Remember the song they played at the end of Fast Times at Ridgemont High? The one that goes “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye!”?
I’m getting sort of high from working so hard. See, I want to do as much work as I can before I leave this job, and it’s sort of the same feeling as writing something on deadline. Adrenaline kicks in. That song from Fast Times runs through your head.
Is it weird that I have integrity and a work ethic? Some people seem to think so.
1) People keep telling me, “I guess you’re not even coming on Thursday, huh?” Thursday is my last day. Of course I’m coming in.
2) No one’s come to talk to me about how much stuff I should try to get done before I leave. Or to ask what I’m leaving behind for them to do.
3) Whenever I call or email someone to say, “I did most of Project X. All you have to do is wait for Joe Blow to send you the widgets,” they act surprised. “Oh… I didn’t expect you to finish that.”
That’s how this place has been for the past five years, though. They mainly leave me to my own devices, as far as workflow is concerned. I guess I should take it as a compliment — I would’ve heard something from them if I wasn’t working fast enough.
So… If I were someone else, I might be tempted to totally slack off during my last week. But, instead, I am me, and therefore I’m getting a sick thrill from watching my cube get cleaner and cleaner as my Outbox stacks up.
I get two goodbye lunches now. One formal, one casual. The formal one is being combined with Administrative Professionals or, as We Call Them, Secretaries’ Day. The casual one is being combined with Thursday. I might have a drink at that one. Then, I take a day off. (Which I will spend writing. And I’m not just saying that in case my editor is reading this.) Then, I have a weekend. Then, Monday I start my new job.
I kind of thought I should’ve taken a week off in between, to process, debrief, achieve closure, whatever, after this 5-year stint. But I’m broke, so I won’t. I’ll just bust butt at the new job, and that will serve those purposes.
Goodbye, expiring job. I am non-renewing you.
That’s an insurance joke, for all my P&C Peeps. Funny, isn’t it? No, it’s not. Oh, well. Goodbye, Insurance Broking. You’ve been good to me. Thanks.
Status Checks
How is everyone? Say your answer in your mind. Okay, got it. Now, here’s how everyone near me has been:
Toby: Still irrationally afraid; still fighting/playing/sexing with Starbuck.
Starbuck: Still aspires to Mutual of Omaha level hunter prowess; still fighting/playing/sexing with Toby.
My dentist/future brother-in-law: Looking good. Most of his lesions/bumps/dots have gone away. He’s chipper and determined to carry out several missions with the rest of his life. Almost dying will do that to you, I guess. It’ll get you geared up and doubly ambitious for the future.
My boyfriend: Still engaged to me. Still the best boyfriend on earth. Thinking hard about where we’re going to live when we get married. (Latest ETA: Two years from now.)
My middle son: Still living with his dad. But he says he’s happy, so I’m happy for him.
My other two kids: Still living with me and leveling up on all the games. I’m thinking of putting my oldest son in driving school. Why? So he can have a license, in case one of his video games breaks down and he needs to go somewhere. Just kidding. Okay, that’s all I can say about them. I would tell you stuff about the oldest one lifting weights and walking around sans shirt all the time, but I don’t want to say too much.
My dad: Still pretending he’s going to retire soon. Growing his beard bigger in preparation. We told him to please stop doing that, but you know how old people are. All hard-headed and stuff. They don’t listen.
Me: I’m happy. I’m good.
Houston Metro sucks.
I’m not going to get all into it, as I swore I’d do while driving down the freeway yesterday morning, having been unable to take my park-n-ride bus to work. I’m not going to type all the words I screamed in my head, throughout the hour-long drive.
Instead, I’ll just ask a question. What’s the point of making all Metro riders buy Q Cards, and spending money telling everyone how convenient Q cards are, if new riders will be unable to refill said Q Cards in the machines provided for that purpose at their park-and-ride stations?
Hmm? Hint: Having a gentleman in Metro uniform tell me, “Did you buy your card at the gas station or grocery store? Yeah, those never work in that machine. You should’ve bought your card downtown,” doesn’t help.
Extra hint: When I call you, Metro operator, and ask you that question about the Q Cards and their inconvenience, you saying, “Okay, we’ll send a technician out to look at that machine,” is not the answer.
The apparent answer: Go back in a time machine and somehow know all the secret workings of the Q Cards, which are not the same workings posted on the signs all over the damned buses and park-and-rides.
Okay. Whatever. I know that made no sense — it’s hard to talk sensibly about infuriating, illogical things. Eff you, Metro. The end.
Let’s end on a happy note.
If I can find 30 cents somewhere around me, I’m going to buy a Diet Coke. That’ll be nice.
