Melting little witch-puddles

Everything is completely fucked at the moment. In a crazy, crazy world, it might all just work out, but it's blatantly not going to, and that's worrying. This is causing me to morph into a walking prophecy of doom. I keep having the urge to melt wicked-witch-like onto the office floor in a puddle, and stay there until either I die or things get better. Obviously that's not possible though, so instead I turn to alcohol. Not in an alcoholic way, you understand; just in a fuck it, let's get pissed and forget it way. 


I emailed Peter yesterday about the major industry event we're all gearing up for, which we're hosting at an external place no one's really seen properly yet. I think I got across the level of my despair quite well. 


Hi,


Eight of the nine screens have now arrived. One is broken. Two more screens have been ordered, and if all goes to plan they will arrive on the day. 


We still have no catering. 


We still have no music. 


However, I had a rant at Luke. We had a good chat. It made me feel marginally better, until I left the room and remembered I don't get to spend all my time talking to Luke and have to actually do my job as well. 


So I went for a little lie-down on the floor in the downstairs toilets, and because the lights are movement-sensitive they went off after a while, and it was very nice lying in the dark on the nice cold floor. 


I'll be drinking tonight, probably. 


How are you?


Media Lady x

If I wasn't used to my own blatant fucking freakiness, I'd be worried about my mental health. But I'm sure I'll be fine. Just as long as I have vodka. 

Too much?

I'm really nice to my team. Sales is hard, really pressurised, and this quarter at our company the targets are fucking insane, and my team's got the biggest one. I can see in their eyes the desperate hunger usually reserved for UNICEF ads. Where once there were dollar signs, now there are only shiny tears of despair. 


And other such prosaic bollocks. 


They are all sad though. Sad and young, lots of them are fresh outta uni. Which is lovely, it makes them all really keen and enthusiastic, and I love having them around, but sometimes it does feel like a zoo. When I've asked them thirty times in the past three days to do one simple administrative task that takes them roughly three seconds, and 50% of them have forgotten because they're just so used to being nagged until they do things, I do start to tear my hair out. That, and rant at Peter. I got home yesterday, made dinner, sat down on the sofa and ranted for six hours. Six fucking hours, guys. I kid you not. 


So yesterday, when me and the other managers were in training, and the guy asked which little things stressed us out, I did a potted version of the six-hour rant. I felt a bit guilty afterwards, because they are amazing, and admin is annoying, so I said 
"I love my team. I do. I love them." 


To which he replied: "Yeah, but you just wish they'd all turn 18 and go to university." 


YES. YES, EXACTLY. They can still come home for Christmas, I'd cry if they didn't, because what would Christmas be without my children? 


There's something actually wrong with me, isn't there? 


Probably nothing a hefty dose of vodka won't fix, though. 

Pink iPhones on the Carpet

The iPhone wasn't out when I was a teenager (mobile phones had barely hit the shelves - yeah, I'm old, get over it), but for some reason this picture really reminds me of being a teenager: 

It's one of those memories that comes with a smell - a sugary-sweet strawberry-bubblegum smell of that kind of friendship girls do so well. Sitting around in Kate's bedroom with her, Kath and Becky, comparing thigh sizes even when everyone could see Becky's were the skinniest by a mile. Shorts pulled up so we could criticise our own cellulite levels while reassuring each other that we had no cellulite. Like, none. Like, you're beautiful, Kath, really. No, you're not fat. She always was paranoid, but that's the way of healthy girls, right? Two of us were pretty much anorexic. One of us was naturally skinny. Kath was the normal-sized one, which meant (like Jesy from Little Mix) that compared to the rest of us she did look kinda large. 

Racing outside as soon as the sun came out, dashing across Kate's lawn, divebombing into her pool while her two Rottweilers, Rocky and Voodoo, looked on. Her mom was so cool. She made the best fruit salads ever. She'd bring them to us to keep us happy while we swam, lounged at the poolside with a book wearing one of those sunhats which look ridiculous on most people except models, which Kate's mom had been. Of course. 

It was a world away from my alcoholic mother and my council flat, which was one of the reasons I loved it. But also, the girls were just fucking awesome. The best friends I could have wanted in my teens. I wonder what they're doing now? Last I heard, Kate got married in the Seychelles, Kath went travelling and Becky was somewhere up north doing some kind of admin job. 

I wish we'd stayed in touch. 

I did a Bad Thing

By which I mean, I went out and got totally, uproariously drunk. And danced. ALOT. With my friends from not-work. Sometimes I forget they exist because I'm too busy making decisions with Alex or going for lunch with Charlie or trying not to push Izzy's head through a wall. But last week Romilly called, and she was like "Hey Media Lady, a bunch of us are going out, remember us? Your friends from college?" And I thought, well why the hell not? The thing is that most of them have pretty boring jobs that they don't really care about, or they're unemployed, so they were going out on a Sunday night. I decided this was a good idea and we headed off to a local secret venue. Top secret. So secret there were only a few people there, which made me think it would be shit. 


Then I drank. 


Oh god I drank. 


And then someone produced some kind of wonderful substance - I was already fucked by this point, I have no idea what it even was. It might have been popcorn for all I know. But anyway, we ate some, I ate LOTS of whatever the fuck it was, and then I decided I could definitely fly. Definitely. I stood on a table and jumped off to prove it. All I have to prove that is a pretty impressive bruise. 


Not as bad as Vikki, who I hadn't seen in years, and who decided that the thing she wanted to be most of all in the world, even more than she'd wanted to be a popstar when she was a kid, is a whale. Yeah, like, the big fat things in the sea. So then she showed us what she thought she'd look like as a whale, and made whale noises, and all this time I was screaming "I CAN FLY THOUGH I CAN!! LOOK!" and Daisy (who was also with us) was laughing so much she was nearly choking on her cigarette, and Romilly if I'm honest was just looking fucking terrified and out of her depth. 


As you can imagine, the Monday Morning Meeting at work wasn't my most stellar performance to date. Opening my eyes had felt like my face was being pried open with a screwdriver by the devil himself, standing up was a challenge, I was shaking all over and the only way I felt remotely comfortable was lying flat on the right side of my body. I think my boss might have had something to say about me suddenly lying flat on the desk though, so I just somehow got through the day and limped home. 


The hangover was so intense that it took a couple of days to get over it. And the rest of the week I felt a bit ashamed of myself and went straight home every day after work, climbed into bed and slept like a Good Media Lady. 


But tonight it's Sunday again, and I'm feeling the way I usually do on a Friday, or occasionally a Saturday, where my body's like "Hey Media Lady, we haven't been out for, like, a week. LET'S GET FUCKING SMASHED." But I really shouldn't. 


Ohhh but I want to SO MUCH.