(no subject)
After working at the Lezzie Farm for a year and a half, and hearing God-knows-how-many stories about vibrators and shoe shopping, I was pleasantly surprised yesterday to find myself assigned to a team consisting - at least, as far as I could see - solely of guys. I am the only one without an XY. Conversations about menstrual woes have been replaced by those about Keycon. (Okay, so I never said they were interesting guys, but it's still a vast improvement.)
One thing I am going to miss about the Lezzie Farm is feeling like the smartest person in the room. The week I left, I actually had this conversation with Denise, following Brian the Lecherous Underwriter's announcement that he was leaving for Rome the next week (I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of Brian. That last week, he permitted me a moment of unadulterated nymphetry, something that is remarkably difficult at my age.):
DENISE: The Eiffel Tower is in Rome, isn't it?
ME: No, it's in Paris. [blank look from Denise] That's in France. [blank look] Rome is in Italy. [blank look] They're two separate countries. *helpfully* Maybe you're thinking of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
DENISE: But they're close, right?
ME: Well, they're both in Europe. But...different countries.
Oh, yes, I promised an interview update. Well, in keeping with my original analogy, although it was fairly gentle and consensual, I'm still feeling fucked. (Funny that I've often compared job interviews to prostitution. For the promise of money, I get dressed up in stuff I would never wear, say and/or do stuff I would never say and/or do, leave feeling violated, and never hear from them again.) Oh, well. They're still stuck with me until September.
Wanted: someone to tell me to get off my fat ass and lose the weight, already. I'm really really sick of this.
One thing I am going to miss about the Lezzie Farm is feeling like the smartest person in the room. The week I left, I actually had this conversation with Denise, following Brian the Lecherous Underwriter's announcement that he was leaving for Rome the next week (I suppose I shouldn't speak ill of Brian. That last week, he permitted me a moment of unadulterated nymphetry, something that is remarkably difficult at my age.):
DENISE: The Eiffel Tower is in Rome, isn't it?
ME: No, it's in Paris. [blank look from Denise] That's in France. [blank look] Rome is in Italy. [blank look] They're two separate countries. *helpfully* Maybe you're thinking of the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
DENISE: But they're close, right?
ME: Well, they're both in Europe. But...different countries.
Oh, yes, I promised an interview update. Well, in keeping with my original analogy, although it was fairly gentle and consensual, I'm still feeling fucked. (Funny that I've often compared job interviews to prostitution. For the promise of money, I get dressed up in stuff I would never wear, say and/or do stuff I would never say and/or do, leave feeling violated, and never hear from them again.) Oh, well. They're still stuck with me until September.
Wanted: someone to tell me to get off my fat ass and lose the weight, already. I'm really really sick of this.