Friday, February 10, 2006
Blossoming Things -- more thoughts on being canned.
I knew it was a socialst flower shop, because that's where The Socialist bought flowers that convinced Sarah to marry him.
I cried a little in Hallmark-style "aren't my friends THE BEST godIdon'tdeservethem" sort of way. I wiped the tears from my eyes like a starlet and stood in the doorway when the flowers came wrapped in butcher paper, smiling in glassy-eyed delight at the scruffy socialist guy who handed them to me.
Turns out, according to the block-lettered socialst-style gift card, they were from my mom. "Just to brighten your day."
My mom said, "We pass that shop all the time, and you always say you love it."
She's the best.
So, mom sends flowers.
Dad said, "I would like to go down and punch that guy." Personally, I love the mental image of my big, burly, 60-yr-old leather-vest clad badass dad pounding on that swaggering frat boy.
But that wouldn't be very, like, legal.
My friends at work have been righteously indignant, those little angels.
Except for the director of marketing, who has been incredibly uncomfortable and clearly feels guilty and, perhaps, a bit judgemental. But probably guilty about being judgemental. I assured her I would be fine and asked her to be a reference. I believe she was relieved to be of use.
People have been calling, coming out of the woodwork, because word travels fast. What I've noticed is that so many of them call me and complain about their own lives.
I spoke last night to a friend in New York who spent about an hour dissecting her own career woes. It was about 8PM. I was in pajamas. She was at work. This, more than anything, I find soothing.
If I don't really warrant enough sympathy to require a lot of listening to, it must not be that bad.