noideadog: (shutup)
What a cranky and difficult day. Nothing was good today and everything went wrong and there was no obvious reason for any of it. Joel says "It's because you didn't light box yesterday" and I say "No, it's because every goddamn thing is stupid." I'm medicating with Bach, a purring cat and a lot of pillows. (Joel: "the Pillow Of The Month Club called; they wondered if you meant to take out that third subscription.". Oh, Joel's on a roll today.)

Today was a day of technological failure, hanging browsers, crashing IM clients, wedged phones, laggy infrastructure, upgrades that didn't and -- really, this seemed a bit unnecessary -- an adjustable desk that chose today to stop adjusting. Seriously, desk? You too? That said, the fax I needed to send this evening went out on the first attempt, so maybe this was some sort of technological karma: you need to build up a lot of broken crap to balance out a fax machine that does what you want it to do.

But even the reason for the fax was annoying! Our baby-delivering hospital, the sleek, modern NYU Langone, got flooded in the storm, and we've been bumped to the less salubrious NY Downtown. Right, lots of people had actually bad storm outcomes and we're going to not whine about it (apart from right now, when I'm absolutely going to whine about it, but then it'll be out of my system I promise), but it does seem to be a step down in terms of facilities and attitude. It'll be more 'hospitally', I think. Well, we'll know more when we take a tour, but for now the most visible impact is that we change from sending off crisp downloadable pdfs to badly photocopied faxes. I filled out the labour and delivery admission form today and was bemused to note that after the blurry lines for "Name", "Address", "Date of birth", "Race" and "Gender" (which, in itself, is an interesting question to see on a maternity form), the next question was "Mother". What? Whose? I added a cover sheet to the fax, like it was 1994 or something, and included my email address for any followup questions.
noideadog: (shutup)
Campbell's minestrone soup (Low cholesterol! An excellent source of vitamin A! Vegetables are essential for a balanced diet!) contains 100% RDA of sodium, -and- is made mostly out of chicken stock. Bastards. And it's sneaky, because the tiny tiny mug-sized can apparently contains 2.5 servings. What an ambush. I need a new rule where I read the small print in advance, or not at all.
noideadog: (buttercup)
A grumpy day. A remarkably grumpy day.

Today was a series of dips into new levels of vile humour as I re-realised that not only can I not swan around Asia for the rest of my life, I also have to work for a living. Working! Liking your job only counts for so much when you've gotten accustomed to leading a life of entertaining leisure. And work was pleasant today, with potentially really interesting project work and clever, friendly people, and I could only react to it by being annoyed that I wasn't still on holidays.

Now I'm sitting at home with tea and scowling and a Best Of Clapton, being further irritated because a lot of the Clapton's stuff is really just mediocre boyband pop, and he should be forced to only play blues -all the time-. Get it together, the Clapton.

And it's -June-, but it's -raining-. How the hell is that fair?

Real life. Grar. (This happens after every holiday ever and I will get over it. Soon.)
noideadog: (buttercup)
Call me a Communist if you will, but I really don't like staying in posh hotels. Such pointlessness! I'm not saying that I'm not a -little- charmed by the fluffy white bathrobe, but nobody needs this level of faux-luxury. Yes, they put a chocolate on my pillow, and yes, little love-notes around the bedroom remind me constantly how much they appreciate me and hope I sleep well, but seriously, if they really cared, wouldn't you think that internet access would be free? Wouldn't you?

The restaurant has 'the posh fish' or 'the posh beef'. Both cost enough that I feel I'd be taking the piss if I paid for a starter or dessert with them, and yet the (beautifully decorated) plate does not contain enough food to fill a growin' girl, especially once you realise that most of the foliage is non-food. Nouveau cuisine plate painting is all very well, and decorative fruits are decorative enough, but I'd swap them both for not wistfully thinking about cheese sandwiches half an hour later. (There are no late night cheese sandwich shops in Zurich, by the way. It's not done.)

How can the wireless not be free? How can they get away with charging three quid for a can of coke? How can it cost four fifty to have socks washed? Who judges all of this to be ok? In my (ever-humble, hah) opinion, staying in a posh hotel should mean that I'm -more- comfortable than at home. The internet pipe should be big and fat and unrestricted. Nice teas and cheese sandwiches should appear in my room, perhaps accompanied by toblerone. The reading lights should be bright. The bathroom lights should be soft and flattering. The tipping policy should be clearly communicated to people who don't know what's normal. The waiter should stop being amusing and friendly while I'm trying to complain about everything on here.

I'll keep the bathrobe though, thanks.

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February 2014

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