Date: March 8, 2009

Time: 2:15 or 3:15 am (still a little disoriented because of the time change.  And no matter what Janice says, it’s not psychological)

OK, everyone knows how the rubber band/cussing experiment went.  By Wednesday, I had to take the damn thing off because the inside of my left wrist was so bruised.  Seriously.  The bruise is purple and green right now.  It wasn’t because I was snapping the rubber band so hard, it’s because I was snapping it so often.  Let’s just call this experiment a wash.

Work sucked this week.   I was in constant conflict with the Boys Club  (that’s what I call the other VPs at the office) over new ways to reach our target audience.   Listening to differing opinions is not a strong suite for the BC.  And yes, I sort of think of them as one.

They can’t seem to get over the fact that someone with brains and a vagina is among their ranks.  I’m in my early 40′s (they are mid-50s to late 60s), I haven’t “paid my dues” (i.e. I didn’t work my way up the company ranks, but was instead hired from outside), and I don’t have a penis.  They don’t mind the brown skin so much. That just means that they are able to check two blocks on the diversity worksheet instead of one.

As a consolation prize for my shitty week, I agreed to go to the club to celebrate Janice’s birthday.  Yeah- stupid, I know.  But it wasn’t my idea.  I quit clubbing years ago. 

Here’s what a trip to the club usually entails

•       I get hit on by old men
•       I get hit on by drunk men
•       I get hit on by old, drunk men
•       I get a drink spilled on me by an old, drunk man
•       I have the old drunk man pawing at me with a napkin in hand (but I’m sure he       would say he was just helping me clean up the spill)
•       I get rescued from the Old Man with Drink by Hottie with a Tight Body who actually looks old enough to buy me a drink 
•       I notice that, while at the counter waiting for the drink order, Mr. Hottie slips his wedding band off his finger and into his pocket.  By the time he returns, I’m gone.
•       After finding the birthday girl on the dance floor, rolling her eyes and slapping away the hands of a guy half her age, I give her the “I’m out” signal.  She nods and points to indicate that she’s right behind me, and we make a beeline for the door.

So my week ended with me being pissed off with men at work and men at clubs. 

But there’s always BOB (Battery Operated Boyfriend)- he never lets me down. 

As long as I keep him supplied with double A’s. 

Shit.  I think I’m out.

Where is that damn rubber band?  I’ll try the other wrist!