The Crass Ceiling

So work is…well, it’s work. That’s why they pay you, or so my Dad likes to remind me. I like to remind him of his Golden Parachute, whereby he makes more money to NOT go to work than I make to go. Not...bitter...sigh.

This week, I’m playing catch-up from vacation, off-site training and other nonsense; and the good news is, I don’t have a lot of training. That’s also the bad news. Since we’re a man down for the week, I’m also spending a lot of time on the phones.

I find that my patience is worn thin. Very, very thin. Wafer thin.

In the news recently, there have been two spectacular cases of “Take This Job and Shove It” - the first – a JetBlue flight attendant giving it to an unruly passenger via the intercom, then making his escape with some purloined beer down the inflatable emergency slide. The second is a girl who presented a photo essay via a series of whiteboards explaining that her boss called her a Hot Piece of Ass and she was quitting.

I left with more of a whimper than a bang at my last company, and part of me wishes I’d had the ovaries to tell certain people what I really thought of them.

Especially after they anonymously called me Eddie Haskell. At that point, I should have grabbed my beer, inflated the exit and slid off into the sunset.

I am still waiting for my friends Connie and Jason to announce the name of their little bambino. They’ve been jokingly calling him Danger for the past 9 months, and that would be great, but I’m told it was a placeholder. I need photos. I need stats. I need data, dammit.

I published a ton of photos from Alaska on my Facebook account, and have plans for more, more, more.

I need a cold beer . Or a Bloody Mary. Or, a beer with bloody mary mix. Whatever.