![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Shift Happens...
Dec. 7th, 2006 02:17 pmWell.
Hell.
You remember that boss I was hunting? The elusive, procrastinating prey?
I expected to see her today, to get the new boss's number (so SHE can be the prey) and wish the prey-boss a via con Dios with the whole marrying-a-guy-I-met-online-two-weeks-ago-and-just-laid-eyes-on-in-realtime-last-Tuesday thing.
She's not in.
Tina's in.
"Is she okay?" I ask, slightly bewildered and befuddled.
"As okay as she can be. She's in Chicago."
"Oh, visiting Prince Charming, getting the lay of the land?"
"No. Getting married."
"Oh..."
...
...
Okay.
This is the third woman I've met who should be old enough to have a little wisdom in her head, who's haring off on this sort of adventure anyway...
Will you lot do me a favor?
If (God forbid) I find myself in this position when I'm 55 or 60, will someone please club me and take away my net access?
I'm not throwing rocks at the meeting-people-online idea--I can think of one vibrant example of how that can go really really right. Here's to you, Phil, Madonna. You beat the odds.
Thing is, they met in a chatroom, if memory serves, and started talking because one of 'em liked the other's attitude, not via some hookup site full of "Turn-ons: long walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners." And there was a span of months in between "a/s/l?" and "I do."
This.
This pocket drama?
The product of two weeks.
~shakes head~
I'm worried about her.
I'm also worried about my job security.
The new boss?
Also a near-serial online dater.
~sigh~
They're all going to fly away until it's just me and Tina with our small children and our common bloody sense. I know it.
And none of them are going to get an establishment license before they go.
I should tell the lot of 'em to take a flying leap and get a gig pushing bras and creditcards at Victoria's Secret.
It's the holidays; they might need the help.
There's the commission to think of, over and above the minimum wage.
And think of the employee discount on...poorly made hot pink pajama pants...and hundred-dollar hobo suits...
Mph.
Then too, there's always selling crack.
~sigh, again~
Hell.
You remember that boss I was hunting? The elusive, procrastinating prey?
I expected to see her today, to get the new boss's number (so SHE can be the prey) and wish the prey-boss a via con Dios with the whole marrying-a-guy-I-met-online-two-weeks-ago-and-just-laid-eyes-on-in-realtime-last-Tuesday thing.
She's not in.
Tina's in.
"Is she okay?" I ask, slightly bewildered and befuddled.
"As okay as she can be. She's in Chicago."
"Oh, visiting Prince Charming, getting the lay of the land?"
"No. Getting married."
"Oh..."
...
...
Okay.
This is the third woman I've met who should be old enough to have a little wisdom in her head, who's haring off on this sort of adventure anyway...
Will you lot do me a favor?
If (God forbid) I find myself in this position when I'm 55 or 60, will someone please club me and take away my net access?
I'm not throwing rocks at the meeting-people-online idea--I can think of one vibrant example of how that can go really really right. Here's to you, Phil, Madonna. You beat the odds.
Thing is, they met in a chatroom, if memory serves, and started talking because one of 'em liked the other's attitude, not via some hookup site full of "Turn-ons: long walks on the beach and candle-lit dinners." And there was a span of months in between "a/s/l?" and "I do."
This.
This pocket drama?
The product of two weeks.
~shakes head~
I'm worried about her.
I'm also worried about my job security.
The new boss?
Also a near-serial online dater.
~sigh~
They're all going to fly away until it's just me and Tina with our small children and our common bloody sense. I know it.
And none of them are going to get an establishment license before they go.
I should tell the lot of 'em to take a flying leap and get a gig pushing bras and creditcards at Victoria's Secret.
It's the holidays; they might need the help.
There's the commission to think of, over and above the minimum wage.
And think of the employee discount on...poorly made hot pink pajama pants...and hundred-dollar hobo suits...
Mph.
Then too, there's always selling crack.
~sigh, again~
