Monday, February 28, 2005

Are there rocks ahead? If there are, we all be dead!

There is something sinister afoot….

Okay, sorry, couldn’t resist. Puns are generic and simple-minded but I adore them and use them whenever possible. Of course, I haven’t explained the pun yet so naturally you are waiting in a state of twittering excitement.

I have a corn. A corn? A CORN.

I was not even aware of what A CORN could be until I got one this weekend. I spent a good two hours whimpering about how badly my pinkie toe hurt until finally my mother took of my shoe (we had gotten back in her car, this was not in public) and examined my pinkie toe.

“It’s a corn.”

So matter-of-fact! And she looked at me with the head-down, eyes-over-glasses look that conveys total lack of faith in my abilities as a human being.

I, naturally, had never had any need to find out what a corn was until that very moment. I knew they existed. I knew Dr. Scholl’s carried a whole line of products to get rid of them. I knew it involved feet. And that was really where my interest waned. I don’t care for feet. And other people’s feet ailments are right up there next to grasshopper mating habits on my priority scale.

So I asked what a corn was. And why it hurt so very, very much.

Turns out, according to my mother, that corns are hard patches of skin that form under skin due to wearing incorrect footwear. There is a little hole-looking thing that appears on the offending area where the pressure is most intense and from where all of my pain is radiating in great, eye-ball loosening waves.

At this point I received another of my mother’s ‘looks’ coupled with a swift and knowing glance at my brand new turquoise-colored pointy-toed pumps.


The agony. You have no idea.

So on my lunch break today I made a quick trip to Kroger where I purchased a bright yellow package of Dr. Scholl’s Corn Removers. It’s possibly even more embarrassing than having to fill up a buggy with tampons and wander around the store asking shoppers if they know where the Stay-So-Fresh wipes are. The humiliation. I imagined that everyone was watching and becoming mentally revolted at the thought of my corn-covered, scaling oozy feet. Now, my feet aren’t corn-COVERED and they’re certainly not scaly or oozy. But the store patrons didn’t know that. I felt like explaining to everyone that I was getting the Corn Removers for my dear, sweet little grandmother who just had HORRIBLE feet problems and wasn’t I a good little granddaughter for purchasing the required package of Corn Removers?

Really. I understand how overly-dramatic I was being about this. But. EEEWWWWW.

Friday, February 25, 2005

OOOOOOH, a Sparkalie! Can I have it Can I have it oh PLEASE Mrs. Brisbee?

This morning I awoke at 8:06. For no apparent reason. Though I’d hazard a guess my awakening was hastened by the 47 gallons of pure unadulterated sunshine flowing in through my windows. OH THE BLESSED SUN!!

It took me until 8:34 to convince myself it was okay to get up. I had not planned an excursion to the gym that morning so sleeping in should have been my top priority. But alas, THE BLESSED SUN showed me the way out of my bed.

Since I had planned to drive home to visit my parents this weekend, I thought that I might spend my time “wisely” by washing my car. A noble idea at 8:35 in the morning when nightgown is still askew and breath is still abominable. So, 2.5 minutes later, I plopped my sketchy self into my spanky black car and drove down the road to the car wash. (I long for the day when I have a water hookup where I can wash my car outside my house.)

I pre-soaked, soaped, foam-brushed, tire-cleaned, luster-glossed, rinsed and spot-free rinsed all thanks to the 7 dollars in quarters I scrounged out of my purse. After I had certified that my vehicle was dirt-free, I pulled it out of the bay to dry the outside and try out my new “spray detailer.”

**As a side note, I have a severe problem with car care products. I have amassed more waxes, tire cleaners, spray foam, wheel brushes, bug sponges and the like than any normal person in the tri-state area. I could start my own detailing shop with the mounds of products made specifically for the anal retentive of the human species.

Back to the previous story… I had pulled my car out of the bay and parked beside the foam and fragrance vacuum cleaner. I’m drying away with the lint-a-licious terry cloth towel purchased for a bank-breaking two dollars from the vending machine. (TWO DOLLARS FOR CLOTH? Just because it was manufactured by People With Disabilities does not make it worth two dollars. Come on.) So anyway. I’m sweating and icky and Lord knows I don’t have any make-up on and I haven’t taken a shower which means my deodorant is living on a prayer and my only redeeming quality is that my stretchy spandexy pants are partially covered by my giant hoodie. At his point I hear a THWACK off to my right and glance up—only to notice the short crackhead standing less than one foot from my person. I’ve got a naturally large personal space bubble and homeboy had popped that bubble about 16 feet ago. That’s when it dawns on me that the THWACK I heard a moment a go was, in fact, this idiotic human being snapping his drying towel on the side of my car in an effort to garner my attention. Now, you can harass me, invade my space and blast your crackhead vibes all around me BUT DO NOT TOUCH MY CAR.

So I stand up to my full height and look him dead in the eye. Which, as far as I’m concerned, should never happen because my ‘full height’ is a mere 5 foot 6 inches. Out of the corner of my eye I see his ’96 Chevy S-10 with it’s lowered suspension and chrome wheels. A serious offense in my book as trucks and SUV’s were built on a higher platform for a specific purpose. If you want a vehicle that close to the ground, BUY A CAR. Don’t insult truck and SUV-drivers the nation over by altering the make-up of your vehicle in such a sacrilegious manner.
“You got a booooyfriend?” he asks.

“Yes. Thank you,” I say. Obviously I’m lying but I’m hardly going to launch into any sort of negotiations with this cretin.

“You sho do got a fiiiiine ass,” he says. Somehow managing to be both lecherous and hilarious at the same time.

God forgive me for egging this on, but I did.

“You really think so? I’ll have to add that in my compliment book. I so rarely receive high-caliber remarks such as yours.”

Now here I’m thinking that I’ve probably overdone it, because I’m fairly positive the only reference to the word “caliber” he’s ever heard has been in conjunction with a high-powered rifle or handgun.

“Oooooh girl,” he slurs out, looking me up and down. He then makes some sort of strange slurpy-smacky nose that does hereby take the cake for today’s most thoroughly disturbing noise.

I try to give him my most scathing look.

“Thank you for you interest. I’ll pass.”

I then turn back around and resume drying off my car. I can feel him standing behind me for a good minute or so but, being the stubborn bitch I am, I refuse to give him any sort of satisfaction in watching me run off with my tail between my legs.

Eventually he walks off and I furiously dry the rest of my vehicle, annoyed that yet another ignorant Random has made me irritable. By the time I’m done drying and polishing, I’ve worked off most of my anger. I probably polished just a bit too hard and may have missed a spot or two of the detailing spray (a lovely product invented for the sole purpose of making vehicles shinier) but all was well with the world by the time I got to work. Not even the news that I would have to cover my brothers bills this month because he has even less money-skills than I (though he claims superiority) could ruin my mood.

There’s nothing like a shiny car to make the world a better place.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Moisturization is Critical to the Development of the Seedling

So I’m sitting at my desk in cubicle land earlier today when my boss oh-too-casually saunters up to my desk and asks me if I “have a minute.”

Well, of course I have a minute. 1) You know how much work I have to do today and it’s not like I can lie and say it’s a giant assload. To be quite honest, we both know I’ll be surfing the net come 6 o’clock. 2) You’re my boss. I can no more say ‘no’ to you than a crack whore can say no to one more line of oblivion.

So with trepidation in my heart and vomit rising in my throat, I roll back my chair and manage to stand on my suddenly jell-o-esque legs. I follow him into the hallway where he asks me which interview room I’d like, pointing to two small available rooms both furnished with equally uncomfortable chairs and a table. I point to my left and take a seat inside while my boss quietly shuts the door behind us and places a manila folder on the desk.

“This is your 90-day review,” he says.

My gut clenches in fear. I mentally flip through everything I’ve said to anyone in our department, catalog every email I’ve ever sent for inappropriateness and, most importantly, review every car deal I’ve ever funded, checking for mistakes and errors that could potentially be job-threatening because of my lack of ‘detail-orientedness’ or some such rot.

So my boss pulls out a meager four sheets of paper, all with my name emblazoned in bold at the very tippy top of each one. He hands me two pieces and keeps two for himself. I can feel my left eyeball starting to twitch, as it does when I am tense, and I can’t force myself to focus on the paper less than one foot from my retina. He begins to read from the top but my ears are only focused on my inner monologue, chattering away at full speed, alerting me to each and every fault and vice I’ve exhibited in the last quarter-century of my life.

And then I hear the words:

“Overall, we think you’ve done an outstanding job.”

Head snaps up in Linda Blair fashion.

What? What’s that you say?

You like me?

You really like me?

I had to fight the urge to get up and hug the man, I was that overcome with relief.

He then goes on to tell me how impressed he was at how quickly I caught on and how appreciative he was of my attention to detail. He told me that HIS supervisor had noticed that the new girl held a number-two spot on the audit scores and was usually in the top two spots for same-day-funding. (All work lingo, which I hate, but I’m bragging about myself, so CAN IT, SLUT) He marks on his little currently non-threatening pieces of paper that I have met or exceeded expectations and that my score more than guarantees me a permanent place with the company.

HOLY CRAP. I recant every bad word I have every thought or uttered concerning cubicle land before entering into this company. Cubicle land is the equivalent of going to heaven and being presented with 99 virgins. Though, personally, I’m not really that turned on by boy-virgins. There’s nothing worse than two incompetents going at it and pretending to enjoy it. Well, the boy’s going to “enjoy” it, but the girl is probably going to fake it just to get him to stop thrusting away.

But I digress.

I AM SO RELIEVED! To use my much over-used expression: I almost peed down both legs!

Please understand, before you think I am a TOTAL ninny, that I have never had a peaceful job. Ever. And this job is just ever so peaceful and calm, the thought of having to give it up and face unemployment again or even (gasp!) a mall job, was enough to make me come within a hairsbreadth of vomiting up my roast beef and pepperjack sandwich.
For the first time I’m not:
*Working 80 hours a week with the police scanner glued to my ear 24/7, living in fear of missing the big story and seeing “that look” on my news directors face. Remember when the bridge collapsed in Oklahoma? Yeah. I didn’t get to leave the newsroom for 48 hours. Me, the one who had to drag my news director out of bed at 8am on a Sunday morning to beg for a helicopter to take our reporter to the scene. The same news director who tells the station owner he had to call me at work to tell me to hire a helicopter to get our reporter to the scene and that there’s really too much work to be done for me to go home quite yet—could I stay until after the furor dies down? 37 cut-ins and 6 full newscasts later, I go home to shower. And sleep. Did I mention sleep? (TV news job)
*Being promoted into a position that only one person knows how to do and given 2 days to train with departing employee. Who’d only been working there 3 months and didn’t really know what she was doing. At my 30-day review my boss tells me that I won’t be eligible for my pay increase because there was some accounting work I was supposed to be doing but had failed to show the initiative to ask about. Pardon me, bitch, while I shove my fist into your anus. Do you like that? SUCK IT. Need I mention that there had been no whisper of this work by either my boss – with whom I shared an office – or by the accounting team. Oh, the irony. I quit six months later and moved home to Little Rock. (New York job in postproduction)
*Again, being promoted into a position that only one person knew how to do. Unfortunately, my coked-up boss dallied around so long with threats of firing then-current employee that said employee just one day up and quit. SURPRISE! So the morning after ex-employee vacated, he plops my plump ass into the large windowless office at the back of the building and tells me it’s “pretty self explanatory.” Right. Which TOTALLY explains the company wide hate email the ex-employee sent out detailing the unfairness of shoving a three-person workload onto an individual and expecting him to keep his sanity. Right On. 6 months later I told my boss to go Fuck Himself and left. They hired two people to replace me.
*Not running my ass off getting a size 8, no, wait, maybe a size 8 and a half. Darn, that’s too small to… Could I get a 9? Selling Shoes. My very own personal hell. Why, you ask? Feet smell. They sweat. It’s sick. I used so much hand sanitizer when I worked there that the webbing in between my fingers started to crack and bleed. And I just ADORE working weekends.

So yeah. Cubicle-land is awesome. God bless it. May it flower and bloom for all eternity. My supply of Rolaids thanks you.

Monday, February 21, 2005

Cotton Candy

Well, it’s currently 8:01 and 52 seconds. I have another five minutes to kill, sitting witless in cubicle-land, because SOMEONE didn’t get her ass in GEAR this morning. And yeah, that finger that’s pointing so unmercifully in the manner that your mother always told you not to do, is pointing right at ME. You see, I can always find something useful to do with my time when I’m running late. When it’s Saturday afternoon I’d sooner eat a bag of used kitty litter than do my laundry but GOD FORBID I let my clothes sit in the dryer just ONE MOMENT LONGER when Monday morning rolls around. And Lord Knows I couldn’t ever leave the house without running back upstairs to put away my straightening iron, left sitting on the counter last week when I was overcome with the need to fry my frizzy little strands into shiny submission.

I’ve got 30 seconds to go. And then I can make the breath-stealing walk up 40 bazillion flights of stairs so inconsiderately concreted into the side of a mini-mountain up to the parking lot where I insist upon parking my spanky new black vehicle. Might I specify that this is my DING-FREE spanky new black vehicle. It’s shiny soul-less black depths are like candy to diabetic eyes.


Sunday, February 13, 2005

Good Morning Vietnam!

Well, after a few dozen hours of restful sleep (interrupted only once, will explain later) and a few blissfull hours of book-reading this morning, I suppose I'm ready to spill my thoughts through this beautifully impersonal interface.

First off, sitting in front of my apartment this morning is a spanky new shiny black Honda Accord. I did not BUY this piece of machinery; in fact, I did not even want this piece of machinery sitting in front of my home. The keys were given to me yesterday afternoon by a very sweet but motive-ridden finance director at the Honda dealership out by where I work. Now, you'd think his only motives were to sell me the car. And after finding out how much my insurance was going to go up and how much my payments were going to go up, I realized that even though this vehicle is a shining example of what I should be buying i.e. multiple airbags, good gas mileage, good resale, good crash tests, etc, putting myself in the poor house and later having my car repossessed because I can't make the payments isn't going to be saving ANYONE's gas money or life. So selling me the car is out of the questions. And he is MORE than aware of this. No, he wanted me to take the car not only because he knows it's a good sales tactic but because he told me, point-blank, he wants to see me again. Gave me his cell phone number, told me he'd give me GAP coverage and an extended warranty for free if I bought the car, asked me to go to WestEnd with him later, showed me pictures of his daughter (I'm assuming that was to sprout some sort of latent maternal instinct into full-on suffocating coos and giggles), told me I was "hot," told me he liked my skirt (my mothers giant skirt from 1987, so I know that's a lie), told me he knew I probably wasn't going to buy the car but to take it anyway so he'd have a reason to see me on Monday...... the list goes on.
I have, by now, learned to keep my rising panic away from the watchful eyes of the randoms who hit on me. Though I probably would have lost it if he'd pulled one of those casual pats-on-the-back moves, so tense do I get in these situations. So I have a situation to look forward to on Monday when I go to return the car. And yes, I am fully aware that this is my fault. I am a spineless freak of nature when it comes to these things. Because, while I can make all manner of acid remarks to the true freaks of the world, I cannot deliberately hurt the feelings of a seemingly normal individual. Albeit one who may be a tad overzealous... but seemingly normal nonetheless.
After the car fiasco I found myself grazing on Saltines, sipping on coffee and spacing out in front of the mindless reality shows that can only hold my attention on a Saturday when seeing which celebrity can lose the most weight or which Surreal Life cast member is going to fuck a Brady can hold my attention for hours at a time. Later, I got a call from one of my friends, reminding me about a party I had probably made vague references to attending. Knowing, of course, that I will probably never grace one of these things but making the obligatory "Of course I'll be there" mumbles when an invitation was placed in my hand. So after some sublte coercion, I agreed that I would probably get dressed and go. Though there was the obvious problem that the party did not start until 11pm. And my friends won't going until 11:30. Way past my grandma bed-time. I agreed I would take a nap and then get up at 10:45, refreshed and wide-awake for the party. Also knowing (and assuming they did too) that the chance of me actually waking up after a nap taken so close to my actual bed-time were slim to none. So my phone started ringing at 11pm and didn't stop ringing until 11:15. I assume they were tag teaming my phone to increase their odds of getting me out of bed. This is completely useless as it only succeeds in pissing my sleep-induced self off. I wish I had never even told them I might go because it saves me the effort of rolling my eyes when I inevitably get the speech about staying home with my cats and not having a life and being a total heinous loser and then being hung-up on. I hate this about myself, but I will say 'yes' only to back out later so I can save myself the time spent arguing over why I SHOULD go somewhere and how there's bound to be just TONS of cute boys there, etc, etc. Truth is, I normally hate parties. Unless my small circle of friends are the majority of people there, I can barely contain my urge to bolt. Too may people, too many voices, too many thoughts swimming in a small space, too much drunkenness and fakeness and stupidness. I won't even talk to people of my same sex at parties because, in general, I don't meet girls with whom I have that much in common. Tolerate, sometimes. Enjoy, rarely. I normally gravitate towards talking with my same group of friends or making inane conversation with boys. Who are either trying to get in my pants or using me to get into my friend's pants. Sadly, I rarely notice this is happening until late in the game. I wish I could explain what it's like for me being at these kind of things... I hate knowing I'm that girl that sits there, frozen by the onslaught of music and thoughts and beer breath; knowing I'm the girl that has "that expression" on her face that scares off even the most well-meaning of folks. There are some days that are easier and I can relax and have fun and block out all the things that make me tense. There are other days when the thought of standing in a crowd makes my stomach clench, knowning I'll grip my watered down drink until my knuckles turn white, eventually finding a corner with my back to the wall (to prevent anyone from coming up behind me unannounced), watching the scene in front of me with detached horror and counting the minutes until I can leave without offending anyone or until my friends have found other friends to hang out with who I know will give them a ride home.
But enough randomness. I'm just melancholy and listless and restless all at once. Not unhappy, per se, just feeling slightly detached from the outside world.

Instead of continuing in the same vein, here is one of my top two favorite poems, who happen to both be written by the same author:

THE WAKING by Theordore Roethke

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
Gold bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

peace out.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

6 Across: extensive, widespread

Today has been an interesting day.

One RIFE (lookit- the crossword puzzle word today! Thanks Brittany!) with all sorts of dramatic upheavals, scary moments and tearful incoherencies.

To save myself a complete rehashing of the events that led to my near mental meltdown, let me sum up by saying that Brittany is officially responsible for taking a good two decades off my life. And I have to say, if there is ANYONE who can say that wouldn’t suffer at least the SMALLEST of instability at the hands of a phone call made from the innards of an ambulance… well, then…. I question your sanity more than I question my own.

Yes, I received a phone call from a person who is much too important to me to delve into meaningless phrases. And this phone call was placed from inside an ambulance. Where she somewhat lucidly confirmed that there was blood and breaks on her person. Insert panic attack HERE. And though I know better, I flew down I-40 doing a good 110mph daring the morning rush-hour idiots to even glance in the direction of the interstate lane I had claimed as my own. My horn, never an object to go unused for long, got quite the workout. Not to mention my middle finger and several choice phrases because, in accordance with popular opinion of my driving skills, I have a tendency to over-react when the fast-lane creed is not observed.

Fast forward to ER where I finally ascertain that my friend is free from the immediate danger of impending death and that all of her limbs and whatnot are in their proper places. Not free of injury, mind you, but free of the kind of injury that renders one’s life vastly changed or modified. A couple refills of pain pills, a wheelchair, some crutches and later a cane may be needed in the recovery process but certainly not anything that we can’t handle.

And here we get to the meat of the story: This girl must have SACKfulls of karma lying about because, generally speaking, she walked away from this one. She WALKED AWAY. She kicked open the door of her log-truck sized vehicle with a broken leg and crawled out of the ditch where her vehicle had landed. And after seeing the vehicle, I know that Someone helped my friend out because no girl, much less a grown-ass man, could have kicked open that door without the help of a tow truck or similar mechanical object. In fact, there IS no definable door on that SUV left, so twisted and contorted is the metal surrounding the drivers compartment.

I am so unbelievably grateful that she’s okay. I hope God wasn’t too offended when my steady stream of prayer was interrupted to flip the bird or scream obscenities. I’m sure He understands. I seriously doubt a little F-word is going to offend Him at this point in my life. But I digress. Like I said before, this girl has Somebody looking out for her. This is the fifth wreck in 7 years, all of which totaled the vehicle she was either driving or riding in. And through it all, she’s come out okay. You have to believe in unseen forces and higher powers when you see from what she’s walked away… It’s unreal.

I know my friend has a lot to think about in coming months. The death of a person weighs heavily upon a person’s soul, no matter the person deemed at fault. If this man truly wanted to end his life, I am angry with him for so selfishly attempting to take my friend’s life as well. If this man was intoxicated, I am angry with him for so selfishly driving his car along ANY road—more specifically, the road my friend found herself on at the precise moment he swerved. I pray that his family can find peace. And I pray that my friend doesn’t let this affect her life in a negative way. It’s not your fault and it never will be.

Sidenote: Randomly, of all the phone numbers I couldn’t remember today (my work number, mainly—and thanks to Dillard’s friend for connecting me to my boss) I pulled Brittany’s parent’s home number from the darkest recesses of my mind to call her parents and let them know I was on the way to hospital and to give them my cell number. I’ve called this number maybe 4 times in my life and I didn’t think twice about it… My work number however-- which I rattle off probably 45 times a day-- wasn’t even close to the tip of my tongue. It was way back there with my tonsils and vocal chords. Just goes to show you that Someone is looking out for all of us, even when we’re burning rubber to get to the side of our friend in the midst of a full fledged mental disintegration. He’s also looking out for us when men with unknown motives swerve deliberately into oncoming traffic at 65mph. And he’s looking out for us when we find the strength to pull ourselves out of broken vehicles. And he shows us that even when things look less-than-pleasant, you’ll ALWAYS have friends and family at your side to get you through anything and everything you might face. It doesn’t matter if you’re the one on the ER gurney or the one holding the hand of the friend on the ER gurney. We all need a little help now and then and God help us if the day ever comes when we’re too afraid to accept it.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Laaaaa la la la Weeeeeee! <--Sounds one makes on a rollercoaster

Might I give myself a pat on the back?

I think I shall!

In the past 6 months I have:

1) Quit/got fired (the word choice is entirely dependent on my mood, it’s really a gray area) from the most miserable job on the planet with groping technicians, leery-eyed salesman, a coked-up boss (not kidding) and a married office-mate who insisted on trying to have sex with me. Repeatedly. And with much uncomfortable-ness on my part. Not to mention really angry, vocal customers with limited vocabulary.
2) Tossed Jon ß look look! I can say his name without vomiting or throwing something! After 15 months of utter bullshit, he is officially out of my life. There has been not one single phone call, email, or in-person meeting since the first of November when he was unceremoniously kicked to the curb. Granted, the way I removed him was kind of shady but that is, unfortunately, on what we were based: utter shadiness. So while I regret the way I removed him, I do not regret the removing.
3) Quit drinking excessively. There’s nothing like drinking yourself into a stupor… KIDDING. It was never that bad…. But there was definitely excess amounts of fundage spent on liver-killing liquid.
4) Quit smoking. And I mean QUIT smoking. Not the pansy-ass quitting that I’ve done in the past. I haven’t cheated- not once. No lie. I made a deal with God, which everyone seems to find vastly amusing, that I would not smoke. I am not breaking a deal with God. That would be tantamount to strapping 40 pounds of cocaine to my chest and trying to pass through US customs. It just ain’t worth it.
5) Started working out again. Granted, it’s been three and a half weeks. And I’ve probably not lost a pound since through a hilarious trick of the genetic lottery I’m “blessed” with the ability to gain muscle mass at the speed of light but shed fat and poundage about as fast as Bush’s reign is passing. Yep. That would be heinously slow. But I don’t care. It’s making me healthy and already my decrepit, 80-year-old scoliosis-ridden back is feeling mounds better.
6) Not become attached to any f*wits, losers, drug dealers or men who are “otherwise occupied.” It has been made clear to me by friends and through the hours spent in reflection now that I do not waste time smoking, drinking or yelling at psuedo-friend-boy that I have a bit of a problem. They (friends) refer to it as commitment phobia. I refer to it as plain stupidity. And though I have had the occasional lustful thought concerning a passing boy with a ring on his finger or a certified friend-girl, I have not transferred that sporadic lustful thought into action or even flirting. I haven’t flirted with anyone since, oh, I don’t know, mid-November. Definitely not since I started working at my current job. It kind of feels like I’m floating. Not the creepy air floating but the floating with water under you.

It’s very peaceful having a virtually drama- free life. I mean, it’s never entirely drama free. I still have ulcers, though they pop up less frequently. And I still have no money though I made myself a budget and tried to balance my checkbook for last month. Though naturally I became overdrawn again this week. But I didn’t use my credit cards ONCE this last month. So there is something of which to be proud. And my brother makes me crazy sometimes. And my cats drive me batty when they bat picture frames and books and breakables around. But overall, I just had to say good-job-to-me. I stress over small things and hence had to write down some things that I could un-stress about.
So la-ti-da.