…it will be a miracle. He managed to rip both the left and right pockets on his new pants today, and the seams below the pockets. In his defense, he’s never done this before, so it must be something about the pants.
On another note, why is it always assumed that a woman will know how to sew something like that up? Or how to sew on a button? These pants will be going to the tailor, thank you very much.
I have a client situation right now that leaves me with a really ucky feeling in my stomach. It’s basically a “you haven’t paid me”/”you deleted my site”/”well you didn’t pay me for a year!”/”you deleted my site without permission” kind of thing. The site that was deleted wasn’t in use, because he transferred the domain name elsewhere a year before I deleted the account. I agreed to leave it up via IP address so he would be able to access his old shopping cart database for a while.
After a year, and after emailing for comfirmation and getting no reply, I closed the account. Everything gone. I was nice, though, and left his other three active Web sites untouched, even though he ignores my invoices.
Now he says he never got the invoices. And who knows, maybe he didn’t. But I brought it up with him when we had the deleted account brouhaha and he chose to ignore that part of the email.
What sucks is that we used to get along very well, this client and I. I think things turned sour when I started pushing him toward a bigger company for his main site. I didn’t want to grow my business to the size he needs to properly support his business, but he took it as me not wanting to help him anymore. He even said that exact thing at one point. I think it all went downhill from there.
Honestly, I know I should have picked up the phone and called him to straighten it all out at some point, and not let it get to this point. I didn’t really know what to say, though.I’m terrible at conflict and the worst thing is that I’m a crier. Things that make me feel negative emotions – anger, sadness, fear, frustration, etc. – make me cry when I try to deal with them head on. Handling everything via email may be unprofessional, but I think it would be a lot less professional to start crying on the phone with a client you’re trying to convince to pay you.
This is the part of working for myself I really, really hate.
Someone on a message board I read posed the quesion: “with whom do you share a birthday?” I replied with the following, which I don’t think I’ve ever posted here. That’s sad, because I think it’s a funny story.
JFK Jr. shared my birthday. My mother always thought that was a good reason for me to marry him. When I was in my early 20′s, she used to encourage me to go out in NYC to clubs where John-John was known to hang out, so I could meet him and we could laugh about how we shared a birthday and he would fall in love with me and we’d get married.
The day his plane crashed, she called me and said, in all seriousness, as if I ever had a chance with JFK Jr., “I’m SO glad you didn’t marry him!”
I believe I’ve mentioned here before how a well-stocked fridge makes me feel rich. There’s something about having a fridge overflowing with food and drink that makes me feel like the wealthiest person in the world. Right now, there’s practically no food in the fridge at all, but it’s well-stocked nonetheless.
With fertility drugs.
Yes, preparation for IVF 2.0 has begun.
Right now, I’m a bit irked at my doctor. I emailed him last week to ask if the next cycle would be using the same protocol as IVF 1.1, and also to ask if I should call R. to get my drug prescriptions squared away in advance. This was my first time emailing him, so I wasn’t sure how long it would take to get a response. So imagine my surprise when, two days later, in lieu of a reply, I got a call from the pharmacy to confirm my prescription order.
I can only assume, by the medications ordered, that the protocol will be the same.
The only difference is that they ordered Gonal-f instead of Follistim this time around. I guess it doesn’t matter, but I’m a little anxious about it. I mean, I already know I respond well to the Follistim. Why mess around with that?
It’s basically the same thing though, right? Right? RIGHT???
So, today I’m on CD6, which means I should start the next IVF cycle some time near the end of the month. It kind of puts a crimp in the run of NYE Railroad Earth shows, since we can’t stay overnight anywhere because I need to be home in case I need to go in for scans and bloods, but I don’t want to wait out a third cycle. Two is enough to go between IVF cycles.
My mother and her husband hired a 3-piece band for their wedding party a couple of weekends ago. It was a bass player, a guitar player, and a female vocalist. They were quite good, and did a nice job setting the tone for the evening with mainly light jazz.
What no one realized, however, was that the guitar player was getting quietly sloshed as the evening went on. When the party ended and it was time for the band to pack up and go, the vocalist and the bass player packed up their own gear and left. It was at this point that we realized that the guitar player was bombed out of his gourd. He was stumbling around, babbling fairly incoherently, and trying to get another drink.
It was clear that there was no way he was leaving on his own, because no one was going to let him get behind the wheel of a car. So it was decided that a cab would be called for him. This proved to be a daunting task, because the only cab company in town is owned by my step-father – aka my mother’s ex-husband and Alex’s father – but that’s another story entirely. Suffice to say that the late night person couldn’t be reached, and a cab became not an option.
While everyone is talking about what to do about this guy, the guy himself is still wandering around looking for more booze. That was when Alex sprang into action and appointed himself the guy’s babysitter. It was then that the guy started making claims about having been the guitar player for Quiet Riot, among other claims I can’t recall. At one point, he was starting to get belligerant, and Alex was trying to contain him. That was when he said, in a trying-to-be-threatening tone, “You think you could handle Quiet Riot?”
And that was when I lost it and started laughing at him. Until then, I felt bad and embarrassed for him that he allowed to get himself into this position, but this absurdity was hysterical. I turned to him and asked, “Why? Are you going to call him and get them over here?” His response was to blink owlishly at me, mouth agape.
Eventually, Denny, being the mensch he is, decided to just put the guy up in a hotel for the night. One of Denny’s friends drove Mr. Quiet Riot over there. As of 3pm the next day, he still hadn’t come back for his gear. Eventually, several days later, the bass player came back to pick it up and gave back a third of the band’s fee.
And the reason I’m telling you about this now is that I keep thinking about this story over and over every time I see an article about the death of Kevin DuBrow. As you can imagine, I’m not much of a Quiet Riot fan, but I do feel sympathy when someone dies. In this case, though, the sympathy is overshadowed by remembering this crazy guitar player guy.
My mother married her long time boyfriend on October 12. (I say “a new addition,” but that’s not entirely accurate. Denny’s been a real part of the family for years now, it’s just that now it’s legal.) They eloped to Barbados and were wed in a small, private ceremony. So when they got back, they had a party to celebrate.
The party was last weekend, on the 17th, so Scott and I had a whirlwind trip to Georgia for the party. We arrived early Saturday afternoon and left Sunday afternoon. Even though it was short, it turned out to be our best visit ever.
My mother is blissfully happy. Denny, her husband, is a wonderful man and it’s obvious that they’re very much in love. The party was huge fun, and I finally got to meet Denny’s friends and family. There were also members of my own family there I haven’t seen in a while, so that was another great thing.
It was really a wonderful weekend, full of celebration.
