The following is the answering machine message I left for my aunt at 1:46 a.m. Saturday while watching the latest episode of Lost:
“So, I’m only, like, eight minutes into the last episode of Lost, and I’m already crazy. Because Hurley has turned into a human Hindenburg. Remember back in season one when he said he’d lost enough weight to scale back two belt notches? LIAR! He’s now spent less than two months on the island, and you can’t blame all that blubber on the black and white Dharma Initiative food stuffs mysteriously dropped on the island. It’s like Angel in season five; did he really get that bloated from donor bank and otter blood? Anyway, Hurley might want to try some Method Acting before he becomes a one-note meat sack in Lost history. Otherwise, they’re going to have to dig a big fucking hole to bury his fat ass.”
Let it be known that Hurley is one of my favorite characters on the show. But this is one of those continuity errors I can’t let go of, similar to when Anya “forgot she knew how to drive between “Graduation Day, Part I” and “Triangle.”
I am virtually incapable of managing my own money effectively, so Sandy takes care of my finances for me. I have my paycheck deposited into her account, and she pays my bills for me. When I need cash, she is my personal ATM. Of course, she keeps great records, which is why I’m not the only person for whom she does this.
Yesterday Sandy was describing her bookkeeping procedures to me. “Everything is recorded at least four places: their file, my file, the green book, and the purple book,” she said. “For instance, your stuff is in your file. I also keep track of it in my files. Then it’s recorded in the green book, which is where I keep track of everybody’s stuff.”
“Okay. So what’s the purple book for?” I asked.
“To make sure the green book is right,” she replied.
“Oh, my God!” I gasped. “You have a redundancy system. The Cardassians would be appalled!”
My hotel is undergoing an extensive ($12 million) renovation, so everything is all crazy, all the time. The lobby, restaurant and bar have been gutted, so a suite on the first floor is our temporary lobby. The computers we use for check ins/outs are set up at the suite’s mini bar, which means we went from 22 feet of front desk space to approximately six; two clerks can work the computers at the same time, but only if they literally stand shoulder to shoulder.
This also means, of course, that office space is at a premium. When we moved to the new “lobby,” they put my office in a closet. Now, I know that a lot of office drones describe their tiny offices or cubicles as closets because it’s descriptive, but I’m being very literal here. And it wasn’t even a walk-in closet; no, it was just a tiny, regular closet. It had space for one schoolie on which I could put my computer and all other necessary items, with about three inches to spare on the side. This means that my closet was approximately 6.5 feet long and 2.5 feet deep.
Last week I had enough. I just couldn’t take it any more. I ultimately finagled my way into the temporary business center. I am thrilled to be out of the closet.