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.