Saturday, April 30, 2005

Delivery For One, Please

Oh my fucking monkey I am at work on a Saturday and not even the thought of a comp day and forthcoming three day weekend is enough to break my heinously heinous mood.
I have four more hours before I can go home, crawl into bed and sleep until I decide it's acceptable to get up and then perhaps I'll carry myself to the movie theater to see a movie. I'd really like somone to start playing old 80's movies in theaters-- for example: Flight of the Navigator. CLASSIC MOVIE. Who doesn't love a cute little kid abducted by a one-man (or in this case, alien) crew aboard a whizzing alien ship that transports him all about the universe in blinks of an eye.
Also, I think Mannequin would be snazzy. I mean, Kim Catrall is all miss sexy pants now and she really hasn't aged much in 20 years (preternaturally preserved, anyone?) so men can drool over her lithe and limber fuckableness and women can smile at the cute goofiness that-- is it Andrew McCarthy that plays the lead male? -- exhibits.
Ugh. My head is fuzzy. I'm super hungry. Why did I not bring a lunch?


This is unacceptable. And this is truly one of the few times I honestly and urgently miss New York. BECAUSE GOD KNOWS IF I WAS HUNGRY AND LIVING IN NEW YORK, THERE'D BE FIVE THOUSAND DELIVERY BOYS BEATING DOWN MY DOOR.

I used to have Au Mandarin, 508 Cafe', and various random sushi bars on speed dial in my cell phone. I even had Joe at Carmel Car Service on speed dial (212.666.6666-- who can foroget THAT phone number?) who used send someone to come pick me up if I was too lazy to get a cab to the Natural History Museum because, yes, it was my favorite place to go and there was a tasty little cafe 2 blocks behind the museum that sold possibly the most butter-soaked and deliciously flaky croissants con queso y jamon that, right now, I'd give my left pinkee toe for.

But alas. I am in Little Rock. Which I'm glad to be. My life is better here. Due in part to the family close by and the friends within walking distance-- as opposed to 5-hour flight distance.



Thursday, April 28, 2005


I'm sorry. I'm not one to spend time perusing gossip columns and what not but


Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes??

And on the website????

Cut me some SLACK here fellas.

That's just nasty. He's TOM CRUISE... and she's.... KATIE HOLMES. 42 and 26.


Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Give my regards to your ass

It's not that I hate my job.

It's just very.... monotonous.

And bureaucratic.

And so when they introduced a new shipping program into the routine, I ignored it. Along with a few of my fellow employees.

And so it came to the attention of the powers-that-be that groups of employees were not using the brand spanky new shipping program, designed to eliminate spelling errors, wrong addresses and the like when mailing out Fed-Ex, DHL and UPS envelopes.

We were covert groups of resistance waging a passive-aggressive guerilla warfare against The Man.

And so we were given a crash course on how to log in, how to open the program, how to click the various and asundry buttons that will later print out black-and-white barcoded sheets of paper designed to ease the way of the mailroom clerks.

My annoyance stemmed from the fact that because I'm mailing contracts back to dealers I'm not using the standard company account number (oh no sir. We charge that shit back to the homeboy who messed his shit up in the first place) and instead have to open A COMPLETELY SEPARATE PROGRAM to look up that dealership's account number then open ANOTHER COMPLETELY SEPARATE PROGRAM to look up what carrier that dealership uses.

You see my issue.

This shit wastes my time. I do not benefit from this. Therefore, it does not concern me.

So I ignore it. My team receives vaguely worded "updates" about the new shipping system and that if we have any questions, please feel free to contact The Computer Nazi at extension blah blah blah.

And still I ignore it.


I come into work this morning to find, not a vaguely worded email, but an email sent directly to me and my supervisor, detailing my "UNACCEPTABLE" behavior in shipping out packages on hand-written forms.

And so my soft-spoken supervisor shuffles over after I've sat down and clocked in and softly reminds me that I'm supposed to use the shipping program since "they" are now monitoring all my packages that go out.

So just now, I've printed out a shipping label. All per The Computer Nazi's request. And I'm sending my package to a dealership that, oh, just HAPPENS to have a super-common name.

Whoopsie daisy.

I must have clicked the wrong button there, Mr. Computer Nazi. It appears that that contract was supposed to go to CALIFORNIA but somehow ended up in FLORIDA.

Hmph. How did that happen?


Friday, April 22, 2005

The Roof (of my mouth) is on Fire

So the other night I'm sitting at work, quite like I'm doing now, when Steven turns to me and says,

"I bet you can't eat a whole bag of flamin' hot Cheetos"

"I assure you I most certainly can."

"I bet you can't. I bet you can't do it without tearing up. And not getting any water. I bet you can't do it!"

You see, I had been mercilessly teasing Steven about a certain incident involving a bag of the aforementioned flamin hot Cheetos and something I like to refer to as the "male hissyfit." He'd eaten an entire BigGrab bag of the holy grail of spicy chips the night before and then started grasping at his tongue while scraping the remaining bits of Cheetos into the trashcan under his cubicle. His whole face turned red and he bolted his skinny ass into the hallway to dunk his mouth under the water fountain, returning with a full bottle of water. He was even somehow able to push his tongue into the opening of the water bottle and let it sit in the blessed coolness all while trying to explain to me how very, very hot his tongue had become and how very, very uncomfortable his poor weetle mouwfy was.

I had no choice but to laugh. Really.

So I took him up on his bet, like any self-respecting human being.

Our agreement was that I had 5 minutes to eat the whole bag and I couldn't have any water for 30 minutes.

Please, people. I eat jalepenos out of the JAR.

And I ate that bag of flamin hot Cheetos. And I never made a sound or pushed my head under a water fountain. I even continued to work while ingesting the crunchy, spicy fries.

And now... I have proved to men the world over that I have bigger balls than the entire cast of Surreal Life 2.

That's right. It's the one with Ron Jeremy.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005


So. I'm sitting at work and thought:

"I should be productive."

mental silence.

"Perhaps I should clean out my yahoo mailbox?"

mental silence

"I will take my mental silence as acquiescence."

And I proceeded to use company time, just like I'm doing now, to play on the veritable abyss that is the Internet.

Upon doing so, I came across some interesting old emails from months and months and months ago. Even a few from 2003, I'm ashamed to admit. Obviously some email house-cleaning was way overdue.

Among them:

An email from Jon, wishing me the best of luck in all my future endeavors. Before you roll your eyes, let me first tell you that Jon was in NO WAY wishing me the best. It was all a power play. He'd already played his hand at screaming at me over the phone, screaming at me through my apartment window and waiting (to scream at me, I'm sure) in the parking lot of my office, smoking a cigarette, cool as can be, watching me walk to my car. It was a game of intimidation. I had won the previous round, thinking naively that the game was over. This email was the end of the communication. I'm still not sure if he's just biding his time or if I really won. I've stopped looking for him everywhere I go. And I hear he's moved to Oklahoma.

Emails from Nick& Hillary, evil roommates with whom I moved to New York, detailing how they were not going to be paying the gas bill from our Staten Island apartment and how they were not going to be paying for my laptop that they surreptitiously stepped on and cracked. My emails back to them, explaining why they were responsible. Never losing my temper. The laptop was never paid for and the gas bill was paid by yours truly. But that's okay because I replaced the cherry-flavored Jell-O in the fridge with some Jell-O of my own, made my very own urine. Oh, and I crushed a pack of Ex-Lax into the 3 liter of Dr. Pepper. Immature? Yes. Ask me if I give a shit.

Emails from Matt when he was overseas in Iraq. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of all of them, so I kept the good ones, ones that involved more than a "Hey, I'm alive, it's hot, miss you."

Emails from the boy that I got set up with several months ago. Great email conversationalist, he was. Unfortunately, he was obsessed with his 8% body fat and my, like, 98% body fat. And he had chicken legs. And he thought I'd blow him because he showed up in a 45-thousand dollar car. Au contraire, mo fo. I knew I didn't like you as soon as I saw your ridiculous 2-seater. How practical is a 2-seater sports car? Well, I'll tell you. It's not. Not at all. And he thought rock music was just too loud. Somehow, these things did not come up in email. I was even going to give him a chance as a plain-jane friend until he made derogatory remarks about The Cure.

Emails from possibly the sexiest man in the world. As usual, the sexiest man in the world was "otherwise occupied." (aka married/with girlfriend or with child) And he wasn't just sexy because of his outside, though his outside is scrumdiddlyumptious. He was the most thoughtful person I've ever met. Ever. I've never seen a male be so good, so relaxed, so comfortable, with anyone and everyone. Oh, and let's not forget his smart-kid status. I'm a sucker for smart kids. I am quite proud of myself about him though. I realized how snazzy he was before I knew about his "otherwise occupied" status. I'm NEVER into anyone unless they are a) not going to be into me or b) otherwise occupied. I must have picked up a residual other-woman scent from him.... :)

Emails from people I used to work with in New York. Some of them were unopened.

Emails I had sent to myself thinking I would have time to later read articles from online-newsources. My favorite was the article I sent myself on "Why scientists knows aliens exist."
If you've read previous journal entries, you'll understand why I'd be so concerned with this topic.

Okay Okay Okay I have to go back to work now because I've put off actually working ALL DAY and now I've only got an hour and a half left to do my whole day's worth of work. I love me. )

Friday, April 08, 2005

Holding My Breath

I spent the previous weekend with some old family friends in Memphis after completing the Interview de El Diablo. I had been skewered, butchered and grilled for 6 hours straight. Oh, and did I mention that I SMILED, NON-STOP for the ENTIRE SIX HOURS. The agony.

So needless to say it was quite the relief to visit my mom's friend, my psuedo-mother, because they are possibly the most laid-back folk I've ever known. This mom was so cool she had a DRAWER just for Little Debbie snacks.

I arrived at J's Germantown house and rolled up into the short driveway. I hadn't even parked my car and J was beside my car, tapping her foot impatiently while I scrambled to roll up my windows and disengage myself from the confines of seat belts and panty hose and high heels. I stepped out of the car and towered over her five-foot-two frame but she hugged me with the force of a 200-lb man and all was right with the world.

She pulled back and gave me the once over.

"What's that in your nose?"


"It's not nothing, missy. There's something in your nose. Ohmigod, do have a zit? You have a zit? Is that a zit? Josh, come look at this thing and tell me if it's zit. Holy shit. I think it's a zit."

"It's not a zit, Jolene."

"Well. Looks like you're right. But it might as well be a zit. You plum tried to sabotage yourself in that interview didn't you?"

"Um. No"

Feeling quite guilty. I did wear it to sabotage myself.

"Well, whatever it is. It looks like a gold zit."

She smiles at me. J is like that. She can say things that would make me punch my relatives in the face but you can't help but smile back at her and completely forget what she was talking about.

So I came inside to meet her youngest son.

How disturbing.

I babysat her two oldest sons for years. Fed them canned ravioli because that's all I could make at 13. Oh, and I could open the drawer to the Little Debbie snacks and tell those little mongrels to knock themselves out. But this new kid, he doesn't know me. He wasn't even a two years old when we moved away. He is affectionately referred to as "The Surprise."

He stared at me with utter confusion and then nonchalance as he tried to catolgue me. Was I a mom-friend? A brother-friend? And who is this woman? This Cindy that they talk so freely of? How does my mom know this Cindy? But I'm not interested in this because I'm 8 and I'm cool and I listen to Top 40 radio and I play old-school Nintendo.

"WHAT? You still have your old Nintendo?" I ask J.

J reassures me she would never get rid of anything. In fact, that blue jean jacket little J is wearing is middle J's old jacket from 12 years ago.

Side note: This is the J familiy. Mom and Dad J. Oldest J, middle J, and now little J. Please, never do this to your children.

So upon seeing that we had so much in common, Little J scoots over on the beige carpet, littered with Thundercats, Ninja Turtles and every conceivable video game for every conceivable format, and silently offers me a controller.

"I guess you want to be the Princess. Mom ALWAYS wants to be the Princess."

How well he already knows me! There is no other character I'd rather be on Mario Brothers! I am the Princess with a floating pink dress!

The controller, the graphics, the familiar background music.... And suddenly I'm 10 years old playing on our Nintendo in our Mississippi house, sitting in the front living room, painted a golden yellow, cushioned by the red oriental rug that now currently resides in MY front living room. The TV sits on the floor because that's what TV's did in those days. They came in huge wooden boxes and they sat on the floor and had giant remotes that let you chose between the 3 channels we got way out in the country. The giant satellite in the backyard only worked for one tv, my dad's tv, the one in the den, painted cream over the 70's era wood panelling.

But I digress. The little kid beside me is not my 7 year old brother, it's J's 8 year old son. Little J. And he doesn't know the first thing about how I can burn canned ravioli or play a mean game of Tetris. But I am the Princess and I just showed him a secret pipe that leads to a secret world that lets you get secret coins and hearts and powers and then shoots you back out, right where you started, only 2 pipes down. He's so enthralled with his new trick he can't wait to show his friend Derek about it and asks his mom if he can take his Nintendo system to Derek's house when he spends the night tomorrow because Derek ALWAYS beats him on this game and he just KNEW if he could slide down that pipe and get those extra hearts, Derek's skill would be no match for his extended Luigi lifespan.

Later on we pick up Big J and his girlfriend and head out to a late dinner. I harrass the two older boys by telling embarrassing stories about vomit, diapers, and incontinence while Big J's girlfriend looks on with an amused smile, too old to laugh with total abandon and too young to know that nobody cares.

The next morning we all pile into J's van and drive around the city, pointing out places I could afford but shouldn't live, couldn't afford but should live and finally could afford and could get away with living. Everything is met with gut clenching nausea. Do I want to try this again? Moving to a new city with no friends, no family? Will I get this job offer? Do I even WANT this job offer? Am I just projecting what I think I should have, what I SHOULD have accomplished, what I SHOULD be doing with what others think I could have at my age, my experience level, my abilities?

It's really exhausting over-analyzing yourself.

Stay tuned for a captivating story detailing my cross-city trips to
obtain a working old-school Nintendo.

Thursday, April 07, 2005


Why do I smell wet dog?

I am in a cubicle. There is a cleaning crew. Every night. Rafael changes my (and everyone else's) trash every night at 7:45 before I go home at 8:00. And the other guy (who never speaks so I don't know his name) vacuums and dusts.

Therefore, logically, it should not smell like wet dog in here.

And yet, it does.


Monday, April 04, 2005

And Then There Was Cake.

Walked through haze and fuzz and a general malaise until 1:20 pm today.

It's Monday, I thought. I'm allowed to be in a haze. The kind of haze that makes you yawn and drop a bit of drool on your shirt because you couldn't be bothered to raise your hand to cover your mouth, dampen the yawn sound or even curb the saliva production for the brief two seconds your mouth was open to the world in all it's pink moist glory.

I'd been thinking about cake. Dreaming about cake, actually. Due in part to my crash diet (i know i know, not healthy) last week. Diet was an attempt to lose pounds before my, ahem, interview in Memphis. This meant not one gram of carboliciousness graced my quivering tastebuds for 7 whole days. Misery, I tell you, absolute misery.

So I thought, Yes, it IS Monday. Perhaps I need a bit of cake?

And in my almost drunken-like haze I shuffled down the hall, into the elevator and down to the company cafeteria. Where I knew, just KNEW that there would be cake.

And lo and behold, as I crossed the threshold into the wing of the building I so rarely venture (because there are too many smells and strange food products known only as "casserole of ____" and "stuffed ____") I see them. THE LINE OF CAKES RESTING OH SO GRACEFULLY IN THE GLASS CASE.

Which one do I want? The carrot --with it's buttercream frosting? The lemon-- with it's sugary glaze? Or, yes OR the CHOCOLATE with not only a shimmering chocolate glaze but ribbons of creamy fudge icing delicately criscrossing their creamy paths and sliding down the side in mouth-watering fudge glory.

"I want the chocolate cake.......... um, Please."

Years of training GONE in a few brief seconds where carbs, sugar and chocolate cake have taken control of my brain in an effortless coup d'etat.

I shoved a five under the nose of the cashier, hands almost trembling in anticipation. My hormones, dormant since mid-November, came RUSHING BACK and almost knocked me off my corn-ridden toes. I WOULD SO MAKE OUT WITH THIS PIECE OF CHOCOLATE CAKE IF ONLY.... IF ONLY....
Well, if only I didn't have that pesky inanimate object rule. damn.


And the Lord said "Let there be cake!"
And there was cake.
And it was good.