Bette Midler (sp?) Would be So Proud.

This company is notorious for it’s gossip mongering, just like any company where the employees have to sit in cubicles and pretend to be interested when really they're slowly bleeding out from intestinal ulcers.

Earlier this week I finally lost my patience with one of our more annoying employees. He mistakenly assumes that not only do we want to hear him talk to customers on the phone at decibel fucking five hundred, but he wants to stand up and do it as well. Because it’s not annoying enough to HEAR him, he wants us to SEE him as well. He’s also a big fan of sports, spouting off scores and personal opinions about everything from baseball to hockey to professional ping pong.

I imagine that he goes home to his internet dating website and scours the scads of females for his next victim.

Oh, and his voice is so high I doubt his nuts have dropped.

So Monday night he was, as usual, standing up at his desk and volunteering the information that he didn’t think people should be allowed to vote if they commit a felony. REALLY? THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK? WOW, TELL US MORE ABOUT HOW YOU SKIPPED THAT DAY IN CIVICS CLASS. He also made sure to tell us that he thought people convicted of a felony should be beaten with golf clubs.

And on Monday night I’d had it. I’d had the strangest set of seven days ever in my life history. I’d gotten a promotion- HIGH! Some motherfucker gouged my bumper- LOW! It’s going to cost 500 dollars- VERY LOW! Oh wait, it’s a non-moving hit and run, you’re deductible is only 200 dollars for that one- HIGH! Your brother is missing- LOW! He may be dead- UNBELIEVABLE LOW! Wait, he’s alive- HIGH! He’s been in jail- LOW! Brother hung up on you because of an incurable amount of stupidity- VERY LOW!

So really, my outburst was justified.

I slammed my hand on my desk, pointed my finger in witch-like fashion and told him to SIT DOWN AND SHUT THE FUCK UP. Then I turned around to my computer screen to continue my phone call. With a customer that I had placed on hold, obviously.

So far I’ve been congratulated by no less than seven people. I also received the following exchange of emails that I thought I’d share:

J: Word on the street is that you put the smack down on Monday. Is this true?

Robin: Holy crap. Word travels fast around here. Uh, yeah so apparently I lost all good sense and told Chatty-Pants over here to sit down and shut the f* up. Good times.

J: I CAN’T BELIEVE I MISSED IT!!!

Robin: He was standing up, per usual, ranting about something involving beating people with golf clubs and why felons shouldn’t vote… and I just couldn’t take it.

J: Did you ever know, that you’re my hero?

Robin: And you’re the wind beneath my wings.

He Makes Me Tired

As it turns out, my dearest brother had quite the little adventure. 

After a night of heavy drinking he hailed a cab (one of the total FIVE cabs that reside in that mid-size Texan town) back to the hotel where he planned on crashing for the night.  The hotel is owned by the family of one of his drinking buddies, a boy who once dated a close friend of mine in high school.  They broke up fairly quickly but in the circle of life that is small town America, he became friends with my younger brother a few years later.  I hold no ill will against him.  He’s just a regular guy whose maturity I question at times.  Though I will maintain that when life and the material objects it can hold are bestowed upon you, daily and with much pomp and circumstance, it changes your perception of responsibility.

Translation: His daddy’s got money.     

So Matthew takes his cab, crammed full of his equally drunk friends, back to the hotel.  He walks in the room and falls asleep on the bed. 

HERE’S WERE THE STORY GETS FESTIVE SO PAY ATTENTION.

The first time we heard Matthew’s version of events, he claimed he’d not been drinking that heavily and had stopped by midnight.  At 4:30am he decided to head over to his friend Robert’s house and on the way came across a kamikaze giant black dog who decided to run across the highway, directly in front of his car. 

Personally, I called Bullshit as soon as Dad related that version. 

The second version, and one more likely to have happened because IT’S HAPPENED BEFORE, is that Matthew collapsed on the hotel bed only to wake up in a ditch some time later.  Meaning he blacked out but was still physically able to function.  And got in a car.  And drove it.  Straight into a godamn ditch.

I HOPE YOU’RE STILL PAYING ATTENTION BECAUSE THIS SHIT GETS EVEN BETTER.

So after waking up nose first in a ditch (the car, not his actual person) he decides the following:

1)       He will ignore his cell phone sitting on the passenger seat beside him and not make any calls to any one single person that might possibly be able to remove his ignorant ass from the ditch.

2)       He leaves his guitar, DVD player and stereo on the back seat.

3)       He ignores the seven dollars in quarters resting in his console.  Because that would mean one could use a pay phone later.  But that takes effort.

4)       He exits the vehicle, leaving it unlocked. 

5)       Then, ignoring the open and well-lit gas station a quarter of a mile away, proceeds to jog, yes, JOG, down a deserted highway at 4:30am. 

 

You can only imagine the kind of forethought that had to go into this little escapade.

Matthew gets roughly two miles (TWO MILES!) down the road.  His destination was my parent’s house, roughly eight miles (EIGHT MILES!) away.  About that time, the county popo notices a scraggly white boy running down the side of the road.  Obviously curious as to why ANYONE, much less a booted and scraggly ass white boy, would be running sans running clothes and oh, in the wee small hours of the morning, he turns on his pretty flashy blue lights and comes to a stop in front of him.

One sobriety test later and Matthew is firmly placed on the side of the vehicle partition that you really don’t want to be on.  The side without door locks and window controls. 

Bummer, huh?

He’s placed in a cell.  A cell in the jail. 

DO YOU LIKE JAIL?  DID YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME?

Asshole.

At 2pm he’s allowed to make a phone call.  And of course he calls his buddy, the one with the hotel in his pocket. But all to no avail. 

Voicemail’s a bitch, ain’t it.

At 5:30pm his buddy shows up.  Matthew is released.  But does his father get a phone call? His sister? His mother? Nope.  They drive across town to see about the car, left in the ditch.  BUT LO AND BEHOLD his shit is gone.  They call the police, thinking it’s been stolen or towed away, not yet aware that my father picked it up at 7:30am.  The police have nothing on their impound lots but take his information.  He then goes back to the hotel.  Showers.  Changes clothes.  Probably scratches his ass once or twice. 

THEN HE CALLS.  THEN.  NOT BEFORE.    THEN.

*************************************************

 

So I find out my brother is alive.  Good deal.  I’m ready for him to head back to Little Rock so I can break his fucking knees. 

I get a phone call on Sunday evening, it’s Matthew.  Mid-way through the conversation he makes a joke about jail, telling me how much it sucked.  I inform him I have not one ounce of sympathy and that I’d have left his ass in there.  He immediately gets defensive, telling me he did everything right, he took a cab, he didn’t drive, it wasn’t HIS fault, he had NO INTENTION of getting in his car and putting it in a ditch.  HE DID EVERYTHING RIGHT AND HE DOESN’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO ME BITCH. *click

 

Yep. I got hung up on.  Because it’s not his fault, is it?

Spin

They always say when you lose someone you’ll feel it.  That the connection of blood-bound souls disintegrates into the ether, leaving you with a strange sense of loss, even when you know of nothing wrong. 

This is what They say. 

I’m not sure how much of it I believe, how much of anything I believe.  All I can tell you is how much it can hurt, how much it can feel like your insides are stuck on the spin cycle, how you heart beats so fast you think it may rise through your throat and land on the table.  Every façade we hold together, keeping the world at bay, crumbles and lands beneath your toes.  You hold the phone in your clutches, glancing at the screen, thinking you’ve missed the ring tone, anticipating The Phone Call, dreading it, thinking that this time it’s it.  They’ve found him.  He’s gone. 

You’re afraid to ask for help, afraid that it means it’s real.  Asking for help in the form of someone, anyone to hold you up, knowing they can’t fix it, knowing they can’t make it better or hurt less, but secure in the knowledge that they’ll hold you so close and you can bury your head in the curve of their neck, needing that second of protection, whispering “Where is he?”

****************************************************

 

My father awoke to a phone call from the police department, asking if he was the owner of a white sedan, confirming the license plate, advising it was found unoccupied in a ditch on a highway outside of town. 

My father’s response:  “My son drives that car.”

Repeated attempts to reach my brother’s cell phone, repeated voicemails growing steadily angrier. 

My father picked up the car, still drivable but lodged in the red clay mud found across Texas.  He pulled the car out of the ditch and drove it home. 

Three hours later my phone rings, my father asking, calmly at first, if I know where Matthew is. 

“He’s down there with you guys.”  A pause.  “Isn’t he?”

I hear the story about the car.  The airbags didn’t deploy.  There’s no blood in on the seats.  But it was unlocked, his DVD player, stereo and prized guitar sitting in the back seat. 

We rant and rave.  About how stupid he is, how he’s let his drinking get out of control.  He can’t just have one, we say, in total agreement.  Something is wrong. 

An hour later my father gets in his truck and drives around town, looking for signs of Matthew or his friends.  The parking lot of Fat Jack’s- empty.  His friend Robert’s house- deserted. This is all our combined knowledge allows us to check. 

I call information, looking for the parents of the kids I know he’s with.  I say kids, but I mean men.  They are 23 years old.  A group of boys teetering on the brink of adulthood, unwilling to cross over.  I make dozens of phone calls; in a Texas town of 80,000 thousand people there are a lot of last names to check.  Hoping someone will answer, be willing to track down their son, give out his cell number, something, anything. 

Hours pass.  When I run out of names I call my father.  Still nothing. 

My insides begin to ache.  The tears fall down.  I’m no longer just mad, I’m mad and worried.  Sick with the thoughts of What If, knowing he’s been gone too long.  There’s no explanation, reasonable or not. 

Another hour.  Two.  It’s dark outside.  I’ve turned off the lights because the thought of brightness hurts in that space behind my eyes, making me cradle my head in my hands as I shed what I feel is like the billionth tear.  I haven’t cried this much, this long, I think, ever.  I’m tired, exhausted with worry and grief, preparing for The Phone Call.  He’ll never grow up, I think.  He’ll never find his way.  Selfishly, I think I can’t make that Phone Call to my mother, working in West Texas for the week.  She doesn’t deserve this.  I can’t handle this. 

Brittany and Baker show up, banging on the front door.  Brittany throws her body against mine as soon as she’s inside the door.  She’s the first person I’ve touched in days, that moment being the first time I realized how much I need it.  I bury my face in her neck because I can’t think, my arms are too heavy, this weight too much.   

“Where is he?”

“Baby, I don’t know.”

I call my father again; he pulls out the yearbook, goes through every name.  Hoping something rings a bell, gives us another last name to look up.  We call more numbers in the vain hope someone knows something.  Something that will make this better.

We talk through the names we know, the places we know he frequents, hoping that we’ll trigger a memory, a name.  His ex-girlfriend.  Dad can find her parents house, he thinks.  We can get her number in Dallas from them, get numbers for all of his friends from her.  We have a plan.  Something to do. 

Fifteen minutes later my phone rings again.  It hasn’t been long enough for him to get across town.  This is it, I can tell.  It’s over.  I lean against my bed in the back of my apartment, my legs unable to carry my full weight. 

“They found him.”

I can’t breathe, I try to ask questions but my throat closes up.

My father takes a deep breath and slowly lets it out. 

 

“He’s in jail.”    

People Breed And Don't Ask Me For Permission

There’s this weird fried thing they serve in the company cafeteria on Fridays.  It goes by the name of Chicken Cordon Bleu but LET ME ASSURE YOU it’s like no other Chicken Cordon Bleu you have ever seen. 

For starters, it’s just a puffy fried rectangle the color off-season oranges.  Inside is a strange collection of processed chicken, a very pink slice of ham and lots of oozing strange velveeta-esque white cheese.  Typically, I like neither processed chicken, ham of any kind (pink or not) or velveeta.  Unless that velveeta comes in the form of rotel dip AND THEN GAME ON, BITCH.  So basically what I’m telling you is that every single ingredient involved in the cafeteria’s Chicken Cordon Bleu is, generally speaking, quite repugnant. 

But when combined and fried to golden crispy perfection it is the tastiest confection this side of the Mississippi river.  I allow myself only one of these a month because even though I’ve never seen the box these things inevitably come in and can’t truly state the amount of artery clogging fat or ass popping calories involved in one of these little suckers, I can confidently state that after years of Nutrition Facts readings that the count is probably pretty fucking high.  And I rationalize that I don’t eat corndogs or hotdogs or anything ending in ‘dog’ and therefore I’m entitled to a super-processed snack now and again. 

Today I decided I was definitely due a treat, seeing as how I’d snagged a promotion with a 30% increase in pay and because some ball-less twat rear-ended my car outside my apartment building, leaving me to discover their crime bright and early the next morning, something I will discuss later.  Possibly from jail.  Because I figure that since my bumper is getting fixed on Monday, that gives me two days to find out who did it and ram the ever loving SHIT out of their vehicle.  I have a sneaky suspicion about who the culprit is and I think they’re about to be missing a front bumper come Sunday morning.  But I digress.

I deserved a treat, dammit.

So I purchased my fried perfection of processed-ness and happily meandered over to an empty lunchroom booth by the window.  Behind me were three women steadily eating their lunches of tuna salad, tuna salad and oh, tuna salad.  OH THE SMELL. 

In these types of situations you’re hard pressed not to overhear at least snippets of other people’s conversations.  I mean, come on.  You’re roughly 8 inches from another person’s head and we’re just supposed to politely pretend that WE CAN’T HEAR THEM?     

“Did you know Arthur’s eye just swoll right up?”

“Really? It just swoll up?”

“Yep. The doctor said it might be infected and to come back Monday if it was still swoll shut and they’d do an x-ray.”

“Hells no.  If that was me Idda told him to do the x-ray right fucking then.  I ain’t walking round nowhere with my eye swoll shut up like that.  And you mean it was completely swoll shut?”

“Yep.  Just swoll right up.”

“Did you get my email the other day about that girl that had an infected eye?”

“The one that had the bug crawl in it.”

“Yep, that’s the one.”

“Naw girl, it wasn’t no bug.”

“Yes it was, I was the one that sent it.”

“It wasn’t no bug, gurl, it was a maggot.”

“A maggot?!”

“Yep. A maggot.  Just crawled right in while she was sleeping and got her eye all infected and it swoll right up.  They had to dig around in thar to get it out.  It was having them little baby maggots under her eyelid.”

“A maggot?!”

“And they almost didn’t get all of ‘em because you know them baby maggots are so tiny and all.”

 

By the last sentence I’d had enough.  I packed up my half-eaten Chicken Cordon Bleu, stood up, thanked the ladies for their delicious lunchtime stories and headed back up to my desk, my much anticipated Chicken Cordon Bleu resting at the bottom of the lunchroom trashcan. 

 

 

Red Sky At Night, Sailors Delight

Yesterday morning I woke up to the sun shining around the edges of my brown curtains.  The little cat, Lilly, was sleeping in a tightly curled ball tucked against my ankle.  The fat one, Llama, was perched regally on the windowsill, his nose peaking out from behind the curtains as soon as I showed the first signs of consciousness.  Nothing about the morning was any different from any other morning that I’ve opened my eyes to but I can tell you, I can promise you, that something was different.  Whatever that extra sense may be, however it manifests itself inside your particular existence, I knew this day was different.

I’d felt the beginnings of a Tingle the afternoon before- but I’d been unable to place it.  If I’m honest, I knew what it was but I was too timid to commit myself into believing such a shift of power could have occurred.  But by yesterday morning it had grown stronger, persistent in it’s attempt to force my acknowledgement. 

But I waited. 

I showered and dressed, pulling my wet hair into a pony tail.  I was anxious.  Anxious and almost dreading the confirmation of what I was feeling. 

So I drove to work. 

The closer I got, the stronger the feeling.

The elevator was crowded, the collection of colognes and perfumes almost visibly hovering in the air above me.  Through the door, across the floor, shoes softly landing on the carpeting.  The phone at my desk, red light glowing steadily from the bottom right hand corner. 

My hand was light, not heavy, not like you’d think it would be.  It felt like I was trying to manipulate cotton candy into a semblance of dexterity. 

And in thirty seconds my life changed, presenting me with a choice that impacts me far greater than most will realize.  It’s a promotion, some will say.  Better pay.  Much better pay.  Better hours.  More responsibility.  An actual career path. 

But until that moment when I picked up the phone, that particular path wasn’t even an option for me.  Until that moment I had only one option- now I’ve been presented with two. 

I can stay here, cash a bigger paycheck and work on meaningful projects.

I can leave here, cash a loan check and learn the ins and outs of a new career. 

I know which one is better.  I know which one I’ll choose.  Sometimes those aren’t the same. 

But if you’re lucky, they are.    

The Few Readers I Have Left Will Now Abandon Me

There is something so disgusting, so foul SO UTTERLY DISTURBING on my person that I almost contemplated not sharing it. But I share everything else, to the point that it makes me uncomfortable. With the exception of the truly introspective pieces that I leave to Brittany-- her sweetness and affirmativeness and introspectiveness is stomachable and lovable because I know her and love her but rest assured if I didn’t know her I’d think those musings unbearably sappy and I’d want to send that person an internet smackupsidethehead so they could shutthehellup about it already. Lovey-ness has always made me uncomfortable and it is only tolerated in the ones that I love because I know I need that perspective to give depth to my callous ways. And yet STILL I share vastly inappropriate pieces of information. And share. And share. Perhaps I have displaced my dependency on the nicotine with the dependency on the internet sharing. Hoping that someday, someone, somewhere will start a world-wide coalition to ban me from all societies of internet bloggers because I JUST SHARE TOO GODAMN MUCH.

It started with a wee bump on the side of my moderately delicate second toe, the one that is longer than my Big Toe. I add this in because I hear it indicates riches and whatnot and if for some reason I was supposed to be on the Second Toe Is Longer Than Big Toe list and was, in fact, accidentally left off, then I can certainly do my absolute best to notify The Powers That Be of their oversight.

The wee little bump was beside the nail, a minor mystery in my world, one that necessitated an action of absolutely nothing because LET’S BE HONEST it was just a wee little bump.

But then the wee little bump became two, then three little bumps. And they kind of banded together to show a united front blossoming out from the side of my toe, nestling alongside my to-the-quick short nail. At this point I pointed it out to my doctor during one of my visits back when I sick for about 17 weeks in a row. His response?

“Looks like athlete’s foot bumps.”

He recommended getting an athlete foot spray- even after I informed him that I’d HAD athlete’s foot in the past (oh yes, let you’re gagging begin- but it was back in the day of four hour dance rehearsals and mass changing rooms so IT WAS SO NOT MY FAULT) and whatever this was, these little obnoxious bumps growing slowly and steadily, were definitely not a side-effect of athlete’s foot.

So I went home and did nothing.

Naturally.

About a month later I noticed four more wee bumps on the pad of my toe, these being separate from the mother ship and obviously making a go of it on their own. I’m happy to report that the little offshoots must have found conditions to their liking because though they didn’t sprout off any more wee little bumps, they CERTAINLY GREW IN SIZE to the tune of me being quite concerned about the utter scariness happening on this one square centimeter of my body.

So I decided to be proactive and telephoned my mother, the one who so blithely informed me last year that my super delicate pinkie toe pain was due to inappropriate shoes and a disposition to the cringe inducing word of CORNS. So obviously her weird foot thing knowledge was going to be vast.

Her Words of Wisdom indicated that I may have something more revolting than CORNS.

WARTS.

OH MY GOD JUST TYPING THAT WORD OUT MAKES THE BILE RISE IN THE BACK OF MY THROAT AND PLAY TAG WITH MY TONSILS.

So I dutifully schlepped to the nearest Kroger to buy some *gag* wart remover. I settled on the kind that comes in liquid form that you paint on twice a day. Because I wasn’t paying $25 for the freeze off thingamabob and I knew the chances of those little bandaid things staying on were, um, NONE. So paint-on remover it was.

The first couple of days nothing much happened. I followed the instructions to wash and dry my feet before applying the mixture twice daily. I waited until it formed a weird shell-like coating on my toe before putting my socks on. I did this for a week and a half* before I noticed on Saturday that something sinister was definitely afoot.

*The box said to apply for up to twelve weeks and hopefully after reading the next few paragraphs you’ll understand why I find that UTTERLY FRIGHTENING.

My Saturday was spent out at the 4-H center working for the nursery I normally work for on Sundays. Some kind of Holy Spirit Lord of the Rings and All Else That Is Holy Retreat Weekend. Not that I’m being sarcastic, I really do think it’s great that people are religious. I’m only being wanky because I had to take care of their kids from 9am-5pm in a wide open room with a non-working TV, three basketballs and a puzzle. Trust me when I tell you that this DOES NOT entertain seventeen kids between the ages of 7months to 15years AT ALL.

After coming home I took off my shoes to, well, be at home. I don’t wear shoes in the house. Not out of some idea that my house must remain clean, more because I don’t like shoes and I know who’s stepped on my floor. So I sat on my bed and tucked my feet under my knees to converse with the kittycats because Mommy had had a long day and wanted to curl up and look at cute furry faces and wet noses. But when I moved my feet over the sheets, something felt notquiteright. Something was catching on the sheets. And it was bordering on being OH SO uncomfortable.

Upon further inspection I found that the offending object that was catching on my sheets was MY TOE. Specifically, THE SKIN ON MY TOE.

The skin had actually started to SLOUGH OFF where I’d placed that day’s application of *gag* wart remover liquid.

I sat on my bed, toe in lap, fixated with what was happening to my now VERY DELICATE second toe. The skin OH THE SKIN was COMING OFF and WHAT WAS I TO DO.

Well, pull it off, of course. Can’t have that shit just hanging about like that.

So I removed it.

And I almost threw up in the process from both the pain and the sheer disgusting-ness of it.

And then I stared at it in total fixation. Who knew that’s what your foot looks like under the skin?

And then I almost threw up again.

And then I had to go to work Sunday morning in flip flops, raggedy toe hanging out covered in faux Neosporin.

And then the girls in the nursery made gagging noises until one of them had the presence of mind to bring out the first aid kit and force a handful of bandaids in my direction.

And then every single 2-year-old wanted to play with my boo-boo toe, which prompted me to hide it from the vicious mongrels by sitting in the corner cradling my foot in lap.

Just like the chickens, I DO NOT JUDGE YOU FOR NEVER RETURNING TO VISIT ME AGAIN.

A Gold Star For Anarchy

Today I have had three cans of Diet Dr. Pepper, four cups of coffee, a Michelina’s Lean Gourmet (shrimp with angel hair pasta) and a small bag of Munchies- Cheddar! mix.

So it should come as no great to surprise to you that I can’t focus on any one thing for longer than .486 seconds, seeing as how my liquid caffeine consumption has OUTWEIGHED my food consumption in mass and volume.

It’s a bit like being drunk, only the really bad drunk when you can’t focus and you really really want to focus and you already have the beginnings of your hangover headache and for the life of your pet cats you just CAN’T FIGURE OUT why you want to curl up in a dusty, unused corner and sleep it off.  Onlookers be damned.   

This is how I feel today.  After my excessive caffeine ingestion.  I also want a cookie.  Or maybe a piece of chocolate cake.  The good kind with the buttercream frosting made by a fat lady who fucking knows what buttercream is made out of – BUTTER AND FUCKING CREAM.  It is not made with splenda and it sure as hell doesn’t get apple sauce as a substitute for oil or faux milk carton eggs as a substitute for eggs that got pushed out of a chicken’s pooper hole.  Not that I’m sure eggs come out of the pooper hole.  But it must be in the nearby vicinity.  Perhaps I should beef up on my chicken anatomy.  Do they have two excrement holes? One for the poop and one for the pee? One that accepts that gentle prodding protuberance from the rooster cat?  Surely not.  Chickens seem like such efficient little animals.  Even if they regularly walk around in their own poo and eat their young.  But maybe that’s turtles or something that eat their young.  I know if my young came in a hard shell format and I had to sit on those fuckers for days, weeks, months on end I’d probably eat one, too. 

I don’t judge the chickens. 

I have to pee for like the eightieth time today.  I should not have had that last can.  It’s just that I was bored and I still had a bunch of ice left in my cup.  It’s the finisher complex.  I can’t buy packs of gum because I will eat them all in one sitting.  Not all at once like a hamster, but sometimes two to three pieces.  I chew until the flavor goes away and then I replace it with a fresh and tasty piece.  AND GOD HELP ALL CREATURES if I buy Tic Tacs.  Gone in fifteen minutes, tops.  I have to finish them.  I have to complete the project of breath freshening. 

GOOD GOD MY BLADDER MAY EXPLODE.

But I just went like 15 minutes ago so I’m waiting for the rest to process so I don’t have to get up in another fifteen minutes because I’m lazy and I think I have an old lady corn on my delicate pinkie toe and it hurts when air touches it. 

Oh, and that cute little Sasha girl at the Olympics got a silver- god job little Sasha girl! You beat out that evil Russian named something like Slutsville (so yeah, I’m like the bazillionth person to make fun of her name BUT I HAD MANY PEOPLE MAKE FUN OF MY NAME when I was growing up so she should take it like a man.  How’s the Bat Cave, Robin? How’s your nest of eggs, Robin? Are you rockin, Robin? SHUT UP. It’s not original, loser. And neither am I by giving Irina a dirty last name but IT’S JUST SO DAMN EASY holy crap my bladder I may die). So yeah she’s Russian and it’s still the Cold War and wah wah wah.  But God Bless Their Vodka.

Today Is Like A Urinary Tract Infection

I am, for all intensive purposes, a giant blathering pussy.

Which is better than a crusty wank but worse than an ill-fitting asshat.

A phone call this afternoon from The Big Boss confirmed my suspicions that the world at large does in fact know that I FUCKING HATE MY JOB AS AN ASSWIPING SPECIALIST.

But instead of being a self righteous gonad or even the aforementioned crusty wank he was nice.

Just. Plain. Nice.

GAH.

Now I have to be mature and shit. Suck up my bad attitude. Plaster the smile back on. ALL BECAUSE HE WAS FUCKING NICE.

Dammit.

These Are The Days Of Our Lives And I Bet Marlana Got Brainwashed Again

Today I have received no less than five comments regarding the fact that I am inappropriately garbed for the apparently vicious weather raging outside.   All comments stemming from the fact that I wasn’t wearing a coat and for that matter, have worn a coat only once this year. 

 

To which I say – ARE YOU MY MOTHER? NO? SHUT THE FUCK UP.

 

I like wearing neither shoes nor coats, the latter being bulky and cumbersome and an article of clothing that WILL make you look like a bloated version of that marshmallow thing from Ghostbusters.  However, most places of business have that pesky rule about No Shoes No Shirt No Service so shoes are a necessity even though you’re guaranteed to get a blister or corn or weird foot smell from what will inevitably be the prettiest pair in your closet.  But there are no such rules regarding coat usage so I say to you again, the person(s) who make it a point in their Very Busy Day to point out my non-coat-ness:

 

ARE YOU MY MOTHER? NO? SHUT THE FUCK UP.

 

Besides, it’s not even that cold outside.  When the temperature hovers at 38-39 for a daily high, it does not give you license to refer to it as ‘bone cold.’ That temperature is regarded as Chilly But Definitely Bearable.  You want to talk about bone cold go build yourself and igloo in whatever that territory is in northern Canada.  Or try and excavate some of that tar sand crap and extract the oil out of it using the heat from your very own breath.  Then we’ll talk about fucking bone deep cold BUT UNTIL THEN you may cease talking.

 

And I’ve totally just had a douchebag moment because I can’t for the life of me remember what they call their little sectioned off areas.  Alberta? Check. Quebec? Check. Is it a state? A territory? A province? It’s like the banality of my job has sucked dry the once bountiful store of useless knowledge buried within the confines of my head, eh?

 

PRETEND THERE IS A TRANSITION HERE

 

So I’m quite looking forward to the evening I have planned with myself.  First on the list is a bottle of orange juice so that I may mix the gallon and half of vodka that’s been chilling in my freezer for countless months.  Not the whole gallon and a half.  Probably just like a cup.  But I’m excited about getting to open up the new kind I bought with the purple label because I am total suckered in by things that are new! and have snazzy labels.  YOUR MARKETING STRATEGY HAS WORKED, MY FRIEND.

 

Though I kind of take that back.  If the marketing strategy had worked I’d remember the NAME of the vodka and not the color of the label. 

 

Upon further review I retract my kudos given to the marketing team of the vodka bottle residing in my freezer with the purple label. 

 

Along with the vodka drinking I’m going to be celebrating the release of season one of Grey’s Anatomy on DVD.  Last night I called the video store on my way home and made sure they had a copy before I got out of my car in the rain.  They did and I was very happy and I didn’t mind getting out in the rain so much.  Light at the end of the tunnel and all that shit.  Bleh bleh bleh.  

 

ANOTHER TRANSITION GOES HERE

 

Today on my lunchbreak I was surrounded by idiots who personalized their license plates to the tune of the following:

 

The tan Yukon with the plate: NPULSV

*soooo are you advertising your impulsive nature in regards to jumping in the sack with random males? The fact that you run up charges on your credit card due to impulse buys of a Gucci nature? What? BE MORE SPECIFIC.  Because left to my own devices I will just mock you incessantly.

 

The gold Buick with the plate: RPM 70

*seriously? This is what you want to put on your BUICK? Are you referring to the rotations per minute completed by your tires because in THAT CASE I would agree with you.  Your tires probably complete a full circle seventy times a minutes, making your approximate fucking speed somewhere around 2.4 MPH.  Thanks, Grandma

 

The white Corolla in the Target parking lot with the plate: CAT TALK

* yes. This is egg-zactly what you want to advertise TO THE WORLD on the back of your car.  I couldn’t have guessed how deep the river of your cat-love ran because I totally didn’t see those I LOVE MY CAT and I’M PROUD TO BE OWNED BY MY CAT stickers on your back window.  I bet you get laid all the time.

The Nexium Isn't Working Yet, So I Can Effectively Blame All Hate Crimes On My Stomach Pain

 

1. Banana clips are not making a comeback.  Sorry.
2. Do not ask questions during a meeting FOR THE SOLE PURPOSE OF ASKING A QUESTION. It wastes seconds of my life and please, when I cut you off every time you open your vast oral cavity which emits a carrion-screeching-bird-like voice LEARN FROM YOUR MISTAKES.  I will continue to cut you off and stare you down UNTIL YOU LEARN.
3.  If you’re too vapid to remember what happened in LAST WEEK’S meeting, then SHUT YOUR TRAP and keep your talking hands TO YOURSELF.
4. Do not rehash what I, or anyone else, just said.  Everyone else understood it.  SHUT. UP.
5. We sit in chairs that come attached with their VERY OWN armrests.  Do not lean sideways and REST ON MINE. 
6. We gave you the least important, least involved and least annoying (or so we thought) position in the presentation.  DO NOT pretend like it’s the most crucial portion.  DO NOT ask us to review your notes for the bazillionth time. DO NOT. DO NOT. DO NOT.

 

On a slightly different but always related note, I still hate my job. 

My stomach is still tearing through what little gastric lining is left and preparing to munch on my colon because I’m still at a loss of how I’m going to accomplish quitting my job, going to summer school sans reliable income and healthcare and hoping like a fat kid hopes his momma baked him some cookies for an after school snack that I get in to the program come August.

 

Also, some under-educated overall-wearing buddha-belly sporting ASS SECRETION decided to chainsaw something very important from 6:50am until 7:45am, when I finally gave up the ruse of sleeping and made some coffee.

 

Now, sometimes things just need chainsawing. 

 

Offending trees.

Winter firewood.

Hanging branches.

Live power lines.

Small woodland creatures.

 

BUT TO DO SO in what is effectively the WEE HOURS OF MORNING is just uncalled for.

 

Also, you need a bigger overall size.  Your hip fat was hanging out you ball-less twat.

 

 

SWF seeks a work environment where The Phone is not surgically implanted in my skull.

I need some suggestions.

As previously stated, there's a strong chance I won't get in to radiology school because of those pesky prerequisites.

I'm in a weird work position- my company was dissolved, leaving me in a transitionary stage with another company that took over the responsibility of it's employees. And yes, I'm tempting the hands of fate with this post because I don't necessarily want to get dooced but I can't say I'd just shed a whole bucket of tears if they fired me because of my website. I'd make a button and wear it everyday so people could know how dagnabit cool I am.

Aforementioned transition is how I became an Ass Wiping Specialist.

Which is why I stand at the coffee pot and absorb the blessed silence, away from the idiots of the world who INCESSANTLY CALL MY PHONE.

I turned down two job offers because I was OBVIOUSLY HIT IN THE HEAD WITH A BLUNT OBJECT and thought it would be good and trustworthy and loyal and shit of me to stick out the transition.

Oh, how I was mistaken.

So now, here are my skills:

Writing - I love it, just not sure if I want to make a career in it again. I used to work for local new stations and write newscasts. Fun times- just lots of death and destruction.

Post-production - I can budget and post produce a mean Volvo radio spot. With Benjamin Bratt*, no less.

*I rode the elevator with him when he came to do his voiceover in New York. I almost fainted he was so yummily scented and delicious looking. He asked me how I was doing. I grunted. Obviously I lost about a bazillion cool points for that episode of COMPLETE UNCOOLNESS.

Automotive dealership - I can smile at customers, tell them about throttle bodies and oxygen sensors and file a warranty claim.

Automotive finance - I can approve a contract, check for errors, chit chat with dealers and be generally unobtrusive.

I can make simple power point presentations.

I can work alone and without the micromanaging interference of superior monkeys.

I can work in conjunction with the micromanaging interference of superior monkeys.

I can make simple non-linear edits on FinalCutPro and AVID.

I can bullshit people into thinking I'm smarter than I really am.

I fail to color coordinate my shoes. <-- not necessarily a skill, but it definitely livens up office decor.

I like puppies but not dogs, stacks of post it notes and long walks on the beach with my laptop.

HELP. ME.

I'm willing to go back to school- but not for a masters in rhetoric and writing which sounds like oodles of fun but guarantees NADA in the job department. I'd just be 40 grand in debt working a less-than-30k-a-year job with a really snazzy degree.

HELP. ME.

I am SO having a mid-twenties life crisis.

What's really funny is that I totally just burped on the phone while leaving a message for a customer.

Ayudame, por favor.

Yesterday I used the day I had taken off work to get one of those nifty tube cameras shoved down my throat while heavily sedated (thank you Mr. Valium and Mrs. Demerol) to attend my advising session for the school I want to attend in the fall. According to the ever-so-knowledgeable nurses I would be coherent and talking within an hour of the surgery, giving me plenty of time to be driven home, dress to impress, and be driven to my advising session.

The driving portion was accomplished by none other that my mother, who decided that having a camera shoved down one's throat was a terribly risky procedure and getting a little prick on my arm with a needle full of sedatives was just too dangerous to fathom. Which meant she immediately "volunteered" herself to drive up from Texas to sit in a freezing cold waiting room for close to three hours.

Because a high tolerance for sedatives runs in the family (thanks, Dad) I was extremely conscious for the procedure and was none too pleased with having a plastic coated camera shoved over my tongue and down into my gastro cavity. The nurses were astounded when I immediately started talking as soon as the gag-inducing device was removed- and talking IN COMPLETE WHOLE SENTENCES, MAKING COMPLETE WHOLE SENSE-- and promptly wheeled me into the recovery room where they ordered me to lay down for 45 minutes for "observation."

After about 15 minutes and after I'd asked for something to drink about a half dozen times, they finally acquiesced and provided me with a cup of lukewarm apple juice. Which was delicious seeing as I hadn't ingested sustenance in liquid or solid form since 7pm the night before.

Five minutes later, after a conference behind a curtain (I COULD STILL HEAR YOU, IDIOTS) they agreed to let me go early, seeing as how my vital signs were stellar and my ability to walk, talk and be a crankypants bitch had been proven many times over.

So my mother dutifully signed me out of the clinic and immediately drove me through Wendy's where I inhaled a spicy chicken sandwich, lettuce only, in about 2.5 seconds. And then gulped down a 20oz Aquafina in half that.

After my stomach had been righted to the proper balance of Full, I smoothed out my hair as best as possible, put on some makeup and hopped back in the car to be chauffeured to my advising session. (Pesky nurse rules. If my mother hadn't overheard them telling me not to drive all day I could totally have convinced her it was totally okay for me to drive.)

I walked into the room 15 minutes early, sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs and began to review the handy dandy little packet someone had so conveniently left for us hopeful students to review.

Then we watched a 30 minutes film.

THEN we had a speaker who informed us of the following:

Over 200 people have applied for this program.
Only 22 will be accepted.
Yes, only TWENTY TWO PEOPLE OUT OF TWO HUNDRED.
*suddenly I was unable to breathe

We were called, one by one, into our personal advising sessions where I was informed of the following:

My college algebra is over 7 years old, I have to retake it
I need not only Anatomy and Physiology with a lab, I need Anatomy and Physiology ONE AND TWO with labs.
I have no proof that I took a computer course in college (my degree being so advanced in the use of computers, no beginning class was required. THIS IS WHY IT SAYS MY MAJOR WAS TELECOMMUNICATIONS- did you think I graduated unable to use a COMPUTER??) So guess what else I need to take?
That's right- A BEGINNING COMPUTER LITERACY COURSE.

Oh, and I was INFORMED that though my transfer GPA was stellar, because I have four, count them FOUR classes I need before I can start in August, it is unlikely I'll get accepted. I may, MAY, get a provisional acceptance. Or I may get alternate status.

So here's the thing: I don't mind taking these extra classes. I'll smile when I give my two weeks to attend Summer 1 and Summer 2. I WILL SMILE, I TELL YOU. But to say I may not be accepted?? That my chances are so slim??

I THINK MY HEART ACTUALLY STOPPED BEATING FOR AN ENTIRE MINUTE.

I can't do this. I can't be in this job, work in this company, smile at these idiots. I can't do it. The only thing that keeps me sane is the fact that I'M LEAVING. I have to. I have no choice. Staying here, in this job, with these people IS NOT AN OPTION.

It's just NOT.

Every time I get up for coffee I pray that the pot will be empty.

Giving me reason to stand, silently and without need for conversation, for three and a half minutes.

Midol Ain't Got Nothing On This

Turns out Matteo was less inclined to turn down free punani than I thought, no matter how much he may have wanted to defend my honor.

After a tearful two-hour long phone conversation- Matteo, apologizing for being such a blatant heterosexual and me, accusing him of being a disloyal and opportunistic legless amphibian- I hung up the phone with a two ton brick residing in my lower intestinal track.

Not only had The Notsoex NOT learned her lesson, Justin Bloober never displayed any outward signs of jealousy AND MY BESTEST FRIEND NUZZLED WITH THAT HEINOUS COW OF A GIRL.

And so I went to college that next year. Where I learned all about karma.

AND SUDDENLY ALL BECAME CLEAR.

Fucking life lessons.

Hot Shots, Part Deux (featuring a post-Heidi but pre-Denise Charlie Sheen)

Personally, I love learning valuable life lessons.

Though, if I'm honest, I'll admit to you that at THE TIME of the aforementioned incident I was not aware that a life lesson was, in fact, being learned. I was merely overcome with the kind of blinding anger that makes you think (if you're female) that maybe that Bobbit guy really did have it coming.

Because hacking off human appendages is a totally acceptable manner in which one may channel their anger. Totally.

So, getting back to the actual story, I was only able to bask in the glow of my revenge for a grand total of two days. But back in high school two days was like 4.7565 months. You could wow your friends with your long-standing relationship of two weeks because IN THE WORLD THAT IS HIGH SCHOOL two weeks was like an unfathomable eon-ic amount of time. So two days... well. That was a long time in which to bask.

But at the end of day two I was informed of some very unfortunate circumstances. Though 'informed' may be the wrong word choice. Witness, maybe. Yes, we'll go with witness. Because it definitely happened within my field of vision. But it was transmitted into my brain via a fax transmission from the Powers That Be with the glaring RE: line first gaining my attention:

RE: Your revenge has backfired you ignorant pissant

Because there in the Burger King, a moderately popular hangout simply because the land that is Small Town America is populated with generic eating establishments rife with possibility for the teenage adventurer, WAS THAT BLAZING HUSSY OF A NOTSOEX GIRLFRIEND AND MY BEST FRIEND MATTEO, NUZZLING LIKE DEER IN MATING SEASON.

I've Got My BS in Management

I've never been one for managing the following in an acceptable manner:

Distaste
Disgust
Anger
Annoyance
*any further words along this vein you would care to add, INSERT HERE

It's been a problem of mine since I was a wee young thing.

When I was 17 I briefly dated - and I use this term loosely - a boy named Justin. His last name eludes me, otherwise I would most certainly print it. It's certainly through no respect of another man's privacy. Especially when said male is a giant douche.

Back in the days-o-highschoolhell Justin and I were set up by a mutual friend and began our short-lived romance via AOL.*

*By the way, there are to be no AOL judgments here. This was 1997 and AOL was how The Teens communicated. It was all fun and innocent until the day I learned what it meant when someone asked you to 'cyber.' But I digress.

Justin and I spent three whole entire weeks chatting via the wonder that is Instant Messenger. Finally, we agreed to meet. And not just any ol' meet, either. We were to have a DATE. A real, live DATE. After three more of these aforementioned Real Live Dates, Justin and I were officially GOING OUT. Oh. My. Gaw. *eyes all aflutter.

Well, we were officially going out until his psycho Notsoex-girlfriend decided to repeatedly Instant Messenger me and threaten my very existence.

After 2 weeks of Teenage Harassment Via AOL, and after I caught Justin lying about paying conjugal visits to The Notsoex, I broke things off with Mr. Bloober.*

*I've assigned Justin the last name of Bloober because it is sufficiently stupid and petty.

So what did I do? Well, I wasn't terribly heartbroken, but I was most definitely pissed. So I planned a bit of revenge on Justin and The Notsoex.

After a consultation with my good buddy Matteo we decided The Notsoex needed a lesson learnt her. So, again via the world of Instant Messenger, Matteo sic'ed his wily charms on the unsuspecting Notsoex, flirting with her mercilessly until she finally agreed to meet with him. Whereby he played her like, well, any string instrument you can happen to think of, and led that ugly horse to water.

Now, I know the saying says that though you may LEAD that horse to water, you certainly can't make him DRINK. But THIS HORSE most definitely wanted to take a drink. In fact, the aforementioned horse's arse, or The Notsoex, was all about taking a deep dive into that body of water. Pelvis first.

And while at first glance Matteo had been proffering that body of water for a big ol gulping drink, well, sometimes that body o water is just a wavering mirage.

In short, and because I've been using too many clichés, Matteo dangled his goodies and then YANKED THAT TASTY MORSEL OUT OF HER GRASP.

And laughed.

Or so I thought.*

*Someone was so about to learn me a valuable life lesson.

Oh, Dante... You Old Devil.

In the ten minute breaks I am allotted twice a day in my new position of Ass Wiping Specialist, it's quite hard to churn out any amusing or anecdotal stories that might amuse you, the reader or even me, The Freaking Author.

Because I have officially entered into the fifth circle of hell, the area of hell reserved especially for Ass Wiping Specialists.

Oh, you thought the fifth circle was where the wrathful and sullen were punished?

WELL YOU WOULD BE RIGHT, MY FRIEND.

I am BOTH wrathful and sullen. A combination- and quality, I might add- needed to continue working as an Ass Wiping Specialist. Because one cannot be gay and lighthearted when working as an Ass Wiping Specialist. One cannot be joyous or exuberant while working as an Ass Wiping Specialist.

One can, however, BE GRUMPY AND VENGEFUL when working as, YOU GUESSED IT, an Ass Wiping Specialist.

I have spent the past nine business day attached via a black umbilical cord to the world of the Ass Wiping Specialists. It's been enlightening, to say the least.

AND IF ONE MORE PERSON TELLS ME THAT IT'S NOT THAT BAD AND I COULD CERTAINLY PUT A SMILE ON MY FACE THEN I WILL STAB THEM IN THE EYE.

She Can't Send A Text Message But She Can Do This:

Las Wednesday I wore my mother's favorite skirt from 1982. Though I've been told I own more flattering pieces of clothing, I still insist on wearing it because I think it's happy and comfortable and IT HAS POCKETS, BIG DEEP POCKETS and it's all cotton-y and flow-y and shit.

I have to add that I continue to wear it even after my mother paid me $200 to NEVER WEAR IT AGAIN. I once wore it to a family outing, after which a very lengthy conversation ensued where she first tried to get me into a mall for a shopping expedition and second, give me money for a future shopping expedition. All of which I turned down. Because I hate shopping. Especially for clothes. And so it finally came out that she thought I looked LIKE A FUCKING BAG LADY in her old skirt and would give me the aforementioned moola to pitch it in the trash.

I, of course, refused.

So after much arguing (me, in defense of the skirt; she, in defense of the eyes of the human race) we agreed to the following transaction:

In exchange for monetary hand-out, I was to only wear the skirt on Wal-Mart trips. Because it's okay to look white trash while in Wal-Mart. But I was to never, repeat NEVER, wear the skirt in an attempt to be "cute," "fashionable," or "hip." And I was certainly never permitted to wear the skirt to work, being as how my mother was concerned my superiors would think I had wondered in off the street.

And so it is a testimony to the powers of motherhood that, though she is 200 miles away, she called me on Wednesday to ask IF I HAD BEEN WEARING HER SKIRT TO WORK.

If Mommyhood gives you these kind of bizarre pychic powers I may have rethink my budding desire for rugrats.

That or I need to get her hookup in the network of Mommy Spies.

Those Little Squishy Balls They Give You To Relieve Stress Really Do Nothing For Me.

There are better laundromats in this city. Of that I can promise you.

But I consistently chose the one located in the slightly sketch part of town inhabited by the slightly to very sketch individuals who will unerringly drift into my very large personal space bubble.

And still I go. It's like a badge of honor when people find out that THAT is the place where I wash my clothes, not having a washing/drying facility of my own in either my apartment or building. So I carry my overflowing baskets one by one into my car, only to unload them 2 miles down the road, one by one, and carry them into the Fun Wash* on Markham.

*A very deceptive name, Fun Wash. It not Fun to wash clothes and calling it Fun only succeeds in pissing me off every time I pull into the parking lot and see the generic plastic sign on the roof. FUN WASH it most certainly is not.

The last time I was there, after loading six washers full of my heinously dirty clothes, I was approached by a rather large gentleman who was obviously of the egocentric age or mistaken ego that I would be interested in a) his ginormous TOMMY HILFIGER sweater, emblazoned across his chest in such a bright red it could cure the color blind, b) his fake Polo cologne and c) his inability to read simple sentences, a feat I will explain momentarily.

This young man had the audacity to sidle up and INTO my personal bubble, ACTUALLY TOUCHING ME WITH HIS OVERFLOWING BELLY AS HE LEANED OVER MY SHOULDER, while I was obviously, AND VERY DELIBERATELY I MIGHT ADD, engrossed in my book. You must ALWAYS bring a book to the laundromat, because if your eyes should stray from one of the four TV's placed throughout the room and, God Forbid, make eye contact with a Random, your semi-pleasant washing experience will be INTERRUPTED AT EACH AND EVERY OPPORTUNITY BY SOMEONE MORE FRIGHTENING THAN YOU EVER HOPED TO MEET AND WHO IS PROBABLY MISSING TEETH.

But this Young Man, with his grotesque body part touching my back, had not even required the normal Approach Me Signs. HE HAD APPROACHED ME TOTALLY UNANNOUNCED AND WITHOUT THE PREREQUISITE AND ACCIDENTAL EYE CONTACT. He was breaking from a long standing tradition, this one.

HOW. DARE. HE.

He then proceeded to take his sausage like finger and poke at my book.

"What's that."
"That is my book, which I am reading."

Still no eye contact, thankfully, as he was standing behind my chair. And though his revolting body part was jiggling against my back with every heaving breath I REFUSED TO MOVE. You must NEVER show fear to the native laundromatans. At the first sign of weakness they will converge upon you and rip you limb from limb, feasting upon your innards like normal folk feast upon steak and potatoes.

"De Gal-deen Come-pass." Still poking his fat finger against the top of my book, sounding out the words like a first grader.

"It's called 'The Golden Compass.'" I'm taking a very big risk here. He could become offended by my authoritative stance on the title.

"Whas eet bout." More finger poking. Followed by grasping the edges of the book so he can see the cover.

"Hey, das a white bear."

"It's a polar bear. The book is set in the arctic."

"Yehyeah."

It's taking every ounce of strength I have to not recoil in disgust as he actually PUTS HIS HAND ON TOP OF MY HEAD TO FEEL MY HAIR.

"You gots some pritty hair-ra white gurl."

"You need to remove your paw from my head."

"Diszat bodder yew?"

This is a delicate question. If I say yes he will more than likely continue to paw my head. If I say no, it gives him free reign to paw my head. NO WIN. So I lie.

"I have to finish this book for school tomorrow."

I hope that distracting him from the head pawing and reverting his attention to the book will do the trick.

"Aww, gurrl." His voice sounds like it's been trapped in liquid fat for the last ten years. Hearing it's breathy grossness makes my stomach revolt against the Taco Bell I had for lunch.

With one last poke at my book at heaving belly caress he turns around to go iron his pants at the steam iron press across the room. I breathe a sigh of relief as I avert YET ANOTHER Random attack.

SKIP TO LAST NIGHT.

Again, I unloaded my six loads of laundry out of my car and into the Fun Wash. The Laundromatans were just beginning to congregate as I plunked my first six quarters into the washing machine. I settled down to read the cheesy book purchased at Kroger on my lunch break. I managed to avoid eye contact through the wash cycle and even through the first fifteen minutes of the tumbling dryer.

I felt a cold burst of air against my ankles, the fiftieth or so burst of cold air I'd felt against my ankles in 20 minutes as each and every Laundromatan felt the need to go in and out and in and out and IN AND OUT of the door, letting the frigid air IN and the warm air OUT. Before I could stop myself I glanced up as the last burst of air rushed in, MAKING DIRECT EYE CONTACT WITH A LAUNDROMATAN.

Five minutes later:

"Hey gurrl, smell dis."
"Um. No thank you. I'm allergic."
"Naw gurrl, ees aaaal nat-ur-el. I made eet mysef."
Slight sigh
"Okay, what is it?"
"It's incense I made at de hiz-ouse."
I lean over and take a delicate sniff. It smells like the most rancid and putrid combination of New Car Smell and Fake Cherry Scent I have ever smelled. So strong that the cilia lining my nose and throat WERE SINGED BY THE HEINOUSNESS.
"Uh, smells like fruit."
"Yehyeah. You can buy seben fer a dollah."
"Er, no thanks. I have plenty of incense."
A direct lie, of course. Incense makes my head hurt. I'M PAUSING I'M PAUSING. HE'S SENSING MY WEAKNESS. HOLY CATPOOP.
"Come on gurrl, you knows you wants dis. Four qwuarters and you gots all dis." Makes sweeping motion to the seven disgustingly scented sticks-o-grossness.
STILL PAUSING STILL PAUSING. SPEAK YOU FREAK OF NATURE. WHY DON'T YOU SPEAK.
Seriously, it was like someone clamped a vise on my vocal chords as some sort of cruel joke. A cruel, cruel joke.
"I know you gots fwar qwuarters. Come on gurrl, buy my incense."

I finally give in, dig through my purse and hand him four quarters, rationalizing that he probably needs four quarters more than I need four quarters, so he is most definitely entitled to the four freaking quarters.

He fake limps over to his buddies and proceeds to gather up more skantified incense to hok to the next unsuspecting victim. I gather up my seven joy sticks and place them in purse while I fold my clothes, neatly, and place them in the baskets.

On my way out of the parking lot I throw the scented sticks out of the window.

This morning, my purse still smells like New Car and Cherry.

Super.

I Got Tagged Again. But I Made No Links. Yo.

I'm only doing this because I got called 'darlin.'

Top 50 Goals, shortened to 10 because I have a short attention span (in no particular order):

10. Create the perfect lip gloss that's never sticky, never transfers, smells like grapefruits and glistens like dew. Oh, and it's cheap.
9. Pay off my credit card bills and my (cross your fingers) soon-to-be student loans.
8. Learn to stop biting my nails and let them grow.
7. Fix Meghan
6. Finish my program in radiology, get on a MRI tech travel program, spend 2 years traveling about the country, meet It (the person, not the clown. SHAME ON YOU for thinking I'd be okay with meeting a man-eating ass-munch of a clown.) elope, throw a ridiculous ass party upon returning, get in the family way, maybe a couple of times, pack lunches, go to dance recitals, maybe even a soccer match, retire, still have It (still the person, not THE CLOWN. God.) hold hands on a beach, rock grandbabies, retire, be the crazy old lady with long hair, still hold hands with It.
5. Float
4. Hire someone to do my laundry. And scoop cat litter. Cat litter smells exactly like what went in it, no matter the crystals or scents or powder or odor dissolvers it may claim to have. IT STILL SMELLS LIKE CAT SHIT.
3. Own a house. NOT JUST ANY HOUSE. And this is not a beach house/hut/condo dream. I want My House. The one with the squeaky wood floors. Two story. With an attic. Finished. Weird cubbie holes. Old gas stove. Claw-foot tub. Small backyard. Full of flowers. Lots of bedrooms. The House Where Nothing Is Perfect.
2. Own a houseboat. For getaways.
1. Be happy. At least most of the time. That way I can really appreciate the truly happy times.

I promise I'll write more later this week. My job is the devil on an LSD trip.

Very tired, she says.

I Got A Bite On My Line. But I Threw That Bitch Back.

Every now and again I'm suffused with the urge to go out and play. With people my own age. In a setting where alcohol and generic fried food are served in quantity, not quality. And where all the single people pretend that they're really and truly there to hang out with their friends. But not to discuss the eye candy. No. They're there to hang out with their friends. Totally.

So Saturday night I found myself sitting at a slightly sticky table surrounded by two of my most fabulous friends at, take a deep breath now, THE BOWLING ALLEY. Not just any bowling alley, THE BIG ONE OUTSIDE OF TOWN WHERE THEY HAVE A BAR, YES, A BAR, AT THE BACK OF THE BUILDING.

A bar where, I might add, we were getting free drinks.

Because my friend Meghan had made flirty eyes with the bartender on her last two visits and Renee' was being a dirty rotten player and had been ignoring the phone calls of the door-checker-inner-person.*

*Why she had given her number to the door-checker-inner-person I HAVE NO IDEA. I mean, though slightly attractive, he is a) younger b) country and c) he has a heavy forehead, which makes me think of him as Josh, The Cro-Magnon Man.

So in an effort to win more of Renee's favor and because Meghan has big ol' flirty eyes, we were hand-delivered a veritable plethora of tasty delights. For free.

Just in case you missed that last part:

FOR FREE.

Between the three of us, we consumed four Long Islands, three Crown-n-Cokes and three Leg Spreaders. Drinks that were served to us in Big Gulp format. Cups the SIZE OF YOUR HEAD, I tell you.

Besides the free drinks we were voraciously throwing back, we were also voraciously decimating the VERY FRIGHTENING PERSONAGES who had decided to spend their evening at the bowling alley bar. This includes the lank-haired woman in the camo jacket, missing portions of all, yes ALL, of her teeth. A poster child for meth if I ever saw one. Along with Camy the Camo-wearer, we had Betty and Sally, The Permed Friends, directly to our left. These girls were prime examples of WHY NOT to listen your friends when they tell you that perms are bitchin and they make your face look thinner. When in fact perms are NOT bitchin and they make your face look like a puffy bowl of ricotta cheese. Again, a prime example of how two moderately attractive women-friends can spin themselves into the Whirlpool of Death By Way Of Bad Fashion Choices. IF YOUR FRIEND LOOKS HEINOUS, TELL HER.

After a bit, and enlivened as we were by copious amounts of alcohol, we decided a turn on the combo karaoke/dance floor was long past over due. So the three of us sashayed to middle of the floor and proceeded to shadow-booty dance for ONE WHOLE ENTIRE SONG. And then we were tired so we sat down.

But apparently, in my sashaying and shadow-booty dancing, I had attracted the attention of a Young Male Thing. One who was, quite honestly, not too terrible looking. In fact, one could even go so far as to give him an 'acceptable' rating.

My friends, being of the mind that I must bag me a hottie at the bowling alley, did what any moderately intoxicated friends would do. THEY WAIVED HIM OVER. Thankfully, he was in the midst of a gaggle of bowling alley bar-goers and missed the scariness, concentrating as he was on making it to the dance floor.

WHERE HE DANCED LIKE ALL MEN SHOULD DANCE.

Booty shaking- CHECK
Doesn't look stupid- CHECK
Dances with girls without shoving his bits in their booty- CHECK
Does The Running Man only in fun- CHECK

HE'S THIS EVENING'S WINNER!!! DING DING DING DING!

So at that point I made only the appropriate resisting motions when my friends AGAIN called him over, both of them having noticed his eyes staring me down. Which I might have noticed if I'd been staring at anything other than his booty-shaking ass.

There was flirting. And dancing. Maybe a kiss. Or two. (OVER THE COURSE OF 2 HOURS, I'M NOT A BLAZING HUSSY.) There was also a bit of phone number exchanging.

"Can I have your number?"
"Yes, you may have my number."
"Are you testing me"
"With what, your grammar? No."
"No, I meant are you testing me to see if I'm actually going to call you?"
"Not that I'm aware of."
"Because I AM going to call you."
"Okay. Good." <--this was said with a smile. I was not being a curt bitch.
"So when can I call you?"
"Whenever you want."
"So, I could call you five minutes from now?"
"If you want to."
"I'm going to call you in five minutes. Are you going to answer?"
"Yes."
"Good. Keep your phone on."
"I will." <-- more flirtatious smiling. Or what I assume is flirtatious smiling. I could actually look like I'm eating a live animal. I have no idea. But it was my ATTEMPT at flirtatious smiling.

FIVE MINUTES LATER:

"MEGHAN!! HE'S CALLING!! YOU HAVE TO ANSWER IT!"
"Hello? Er, no. This is Meghan. Her friend. She's in the ladies right now. I'll tell her you called though. Yes, I will remember. Yes, she has your number. No, she won't forget. 'Bye now."

TWO HOURS LATER: (I have since left the bowling alley bar and am comfortably residing in my bed with my cats and am making every attempt possible to drift into sleep.)

****loud and incessant phone ringing noise****
"mmashhhgghhhHello?"
"Robin?"
"Hi Jeremy."
"Where am I?"
"Well, honey, I have no idea where you are."
"I fell asleep at the bowling alley."
silence
"You fell asleep at the bowling alley."
"Yeah. Do you know where Mitch is?"
"No, dear, I don't know where Mitch is. And can we go back to how you fell asleep in the bowling alley? You called me five minutes after I watched you LEAVE."
"Well, I was waiting for you in my truck. *pause* I wanted you to follow me home. So we could hang out."
"Uh-huh."
"So is it too late to hang out?"
"Yes, sugar, I'm afraid it's a bit too late to hang out."
"I was trying to stay awake for you but I got tired."
"Uh-huh."
"It was cold out in the truck. *pause* And I got sleepy."
"Yep. We covered that. So, to be clear, you left with your friends only to NOT LEAVE THE PARKING LOT where you subsequently FELL ASLEEP in your TRUCK where you have just now WOKEN UP and are now CALLING ME. To hang out."
"You're such a good dancer. You've got some serious moves."
"Focus for me."
"Oh, yeah, I was waiting for you to come out. I just thought we could hang out some more."
"Honey. I've got to get up in four hours. To go to work. At my second job. I'm tired. It's late. And I'm going to hang up the phone here in just a sec."
"Well, can I call you later?"
"I don't really think that's the best of ideas."
*click*

One would assume that such a frightening display of a lack of social ability would be embarrassing for someone. But no. Not this guy. He was QUITE PROUD of the fact that he had WAITED for me to leave the bowling alley bar. In his truck. Where he fell asleep.

BECAUSE HE IS A GINORMOUS FUCKWAD.

And, I might add, he had the giant cojones to call me AGAIN last night. At 11:24pm.

Freak.