The quarter's ranking is out to Management; the ranking report design for the phone goons is in progress. I'm working out a few more random bugs. I'm fiddling around with report design. The thing looks like it could be made of awesome, or perhaps that's just the Mountain Dew talking.

We went home early 'cause Turbo and company are doing an overnighter to re-do the IP addressing scheme of the whole building, and some other random things. Tomorrow morning, I plot doughnuts, mini-bagels, cream cheese, and orange juice. When giving the workplace breakfast, mini-bagels, cream cheese, and orange juice are totally the win. ( Why, exactly, this wins so hard as an 'I treat work to breakfast' thing. )

Biker Chick Supervisor (she's been promoted to train and walk areas and monitor!) is back from the birth of her grandson. She asked me if I was staying to help with the IT guys' fun. The answer is no. I am not an official IT guy, and therefore while I am the abject minion of the actual IT guys, this does not make me subject to staying there all night for maintenance events. I gave her tips on the proper treatment of the IT department so that when you do have a problem, they will be disposed to fixing it quickly.

I totally had a paragraph about the totally awesome stuff that could be done with sponsored communities instead of astroturfing them, but I left it at work.

I also had a paragraph about the 23 minutes of my break that I spent on the phone with Darkside, but ditto.

No, in my 8.25 hours at work, I did not really have anything that could be called "lunch". It could, however, be called a "a bag of chips, and a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew repeatedly poured over a cupful of frozen mixed berries," but that is not exactly "lunch".

A ten-hour shift today. And on the walk home I called a certain best friend of mine. Geeking over the database, general geeking, and me having a few words to say about work...

It's one of those things. The electricity's starting to trickle back in. We need regular, steady contact. This time it was around 35 minutes.

His mother -- his mother -- sees him in a state of perpetual grouch. And as much as I describe him as being a perpetual grouch -- he's not a perpetual grouch to me.

It's so very nice to have someone there for Naomi, someone we all trust. I think that's a large part of how it's working so well now. I inherit from Shanna and Joan-prime. Marah has divided -- it's Naomi(Marah) and Dagger(Marah) now, and Joan-at-work built on a steady base of Marah, Marah, and more Marah.

I have a bizarre vision of a future, where -- this is the sort of thing that gets you tagged as crazy, but if it does work out, and Darkside does come to realize how very much he does care for the lot of us -- he matches very well with Naomi. We've known for a while that Naomi is heir to us all, and the way we do things, it's not a fading-out, it's a melting-into. There are divisions. There are always new divisions. And we're Loonie more than Azz on the inside anyway.

I can get away with talking about the Collective to him in certain ways by saying "my inner geek" instead of "Naomi". He was made dreadfully skittish, once upon a time, and we don't wish to do that to him again. There's really no public perception of the multiple as benign. It's always a Crazy Reality Show House With Psychoes In!! rather than my quiet reality of a quartet of kind of wacky roommates with the same kind of roommate issues you always get when it's four girls together and who the hell was supposed to do laundry and wasn't that my attitude and you're wearing it today and weren't we going to vote on what color the carpets were supposed to be because who the hell got PINK?! There's a lot of giggling. There's always a lot of giggling. It's sort of like college dorms, except with less backstabbing and more RA.

He evades getting introduced to everybody formally, because names make him skittish, and make him feel like there are strangers he hasn't met, but one way or another, he's met everybody. It doesn't matter who's out usually, but we've noticed that he's a little nervous with Marah-who-was, stiff and formal like Dagger, by turns tired and excited and annoyed with me-Azz and Joan-at-work ... but oh, he opens up for Naomi.

So. For him. As we've done before. Except this time, to the observer, there probably won't be much change. Inside, it feels like a white rose bursting into bloom.

Two minutes on the phone with Darkside. Waiting that extra few seconds after the "Working," is almost always worth it. Gives us both a chance to connect. Gives him a chance to vent briefly.

Bond's been flickering in and out. Hoping it'll stay on. We're of the needing it right now.

"My babysitter's running low. ...Late."

Strawberry blonde! Now made with real strawberries!


The guy who called up, called us fucking sons of bitches, et cetera, and then called us from a cellphone and whistled at us. Rev. Not-So-Nice Super eventually answered the phone on him. (He's infamous for answering the phone. We don't let him do it often.)

Someone insane called up wanting to know if we had an internet connection. Rev. Not-So-Nice Super said yes. The someone wanted to know how fast it was. Rev. Not-So-Nice-Super wasn't able to answer the question, and "put them on hold" ... complete with humming and bopping some "hold music" through his fist into the microphone. By the time he was about to "transfer" to Comic Pirate Super, who was going to take the call, the dude had hung up.


"My computer locked up!"
"What did you do to the computer this time?"
"IT'S THE COMPUTER'S FAULT! IT CAN'T EVEN SPELL!"

"What part of 'find a booth in Area 2' did you not understand?"
"I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO READ ALL THAT SPAM!!"
"Job-related paperwork being put on your desk is not spam."
"I DIDN'T ASK TO GET IT! IT'S SPAM!!!!"


(in short? Must. Control. Fist. Of. Death.)
Calling Darkside after work never looked like such a good option. A minute and a half with him at the end of lunch break. So good.

10 minutes. I am ridiculously contented. He comes before Mama on the holiday calling list. I am yet again overwhelmed by it.

30 minutes. Finally, a decent chunk of time spent talking with Darkside, and talking with him without other interested parties about.

Since our lives have been eaten by work lately, it makes sense that we'd wind up talking about work (him and the insane filtering rules that keep them from doing their jobs, me and the insane people, including that moment with the young man today and the 1 pm shift) and geeking. Ahhh, the geeking.

I find it highly amusing that the same costume can be used to represent either Neo blasting into Agent Central or a really disgruntled high school student. There was happy gossip over the in-joke about Darkside's being his workplace's Token Guy on the Edge, see. Oleg came up, though not by name. (Tay-Tay, remember "Free Oleg"?) [Backstory: this kid Oleg came to school as a Disgruntled Postal Worker in a well-executed imitation suicide bomber vest for Halloween one year; I think it was '95. The costume wound up in his gym locker. Some months later, someone saw the costume, naturally didn't connect it with Halloween, and the whole school went apenuts with a bomb scare at -30°F weather. Students protested Oleg's suspension.] There was discussion over the best construction of scary-looking harmless devices.

(Pause in which I attempt to Google "Free Oleg", and mostly get Oleg Taktarov; longer pause for reflection upon images of this Russian martial artist; suitable interval for pondering if I had better duck lest a new fandom hit me in the head; a slightly more sober and less internet-hooked pause to wonder if I even find the guy attractive, which ... really ... no. Rugged does not do much for me as a look for men. Rugged does great for me as a look for electronic equipment, though. Speaking of which, I wonder where that site that compared rugged laptops went? )

I seem to have found the key to a good long gossip session. Shop talk is fun. Geek shop talk is better.

Called Darkside while I was on break today. His dad answered the phone. This means Darkside's dad is back home from the hospital! Hooray! Darkside didn't discuss the details overmuch, as he was in the same room as his father at the time, but I gathered and Darkside confirmed that his father was exasperating, cranky, a pain in the ass, and they were so glad to have him back.

I told Darkside the tale of the M&Ms last night, and there was much amusement. I pointed out the similarity of the "Oh shit I have M&Ms down my dress!" dance to the "ICE! ICE DOWN MY BACK!" dance -- they're essentially the same, except without the OMFG COLD.

I came back in without a headache, and grinning and warm all over. Everyone could tell who I'd just been talking to on my break. It shines off me like a 5000 watt theatre lamp under a mesh laundry basket. (Did Yeshua son of Mary consider the fire hazard possibilities of lamps under baskets?)

When the planets are right and neither of us is too tired: him too tired to listen, me too tired to be coherent, I can spill my heart out to him. At least on the things that matter. At least on the things that really bother me. I told him all about the politics. I told him about the new funky oddness that means that my primary job is getting replaced. (Bigger faster stronger; but what's the new check-in position? Hell if I know.) He told me about his job and some of the fun he's been having.

We play this game. I usually go first. I tell him about something. He matches it. I have to wait and be silent for him to talk, but he'll talk. I tell him something. And then when I'm quiet long enough, he starts in, trading me in kind: information for information. He plays it mechanically, unless he's fired up with enthusiasm and then he'll go on and on, or if he's gaming and he'll let me speak until I'm all run down, but under normal circumstances it goes like this: if I talk about work, he talks about work. If I talk about friends, he talks about friends. If I talk about family, he talks about family. But he plays it. He plays it. He plays it with me and I love him in spite of the fact that it's awkward and not second nature. He didn't learn the game until later, and the nuances still escape him half the time.

Half an hour. Almost enough. Never enough. Enough to keep the defensive shields up one more week. Enough oil poured into the lamp to keep it lit a few days longer, gods willing.


I have a glorious prank gift idea that requires a reference and paint. If no one already has, custom golf balls made to look like the head of any given person could be a big seller. Photo golf balls, or pick from a customizable choice of stock hairstyles, features, and accessories! Just like a candybar doll, but for whacking the fuck out of Management, or anyone else who's in need of some good old-fashioned Took-style Orc-whacking action. (Also: someone needs to take the engine for a decent golf game, and add in more hobbits, more rabbit holes, and more severed heads.)

Tried calling Darkside. He wasn't in, but I got his mom.

She and I have been chatting more often. The attempted call on Friday night that got cut off was her vs. the phone; Darkside hadn't picked up yet, and she didn't put it on hold properly. Alas, I was too busy working then to call right back.

She heard the story of the unfortunate closet incident, and proceeded to laugh appropriately (that is to say, a lot). She and I have been getting along, which is a good thing. By voice, she reminds me of Figment's mother, which is scary. I want to avoid confusing the two with each other. Darkside's mom agrees that I am not a good candidate for conversion to LDS, and she further pointed out that I am not the sort to want to be overshadowed or overly bossed around by any man. (Not that Figment would do that, but that wasn't the point.)


I should, when the opportunity strikes, write up the Punk Kid in the Closet Incident, the River's Mom and River's Shower and Me incident, and see if I can remember any of the Screwing In BJ's Room With The Door Open And Then His Mom Came Downstairs incident.

For the second time in four years, Darkside and I have talked a cordless phone battery into oblivion.