The following idiomatic expressions were all used today, by one man, in a meeting I attended:
"Hit the ground"
"full blown solution"
"wherever that functionality fell out at"
I took detailed minutes and drew a picture of a jowly client with googly eyes who was sitting across the table from me.
Yes. This is what I am doing with the best years of my life.
We use Microsoft Office Communicator at my office. It is basically a secure Instant Messenging feature for professionals, although, the only person who ever uses it to talk to me is Jane, and our topics of conversation typically involve calculating the best permutations of the emoticons that come with it.
This one is our favorite:
It is an employee, actually sprinting in animation, towards a beer.
Since my experiences on my city league softball team and my days at work didn't provide me with *quite* enough uncomfortable or awkward moments in my life, I decided to ahead and join another team... on which one of my clients plays.
It was her idea, and though I'm pretty sure there's nothing explicit in either of our company policies about playing on a beer-league athletic team together, I am fairly suspicious it would be frowned upon. So we're keeping it hush-hush, which is only too bad because I completely dominated at our game on Sunday and wanted to TELL EVERYONE about it.
I think it would be a glorious way to leave this place - for the "secret" to get out and everyone to turn to me with wounded expressions of betrayal and concern around a conference table, my manager asking me, "So then, is it true?"
And I, in an Oscar worthy monologue would ask, "Is what true? That I have had enough of this ridiculous politik? That [client name] and I have been seeing each other outside of work? Well, guess what. It is true- it's all true! And I'm not sorry! In fact, I loved every dirty minute of the game. Loved it, I tell you! And you know what else? I was damn good at it, too. You shoulda seen me out there - in the lights, proud as hell, always goin down' swinging. It was a beautiful thing!"
And my boss would rise to his feet, slam a hand on the table and shout around his cigar (because now, in my head, he has a cigar... and is inexplicably in a 3-piece tweed suit with a pocket-watch, his shirt-sleeves rolled to the forearm, the smoke swirling between us), "Goin' down swingin', eh? Well, swing at this: You're fired!" And I'd say, "You can't fire me, I quit. I quit all of ya, ya yellow-bellied cowards! I'm not afraid to live. I'll see ya in the funnies!" and I'd grab my hat (?), and my briefcase (?), turn on a heel and stomp out without looking back, all the way to the train station.