continue our chat over coffee today so we met up at Prado Café on Commercial. I should have known we were operating under different assumptions as she rattled on about her ex named Chechnya (actually “Tammi”, but changed to increase political awareness) and how Isabelle missed giving someone an erotic full body massage. I naively continued to steer the conversation to mundane subjects like Ellen’s role on “American Idol” and Jessica Simpson’s weight issues. Apparently Isabelle thought I was being coy.
“So,” she said as she mercifully cut me off in the midst of an ill-informed rant about John Mayer’s Twitter addiction, “do you ever sleep with a woman on the first date?”
That’s when the milk foam went down the wrong way, some of it bubbling out my nose. “Do I what?!” I suppose there was a look of horror on my face. I attribute it to the fact my nose was foaming and my corresponding fear that people might euthanize me for fear of a rabies epidemic. Isabelle took it as rejection. She bolted.
And, just like that, the date I did not even know I was on ended. Seems like whichever team I’m playing on, the game ends in defeat.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
THE BOSS WAS RIDING MY ASS FROM THE MOMENT I WALKED IN THIS MORNING. YEAH, I WAS FIVE MINUTES LATE FOR THE MTG BUT MY CALF CRAMPED UP WHILE DRIVING IN. ACTUALLY HAD TO PULL OVER & STRETCH ON THE CURB. IF ONLY I WERE A BETTER SWIMMER, I CLD GIVE UP THE DAMN RUNNING GIG.
ANYWAY, HE CHEWED ME OUT IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BURNABY TEAM. THEY WERE AS AGHAST AS I WAS. WAY OVER THE LINE. I WALKED OUT & PROCEEDED W/OTHER MATTERS IN MY OFFICE. FORTY MINUTES LATER, MTG OVER, HE STORMED IN W/A “HOW DARE YOU” DIATRIBE. YEAH, YEAH. EFF EWE. I CONTINUED WRITING AN EMAIL & HE WENT BALLISTIC. CHUCKED MY GOLF TROPHY BOOKEND AT MY HEAD & GAVE ME A BLACK EYE. WLD’VE FIRED ME, BUT HE MUST’VE WIZED UP KNOWING I’LL SUE HIS SORRY ASS.
I LEFT FOR THE MEDICAL CLINIC & SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY WATCHING DAYTIME TV. “THE DOCTORS”, “DR. PHIL”, “DR. OZ”,…WHAT IS ALL THIS SHIT? IF THESE FRIGGIN’ MEDICS ACTUALLY PRACTICED INSTEAD OF MUGGING, I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD TO SPEND TWO & HALF HRS WAITING FOR AN OVEREDUCATED INTERN TO TELL ME “PUT ICE ON IT.”
FIVE CALLS FROM WORK THIS AFTERNOON. LET VOICEMAIL HEAR THE LAME APOLOGIES. OR, MORE LIKELY, THE NEWEST RANTS. I GOTTA MIND TO SICK JUDGE JUDY ON THE BOSS.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You need to deal with someone else's needs today -- which is hardly a new thing for you. This time, though, you may have conflicting needs of your own. It's time to make a hard call!
Laura’s Log:
Just got back from my first lesbian date. And, unlike what is apparently happening to Dana Delany on “Desperate Housewives”, I’m not switching teams this late in the game.
While at Lucy’s place a couple of nights ago, I met Isabelle, a talented young artist whose Booby Trap, a photo collage of women’s breast implants, has been hanging over the mantel at Lucy’s apartment for three months. Mom calls the purchase an overreaction to Lucy’s lingering teen trauma over flat-chestedness. (Lucy’s a size bigger than me. Does that mean I should have mannequin breasts mounted on a wall at my place? Come on in, folks. Feel free to rock climb Mount Pamela.) I can go either way on Booby Trap as a work of art. Love the title and the idea, but staring at a hundred exposed breasts is off-putting.
Anyway, Lucy and Carl(a)’s newest art acquisition is one of Isabelle’s oil paintings, Rage, No. 425. It’s an abstract of red and orange swirls superimposed on a pale blue surface. While I don’t necessarily feel a connection to the title, the use of color and the heavy strokes are visually appealing. It led me to a lengthy conversation with Isabelle in the kitchen as another lesbian poet recited a diatribe against men who had unjustly misappropriated bad hair. “Take back the mullet!” she yelled to a few hoots and wild applause. (Really?! It just goes to show how far gay rights have come in Canada. Is this really the last battleground?) As the applause died down, Isabelle and I became so engrossed in our talk that we didn’t realize we’d finished off a large bowl of the surprisingly tasty avocado-based vegan chocolate mousse, much to Lucy’s extreme annoyance (Rage, No. 426).
Isabelle suggested we continue our chat over coffee today so we met up at Prado Café on Commercial. I should have known we were operating under different assumptions as she rattled on about her ex named Chechnya (actually “Tammi”, but changed to increase political awareness) and how Isabelle missed giving someone an erotic full body massage. I naively continued to steer the conversation to mundane subjects like Ellen’s role on “American Idol” and Jessica Simpson’s weight issues. Apparently Isabelle thought I was being coy.
“So,” she said as she mercifully cut me off in the midst of an ill-informed rant about John Mayer’s Twitter addiction, “do you ever sleep with a woman on the first date?”
That’s when the milk foam went down the wrong way, some of it bubbling out my nose. “Do I what?!” I suppose there was a look of horror on my face. I attribute it to the fact my nose was foaming and my corresponding fear that people might euthanize me for fear of a rabies epidemic. Isabelle took it as rejection. She bolted.
And, just like that, the date I did not even know I was on ended. Seems like whichever team I’m playing on, the game ends in defeat.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
THE BOSS WAS RIDING MY ASS FROM THE MOMENT I WALKED IN THIS MORNING. YEAH, I WAS FIVE MINUTES LATE FOR THE MTG BUT MY CALF CRAMPED UP WHILE DRIVING IN. ACTUALLY HAD TO PULL OVER & STRETCH ON THE CURB. IF ONLY I WERE A BETTER SWIMMER, I CLD GIVE UP THE DAMN RUNNING GIG.
ANYWAY, HE CHEWED ME OUT IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE BURNABY TEAM. THEY WERE AS AGHAST AS I WAS. WAY OVER THE LINE. I WALKED OUT & PROCEEDED W/OTHER MATTERS IN MY OFFICE. FORTY MINUTES LATER, MTG OVER, HE STORMED IN W/A “HOW DARE YOU” DIATRIBE. YEAH, YEAH. EFF EWE. I CONTINUED WRITING AN EMAIL & HE WENT BALLISTIC. CHUCKED MY GOLF TROPHY BOOKEND AT MY HEAD & GAVE ME A BLACK EYE. WLD’VE FIRED ME, BUT HE MUST’VE WIZED UP KNOWING I’LL SUE HIS SORRY ASS.
I LEFT FOR THE MEDICAL CLINIC & SPENT THE REST OF THE DAY WATCHING DAYTIME TV. “THE DOCTORS”, “DR. PHIL”, “DR. OZ”,…WHAT IS ALL THIS SHIT? IF THESE FRIGGIN’ MEDICS ACTUALLY PRACTICED INSTEAD OF MUGGING, I MIGHT NOT HAVE HAD TO SPEND TWO & HALF HRS WAITING FOR AN OVEREDUCATED INTERN TO TELL ME “PUT ICE ON IT.”
FIVE CALLS FROM WORK THIS AFTERNOON. LET VOICEMAIL HEAR THE LAME APOLOGIES. OR, MORE LIKELY, THE NEWEST RANTS. I GOTTA MIND TO SICK JUDGE JUDY ON THE BOSS.
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