Notice: Weird Femaley Crap Discussed with Slight Mention of Actual Feelings

Yesterday, after a quick pop over to the library on lunch to exchange books, I was sitting in my car reading a novel written by one of my favorite authors. She writes offbeat mysteries and whatnot. Normally in series fashion. So I'm sitting and I'm reading. Very excited because had library-ed three of the books in the series from library over weekend and had devoured them quickly and with great ferocity. Completely out of order as they were, I didn't care one whit. I read and I basked in the loveliness that inhabited the space between my eyeballs and hands as the words on the pages beamed themselves (much as free molecules of internet beam themselves into my macketymacmac) into my salivating head. Yes, much like Pavlov proved, I do salivate at the thought of a good book. Or during a good book. I haven't had any, er, attention, since last October and even then it was HORRID and so I HAVE TO GET MY JOLLIES SOMEWHERE, PEOPLE, CUT ME SOME SLACK.

So I'm reading and as I mentioned before, I'm quite excited. Excited because the book the ghetto library near work had in stock is the one that appears to have come one, maybe two books after the last one in the series I read. And I'm happy to be reading things in a somewhat orderly fashion. I'm reading in the car, like I said, engine running, windows up (I enjoy the complete silence offered by the confines of my car as opposed to the din offered by the company cafeteria) and a/c blowing cool air onto my feet and face. I hit page 45 and BAM!.

THE BITCH BLITHELY MENTIONS THAT MY CHARACTER IS DEAD.

Now, up until this point, I thought I had come in at the book directly following the one read on Monday. OH NO, MY FRIEND. I HAVE APPARENTLY SKIPPED A VERY IMPORTANT HAPPENING IN THE LIFE OF MY HEROINE. BECAUSE IN THE PREVIOUS BOOK, MARTIN WAS ALIVE and now he's DEAD.

Obviously, I am disturbed.

AND I ALMOST PUT DOWN THE BOOK AND TOOK IT BACK TO THE LIBRARY.

I couldn't possibly fathom my heroine continuing life without Martin. DAMN HER. And do I get an explanation? A little back story? NO. Just the casually thrown in "widowed one year ago, today" bullshit.

Now. Here's why I happen to be so pissed off (and I worn you, I'm about to venture into that murky world reserved only for unattached single women who find themselves, however reluctantly, looking at the world and thinking WHAT THE FUCK? THAT BITCH IS GETTING SOME {loosely translated to mean 'receiving love and undying affection and lots of great hoo-ha} AND I'M NOT??

Aurora (the heroine) meets Martin in on of the books in the mystery series. And though these books are by no means sappy love story things, there is an element of upheaval when Aurora meets Martin. Because heroines have personal lives, you know. Even if they DO go about solving mysteries and whatnot. As it happens, Aurora meets Martin while standing on the front steps of a house, filling in for her real estate mogul mother. She's been drafted into helping show a house to a prospective buyer. (Unbeknownst to anyone is the fact that a DEAD BODY LIES IN THE MASTER BEDROOM, shiver.) Martin gets out of the car. Martin looks at Aurora. AND IT IS DONE.

Now. Don't lie to me. At some point in your life you've looked at someone and KNOWN. Just absolutely and without a doubt KNOWN that every ounce of lust and need and want you felt in that split second is mirrored, reciprocated and MAGNIFIED by the other person. It's not JUST a lust thing, either. It's one of those moments when you stop thinking about the stupid crap in your head and let The Fates push you along as They Wish. Instantaneous. For whatever reason, that person belongs in your life.

Though sometimes we do a damn good job of screwing that up.

But I digress. This was Martin and Aurora. Nothing would be easy. They had two completely different lives. But BOTH OF THEM accepted the connection and BOTH OF THEM did something about it. Instead of being pansy asses and scratching a ball sac or two.

All in all, this gave me faith. If someone can write about this, then it has happened to people other than me. And therefore IT WILL HAPPEN AGAIN.

BUT WHY DID SHE HAVE TO GO AND KILL OFF MARTIN.

I am very upset about this, Ms. Charlaine Harris. I read the rest of the book, much as I didn't want to, and I admit it was as good as the rest. BUT I'M STILL PISSED THAT YOU BUMPED MARTIN OFF.

This Week's Super Bargain Price Slashing Event Includes Total And Complete Crap

Today I woke up at 7 am.

And then proceeded to hit snooze, every 7 minutes, until 9:30am.

I'd had every intention of getting up early, full of purposefulness and vigor, and hefting my two baskets of dirty clothes to the laundromat. Because I've gone FIVE WEEKS without washing clothes.

I've run through every pair of underwear, every bra (washed in the sink at least four times), every pair of pants (worn until they could walk, all by themselves) every shirt, blouse and sweater that wasn't made of wool, angora or other hot, itchy material (I will roll up sleeves, but I WILL NOT wear an angora turtleneck in summer. I REFUSE.) and I knew, I KNEW, I had exhausted every avenue possible. There were no more outfits, however unmatchy or unattractive they may be. It was done.

But somehow, in my sleep-clouded brain, I decided to hit the snooze button.

Eighty. Thousand. Times.

So what did I do? I put on pajama bottoms and drove to Old Navy. Because they don't care if
you shop in pajama bottoms. As long as your wobbly bits are covered, you're straight.
I spent 30 minutes in there. I tried on 12 pairs of pants and 9 shirts. In fact, I think I can in good conscience skip my workout today, IT WAS THAT HOT IN THE DRESSING ROOM. (Icky mental image. Red-faced people trying on clothes. gag)

I found ONE pair of pants. ONE.

The time: 10:50am.

Work starts at: 11:00am.

fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Stand at front of store, use laser eyes (LASER EYES, ACTIVATE!) and locate black v-neck sweatery-thing in very back of store. Hangar tag says XL. I've worn the same size in Old Navy for YEARS. A black, stretchy v-neck sweatery-thing is a guaranteed fit in an XL. Not too clingy.
Not too loose. Perfect.

I get in my car and take off the t-shirt I slept in (modesty DOES NOT prevail when one is desperate) pull on black sweatery thing while yanking off tag and pulling off sticker. Push back seat and lean it back -- all the better to get my pants on. YOUNG TEENAGE KID AT 12 O'CLOCK! ABORT! ABORT!

Nonchalantly cover self with large Old Navy bag and smile very large, very scary smile at blonde teenage kid.

Kid gives me strange look that implies "scary lady with no pants on is staring at me. GAH!"

Kid goes to his mothers van and gets his backpack out of the back. Van is OF COURSE parked directly beside my passenger door.

I smooth the Old Navy bag over my legs and attempt to cover my scary white ass. Continue scary smile at young blond kid, who decides it may be in his best interest to hurry back to Mommy and report scary lady.

Finish buttoning pants in stuffiness of car, it's black paint magnifying the heat that is threatening to melt my very atoms of existence.

Drive to work, park. Throw on shoes. Walk briskly and with great purpose across parking lot, down stairs, across 2nd parking lot, in front doors and then BAM!

I see a reflection of myself in automatic sliding doors.

GAH!

Shirt cannot possibly be XL! Shirt is more like MAMMOTH XL!! Very unattractive! Pull tag around to nose area and attempt to focus eyes on tag that will tell me what size I am currently wearing.

THREE XTRA LARGES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHA????????

But hangar tag said XL..... BASTARDS! Mismarking incompetents that run Old Navy!
Now am stuck with gray pants-- they fit, thank god-- and a giant, smarmy black sweater! Have removed tax so hope of returning is lost. Not that I could anyway... as cannot possibly pass off bra as a very small tank top gone wrong. I'm pretty sure they'd see RIGHT THROUGH THAT. Literally.

Head hurts.

An Addendum to The Previous Post:

The US Postal Service also employs the illegimate inbred offspring of MC Hammer. As well as the lovechildren born of Milli Vanilli.

Time Spent in Hell is Only As Bad As The Genetic Pool Designates

Last Thursday I coasted into the Exxon on Markham and Van Buren with the intention of putting a whole buttload of gas in my wheezing little tank.

Well, we all know how good intentions lead to... something really bad and annoying. Insert whatever that saying actually says and you've got youself a fun time in the Exxon station.

So I pull up in the lot, which is full of ignorant folk playing Wait In Line For Gas when you can OBVIOUSLY pull around to the other pump. But, GOD. That would take a WHOLE LOT OF EFFORT to move my car into the other lane to pump gas. Didn't you know there's a LAW? You HAVE to pump your gas while facing in a Northwesterly direction. To face southeast... well. THAT would be unthinkable.

I find my credit card, buried within the depths of my purse and proceed to amble out into the artificially lit hub that is apparently the Exxon lot. I pop my fuel door. I unscrew my fuel cap. I place my fuel cap in it's designated spot. And then I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

And I swipe my card.

Oh, AND I SWIPE MY CARD.

Each time, this fun little message appears "Card Not Read Now."

What do YOU MEAN by CARD NOT READ NOW??

Eventually I shrug, assuming I'm going to have to carry my sweaty and unattractively clad self into the actual service station. (I desperately wish I could be one of those people that can go to the gym and emerge an hour later looking fresh and glowy-- NO. I look like a sweaty, chubby, red-faced Bernadette-Peters-hair-having freak.) Something that totally pisses me off because I don't even stop at gas stations that are sans pay-at-the-pump thingees.

So I press the handle and start to pump my gas.

Until it starts slowing down at nine dollars... and slows to a CRAWL at nine seventy-five... and trickles in at nine ninety-nine and then STOPS at ten dollars. Just STOPS.
I take a deep breath and hope the gas fumes kill the brain cells that are furiously spinning, looking for a match I can strike and place in the fuel nozzle. I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the my car window. Yep. I'm still red-faced. Still chubby. Still have frizzy hair. FANTASTIC.

Walk into service station-- which, I might add, is being run by the illegitimate inbred offspring of MC Hammer, where I am informed of the following:

Inbred: "That girl at pump three is the one that paid the ten dollars."

Me: "That's nice. Um. I need to pay for the gas on pump two-- it cut me off at ten so...."

Inbred: "Yeyeah. You're in that black car on pump two, right?"

Me: "Yes. Black car on pump two. Ten dollars. Here's my card."

Inbred: "But see, that girl has already paid the ten dollars for her pump."

Me (true confusion setting in): "Um. Okay. That's nice. I just want to pay for my ten on pump two."

Inbred: "I'm going to ring you up for the charges on pump three since the girl on that one has already paid the ten."

Me: "Uh. No. Why the hell would I pay for gas on pump three when I pumped gas on pump TWO."

Inbred: "Because the girl on pump three has already paid the ten dollars."

We stare each other down. A good ten seconds go by.

Me: "Put. ten. dollars. on. my. card. please."

Inbred: "Look, here comes the girl on pump three again. Just ask her if she paid the ten dollars."

Me: "But I DON'T CARE if she paid ten dollars for gas, for eyebrow waxing or for a jumbo bag of PORK SKINS. PLEASE PUT TEN DOLLARS ON MY CARD FOR PUMP TWO."

Pump Three Girl: (sensing the utter distress I was in and the iminent violence that was about to had upon the Inbred Girl's ignorant ass) "The clerk opened up the wrong pump for me after I pre-paid ten dollars. I just pumped ten on three, which should cover my gas. (turns to Inbred Clerk) So all you have to do is charge her for ten dollars and everything is fine.

Silence.

I glare in the Inbred's direction. I hand her my card.

Me: "Ten dollars on pump two, please." Said through gritted teeth.

Inbred: "Well. That's what I been trying to tell you the whole time. Gaawwd."


GAH!

My friend Brittany noticed that I was happy on Saturday. Well. HAPPY is a relative word in my universe. I suppose one would categorize me as "happy" if I wasn't spouting off venon at random passerby or emanating disgust and loathing at The People Who Make It Their Business To Annoy Me. But still. I suppose it was a rare occurrence. Which is quite sad. But still.

So here was a rundown of my Saturday. This is in hopes of being able to possibly isolate whatever it was that made me less of a venom-spitter:

I get up early so as to be at work. On my day off. I stop at the McDonalds on Broadway for some steaming coffee. I drive to West Little Rock. I park relatively close the doors since it is Saturday and only 1/8 of the employees manage to drag their ass in. I wear my sunglasses into the building because it's still awfully bright and my eyeballs may melt. I ride the elevator to the fourth floor. I scan myself in and walk slowly to my desk. Notice that everyone else on my team is already there. Except for one. So I'm not the last. Thanks be to the Traffic Was Light Gods. Sit at chair. Make scathing remark to sarcastic chica that sits behind me. Was appluaded by my manager for my barb, it being not five minutes since I had walked in the door. I remind everyone that though the coffee is IN MY HAND do not assume that is HAS BEEN INGESTED. Then notice that manager had brought sausage and egg biscuits for us to consume. I'd hate for him to think I didn't appreciate his gesture. So naturally I ate one.

I work. Laugh and laugh and laugh at the stupid stories we all tell in an effort to amuse ourselves, sad as we are that it's A SATURDAY and we're WORKING in a CUBICLE.

Our system goes down unexpectedly at 2pm so our manager tells us it's a sign from The Fates and we should all go. Possibly because he rides a motorcycle to work and it was about to rain. But who am I to question one's motives, BE THEY NOT PURE??

I stop at Hobby Lobby after finishing up in the office and purchase a frame for the picture my madre got for my kitchen. Very nice lady doing a little cha cha dance in some advertisement for Cuba. So I get home but realize I have no picture hanging aparati. I rifle through my tool bag, finding only wire and screws and some dangerous looking long nails. So I screw in the nails on either side of the picture frame. I wrap wire around each screw head and then secure around the nail I pounded into the wall. I AM BRILLIANT. Who needs store bought mounting equipment WHEN YOU HAVE A FULLY FUNCTIONING BRAIN???

I change clothes and head to Conway to visit Brittany and her new live-in. We shop. We eat. We watch Eddie Izzard. She comments on my happiness.


The End.

Now. Tell me WHAT WAS IT ABOUT THAT DAY that left me venom-less??

I'm Giving You the EVIL EYE.

Are You Gonna Eat That? No? WELL THEN MOVE OVER, LOSER.

Did you know it takes more energy to chew celery than the actual calories inherent IN THE CELERY?

MY GOD.

Can you imagine if foods we actually LIKED came with this property?

Cake, for instance. I love cake. Not so much cookies. But cake, definitely. And not the cake with the super-sugary icing. Because the cake ITSELF needs to be moist and delicious and oh-so-very-mouth-wateringly-tasteee. And the icing needs to be buttercream. Or that really light whipped kind of icing that comes on some cakes. BUT NOT THE FREAKISH KROGER ICING THAT SPARKS OFF INSULIN WARS IN MY PANCREAS.

Other foods?

Hmm.

Cheetos. Cheetos are THE BEST. The one area where Mrs. Federline and I agree. Well... there was that ONE TIME I had sex with my loser backup dancer.. but I think I was high at the time so it TOTALLY doesn't count.

And finally:

ALL MEXICAN FOODS. See, I'm not a super-big fan of the Eye-talian foods. I like them, and I enjoy them, but I don't LURRVE them. Chinese food is awesome but let's be honest-- no one can eat that shit more than once a week. But Mexican food... Honey. I could eat that yummy goodness seven times a day if need be. The state of our nation depends upon eating as much Mexican food as possible? I GOT A PURPLE HEART FOR THAT, BITCH. That baby can't be pulled from that well alive unless that whole tub of Mexican food is eaten right this very second! THAT'S WHY MY MOUTH HINGES OPEN, FOOL. ALL THE BETTER TO INHALE DE MEHEECAN FOOD.



On another, and just as pleasing, note:

THE ANNOYING DATA ENTRY BITCH IS GONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

So here's how it went down: I had just sat down to work after yet another PeppityPepPep meeting when DEB (Data Entry Bitch) says "I'm just going to take my picture frames home and change out the pictures in them."

I stare blankly at her because, even though she SEEMS to be aiming her whiny-assed voice in my direction, why would it ever cross her feeble mind THAT I WOULD GIVE A SHIT.

But apparently the silence was too much for her to bear and she finally pipes up with a "Birdie, did you hear meee?"

Thinking: GAH! yes I heard you, you infantile drain on society!

Saying: Yes, I heard you. Silence. (searching brain for appropriate thing to say.) Hope you find some new pictures.

DEB: I'm going to clean out my desk too, while I'm at it. It's so dirty!

Me: Um. Okay. Good luck with that.

So she proceeds to spend the next fifteen minutes cleaning out her desk and gathering up her picture frames. She mutters and empties things in the trash but I learned a long time ago to not respond to her mutterings becuase IT JUST ENCOURAGES HER TO SPEAK EVEN MORE.

DEB leaves at 11:15am.

12:30pm

1:30pm

2:30pm

Her supervisor comes over and asks what time DEB left for lunch. Expresses concern that DEB has not yet returned.

3:30pm

4:30pm.

Calls made to DEB's cell by her friend in credit and her supervisor. Calls made to home number. Calls made to hospitals.

NOTHING.

So today, she doesn't show up either. We look in her desk and IT'S COMPLETELY EMPTY. She even managed to somehow take the heavy-as-shit tape dispenser and stapler as well as every pen and pencil this side of the Mississippi.

Confusion is expressed that her desk is so empty... and yet her stupid leopard print pillow is still sitting in her chair.

To which I say: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

I AM OFFICIALLY FREE OF THE DEB!!!!!!!!

Her supervisor signed her termination papers a scant hour ago!!!! YEE HAW!

And of course, we felt compelled (and by we, I mean the other nosy, cranky individuals with whom I work) to change her voicemail message. We didn't want anyone to be confused now did we? And if we just happened to listen to her voicemails while we were at it? Just making sure there was nothing important on there!

HERE'S TO YOU, DEB! YOU HAD 4 COLLECTION PHONE CALLS IN 24 HOURS ON YOUR VOICEMAIL AND YOUR OUTGOING MESSAGE HAS BEEN DELETED!

CHEERS!

A Post In Which I Get To Bash Another's Way of Thinking Because I'm Female And Of Course That Makes Me Right So Blow Me.

While reading a blog I had NO BUSINESS reading (as the author of the blog no longer writes on the previous blog that I read, creating this new one that I'm sure was meant to keep out ruffians such as myself) I got through about half of The Author's ramblings and realized-- HE'S SERIOUS AS A HEART ATTACK. I thought maybe he was venting... maybe even using a little bitter sarcasm to drive his point home. NOPE. He's serious.

Which honestly... just makes me sad.

Here's an excerpt:

You see, I have this rule - I don't get really close with the people with which I work. To me, becoming friends with those at work, as opposed to being friendly is a no no; simply, it comes at a price.I know that this sounds jaded and cynical, but I just think that there is a definite line to be drawn. Half of the time, these are people that you would never even have met in the first place and would honestly never choose to go out drinking with. It tends to play out like this, "hey WHY is Judith from Marketing feeling my knee whilst trying to talk to me about the budget?" Or, "is Jeremy from MIS running around outside of the restaurant with his shirt off AGAIN, after having one too many, screaming about how George Lucas totally destroyed his aspirations of ever becoming a Jedi Knight?"

To which I say: WHAT THE FUCK.

Why is meeting someone at work ANY DIFFERENT than meeting someone at church? Or at a bar? You have just as much in common with a co-worker as someone with whom you attend worship services. What makes someone you may meet at church or at a friend's house any different than someone you meet at work? I've met many "friend-of-a-friends" that I haven't cared for at all, just as I've met many co-workers for whom I don't particularly care. But OCCASIONALLY I meet someone-- in a bar, in a social circle, in a class, in a work environment, that I absolutely ADORE.

And it may truly be someone with whom I have nothing in common-- but that's the beauty of it. If I surrounded myself with like individuals I think my life would be pretty boring. I like the spice these extra people add to my life and I'm thankful I took that extra non-jaded step to let them in. Where did this guy's close friends come from? From college days? Talk about a mixture of socio-economic backgrounds and religions and viewpoints and ethnicities! It's just like work-- instead of the primary focus being a corporate goal, the primary focus is learning. Everyone was there for similar reasons and there were probably a lot of people in college this guy didn't want to waste 3 seconds looking at, much less talking to. But for whatever reason, I'm sure he befriended some of them. And what was the harm? Maybe some of these friendships came and went... maybe some of them stayed. Who cares. The point is, why cut yourself off from people who could turn out to be beautiful, inspring friends? Yes, there's always that chance a friendship may sour but we take that chance with ANYONE. Why cut off such a huge portion of your day? You spend eight hours a day at work, toiling away. Why not let it be a semi-happy (or at least moderately-bearable) place? I'll be the first to tell you that there are two women at work that I had never met before stepping foot in this place-- and I adore them. Beyond that, there's a good dozen individuals that I truly enjoy. These people make my day go faster and I appreciate them for having an open heart and letting others in.

So. Now that I've ranted and rambled-- let me say I didn't want this to sound like a personal attack. The subject matter is what got to me-- and I couldn't hold my tongue.
It just seems like a more of an effort to NOT be friends with someone you may like just because they're work-related than it would to just give in and BE FRIENDS. And Lord Knows I'm never going to make an extra effort for something when the easy route can be so fabulous and give me hundreds more people from which to choose.

**Note: Of course, I'm normally write about cynical and jaded things and spouting off the above nonsense is seemingly quite touchy-feely and whatnot. I don't write about the happy-go-lucky days or the peaceful days or the days when good-things-happen because.. well, sometimes I like them to just be mine. So instead I'm perfectly happy to be the one that points the finger and says NO NO BAD DOG, THAT'S NOT THE WAY YOU GO ABOUT THAT AT ALL.
I can do this because I say I can SO THERE.

PEACE OUT BITCHES

Might I add that I SEND HOLY THANKS TO THE GOD OF VACATION REQUESTS because I'm gettin out of town on a southbound train. Countdown: One hour and 7 minutes until interstate velocity is reached!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THREE WHOLE DAYS OF SITTING ON MY MOTHERS COUCH, DOING NOTHING BUT DISCUSSING WHATEVER HOME DECORATING/IMPROVEMENT/DESTRUCTION SHOW HAPPENS TO BE ON THE LEARNING CHANNEL.

O BLESS-ED BE THE VACATION REQUEST GODS!! BLESS-ED!!!

Bouncy.

I would like to voice a complaint.

Why is it that if my bra size is of a CERTAIN SIZE I am confined to plain jane bras?

What if I want to wear pretty bras?

I have pretty underoos.

So why not bras?

And before you think I'm that girl, complaining "Oh, my boobs, they are just SO BIG, I can't stand it! Ooooo!" <--said with sorority girl voice I'M VOICING A VALID COMPLAINT HERE, NOT DRAWING ATTENTION TO MY BRA SIZE, THANK YOU.

The pretty bras, they go up to size 36D, sometimes 38D if you're really lucky. There's even a 36DD for those women who either a) pad their bras b) have leetle waists and naturally giant bazoombas or d) have gotten their shit surgically enhanced.

BUT GOD FORBID THAT I GET TO WEAR A NICE, PRETTY, LACY BRA. NO. I'M STUCK WITH THE ONES THAT ASSUME THAT BECAUSE YOU'VE GOT JUGS, YOU'D LIKE TO BE COVERED UP TO YOUR COLLAR BONE IN BRA-AGE.

And now the new plain-fucking-jane bra I bought makes my boobs go in opposite directions. LIFT AND SEPERATE, PEOPLE. LIFT AND SEPERATE. Girls with tits don't need that shit squashed down and pointed sideways. UP AND OUT.

Ugh.

Hmmmm. Interesting. You answer a few questions and PRESTO the computer knows all about you.

Actually though, all of those are true. But it would also be true if you said "You love animals and would stop for an abandoned dog" or "Your sometimes push others away."

Crazy computer.

WhatchyoutalkinboutWillis?

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who are unbridled, untrammeled, and free.

In love, you feel the most alive when your lover is creative and never lets you feel bored.

You'd like to your lover to think you are stylish and alluring.

You would be forced to break up with someone who was ruthless, cold-blooded, and sarcastic.

Your ideal relationship is open. Both of you can talk about everything... no secrets.

Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment.

You think of marriage as something that will confine you. You are afraid of marriage.

In this moment, you think of love as something you thirst for. You'll do anything for love, but you won't fall for it easily.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

A Bottle of Water

Ok. I feel like a hypocrite.

Not really in the sense you're thinking, though.

I feel like I LOOK like a hyocrite to someone.

And me no likey that feeling.

I realized after I walked away (and analyzed the converstation, as I do with every conversation with every person in the known world I've ever had a conversation with, possibly taking up millions of neurons of brain space with my ridiculous analyzing of words, spellings of words (even when spoken), body language, current attire, etc) that the few things this cat knew about me would seem totally incongruous with the fact that I TAKE CARE OF BABIES IN A NURSERY, IN A CHURCH. Babies brought into said nursery with the sole purpose of the parents having a quiet moment to absorb The Word of God through the Holy Mouth of The Preacher-Man in the Beautiful and Sancitified Sanctuary.

I guess what I want to say (and what I did not say before, in conversation, distracted by sleep deprivation as I was) is that I don't think it's wrong, or even necessarily bad, for these children to be brought up in the church. Afterall, I was brought up in the church. My one hope is that they have tolerant and understanding parents. Or that maybe they run into that kind of adult at some point. A teacher. Or a nursery worker. Someone, at somepoint, who lets them know it's okay to be whatever you want. That loving someone of another religion doesn't make you bad and that changing your viewpoints on religion and faith and the creeds and morals you carry with you daily is healthy, normal and it makes you stronger, more adaptable. AND MORE IMPORTANTLY that if they decide to hold to their current faith, the one their parents obviously hold so dear, THAT THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT. As long as they can love people without condemnation, it's okay. That's all I ask.
Of course, the fact that they pay me is nice as well.

But I wouldn't be doing it if I laughed at these people behind their backs, thinking I had found the better path, the more righteous way, etc. I'm grateful and appreciative that these parents have something to believe in, that these kids have parents who so obviously make them a priority in their lives and that the strength of their faith gives them comfort. Just because my faith is slightly different doesn't make theirs any more or less right-- or mine more or less wrong.

So there. The internet world cares not, I know. And Conversation Person from this morning will not read this. And I would feel like a douche bag if I just walked up out of nowhere and laid out my thought process. So instead, I lay it out here. Which makes me feel slightly better. Which is what this is about anyway. My self absorbtion broadcast loudly for all the world to read.

Really? That's nice. Now BLOW ME.

So.
Please don't whine to me over the phone that my company doesn't let you make any money. If you knew how to do your job right, you could make money. But don't whine to me about it BECAUSE IT'S NOT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO GIVE LESS OF A SHIT.

Please don't whine to me about how hard it is to do data-entry all day. I'm sure it must be hard having that whiny-assed voice that grates on my VERY LAST NERVE and driving your brand new car with DVD AND NAV SYSTEMS that you bought on your DATA ENTRY PAYCHECK. Please, keep talking, BECAUSE I MAY STAB YOU IN THE EYE.

And you, the one that chats on the phone all day, GET OFF THE FUCKING PHONE SO THE REST OF US DON'T HAVE TO TAKE UP YOUR SLACK. Mouth breathing lazy-ass skank.
And OHMIGOD she's on the phone AGAIN. He DOESN'T LIKE YOU. GIVE IT UP.

Also, I hate peanut butter. I hate peanut butter in ANY form. This includes peanut butter cookies. Stop buying peanut butter cookies as a motivator for me, and the rest of my coworkers, to do our jobs. BUY BROWNIES. I'll blow you for brownies.

My hand, it is shaking. I'm that tired. I need a day off. A whole day where I don't have to get up and wash clothes, clean the bathroom, clean the kitchen, sweep the house, scoop cat litter, return things to Target, etc, etc. A day where these things have already been taken care of and I can relax on my lawn chair on my back porch and watch my neighbors cats watching the squirrel watching the cats while it eats the cat's food.

Also, the fact that I went "camping" last weekend for The Fouth does not mean I had days off. I was hot, sweaty and I've still got a crick in my neck from sleeping on the ground.

GRRRR goes the postman

So. Feeling quite proud of myself.

I installed my newly received Airport card last night ALL BY MYSELF.

Sure. You're thinking "Well, damn. I thought all you had to do was slide it in."

NO. That is not how it works AT ALL.

It took 45 minutes of reading weird translated instructions-- instructions designed to be used with an iMac -- NOT an iBook -- for me to figure out what needed to happen.

So after what appeared to be the correct installation, I decided I would try out my new wireless internet capabilities at my friendly neighborhood Coffee Beanery.

SO HERE I SIT. BEAMING MOLECULES OF FREE INTERNET INTO MY MAC.

I'm especially excited. And though I've only got 6 minutes left on my lunch break (I spent the first 40 minutes surfing through sites I have not been able to, er, appreciate fully while at work. NO, I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT PORN. gutter minds. Just possibly some blogs that would edge onto the "NO ZONE" at work.)

So. Here's what I've decided (because poor people have got to be creative):

I will continue bringing my lunch to work everyday but drive one block over to the Coffee Beanery, where I shall sit in my car and BEAM MOLECULES OF FREE INTERNET INTO MY MAC.

Yes, you are correct. I'm avoiding purchasing a $1.67 coffee every day on my lunch break by sitting super-shadily in the parking lot BEAMING MOLECULES OF FREE INTERNET INTO MY MAC.

I am GENIUS.

were you aware that they still made banana clips??

because i wasn't.

but some girl is SURE SPORTING ONE TODAY, GOD HELP HER.

Yes?

Pardon my eavesdropping but,

HOW THE FUCK IS THE WHINY-VOICED LAZY-ASS DATA ENTRY BITCH ON HER CELL PHONE AT WORK TALKING ABOUT HER BRAND NEW CAR SHE JUST BOUGHT THAT HAS A NAV SYSTEM, DVD PLAYER AND LEATHER??????

I mean. FUCK.

This is the slut that rolls her eyes at me when I hand her my data-entry paperwork. DATA ENTRY IS NOT MY JOB, WHORE. IT'S YOURS. SUCK IT UP.

This is the skank that doesn't clock out for lunch and then whines that everyone is always talking down to her and telling her she needs to "shape up."

This is the broad that wants MY SYMPATHY because she's been here for FOUR WHOLE MONTHS and hasn't been promoted out of data-entry. NO SHIT, SHERLOCK. DO THE MATH.

If You Were a Box of Jello, What Flavor Would You Be?

This Morning:
Slept until 9:30 am.
Cats were curled up together at the end of the bed. The only morning I theoretically don't have to be up and dressed and work-i-fied, they sleep like angels. Any other morning, they'd be playing Chase the Imaginary Monster Down the Hall OR the Imaginary Monster is Chasing the Kitties, RUN, OR Look at the Blinds, Kitties! Try and Climb Them!
I wake up.
Decide am not taking shower because I had one yesterday and it's the weekend and WHO CARES IF I SMELL.
Walk into kitchen. Feed cats, change kitty-water.
Accidentally lock Fat Kitty into small midget closet in kitchen where kitty-food is kept. 20 minutes later hear plaintive meowing. Release Fat Kitty from trauma-inducing closet. Hold Fat Kitty, Pet Fat Kitty, Assure Fat Kitty that Mommy is very sorry and would never intentionally lock Fat Kitty in dark midget closet.
Open closet door and critically eye the clothing choices for the day. Decide on black loose stretchy pants, green long tank top and black stretchy tee. Decide will wear gold flip flops even though work dresscode prohibits flip flops.
Walk into kitchen. Stand in center. Remember have no food that could possibly be construed as "breakfast" consumable.
Spritz hair with Febreeze. A pre-emptive measure used when am too lazy to bathe and bar smell may have infiltrated hair follicles.
Spritz self with perfume. No point in being utterly disgusting.
Apply eyeliner, black eyeshadow, lipgloss and bronzer.
Slect large disc-like earrings from jewelry case.
Scoop kitty litter as have noticed poo smell emanating from kitty poo area.
Wash hands. Kitty poo may have burrowed under hand-skin to attack unsuspecting body molecules.
Decide am ready to go.
Walk out to car.
Stand for 3 minutes staring at THE DING SOME MOTHER FUCKER PUT IN THE SIDE OF MY CAR THAT SCRATCHED MY PAINT AND MARRED THE BLACK SMOOTHNESS OF MY VEHICLE. I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN YOU IGNORANT PENIS-LESS BITCH. I had noticed the ding on Thursday but had been unable to fully appreciate ding as had first become aware of ding in the half-light available when I get off work.
Drive to West Little Rock.
Stop at Coffee Beanery for croissant and large coffee. Not the coffee with all the weird shit in it. Just PLAIN. ASS. COFFEE. The LARGE, please.
Can see work building.
Pull into parking lot.
Rest head on steering wheel.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Cannot run away today.
Need paycheck next week.
Clock in at 10:45.
11:45 realize friend Lilleeeee is also at work. Discuss Lilleeeee's cha cha pains (as had rigorous night of, um, festivities). Ascertain that boo-tay is not also in pain. (See Lilleeee's description of boo-tay pain at lilylala.modblog.com)
Lilleeeee did not bathe either. So there.
Other friend Jill is also at work.
Decide tonight will be a margarita ladies-drink-some-other-guys-tequila-that-they-themselves-did-not-pay-for night. Meaning that Jill will be bringing over the bottle that her unsuspecting special friend left over at her house. Stupid boy.
Realize have spent as much time as humanly possible wasting time and will now proceed to work.
Random thought before posting: Hmmm. Well. Cannot put thought into words. Will try another day.
*blows kiss*

An Entry in Which I Am Reminded of a Shirt My Brother Used To Wear: The Many Moods of an Alien

I feel restless and edgy and at a loss and my mouth waters in anticipation of something I can't quite put my finger on. I'm spoiling for a fight and craving the feel of a hand on the back of my head, palm on my neck, fingers splayed. I feel lost and adrift and full of wide eyes and confusion because I realize where I've planted myself and I'm overcome with the urge to run. Run to one of those places so ingrained in my memory that I can still conjure up the smell of dry heat, wet stench, cold air or the smell that is New York.

I want to run to these places, find solace in anonymity and start over.

Because I'm absolutely and utterly terrified I picked the wrong path, as Robert Frost would say. That cliched poem, chosen by so many high school graduates, reverbrates in my head because I see the dozens, hundreds, thousands of paths I could have taken and I see that not all of them would have been good, some of them lead right back here and others lead to that point in the road that rises in gentle slope until you can no longer see of the top of the hill so you slow down, approaching the top with just the barest of trepidation because you know the road extends, you know it doesn't drop off into nothingness, but it's a bit like choosing door number 2 on The Price is Right-- a total crapshoot. One where there could be a shiny new car or a set of dishtowels. Both useful, neither harmful. But one is definitely more appealing than the other.

I saw my reflection in a mirror this moring and I saw how my hair seemed to gleam today, how my hips looked beautiful and curvy in my black skirt, how delicate and feminine my ankles appeared, resting in my blue shoes. I saw the slope of my ribcage begin just under my breasts, flowing like carved water into my thighs, my knees, my toes. My eyes looked bright and I felt like I might actually stand out, like I might actually catch someone's, anyone's attention. I saw my visage and for that moment, saw beauty, saw past the heavy eyelids, the face I stare at, absently, a thousand times a day. The face I watch, warily, while drawing on my eyeliner, patting my cheeks with rouge and glossing my lips. For a second that face wasn't mine and I saw what it would be like to be aware of myself; conscious of being female, of having this strange kind of attractiveness and always knowing it was there, knowing that the life inside my skin was mine and I had taken it and let it thrive. Not thrust inside the skin I normally see, with scars on my hands, my knees; small but there, a reminder of the time I burned my hand in the oven, fell on the sidewalk, or ran a knife down the top of my hand, watching for the well of blood that was accompanied by the greatest sense of release, relief, too scared to continue, knowing what I'd become. A road I didn't choose.

All of this a contradiction to the night before, when I caught my eye in the armoire mirror, bending over to turn off the television set, close the doors and retreat into my bedroom. I saw me, aghast, my chin soft, my arms soft, my middle soft and round. Not the good soft, but the soft that comes from too much time taken up by stray thoughts, work and exhaustion, remembering what it felt like to be strong, feeling muscle under my skin so smooth and taut. Never skinny, or even slim. Just toned and firm, breasts round and hips gentle. Legs that felt like a mile long, or maybe that I could run a mile, kick a mile, even lift a mile if I so chose. Seeing in the mirror a complete distortion of who I am, was. Makeup worn away after hours of rubbing my face in frustration. Hair hanging ragged around my face, looking as worn out as I felt. "I'm twenty-five," I think. "What will this be like when I'm...." and I can't fill in the blank. I can't fathom more years, more exhaustion, more nothingness.

Around and round in circles I go, where I stop, no one but me knows.

And then I come back around from this morning, my feeling of awareness has vanished and in it's place is a combination of anticipation and melancholy. I know I can change things, but I keep getting so distracted, so confused by the thousands upon thousands of questions swirling in my head. I miss the days of only 6 years ago, when I was so sure, so confident in the path I had chosen. I knew what my career would be, my life-friends were just starting to emerge from the depths of dormitory halls and I could feel the eyes of men, some lecherous and some curious, as I walked through doorways and and arches, unconcerned with my choices, knowing they were right and good and I knew I was me. Confused, maybe, sometimes, and always a little bit crazy. But I could feel a part of me. Everything happened in whirlwind-like fashion and I embraced it and worked hard at everything I thought I would be, at everything I had planned to become. And somewhere along the line, a combination of events, possibly The Event, marked a beginning of sorts. A beginning where I consistently feel like I'm making the wrong decision.

By now I feel encased in those decisions, unable to escape. I have to exist, survive, remain sane, therefore I have to have this job, that job, remember that job? It wears me down until one day I realize that yes, I am crazy. Not the good kind of crazy. Just crazy. And though I'm better, better than five years ago, better than 2 years ago, better than six months ago, I'm still not me. I'm still walking through water with ear muffs on. Too many thoughts and responsibilities and even though I know that retreating into my head is the very worst thing I can do, I want to, crave to do it anyway.

The List is back from "hiatus." Also known in some circles as "rehab" SHHHHH. It's totally fine. No judgements.

How better to spend my Saturday, stuck at work, in a cubicle-- THAN BY USING COMPANY TIME TO ADD TO MY LIST? I am a genius.

38. My incisor tooth on the bottom right is EXCEPTIONALLY pointy and sharp. Not so much that it stands out among the rest of my teeth (which are straight and white, thanks to orthodontia and Crest Whitening) but sharp enough that it's a ceaseless source of amusement to run my tongue or finger over it when pondering the meaning of mullets or why people have children when they SO OBVIOUSLY SHOULD NOT HAVE PROPAGATED THE DANK POND THAT IS THEIR GENE POOL.

37. If you purchase an SUV or truck, PLEASE, reconsider lowering the suspension and having the undercarriage drag the fucking ground. IT'S FUCKING SACRILEGIOUS. If you BUY and SUV, I'm going to assume you bought it for a purpose. AND WHAT FUCKING PURPOSE DOES IT SERVE WHEN YOU HAVE TO GO SLOWER THAN ME IN MY HONDA WHEN COMING OUT OF THE TARGET PARKING LOT? I'll tell you-- NO FUCKING PURPOSE WHATSOEVER EXCEPT MAKING IT QUITE CLEAR TO THE ENTIRE WORLD THAT YOU ARE, IN FACT, A GIANT DOUCHE.

36. Bird noises totally creep me out.

35. I don't do sports that involve anything between my body and the ground. This would include skiing and um, skiing. Both water and snow.

34. I don't do sports where balls fly at my head. It's unnatural. YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO DUCK, PEOPLE.

33. I sleep on my stomach. One leg hiked up. Pillow under head. Pillow under arm. Arm wrapped around pillow and pulled close to chest.

32. Be prepared to let me stop and pee on any trip longer than one hour. It's gonna happen. Just accept it.

31. I like the sound of fast typing. When I was 10, I begged my mother for a typing program that we could use on our old-school computer. She obliged and I learned how to type by Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing.

30. I'm not bitchy or cranky or pissy or stand-offish. <---Actual comments made about how I behave in many social settings. People are overwhelming. I'm not going to hug, touch, love-up-on or schmooze with random people I don't know. I have to watch them. THEN I'll decide if I want to make conversation.

29. When I used white-out as kid, I had to make sure I painted out the word completely, in a perfect little white-out box. I then had to let it dry until the PERFECT STATE OF DRYNESS where I could write on it but it was still a little soft -- not so soft it made the jagged edges around your pen when you wrote-- but soft enough where it just enveloped the ink and it would stand out against the dull ink surrounding it.

28. I've been to The Netherlands, Belgium, France and Spain. But here in The States, I've only been to New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennesee, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, New York and New Jersey. That leaves out a WHOLE HELL A LOT OF THE COUNTRY. Guess I have a lot of traveling to do.

28 is an acceptable number to end on becase 8 is divisable by 2, which equals 4, which is made up of two 2's.

HOLYA CRAPOLA

DO YOU FOLK REALLY THINK I'D REFER TO MYSELF AS A TRUE LADY?

OF COURSE I USE THE WORD 'PUSSY'

examples:

"Get outta my way you fucking pussy!" <--- this is said almost every morning and is aimed at ANYONE AND EVERYONE who is in my way.

"He is SUCH a pussy" <--- used in reference to the giant douche bags with whom I work.

"Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have a pussy on your head?" <--- rhetorical thinking. While intoxicated.

"She blatantly flaunts that pussy" <---- used to describe brazen hussies that let their shit hang out of skirts, 14-year-old girls dressed like hookers and anyone sporting a camel-toe.

and the most recent use of the word 'pussy:'

"MY PUSSY WAS NEARLY BURNED RIGHT OFF BY THAT NAIR SHIT!"

total word 'pussy' word count: 7

And all is Well.

I have been at work such a very, very long time and as eager as I am to go home, I'm even more eager TO TELL YOU ABOUT MY FUCKING WEEKEND.

Perhaps eager is a strong word choice. But everyone else gets to talk about their weekend and SO WILL I.

My weekend: Superfantabulous.

Friday: BB King at Riverfest. Beer. Drama involving ex-friend-who-is-a-boy-but-involved-exceptional-amount-of-benefits-who-was-removed-some-months-past-and-who-has-not-been-seen-since-October-because-he-moved-to-Oklahoma. Hear voice behind me and he's sitting NOT THREE INCHES from my head. Long eye contact. Have awkward conversation with boy where awkwardness is acknowledged. Sleep.

Saturday: beer, eating, beer, jam band, beer, contact high, beer, Black Crows at Riverfest, beer, stumbling home over the river bridge and walking to my apartment BECAUSE MY APARTMENT FUCKING ROCKS AND IS WITHIN WALKING DISTANCE OF DOWNTOWN. (4 blocks, to be precise). Sleep.

Sunday: hangover, chat with mom while Nair'ing legs, forget about Nair on legs and BURN THE EVER LOVING SHIT OUT OF MY THIGHS. Especially that very delicate and tender area oh-so-near the nanny area. (nanny is code for pussy. but pussy is a un-delicate word that true ladies such as myself NEVER USE.) Put on most non-touchy underwear possible. read: none. Put on soft cotton stretchy pants and hoodie, walk delicately out to car and drive to meet lileeeee. Drive to Starbucks for coffee that eliminates hangover but does nothing for burned inner thighs though yummy berry cake distracts me for a minute while I contemplate the meaning of berry cake and lemon icing. Drive to lake, get on boat, starts to rain, pull hoodie over head and relax. Beer. Nap. Eat. Beer. TV shows till 3am. Sleep.

Monday: Eat. TV. Beer. Drive home and attempt to watch DVD (as am too poor for cable, as well as internet) when DVD player STOPS WORKING AND I BECOME VERY DISTRAUGHT BECAUSE THE DVD PLAYER IS MY ONLY SOURCE OF MINDLESS ENTERTAINMENT. Drive to Target, buy new DVD player and purchase snazzy antenna that claims to be high-powered enough to pick up local channels. Drive home, fiddle with DVD player, finally get cords in correct slots and might I mention that if you're going to make red-tipped cords and red-tipped holes, then MAKE SURE THE RED THINGS ACTUALLY GO TOGETHER BECAUSE THAT CRAP CONFUSES POOR GIRLS SUCH AS MYSELF. Hook up antenna. No drama. Watch rest of movie. Assemble weird Glade plug-in oil things and place throughout new apartment because have not been able to rid apartment of other-person smell. Smell is remniscent of sweaty kids and smoky smoky. Apartment becomes overwhelmed by scent of lavender garden spring rain linen showers. Realize oil thingees have A DIAL FOR WHICH TO CONTROL SCENT and turn down dial to bring scent to moderate level. Sleep.

Book

Sorry. Had to delete it. Couldn't handle it today.

Becca's brother, HE IS HOME (for a few days, at least!)


WOUNDED SOLDIER WELCOMED HOME AT AIRPORT


Army Sgt. Chris Short finally made his way back home Thursday afternoon to ecstatic family and friends. The 23-year-old has been recuperating in a Washington D.C. hospital since April after losing his leg in a blast in Afghanistan.This is the first time Short has been together with his entire family in three years. He was deployed to Afghanistan last October.

Ode to Nips

I'm having a problem
I think I might die
Yesterday, while tanning
My nips became fried

It all started when
My friends became tanner
And me, well I stayed
white like surrender's banner

So I carried my ass
To the tanning bed place
To make sure that ghosts
Did not scream at my face

I layed in the beds
So light and so warm
Until I felt like
The bees started to swarm...

Over my tender
Most white private parts
It felt like the bees
Were throwing poison filled darts

Now they're itchy, they're hot
And it's making me blue
I want it to stop,
Don't you, DON'T YOU???

Today:

I want to run away.

The Cocaine, it is Free

I moved this weekend. And now have no internet. Or cable, for that matter. DAMN I miss having internet. I fucking hate being poor. The only time I really missed cable was when I thought I might have to miss the Desperate Housewives finale.
BUT THEN BRIGHT IDEA # 457 came barreling along. I remembered I had to do laundry. And my new apartment has no laundermat. So I packed my 7 loads of dirty clothes in the back of the car and drove my resourceful ass to the laundermat on Markham, WHERE THERE IS FREE CABLE TO BE HAD BY ALL. So I watched Extreme Makeover Home Edition and then Desperate Housewives, all while my clothes washed and dried. I had to miss Grey's Anatomy. Mainly because I couldn't see hanging out in the joint until 10pm. That neighborhood is not exactly THE SAFEST place to be in pitch dark.

And if your wondering why I was doing my clothes in a laundermat when my old apartment is still inhabited by my loser brother and has a washer/dryer in the basement- THAT WOULD BE BECAUSE HE'S AN ILLITERATE FUCK UP WHO CAN'T FUCKING DO ANYTHING BUT FUCK. UP. All he had to do was transfer the electricity into his name by Friday morning. I even gave him lists in person and by email with names, account numbers and phone numbers OF EVERY UTILITY COMPANY. But no. That was too complicated. My mom and I take the first load of crap over to the new building first thing Friday morning and when we get back - BAM! NO FUCKING ELECTRICITY.

And yes, it was hot as balls outside. And yes, I sweated off said balls in the NINE HOURS OF PHYSICAL LABOR it took to move all of my shit. (Thank you, Brittany. You're the best. Even if your boyfriend was cranky on Saturday. And I will not complain ONCE when I have to help you paint your kitchen cabinets.) But now. NOW. I have my home. My very home non-sharing, wood-floored, courtyard-having, back-porch-sportin APARTMENT THAT WAS DECORATED BY YOURS TRULY AND IF I WANTED TO PUT THE PICTURE ON THAT WALL THEN I FUCKING PUT THE PICTURE ON *THAT* WALL.
And if I want to pee with the door open.
I CAN.
If I want to sleep on my stomach with my half-naked ass in the air
I CAN (because I don't have to worry about weird brother-friends marching through and hence seeing half-naked ass in the air)
If I want to listen to The Cure on repeat for 3 hours
Your're damned right, I CAN.
If I want to lay on my bed in my undewear because I'm hot and sweaty and I spent two hours scrubbing the kitchen floor with bleach,
I CAN
And finally, if I want to cook dinner and not feel obligated to cook you something as well,
I FUCKING CAN.

:)

I'm going to go back to work, because I've taken up precious work time to write but I couldn't stand to be away from the blessed world of the blog friends for ONE SECOND MORE. And now, I shall go have internet-lustfull thoughts of Duckie, because, damn. He's one sexy mo fo in those Blog Ho boxers. Shake that ass.

Holy Catpoop, Batman.

I so DID NOT GET THE FUCKING MEMO that said the cleaning crew was going to be hanging out in the bathrooms at 7:45pm. I HAVE TO PEE, PEOPLE.

It's just unfair. Really, it is.

I may pee upon this very chair because the cleaning lady held up her hand and said "NO! The seats are all wet!"

Jesus, lady-- it's not like I sit down on those things anway. I've been cultivating the art of hovering since I was a wee small girl.


Small bladders unite!

I should have been a crack dealer-- Maybe then I wouldn't be in debt.

43.) When I was 9, I used to lay on my bed and dream of being a fairy. Not just any fairy, but a fairy that lived in a walnut shell. And could transform herself into normal-kid size at will. But the fairy always shrunk down to sleep. I would dream that I would doze off during class-- and then everyone would notice I was missing until !!! someone discovered me, peacefully sleeping in a walnut shell in the book cubby of my desk. I would swear my classmates to secrecy. The only sign of my fairy-ness when in my normal-kid form would be the four of five strands of blue hair hidden underneath my long dark tresses.
42.) I can calculate vectors in my head, almost to the point of having a dead-right answer. I cannot, however, calculate them on paper using a formula. I'm just a good guesser. This did not endear me to my math teachers.
41.) I'm not sure if I believe marriage is for life. I think maybe for some people it is, but maybe I wasn't meant to be one of those. I've never had a normal, adult relationship. So I think that by this point, my chances of succeeding in a marriage are slim. I haven't had the "starter boyfriends" to figure out what it's like.
40.) I'm quite disdainful of people who sport mullets. WHO CUTS YOUR HAIR, DUMBASS?
39.) I'm a vomiter. Well, not as bad anymore. I used to vomit when I got mad, really sad, really frustrated or really nervous. There is an entry on here where I trace this happy trait to my over-anxious 9-year-old self. I have no idea how people make those happy little link things so you'll just have to fucking search for it if you really feel so inclined.

I can end on this number because 9 is divisable by 3. Something like this:

9 / 3 = 3 and 3 and 3. The trifecta of threes. It's beautiful on so many levels.

49. When I was 7 I was a Brownie (Girl Scouts for the young ones). We had finished our weekly meeting and had been dismissed to go play until parents came to pick the kids up. These little get-togethers were held at my mum's house and I had about 10 little girls hanging out in my room. This annoying little girl, Sarah, had decided it was acceptable to get my hamster, Buttercup, out of her cage. I coldly told her to put down my damn hamster. Well, naturally this little skank ran out of the room, making a bee-line for my mother to tell her I had said the word "damn." I waited 3 mintues, knowing if I ran after her I'd look guilty. So I ambled out of my room and casually walked into the kitchen were Sara (bitch) was gleefully telling everyone who could hear that I was using "bad words" in front of all the girls. My mom asked me if what I had said. Here was my explanation:

"Mom. Sarah COMPLETELY misunderstood me. She was playing with my hamster-- and you know Buttercup likes to bite sometimes-- So I asked her to put her down. She must have misunderstood me because I asked her to put down my dame hamster, not that other word." I turned to Sarah. "Sarah, a dame is just another word for girl."

I'm pretty sure I didn't get punished because I had used one of the last week's vocabulary words. Heh.

48. I don't like the red Starburst-- I always pick them out. They remind me of Luden's cough drops that my grandmother used to give me.

47. I get hives sometimes. Normally from stressing about traffic or just being generally unstable. And NO hives are not bumpy and scary. I just get red splotches all over and get really, uncontrollably itchy.

46. I made four lists today. One detailing an art project and the supplies I need to get, one detailing possible move dates and things I need to ask my mom and dad, one with a list of things to do on my lunch break and another full of crap I had to do today at work.

45. I have to pee really, really bad. But since I'm only ten minutes away from going home, I'll tough it out. If I have the option to go in my own home you best believe I'm going to take it.

44. I don't own any clocks. I use the clock on my cell phone to get up in the morning. But otherwise I think they just distract me.

44 is a very acceptable number to end on. It's divisable by so many numbers and it is, from an aesthetic standpoint, perfectly balanced.

I promise this will be over soon.

68. I'm secretive. I have friends that have never met each other, heard of each other. And never will.

67. I hate the sound of utensils on plates.

66. I miss the subways in New York. And riding the ferry every day. It was a hassle to get to work, but the ride home was always peaceful. I worked weird hours so I never hit traffic in rushour. I have a distinct memory of sitting on the ferry on a Wednesday morning, Radiohead singing in my headphones, thinking of my family, lonely, gray skies. And then a sea gull flying in perfect unison with my window for endless minutes.

65. I've had the same bedspread for 8 years. It's a light greenish thin down comforter. On top, I have a red/orange throw that I bought in Spain with bleached white sheets, two pillows and a decorative orange pillow in the center.

64. I had a bad case of Mono when I was 20. I still get tired easily. Though I was never much of a late-night person to begin with.

63. The first cat that I ever got was named Cleopatra. Unfortunately, I later found out it was a boy. So Mom made me shorten it's name to Cleo.

62. I love food for it's texture-- Cheesecake may taste good but I'm going to need some nuts or something in it.

61. My favorite snack to make is wheat tortillas, pepperjack cheese and pecans all rolled up together and heated up in the microwave.

60. I like shoes. Especially heels.

59. I took dance for 16 years and taught for two. I wasn't the most dancer-bodied person there, but I had a beautiful foot in pointe shoes and tap was my favorite. I loved teaching the little girls the "brush-toe-heel and brush-toe-heel" steps. But my favorite was teaching the advanced class where we got to tap to rock music and jazz.

58. I chew the tops of my pens. Classic oral fixation.

57. I used to smoke two packs a day. Kool Milds. I loved smoking. It took some of the edge off social settings and daily life. I'm still teaching myself not to reach for a ciggy when things get stressed.

56. I like cold beer. Fat Tire is all the rage now... But it doesn't do much for me. I really like Pacifico and Dos Equis.

55. I'm more passive agressive than I like. But I work on it.

54. I listen to loud ear splitting music in the car. Anything with heavy guitars or a strong bass line and I'm in.

53. I can't end on this number so I have to keep coming up with useless info for three more entries.

52. I have a younger brother. He threw a chair at my head when I was 11 and he was 8. I yanked open the fridge door to deflect it but ended up slicing open my eyebrow when I attempted to duck behind it. I have the wee little scar to prove it. We get along now.

51. Right this minute, I want to cut my hair off and dye it blonde.

50. I don't care for the smell of vanilla.

Again, she says?

Little bit intoxicated but what the fuck I'll continue my list anyway.

84. I have serious road rage issues. Though not at all safe, I tend to tailgate when idiotic motherfuckers who don't understand the concept of the FAST FUCKING LANE get all up in my way.

83. I love the way boys smell. Okay. Maybe I should clarify. I would certainly not be interesteeed in finding out how Fat Bastard smells. But sometimes. I just want to bite their scrumptious necks because they smell so tasty. This is inappropriate work behavior and social bahavior so I refrain.

82. Febreeze is my friend.

81. I'm instruction-manual stupid. If it doesn't come with paint-by-numbers instructions, I get really frustrated and just throw it. I bought a folding hammock on a stand last year and tried to put it together in my living room. It took me 4 and a half hours but I finally got it to look like the picture. BUT I'VE NEVER BEEN ABLE TO GET THE DAMN THING TO FOLD.

80. I once dated a Mormon. He tried to have sex with me in a tent on Valentines Day on what was techincally our second date. Some Mormon he was.

79. My other cat's name is Lilly. Or Lillian, dpending on my mood. It always amuses me to yell "liillliaaannnn!!!!!!!!!" at the kitty. It's a line from a movie. Eddie Murphy "Delirious" and he wears a read leather jumpsuit. I nearly peed my pants the first time I saw it.

78. I love sparkalie tihngs. I have a gold lame' purse and it makes me happy. happy happy happy.

77. I haven't referred to anyone as my "boyfriend" since 8th grade. His name was Thomas Grover and he had floppy hair. He was my best friend and I didn't know how to say no. We broke up when I stopped taking his phone calls.

76. I collect antique purses and hats. I never thought I'd have a collection of anything. Something about them though. I love them.

75. Hi!

74. Hi again!

73. Why hello! Didn't see you there!

73. Jeez! Stop calling!

72. Jilly Bean.

71. It feels good to write all of that down. A relief.

70. I'm tired of people making jokes about my unwillingness to be touched. I've worked hard. SO FUCKING HARD to be like everyone else. Don't joke about it. It makes me want to slap you. I'm better. And I crave it now. People touching me. I see my friend's boyfriend hold her with his arm around her waist and I want that so badly I get dizzy. Someone comfortable enough to touch me, to know that I'll always be okay with it, and know that my hesitancy isn't rejection.

69. I will regret writing this in the morning.

I can end on this number because because it is an easily divisiable number, almost as good as ending on a zero or five. The nubmer 54 would be unacceptable.

Tennis

FUCK IT.

I've given in to peer pressure. Well, not really. It's not like I have folk clamoring for this shit or anything. But I unashamedly adore the ridiculous little lists people make about themselves. And so here I go (starting the list, anyway) in what will be today's voyage into utter self-centeredness.

100. I love sugar cookies that have crunchy icing. My mom makes the best sugar cookies w/ icing in the WHOLE WORLD and she sends them to me for Valentines day every year.

99. Before I got my cat, I knew he would be fuzzy and that I would name him Llama. So I looked for Llama for two straight weeks until I found him in a cardboard box with a bunch of other kittens. He was the runt of the litter and ever so fragile. Now he is obese.

98. I worry. About everything. Obessively so. And though the big things take up my mental space - wrecks, death, pain, etc -- I also spend a lot of time worrying about trivial things. Like the bird poop on my car and the possibility of my hair dryer going out.

97. I am faith-full but have not given myself a religious moniker. God is too big for that. Though I understand the good churches and organized religion can do for a person or a community, I also recognize how some of these organizations stifle growth and can create bigotry and hatred.

96. I eat asparagus out of the can. Cold.

95. Whenever I find out that someone suffers from anxiety or depression, I feel like I should hug them. Hug them for days. Because I wish someone had seen it in me, or, more likely, that I hed LET someone see it in me. And hugged me.

94. I remember the phone number to every house I ever lived in as a kid.

93. My degree is useless.

92. I spent my whole college career busting my ass, working and studying and working and studying so that I wouldn't graduate with an entry-level job. And I was a bad-ass. I was a writer/producer/editor for a local newstation. And then I made my last phone call I would ever make for my job. I talked to a mother who had just lost her son the day before. We needed an interview and it was my job to get it. She told me I wasn't worth the shit on the bottom of her shoe. I walked to the bathroom, sat on the floor with my back and against the door and sobbed for an entire hour. I put in my two weeks notice the next day.

91. I lived in New York for a year. I came back when I realized how unhappy it made me to be away from everyone. Amusing, isn't it? Whe spend our childhood threatening to leave the very first day we can. And then I spent a year away, trying to figure out how to get back.

90. I'm scared sometimes that God left me out of a plan.

89. I can't kill roaches because of the noise they make when you step on them.

88. I talk to myself in the car. I'm not as assertive as I sometimes think I should be, so if there's a confrontation coming up, I have to talk it out in the car and have a plan of a attack. Otherwise I stutter, clam up and then cry-- not from sadness, but from utter frustration that I can't make someone see it my way.

87. I love my nose.

86. I read everything-- backs of shampoo bottles, backs of cereal boxes, instruction manuals, textbooks and, my favorite, just plain books. I love books about science, conspiracies and future societies.

85. I think I'm slowly changing my views on children. By no means do I want them. Right now. But a year ago, that last bit wouldn't have been added on.


I think it's best to end on an easily stackable number. It would be odd to end on number 83 or 64.

When hosting a company-wide meeting, it is not amusing to clap your hands, jump around the room and force others to do the same. It is also not amusing to attempt to force employees to mimic surfing. Surfing as in what one does in the Ocean even though we are quite obviously living in a land-locked state.

And let's not mention the fact that I arrived 7 minutes before schedule and STILL had to stand in the back in my four-inch heels because, YES, PEOPLE they are necessary. Short people have the option to be tall and if you heart so desires it, then you can BE TALL. But four-inch heels are not conducive to standing for 45 straight minutes.

More interestingly, I have made a new friend. Who is full, simply FULL, of useless but highly amusing information about my coworkers.


And apparently the gang of tall boys over on the other side of the floor is "snotty" and I shouldn't expect much in the way of hallway hello's.

Oh and the dark-haired frat boy 25 cubicles down apparently has a bit of a weight problem. He's also newly married and has gone through an "eat my feelings" stage. Possibly because he realized that, yes, he's tied to his ho for life. Till death do ya part, sucka. Anyway, I had wondered if his supertight clothing was a fashion statement. But no. He's just not buying new clothes b/c he started drinking protein shakes 2 weeks ago and thinks this will decrease the size of his following. (He's truly one of the only males that I've seen where excess weight settles on his boo-tay. Odd.)

My new friend is quite snazzy. She has cool hair, a nose ring and a tattoo. I can't do tattoos because there's no part of my body I want displayed. Which you ultimately have to do with a tattoo. But she's short and wee so her back tattoo is festive. But not so wee you hate her because she looks like she snorts coke in her free time. She runs the Relay For Life thingee and shamelessly recruits folk to give money. She smokes and lets me inhale her second hand smoke and doesn't think that's wierd. I even told her about my deal with God, about the not-smoking deal, anyway. Her response?

"You don't fuck with God, man."

Ah. A chica after my own heart.

She listens to Radiohead, Franz Ferdinand and Britney Spears. She's a self-proclaimed slut. Has a problem keeping her pants on during the first date. She has cool shoes. Not as cool as mine, naturally, but I give them a definite thumbs up. She owns cats and thinks making them dance is unbearably funny.

She is me! (Minus the slut bit. I'm alsways intrigued by those of the permiscuous nature. Not being so inclined makes the idea of fucking somebody on a first date unheard of. My skin used to crawl when people touched me, so that put a bit of a damper on the sex bit.)

Now that I've frightened everyone away by being ever so excited about my new friend, you have to understand that it's so very rare that I make acquaintances and then progress from fun smoke buddy or work buddy to festive come over to my house and watch tv friend. I love being friends with boys but someone always ends up liking one more than the other. And girls tend to grate on my nerves. So new, cool, festive, super friends are hard to come by.

So anyway. I have a new friend and I'm staying in Little Rock and keeping my current job and enrolling in school and getting my VERY OWN FIRST APARTMENT WHERE I HAVE TO SHARE NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, WITH ANYONE and my friends are awesome and hilarious and though they tend to wreck cars and give people heartattacks, I love them anyway and I'm happy.

Future Chinese Food

I love that my cats chase bugs.

I also love that they leave bug bits lolling about for me to step on.

I love that The Fat One had a dingleberry attached to his butt-fur this morning.

I also love that after The Fat One jumped on my bed this morning I noticed it.

I love that The Deceptively Cute One scratched at my bedroom window, desperate to get out and chase birds, for a consecutive 45 minutes.

I love that The Birds taunted The Deceptively Cute One with their heinous rain-forest noises.

I love that The Fat One takes his paw and pushes his water bowl across the floor and tips it over when he gets it to the hallway. Every. day.

I love that They eat more food than I do.

I love that my arm is merely a ladder to aid The Fat One in getting onto my bed.

I love that the Deceptively Cute One rolled over on the floor, exposing her belly, after I threatend to sell her to traveling research scientists as if to say, "Please, stupid human, I am too cute for you to follow through on any of your frequent threats. Look at me. I'm a bundle of dark fur and quizical facial expressions that I use to cow your ridiculous human brain into utter submission."

The Brad Pitt Factor

Friday afternoon I get a frantic call from Becca.

"PLEASE TELL ME YOU DON'T HAVE PLANS FOR SUNDAY."

I do a quick mental inventory. Please. (mental laughter) Like I'd EVER make plans for a Sunday. Sunday is when I sleep.

"I really need a favor."

Silence.

Fuck. I'm thinking, how do I get out of this? Sunday is MY day. I do not share this day with ANYONE unless expressly invited.

I have to ask.

"Um. What is it?"

"Well, you'd be getting paid."

I do perk up a bit. Because I am poor, you see. And I just may sacrifice a Sunday for a bit of cash.

"You'd only have to work from like 10:30 till 1:30."

"What would I have to do?" I say this with enough trepidation that if the 'favor' is at all repugnant, I can gracefully bow out.

"You just have to run the nursery at my church for a couple of hours. I'm not going to be back until Sunday afternoon so I can't make it and EVERYONE ELSE IS OUT OF TOWN AND THE WHOLE CHURCH IS FREAKING OUT."

The irony does not escape me. I don't even go to church. But fuck it. They're paying me to run after infants. It can't be that bad.

So I agree. Excited that I'll get to play with wee infants and toddlers (I'm a sucker for cute ones, though don't for one second think I might push one out of my vaginey) and even more excited that someone is going to pay me SIXTY DOLLARS to hand out animal crackers and play-doh.

Here's where you're probably expecting a story relating to my heinous experience with the monstrous heathens that blossom only when the mommies and daddies leave the nursery. But no. No such story. The kids were unbelievably cute and sweet and nice smelling. Not one poopy diaper needed to be changed. And they all thought I was cool because I had a shiny in my nose and noisy, sparkalie bracelets.

No, this story actually goes wrong while standing in the buffet line outside the church. It was roughly 10:15 and the overly-competent woman who runs play-time and snack-time and kid-time at the church had given me a tour of the nursery digs and shown me where the baby wipes were and then pushed me outside to taste their famous cheese grits and cheese eggs with mushrooms and chives.

I smiled tautly and hoped it came off as genuine. I couldn't escape and I knew it. I'd have to stand in the moving, snaking line that protuded from the white tents set up in the parking lot for the May Day celebration. (Sidenote: Are they aware May Day has a seriously non-Christian, non-JesusLovesMeThisIKnow history?)

So I'm standing in line, being greeted by anyone and everyone who recognizes me as a new face and feels it's their Happy Christian duty to shake my hand and inquire as to the whereabouts of my normal church that they've so sneakily stolen me from just to watch their precious and cuddly infants. I smile and say "here and there" only because I know it's not advisable to launch into any kind of religious discussion while standing in the buffet line at a Lutheran church.

And while I'm standing in line, basking in my first full minute of peace, I feel a hand on my arm.

"Rachel, right?"

I look up into the strangely familiar face of a very Amazonian-like woman standing directly besie me.

"No, it's not Rachel, is it? I can't remember names for anything.. Do you remember me? We used to work at Dillards together?"

Random, but yes, I recognize her.

So I respond.

"Liz, right?"

She beams like she's won the lottery.

"I thought it was you over here. I know you left about two weeks after I did and I had heard rumors that you were working with J at your new place so I just HAD to come over here and ask about him."

ARE YOU SERIOUS? SHE WALKED ACROSS A CROWDED TENT FULL OF BRIGHTLY DRESSED SOCCER MOMS TO INQUIRE ABOUT A POTENTIAL PIECE OF ASS???

She went on to ask me if I knew if J and "the girlfriend" had gotten engaged and then listened to a very lengthy schpill detailing WHY they should NOT get engaged and if I see him tell him she said "hi" and that she works at XYZ Company and she'd LOVE to hear from him and doesn't he just have the best ass and did I ever try out the goods once I started working at MonotonyLand, Inc and I'd tell her if I got to try out the goods, right, because she wouldn't be jealous but she'd just DIE if she knew if he was a good "catch" (actually made with fingers forming quotation marks in air while winking as if to say, subtly, I wonder if he's a good fuck but I can't ask that question at a church gathering) and if Sara's 9-incher claims were really true (at which point I do sort of gag, because I had pegged him as being a bit, okay, A LOT above a girl like Sara {pregnant by a man not her husband, on meth, crazy and, oh, FUCKING CRAZY} ) and the things she's saying involve words that imply first-hand knowledge and I start to remember those times I use to laugh and tell J what new scheme Sara had concocted to get in his pants that week and I cringe because his dismay at her agression seemed quite real and I'm grossed out and weirded out and, again, I'M FUCKING STUCK IN A BUFFET LINE A MILE LONG AT A CHURCH GATHERING, PREVENTING ME FROM SCREAMING "OH MY FUCKING GOD" AT THIS AMAZON WOMAN AND TAKING MY SHORT, STUMPY LEGS AND MY FRIZZY HAIR AND MAKING A RUN FOR MY CAR.

So I smile. I tell her I haven't really kept those kinds of tabs on him. I tell her I never tried to "try out the goods" because he's in my category of "otherwise occupied" and when I met him I had just started the downward spiral in my psuedo relationship with Jon and was more interested in making it to my car at night without Jon driving by to check on my whereabouts than locating the whereabouts of J's purported 9-inch dick. I tell her I was unaware of Sara's exploits and, for the sake of what I truly believe is a good person, did express doubt that in her overly-hormonal and slightly cracked out state she was able to distinguish between reality and fantasy. And then I tell her that I'll be sure and pass along her well-wishes.

I'm done, DONE, being polite to weirdos. I mean, why would you approach me to get the lowdown on some guy you know next to nothing about, that you worked with for a mere few months, and that you assume I'll be willing to shell out information on?

WHY DO FREAKS ALWAYS APPROACH ME?

I thought I only attracted male freaks but upon further consideration I've realized I attract ALL FREAKS, REGARDLESS OF GENDER.

So I'm going to hit the D (a place, not a person) for a little Sunday night action with a bottle of beer and a play-by-play account of Becca's trip to Memphis in May and my utter dismay at being so close to seeing The Killers but being SO FAR AWAY.

And then it will be Monday. Rock on.

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?

BECAUSE I WAS MORNING-STUPID WHEN I ROLLED OUT OF BED AT 7:42 AND REALIZED I HAD TO BE HERE BY 8 AM.

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.

BUT DAMN I WISH PEOPLE ACTUALLY DELIVERED HERE.

AND NO, DOMINOE'S PIZZA DOES *NOT* COUNT

PARDON MY VOMIT

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

COME ON

Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes??

And on the MSN.com website????

Cut me some SLACK here fellas.

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

NAS. TAY.

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.

UNTIL TODAY.

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?

Fucker.

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.

Snoopy

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. )

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?"

"Nothing."

"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.

Pups

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.

Hmnh.

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.

BUT I ATE THAT CHOCOLATE CAKE LIKE CHOCOLATE CAKE HAS NEVER BEEN EATEN BEFORE.

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