Tag Archives: panic

Crash

26 Mar

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Someday, a very important computer server is going to crash.  It is inevitable.  There is no way around it.  And it will be totally devastating. 

…It might be a world bank, or all of the America-hosted internet, or the system that keeps track of all the air traffic routes and locations, or the tracker that keeps everyone’s SS# and personal info stats. It could be anything. Because odds are odds, and math is math, and nothing is constant.

Nothing.

…Which is kind of terrifying if you let yourself really think on it.

…So I try not to.

…But then a super-small-scale crash (in comparison) like today’s at work, will happen…and you can’t help but be reminded that someday we are all truly going to be good and fucked. 

By computers.

Our entire system crashed today. Crashed hard.

Corporate send out red flags via every backdoor communication source they had, freaking everyone out and leaving us that way for the better part of the day.

…This is bad timing to be freaking people out, what with multiple National road shows and stats and contracts flying thought the cloud network in batch numbers almost not to be believed. My own valuations were just above $52k and 35 contracts strong from the last 24 hours alone, before they lost the final connection with our server, and all died in front of our eyes.

Death.

…With so many numbers.

…And no way to know if that would be just today’s batches, or the weeks, or our entire Open Order Reports.

“Sit tight. We don’t know how bad it is yet,” was all we got for 4 and a half hours.

…And then a few updates managing to confirm our individual reports were safe, “for the most part.” And then an update on what, “for the most part” actually meant.

…So that by 5 hours in, we were told the worst of it, being that there was no salvage of anything going back to the latest full Corporate backup.

…Which by freak coincidence (being a Monday) was yesterday.

…So everything I’d done, or the Sales Reps, or the Customer Service Department, Accounting, Order Entry…since 5pm EST yesterday…was toast.

…Which means worse than “none of the things we did today ever existed.”

…Because server crash or not, we have contract deadlines to make.

…And from the Corporate level, we have 32 branches.

…All of whose orders need to be re-entered, reprinted, reprocessed.

From the beginning.

…Meanwhile today’s orders will be backlogged while they play “catch up.” Which screws with those contract dates as well. In a large-scale trickle effect that already slammed, will mean manic overtime hours to achieve.

…Which no one seems willing to pay for.

…Because these bastards are fucking cheap.

Case in point: we are still using an old server that can’t run up to speed, thus crashes, thus causes all of this shit-panic to begin with.

As for me: I am going to be packing up at 4 pm, as I do every day. Because that is what I signed up for. There is very little I can do until the contracts are reinserted into our network, and resent to me, to begin with. That will have to wait until I come in and start this circus all over again tomorrow, at 8am.

…And I’m taking a lunch like a normal person too. Today’s black coffee and gummy bear brunch, while hand-drawing up contracts from scratch, forgetting even to take a pee when I needed it, will not be the norm for the week.

I just refuse.

I said it.

~D

A Letter To The BFF, As She Moves To L.A.

22 Sep

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The BFF is leaving tomorrow.

…Not forever, just a few months…but I still don’t like it.  I know she’s coming back no matter what, because I’m holding The Fella and all my booze for ransom, but she’s kinda getting in the habit of ditching us…and that isn’t cool. 

…This one time, she did it for a whole semester in Dublin, and had WAY more fun than me, then decided to travel the whole fucking continent of Europe, before she ever came back home again. And where I’m way more jealous of her doing that, I still don’t totally agree with the whole “plan” she has mapped out right now. But, I guess she’s going anyway.

…Because she secretly hates us.

The flip side of this is that she’s moving to L.A., where NO ONE has more fun. Because they’re too busy being starving-hungry on purpose all the time.  And they have to get everything waxed so they look like hairless rats.  And always bleach their teeth and eye whites.  And get injections into their faces, of juice toxins they make bombs out of. And meat (outside of the porn biz) is totally outlawed there. 

…I heard this one time? A girl gained .002 of an ounce, just by accidentally breathing in beef spores from the lunch meat on the Kraft Service table, and she was totally kicked off the movie set. On breach of contract.  That’s when they first passed the law, I think.  It’s one of those lesser-known ones that people don’t really talk about, just inherently “know.” Like the one where your boobs have to be bigger than your butt cheeks…and brunettes can only play “evil”, or “the girl-next-door”…and everyone spends two hours applying makeup before they drive into the studio to get their makeup done for “real”, in case of paparazzi.*

(* That last one isn’t a real law, just a good idea in general.  Have you SEEN the covers of The Star and National Enquirer? Okay, then…)

…BTdubs…best get used to the rash of arrant-misinformation-factoid-news-stories NOW, cuz they sure as hell ain’t gonna get any better.

…But I digress. 

This was all supposed to be a letter. A letter of wise words to send my non-blood sister out into the wide-wide world with. Even though she’s already seen ten times more of it than I have.  However, she also almost died that one time…in that Romanian hostel pit from hell, (that she saw fit to spend a night in once and somehow live to tell about.)  And it’s because of things like this, that I feel obligated to list out a few “do’s” and “don’ts” for her.  You know…just in case she gets the feeling to check into a Bates Motel, or work at a strip joint, or shack up with some roomies that turn out to be Colombian Drug Lords.

I only say these things, because I love her.

…Which I wish she would keep in mind.

***

Dear The BFF,

I bought a tiny jar of dill pickles today, and it was tragic. I couldn’t do the big Costco one this time…know why? You won’t be here to help eat them. And after three months or whatever in L.A., you’ll prob’ly never eat dill pickles, ever again. “Too much salt and food content,” you’ll say.

…And you won’t fry things in butter anymore. Or bake cakes. And you’ll go back to eating tofu sandwiches – minus the bread – which is just tofu really, only you’ll still call it a sandwich…because clearly it is made of at least two foods: “to” and “fu”…so that’s a full meal right there…on the occasion that you still even eat food, that is.

(P.S. I hear they have a new surgery now, where they take out your taste buds so you can just totally give up and not even care about food at all, anymore.)

…When you come home again, I will ultimately just disgust you, with my buttersauce ways, and fat-pudge. And you’ll take out an ad to hold Open Casting for a new BFF…one with less evil chub, who doesn’t smell like meat products all the time. Possibly a blond. With a single syllable name…which doesn’t require spelling and pronunciation lessons every time it is given.

(P.S.S. I heard they have this service where you can just order friends off a menu, on Sunset. But if you get the wrong “package deal,” they’ll send you themed strippers instead. This one chick I know, ended up with a Latina in lederhosen holding a Heineken, on her doorstep…when all she wanted was someone to go shopping with.)

…You’ll also be buddies with all the famous people, after this, and have free designer clothes…and know all the new “in” words, so I won’t have any idea what in the hell you’re even talking about anymore…

“Those shoes are just ralsh of viv for the rycalm of it all. I bet Mila and Natalie have ’em. I was at this dinner once, hashing with Reese, Russell & Amy and they were all: ‘you are monster jade, you know that?’ And, O-M-G…did you SEE what Amanda was wearing at that one award show? What a drosh…it was sooooo last season.”

“…The hell?” I will sadly respond.

“Seriously. I cannot even believe I once thought you were Ivan in the sweet and we were all xadish. What a fucking Kevlar I was,” you will reply.

(P.S.S.S. Someone told me this one time that the real reason it’s so hard to break it into Hollywood, is because of the language barrier. Tons of people just never pick it up. Which is prob’ly why almost all the major stars are Foreign. Cuz they already speak nine or ten other languages, so it’s easier for them to pick it up somehow.)

…Of course, I am just panicking and jumping to conclusions here…(which, hello, is totally what I do)…but the innermost “me” knows this is all ridiculous, because you would NEVER betray food like that. Or me. (And I’m totally fine that that is the order we come in.) But I still worry ’bout things.

…Just…you know what? Do me a favor. Maybe find out where ever Winslet, Fey, Pitt, Clooney, Hathaway…the cast of “How I Met your Mother,” or the Whedonites are hanging out…and go be with them. Cuz they’re “real.” I’m told they still have all their original bone structure and skin, even. It would really make me feel better…just “in general.”

Also:

* Don’t ever “borrow” someone’s office couch to crash on…it’s prob’ly got enough generations of movie-starlette spunk on it, to disgust even a garbage man.

* Don’t walk Hollywood Blvd after dusk…especially after a party…people will stop their cars and offer you money to turn a trick.

* Don’t take money from people, while agreeing to “turn a trick.” It isn’t what you think it is. There are no magic doves, disappearing acts, or decks of cards involved in the kind they want. And if there are, you’re even MORE screwed. (Pun intended.)

* If you HAVE to shop lift, (in total emergency situations), wait until you see which store Winona Ryder is going into. When the alarm goes off, point at her. They will totally believe you. Then, when the security guards start to frisk her: run.

* “Organic” special nature California foods, are just a giant trick. ALL produce grows in or from dirt. The end. So don’t pay extra just because they tell you different. (I know I’ve already been having this same argument with you for two years, but it’s not gonna stop now. Isn’t constancy nice?)

* If you go shopping on Rodeo Drive, keep your sunglasses on the whole time, and sneer at the saleswomen like Patsy in “Ab-Fab.” In the words of Meg Ryan from “French Kiss”: “If you’re nice to them, they will treat you like shit, treat THEM like shit, and they’ll love you.”

* Don’t catch any wild ideas about future children’s names and weird charities you wanna sponsor. There are plenty of real ones in both cases, so use/support them. Just for the record: I absolutely refuse to call your kid “Cumquat” or “Pumernickle” or “Spring Rain” or “Ra-$h8-tra.” And I won’t run twenty miles to support the Pygmy Marmoset Dwarf Monkeys of Ecuador. So don’t ask.

* If you run into any of the list of men I gave you before you left, give them my number and tell them to call me.

…And…

* If you accidentally find yourself rich, bring me back something from Tiffany’s.

…For now, that should do it. I feel like I took care of all the really important stuff. Except to say: “I love you…and don’t forget me.”

…And also, I fucking miss you already.

Sincerely,

~ Your BFF

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