Me: Whacked! Them: How *old* are you?), or chatting to boss and coworkers about vacations (Them: So these people are all from differet states? Me: ...yeah. Them: How on earth did you meet? Me: Mary Kay. I'm trying for the Cadillac), but the cool came up the other day when I started using email as a softening weapon.
Most people at my workplace have two distinct modes: email for work or email for family. The casual, chatty email is not something most of them have ever used. Me, I can pound out ten paragraphs on absolutely *nothing*--like a livejournal, come to think. So there's always a vaguely dazed look about my manager when he gets a request from me, because he's always aware that the request will be hidden somewhere in a three page missive about my allergies and how I plan to conquer the universe and he has to suss it out, decide, and answer before I get bored and send another one. Which I have been known to do at hour increments throughout a day. Over time, he's come to just say 'yes' when the clock starts ticking down, since usually I don't ask for anything too strange, like a motorcycle or a paid sabbatical in Japan to discover Asian business practices--though don't think I'm not trying, cause I am. Which is how I ended up with today off, after waking up to the allergies that ate Tokyo and some random nose bleeding, tucked in between complaints about the birthday committee and complaints about my doctor.
I like life as viewed from my bed with coffee. It's pretty.
So my schedule was taken and revised with devastation left in its wake--we were forbidden further potlucks without express, and I do mean express, permission, the August birthdays were canceled, and I sent out an email to my committee and waited for the rage to start.
It is said that there are many styles of leadership. I'm a demagogue--I get people stirred up, then send them on their way while I take a nap. This works more than you'd think. However. The birthday committee is composed of two people who have no opinion on anything whatsoever--basically, me if I wasnt' chairman--one middle ground activist, and two passionate firebrands. Which only sounds insane until you see our meetings and how I discovered I am actually the most reasonable of the group and--I have no idea how this happened--the one most likely to temper rising spite and passionate declarations of cessation from the office. Getting them wound up is painfully and frighteningly easy--the sight of my notebook from my last meeting with a manager usually does the trick--so having to be soothing and then somehow turn their demands into something other than the beginnings of a coup is one of those things I had no idea I was capable of. And if I have to sit through one more horrifying managers meeting with five people that lack even the most rudimentary senses of humor and my manager trying not to laugh his ass off in the corner might lead to in-work drinking. Frankly, at this point, I deserve it. And possibly hazard pay.
So. August birthdays are canceled--I have no idea what she thinks the birthday people of August are going to say about that after I had to outline the method of giving flowers for dead people in exhausting detail just so no one would be offended--and it kind of fucks up my middle line plans for doing other officey-morale things.
I have this horrible, horrible feeling that I'm going to be at another meeting very soon arguing passionately for birthday cake to forestall revolution. And sometimes, I wake up at night and wonder, really wonder--how did I get to this point?
Then I go back to sleep.
I--really have no words. Waffles and Reggie are still fighting it out for Big Rabbit of the Warren. I built a semi-permanent pen in one corner of the living room, which has lots of running and playing space, which my very gay bunnies use for courtship rituals. I've been trying to acclimatize Reggie and Waffles, which is working in that way that they meet with claws drawn, and most recently, when I warily let them out together, I ended up with mid-air furball wars, two soaked rabbits, prying fur from angry little teeth, and laughing myself into a choking fit. Bryante and Sloppy gave up even trying to pretend like they're coming out on top in this--I think, in the words of researchgrrrl--And the fact that the other two are just busy trying not to get humped along the way? AWESOME. I think every story -- fic and otherwise -- should now be required to have at least two characters who are just trying not to get humped along the way.
Indeed. Just trying not to get humped. Rock on, little bottoms. Rock on.
For those that missed it first time around, researchgrrrl still has the Gen Porn Thing going in her lj.
And this came up in there, a commment by hecateshound:
To hit you where you live, say you open the trunk of the Impala and describe what you see. Each of those objects has a history, a date of acquisition, a history of use, a seller or manufacturer. It has been loved or hated because of how it ties into the lives of the Winchesters and how they have interacted with it. Each object has been touched and handled. Relied upon. Failed them, or saved their lives. They have a relationship with them, and because of the strictures of their lives, these relationships may be more durable than their relationships with the evanescent living. Thus, the description of these objects can not only become the focus of erotic desire, it can serve to illuminate their lives and pasts. I mean, what is more effing symbolic than a knife or a gun?
Eroticization of objects as extensions of the characters we love. I'll take a handraise if you have ever at any time spent way too much time contemplating:
1.) Clark's flannel shirts.
2.) Lex's wide variety of cars.
3.) Rodney's laptop.
4.) John's gun. And thigh holster. God, that *thigh-holster*.
If you have written or read a story where one or more paragraphs was devoted to these objects? And you panted?
Yeah. I totally get that.
ETA: Edited to fix name. Those poor, traumatized people. *feels for them all*