Before I proceed with the main event of this evening's symposium, I want you to quit bitching that I'm not blogging. 2013 has seen a sort-of rennaissance in my bloggery. So pipe down.
Here's the thing.
As we have already discussed, as I crawl out of the mire that 2008-Present have been, I have been able to slowly rebuild what was once a successful consulting practice. As this is now looking "on the up" and I have merged efforts with some other excellent lads with whom I was once at school, we decided to set up an office for the [We Need To Come Up With A Catchy Name Soon] Consulting Group in the same space as our newest big client.
(This is part of the new modus operandi, to be within microscope distance of clients. Lessons learned the hard way and all.)
For reasons well afield of the scope of this blog, it fell to me to find furniture. Since these are not our forever-and-ever digs, and since we're also gathering up furniture for the client's call center operations, I found a corporate furniture liquidator.
Just north of here, in Ft. Lauderdale, a major company closed down that office and merged it with their Miami office, leaving three floors' worth of furniture and office suites, etc. in near mint shape. Cheap.
So I have one of the guys in the office contact the listed person to schedule an appointment, etc.
This loon, instead, gives out my mobile phone number to the contact person at the furniture place.
She texts me.
I don't get back to her right away. When I do this -- kindly reproduced for you verbatim -- happens:
Me: What's yr addr?
Her: 123 XYZ Street. Do u wt me to sd pix?
[some time later]
Me: Pls LMK what times you hv avbl to look @ ofc furn. Her: Mon 1-3, Tue 10-12, 2-4, whouse is @ 789 ABC Avenue
Now, the more astute among you may have noticed she sent two wholly unrelated addresses. This struck me as odd, especially as 123 XYZ Street is NOWHERE NEAR anything even remotely warehouse-y. So, naturally I thought perhaps this was the corporate address and, while we'd select stuff at the warehouse, we'd have to sign contracts, etc. at the "main office" or something.
Of course, because I have a catastrophically bad sense of direction, I Googled the warehouse (in a suitably industrial part of town) and then the "office address." Which came up with some VERY unexpected results.
There is simply now way around it. The first address which "Tiffany" sent me was an "executive escort service." There is no room for error here, I have both of these addresses in my text records, and there they are. No typos, no misunderstanding, no misreading them.
But our furniture needs will brook no misgivings.
So off we went, Rob (one of the other partners in our fledgling venture) and I, to 789 ABC Avenue. This was a suitably colossal warehouse place, riddled with very nice office furniture over an expance of a squillion square feet (or meters, if that's all you have). We walk up to the office and say we had a 1pm appointment with Tiffany.
Tiffany comes out.
Now, if you want reassurance that someone has texted you the address of an "executive escort service" by mistake, Tiffany's appearance would be ideally geared to provide none. Shortish, blonde, perky, with WAY too much makeup and cleavage and the sort of miniskirt for which my beloved would strike me about the head and neck merely for being within a mile thereof.
If one wants to convincingly convey an image of Not Being An Executive Escort, this was precisely the wrongest sort of effort.
Rob & I walk around, selecting desks, cubicles, chairs, bookshelves, credenzæ, etc. Rob was unable to look at her in the eye. Whenever she'd turn away or go to the office to print out something he'd just shake his head at the surreal nature of this adventure.
"Dude. We're buying cheap used office furniture from a very expensive callgirl!" Then he'd shake his damned head and laugh in disbelief.