Monday Morning

Today we had the unique pleasure of participating in an all-day meeting. None of us knew why we were there, not even the Tsumommy. Never mind that she’d called the meeting.

I took half a Xanax. I’d learned from hard experience – accompanied by the occasional errant mid-meeting yoyo of drool – that a slow, steady buzz is preferable to losing control of one’s facilities in front of the coworkers.

I can’t say I’ve ever loved my job – a failing economy coupled with my wanderlust means I have no choice but to be okay with any gig that’s even mildly creative, pays the bills and doesn’t give me a bleeding ulcer.

And things were cool until the bloated bigwigs who’d hired the Tsumommy got so many complaints about her they were forced to notice. In classic bait-and-switch intimidation style they fired up the smoke machines and stepped away from admiring themselves in the mirrors of their Lexus and BMWs long enough to take out one of their own.

Unfortunately, the fall guy was my boss, and now the Tsumommy is my keeper.

Scorched Cubicle Campaign

It is a scorched cubicle campaign. Herman Miller ergonomic chairs scattered across the great gray expanse, smoke wafting up from the stain proof fabric.

I’ve been working as a corporate shill for nearly two years and have witnessed the kind of business decisions that even The Office would take offense at. But “CorporaCo’s” latest antics have brought the paper-pushing circus to a new low.

I have no one to blame it on but the Tsumommy. She waddled into our sorry lives, and the department’s top job, a few months ago, knit discount rack suit clinging to every lump of sedentary flesh. So far she has left confusion and destruction in her wake.

She has little more than the perfunctory bachelor’s-level education, but somehow she’s been granted the decision-making key to the highest level in our cube-rat lives. And like the kind of meddling mother who will read her child’s diary with the justification that she’s the boss and therefore can do whatever she wants, she does just that. Anything and everything on or near any desk is hers to rifle through as she feels fit. Not even the Blackberry is sacred: dare use it in her presence and she’ll grab it out of your hands. God forbid you’re writing about her…

I thought I was selling my soul by taking the corporate job… I was wrong. It was merely marinating.

Back in the Blogger Saddle

So I’ve done the unthinkable in this intravenous Internet force-fed world: I’ve quit MySpace.

It’s true. Deleted my profile, clicked the button and just walked away. And, surprise, it was easier than I thought.

Until the night sweats…

I’ll gladly admit that the main reason I bailed on the behemoth breast-fed on Murdoch’s corporate teat was twofold, and neither is terribly flattering.

First off, it was really taking over my life, pushing me to the point of constant obsessive paranoia, where the slightest decrease in friends sent me scurrying to my friends list to try and determine who the defector might be, wringing my hands wondering what I might have done to offend them.

The other, more insidious reason was the creeps.

Before I became a roller derby darling my profile suffered a steady onslaught of balding, middle-aged divorced men in acid washed jeans wanting to “talk”. Invariably they had a child, or six, and nearly all included photos that featured them proudly preening before a truck, motorcycle, or some variation of a gas-guzzling recreational vehicle.

With derby, however, the voyeurs became more interesting, and while it was flattering to find myself the object of desire of many a derby-loving dude, it quickly spiraled out of control, and I found myself perpetually on the receiving end of nonstop missives from lecherous paramours-in-waiting who seemed oblivious, or unconcerned, with the fact that I’m in a deeply committed relationship.

So, I simply walked away and headed back here, where I should have stayed from the get-go.

Granted, I’ll post a new profile on the WalMart of the Internet eventually, only this time I won’t be quite as forthcoming. That’s what I’m here for… be sure to check back. I’ll be here…