Saturday, March 31, 2007

HHI, weddings, babies, PETA, Mommy Dearest

Last night I had a creepy dream.

I found myself in Hilton Head Island, SC, where I was looking at waterfront condos. Unfortunately, my mother was along, and she was pitching the most embarrassing line to the realtor and everyone else looking at or showing the properties.
"Oh, this kitchen is too small for my daughter. She is an excellent cook. Do you know what she does for a living? She's a _____. She has a law degree but doesn't practice. Ever heard of someone with a law degree not practicing? But I don't care, she's my daughter and I'm proud of her." There she was, lying again. She didn't even know what she was talking about, as usual. I tried to lose her a few times, and pretended that I didn't know her. I'd look at her curiously, as if she amused me in a roadside attractionesqe sort of way, hoping that everyone else would feel sorry for me because this stranger had latched on to me.

It must have been a Saturday, because everywhere I looked, I saw brides and bridesmaids and grooms and groomsmen, all dressed up in their wedding finery. Hundreds of them, swishing past me and Mom and the realtor. Every different style of gown imaginable was represented it seemed, and I felt a bit out of place in my cargo capris and sneakers. Dirty sneakers. So the last condo had a special feature. In the basement (I know that there probably aren't basements at HHI, but it's my dream, right?) there was a secret tunnel to the basement of the local mall.

Sure enough, I ended up in a marble-clad monstrosity, complete with every department store I've ever heard of and more. I realized that I was holding a baby. He was probably 9 months old. I was alone, and I didn't know how to get back to the condos. I wandered around, hoping that someone would recognize the child, but nobody did. I didn't have my purse with me, so no money for some coffee, which I was beginning to fear I would likely need.

Something started to smell. Really stink! It was the kid. He started to get fussy. I started to get fussy.
He got fussier. I quickly found a restroom, and with relief, barged in. But it didn't have one of those baby changing stations! There was nowhere to change a baby! What is wrong with society? When a helpless young law-degreed-pride-of-her-mother's-heart dreamer can't find a baby changing thing in a freaking mall?

I rushed out, this time in a panic. In front of me, I saw a hospital-like triage area and some medical personnel hanging about. I ran up to the counter, "Please, I need to know where the nearest restroom with a baby changing thing is. It's an emergency." A girl looked at one of the men sitting on their asses, and reluctantly said, "I'll show her." She took off in another direction, and I followed. We passed a pet shop on our right, where PETA was protesting something. They had all sorts of stuffed animals chained together, with some activists chained to the stuffed animals, and the whole apparatus prevented anyone from entering the store. "Serves them right, cruel bastards," I thought, although I didn't have time to see what the crime was.

Finally. I was shown to a restroom with a baby changing thing. I pulled it down, put the baby on there, tore off the diaper, threw it away, and then realized that I didn't have a diaper to replace the one I just threw away.
End of nightmare. Thank god. Last time I ever take Mom with me to open houses.

In which I fail to express gratitude, once again

Today we all got our raises and a big hunk of "retro-pay," which wasn't all that big of a hunk for me. Some people were at the car dealerships when they opened, that's how long they've been with our organization. Now I can get my cable bill caught up.

Frank couldn't contain his excitement. He just had to blab about what a wonderful raise this is (since he was probably around there clear back when Monica and Bill made headlines) right in front of me and some staffers who were not included in the raise. He said, "It's a very nice feeling to wake up one morning and say, 'Wow, I don't have to worry about money anymore,' you know?" No, I don't know.

Luckily I didn't have to make an appearance at the office, so I was spared today's edition of boasting and swaggering around. As I said, I was wholly unimpressed with my raise and my chuck of money. I hate seeing how much gets taken out. I don't understand how gross pay is somewhere near twice what net pay is. Gross is a joke when you have to pay TAXES, TAXES, insurance, insurance, insurance, retirement, and I'm sure there's more. PITA.

I met a friend for coffee, and she didn't have any money on her. She nonchalantly asked if I would "just pay" for it. I expressed some trepidation, because it seems like I pay for both of us most of the time lately. "What? You have a good job, you can afford it." That's what she said. What she meant was, "What? You have a job, you don't have three kids and two car payments and a house that you can't afford, you can pay for the coffee." So I guess I can afford it because I didn't get myself knocked up a bunch of times and I'm not LAZY, so I have a job. I really don't mind paying sometimes, but I don't like people to expect it out of me just because they think I don't have as many financial obligations as they do. They forget that because I don't have any kids, I get taxed to the MAX. It's complete BS if you ask me. Plus, in most families these days, both spouses work. So the bills are shared by two earners. Ain't nobody helping MH out with her bills, uuuuuh -uh. Heck, even when I was married I was a the only earner. X couldn't be bothered to pursue any activity that didn't COST money, let alone one that paid.

After paying for the coffee, I parted company with the friend and went to the grocery store. I stocked up on my staples: Morningstar sausages, Fiber One, Silk, coffee creamer, bottle of wine, and salad stuff. I got home, put everything away, and realized that I was hungry! Good thing I just went to the store, I thought. But I couldn't find anything to eat. Nothing looked appealing. I wanted something sweet, but I am too cheap to waste my money on something that tastes good. It made me think about my lack of commitment to healthy eating. I used to make the best meals. Now, I just throw something in the microwave or don't eat anything at all. I guess for me, eating is no fun when you are alone. The scene at the beginning of Must Love Dogs where Diane Lane is standing at her kitchen counter eating is exactly what my nights are like if I'm home. Pretty sad!

I guess there are some good things about being married, for me. When I was married,
I would make X a cake from scratch every week. I would prepare wonderful dinners and on the weekends, you just better watch out, because MH would be on FIRE in the kitchen! When I went through my raw food phase (which I would like to motivate myself to take up again), I made some of the most interesting and rewarding dishes.

Oh well, I'm better off standing at the counter, nibbling on a stale cracker.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

PPD, Celebrity Gossip, and My Home Search

Distressing news; as I have mentioned, my friend who recently gave birth is being taken over by a PPD monster. She was checked-in to the behavioral unit of their local hospital today. I truly hope she comes through this difficult period with a fresh new perspective and a much-needed break, as she adjusts to this wonderful but challenging new chapter of her life. She phoned me en route to the second facility to bewail the impending separation from her baby, and also to find solace in the assured confirmation that her friend (yours truly) had also been to a behavioral health unit of a hospital, at one point.

Sigh. THAT'S how long we've been friends; she already knows the answer. I was one of those unfortunate teens whose parents did not have the time to figure out for themselves why their kids weren't perfect. They could not be bothered to look inwards or at their divorce, which ended up lasting close to 10 years in court. Suffice it to say, they had GREAT medical insurance policies, and damn right they were going to use them. Fix my kids! So of course, I was only too happy to agree with her that I'd spent time in one of those horrid places, and look how perfect I turned out! She laughed a little bit. I breathed a bated sigh of relief, and quickly tried to come up with another self-deprecating remark, but all I could do was gulp back a sob.

Heather Mills didn't get sent home? I haven't seen any Dancing With the Stars, but I surely hope she lasts until the end. I don't believe most of what the British press says, although I can't stop myself from devouring every bit of gossip written about the whole mess. I think she's pretty fucking cool. I wish anyone the best if they are trying to start over and they don't let other people's negativity bring them down. It is very brave of her to be on that show. Good thing this ANS thing is winding down, so we can get back to reading some surprising gossipy celebrity stories. All I ever hear about lately is ANS-related and frankly I'm SO SICK of it, much like the disgusted reaction I've always had to anything Paris Hilton-related. Ick! I'm worried about getting herpes again just because I typed that hell cat's name.... anyway, I was never all that interested in celebrity gossip until Brad started cheating on Jen. I was working for an airline at the time, so I had unlimited access to gossip magazines that passengers littered the planes and terminals with. I still can't get enough of THAT mess. Can't wait to see how that train wrecks in the end.
Today I spent a couple of hours (while I should have been working) checking out condos and dilapidated houses for sale. First off, I don't know what my price range is. Yes. I know I'm supposed to find out how much I qualify for BEFORE I start looking.

But what if I don't qualify for the amount I want?
Then I wouldn't want to even look at all. Furthermore, I probably only qualify for the smallest little shithole in the worst neighborhood around here. So it's just a whole lot more enjoyable, I find, to inspect properties that I THINK I OUGHT to qualify for. That way, I can sniff disinterestedly if I see a bunch of teenagers hanging out in the driveway next door, blasting their car stereo. I can say, "Oh, this won't do at all."



"I refuse to endanger the lives of my children in a house with less than four bathrooms."
-Muriel Blandings
Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House
My must-haves include: 2 bathrooms. Both must have at LEAST a tub or shower; covered, secure parking (again, has to do with my price range. I don't need my car tagged, THANKS); decent-sized kitchen. That means not a "galley" kitchen; enclosed, private outside area- even if it's a small patio; Washer/Dryer or hook-ups in the unit! I hate lugging my laundry cleeeeear down to the coin-op in my building. PITA; NON-NOISY neighbors. I'd really like to see some old people next door. That way I could help them if they need something, since their kids probably will live in Texas or Michigan or whatever and don't bother to come home to check up on them except every few years. Noisy neighbors will give me PPD x 1000 in about 2 seconds FLAT.

Biggest problem with our market is that everybody bought last year, and of course asking prices tripled. Now, even though the market is flooded with homes for sale, do you think anyone is going to accept reality and ask a reasonable price? Hell no, they'd rather let the property sit vacant for 250 days, waiting for a sucker. Greedy greedy greedy. So I'm going to wait it out for a little while longer. Ugh, I've turned into the person I used to make fun of! Boring old complainer lady who complains about prices of things and discriminates against teenagers! Love it. That reminds me. I saw (not sure where) the best little invention yesterday.

"A great way to get back at those noisy neighbors! Give them a taste of their own medicine with any one of these 20 ear-splitting sound effect tracks. Anyone who's ever lived in an apartment will really appreciate this hilarious CD! Earplugs supplied for your listening pleasure. Imported from France."

Tracks include: 1) Drill; 2) Party (At Least 200 People); 3) Orgasm (Outstanding); 4) Train; 5) Drum (Played by a Child); 6) Inhuman Screams; 7) Walking (High Heels); 8) Domestic Squabble; 9) Doors Banging; 10) Bowling; 11) Unhappy Dog; 12) Practicing Scales (Violin); 13) Traffic Jam; 14) Garbage Truck; 15) Newborn; 16) Phone Ringing; 17) Ball Game; 18) Pigeons; 19) Spring Cleaning; and 20) Cock-a-Doodle-Doo!"



Monday, March 26, 2007

I hate computers! I just want everything to be easy. I can't wait until computers are operated by voice command. "Put this picture in the blue box.....Bold 'motherfucker'.... Goooood.....Reply to X's email as follows: No. I don't - caps- WANT - end caps - you to come back here, I'm just fine without you. Plus there simply isn't any room around here for another person...."

Wouldn't life be so much easier for those of us who are too lazy to go back and learn what other people learned years ago? Well, that's what I've been banking on for the past 15 years.

So anyway. I am warily optimistic about the
power-sharing deal in Northern Ireland. I don't want to say anything to mess it up, so I'll just leave it at that.

Today was rather eventful. My friend with the new baby has PPD, which is the depression that sets in once a woman realizes that she is no longer pregnant and "glowing." I know that sounds sarcastic and rude, but I'm only kidding. I can't see why my friend didn't plan for this just a little bit more. She's always had OCD and has been clinically depressed more often than not. And we've been friends for over 15 years. I wonder why she didn't learn about it or wasn't told about it? Surely she would want to avoid it happening?

So things aren't as wonderful as they were a few weeks ago. But it must be so hard for her. It would be hard for me, I know that. I couldn't imagine making room in my disorganized, crowded, selfish little life for a baby. One time during a group study at the library, I don't know what we were talking about, but I said, "I'll never have kids. What do you get in return for having kids? Nothing!" I was only 19 for pete's sake. Someone said, "That's so selfish!" I agreed.

I think many times, our reasons FOR having kids are selfish. We want a little one of US or our SPOUSE running around. We want to know how it feels to give birth. We want that "bond." My brother tells me that I'll never understand until I have a child, so anything I say has no credibility. I'm sure there are things that I don't understand. Maybe if I did have kids, I would adjust and probably do my best to be a great mom, and I'd never give any of this other garbage another thought.

This is our special gift from the universe. We are able to perceive reality any way we want. I could become attached to anything, if I want. I'm attached to my cat. My brother can't stand her. It, according to him. I love my nieces and nephews. I don't have to give two craps about any one's kids, but I do. It's because I WANT to.

Of course as women, we usually spend 9 months bonding with this little being growing inside. When we give birth, we might realize that this little being has been and will be completely dependent on us for everything. That motherly instinct, I guess. Is motherly instinct or to be equal to the gentlemen, parental bond a gift or an encumbrance? If we call it an "instinct," it must mean that we have no conscious command over this feeling or thought process. Why would I knowingly allow something like that to factor into my fate? It's hard enough to get by as it is, never mind having a baby.

Tomorrow I'll be whining about not having a family or whatever.

When I think of having kids, I always remember this great book that I used to love. It was always at my Grammy's house, and somehow I got it after all of us got too large to be banished to the basement during family get-togethers. It's entitled We Were Tired of Living in a House by Liesel Moak Skorpen. The illustrations are fabulous. It's about a bunch of kids who are driving their parents CRAZY, and they get sent upstairs. So they decide to run away, and they move to all sorts of places like a forest and the sea. Then they go back home, and their parents are happy to see them.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

On Marriage.. my marriage

I am beginning to realize that single life is pretty well satisfying. I have a great job wherein I have the least amount of misery in exchange for the most amount of compensation. I have a wonderful family and a small network of loyal, entertaining, law-abiding friends. Wow, I'm only 33 and I'm finally happy! Who would have thought I'd be happy and not even married?

It is becoming clear that what I was looking for years ago may not be what I need. Do I need a man? Why did I want to get married so badly when I was in my late twenties?

Probably because everyone I knew was married, and I was beginning to feel defective on some levels. But I am not compatible with marriage. I see the struggle for stability and survival which ensues as soon as a child takes his first breath. Such a responsibility. I know that if I had found myself with a suitable partner, and we were both committed to raising a family, blah blah blah, life would have been just as great, maybe better. But that is not what has happened, and I can't say that continuing to see myself as the world may see me is healthy.

I may be single. I'm not desperate for a man. I may not have any kids. It's not a tragedy, believe me. I am no Carrie Bradshaw type with money to spend and beautiful dresses to wear to swanky parties, at which I always know someone. Just not me, and it doesn't even sound appealing.

I am not compatible with marriage. I like to live in my own way. When I was married, I hated the way my husband would wake up every morning crabby, for no reason at all. He reasoned that all men are crabby, and they just need "a few hours" to wake up. Well, it always ruined my mornings. Now, I get to wake up and be just as gleeful as I fucking want to be.

I like to live my own way. Truth: I hated sex. I really did. Here's how sex in our household went. He would take a shower. That was his signal. So I'd take a shower. We would have sex. That would mean that I was all gross and icky, with his gunk sloshing around my vagina. So, while he slumbered in blissful content, I was taking my THIRD shower of the day. Whooppee, I just loved taking three showers a day for no good reason at all. What, just because SOMEBODY had an URGE?

I never got anything out of it. After a year or so, I told him that I just don't get anything out of penetration, so we might need to add a few exercises to our routine. No can do, said my X. He was already tired by the end of the day, and wanted to relax, not do more work.


That's another thing I don't like about men. Well, the men I've always picked anyway. Yeah, it's my own fault, whatever.... they only want sex when they have been titillated by someone OTHER than their partners. X used to watch football, and I know why they always furnish us with cheerleaders gyrating and showing their asses to the cameras. Sure enough, he'd take a shower that night. I understand the whole idea that men are "visual creatures." I think they have been socialized to be that way, but I still get that this is reality.

But Charles Ingalls never showed interest in anybody except Caroline. They were happy. We weren't. Well, sometimes I think X is in the closet and he liked the cheerleaders because he was gay, and the players gave him the real excitement. Who the hell knows. X has made it clear that if he likes women at all, he likes women who are anorexic-looking and who have short hair or even shaved heads. WTF? I have long hair, and I'm definitely not anorexic.

I wondered for the longest time why he asked me to marry him. Maybe because he knew what a prude I was, so he would not be expected to show affection for me?

Saturday, March 24, 2007

Kitty scare and I hate Taco Bell


The sun was shining all day. The sky was bright and blue, hardly a cloud in it, but the few that lingered looked splendid.

I wish the days lasted longer. I sat on my balcony for an hour this morning, watching the joggers, dog-walkers, and hand-holding cuddlers go by. Even the dogs were enjoying this beautiful day. I didn't see one who frowned. Kitty wasn't in a very good mood, but what else is new.
Last night when I got home from work, I had quite a scare. Usually Kitty is milling around the door, already meowing by the time I step inside. But yesterday I didn't see her. I called for her a little bit, but I had something on my mind. I needed to find the Taco Bell 800 number because I'm good and FED UP with the Taco Bell by my place. I'll explain all about that in a minute.
After I got through with them, I realized that Kitty hadn't shown up at all the whole last half hour I'd been home! I started to panic. I ran all over the place, screaming/crying, "KITTYYYYY, KITTYYYYY" I couldn't find her in any of her usual dark recesses. Finally, I shut up for a split second and heard her. I ran to the closet door and whipped it open. Out she ran in a blur of whitish-greyish thunder. I grabbed her and swooped her up to my face. "Kitty, my baby, my little kitty kitty kitty, don't you ever do that again, poor baby..." she started to bat at my face and tried to bite my hand so I put her down.


I don't know what I'll do when Kitty passes on. She's 15 years old and is starting to look frail.

I can't stand eating out. I hate fast food, but I need to get it when I don't have any food at home and I don't have very much money. Two days ago, I went to Taco Bell drive-thru and ordered a Fiesta Taco Salad with no meat, cheese or sour cream. Pretty much just the shell, beans, lettuce and tomatoes. I know it's a PITA for them to make it. So what. Give me a vegan or vegetarian option and maybe I won't change shit up. Anyway, of course they fucked up the order. No beans. Plus I didn't get a receipt.

Then last night I ordered the EXACT same thing. This time I got a teaspoon full of beans but the damn salad was slopped all over the place, hardly even in the shell. And I didn't get my cup of special sauce. So I called the 800#. Of course, it was the same old crap... "I'm sorry they did not prepare your food properly leaving items out having items in that you did not want we at Taco Bell want our customers to be happy and now at this time I would like to offer you a coupon for a free menu item at your nearest Taco Bell." or something like that. I said, "Well what I really want is for you to make sure you get the manager to quit hiring these little punks who don't care a toot about my order. I want the old people back who were friendly and always got my order right, AND didn't throw the bag at me from two feet above." I hear, "Yes ma'am I have noted here that the staff was rude and threw your bag at you." "And I don't want people like that hired, I want the other people." "Yes ma'am, is there anything else I can do for you thank you for calling Taco Bell this evening have a nice day" click.

Friday, March 23, 2007

Stay home on rainy days


Rain is great when you have the day off. You get to sleep in, sink deep into all the fluffy pillows on your bed, and shiver so you'll feel cold; then pull the covers up to your neck in warm reassurance.



But I had to work today. That meant I had to DRAG myself out of bed and shuffle around the house in my bathrobe, reminding myself every 30 seconds that I better get busy. I'd say to myself, "I know, I better get busy!" Then I'd shuffle into another room to pretend that I forgot that I need to get busy.
I took extra long making coffee. I did everything I could think of to waste time. I dreaded taking that shower, because once you do that, there's no going back to bed.


I started a new project in my spare bedroom. I positioned a small table beneath the window and placed a chair next it. Then I put a box full of never-used pilates stuff up against the wall on the table and on top of that I put a plastic tote, which is slightly larger than a shoe box. I figured Kitty would like to get up there and look out the window, smell the fresh air, and perhaps take interest in a bird for once in her life. But of course she thought I was a maniac for doing so. She immediately gave me a nasty sneer, and took a nose-dive straight down from the tote. She landed on her face, recovered that embarrassment, and ran to the bathroom. She thinks that any time she has my attention, she needs to run to the bathroom and jump in the tub. I've been trained, you see, to pretend to turn the faucet on so she can get a drink. The damn thing drips anyway, so there's nothing at work except her OCD. Don't ask me why I enable her. It's all her fault, I guess.


Why didn't I just stay in bed this morning? We hardly ever get rainy days around here.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

GIMO, MH and match.com


No way, not this MH!
I'm talking about a guy in my office. Based on his behavior and that of other people I've known in the past who suscribe to these sites, I have concluded the following: it is extremely unhealthy to have a date every night of the week with, more likely than not, different people.

These may be the people we read about daily, who are losing their homes because they can't pay their mortgages. Hell with interest rates and sub-prime lenders. I know who the real culprits are. Yeah, that's right. I'm talking about Applebee's and Houston's (if you reeeeeally want to impress). These speculators are making an absolute killing, and it's because of idiots like the Guy In My Office.


Not that I feel sorry for GIMO.

GIMO
is being compensated for his investment, trust me. Every day he comes in with an ever-raunchier tale to tell than he had the day before. The girls are getting progressively younger and trashier.


As his fiendish, bloodshot eyes swell with every culmination and victory, I do at times catch a glimpse of a savage degenerate lurking in the penetralia of his character. He's turning into a sex-crazed jerk.



Other days, we are treated to his tales of woe. The stunningly hot young thang who gives him an unforgettable three weeks- until she finds out how much money he makes- has somehow changed her phone number and will not return his emails. This perceived insult is cause for far reaching inquests as to the nature and depth of the she-devil's wickedness. It all gets so boring after awhile.

How many times does he have to say, "I left her a message that said 'Fuck, just tell me you don't want to go out with me anymore, stupid bitch.' I really let her have it, because you can't do somebody like that, know what I mean? I mean..." before he realizes that he's the real bitch around here?


Am I in awe of his ability to live without sleep and put on his date face every night of the damn week?
Well, yes. I couldn't do it, so in that respect one must give GIMO his due. But he's still a huge fucking weirdo who needs to join a book discussion group or take a community college cooking class.


GIMO
and I have always been able to relate to each other on many important levels. We are the exact same age, no kids, no prospect of having kids, and we are both obsessed with that sordid VH-1 show "I Love New York". In essence, neither one of us had a life before GIMO joined match.com. Now I'm explaining in painstaking detail how Boston picks his nose and flicks the buggers at Sister Patterson without realizing it. Every week GIMO's interest in Our Lady of Putrescence wanes. He better not let Sister Patterson catch him snubbing her daughter's "acting" debut.

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

The neighbor


Yesterday I realized that I have a handsome neighbor. I'm quite sure it would never work out between us, for reasons I'll list later, but if we DID fall in love and got married and had children who were reasonably normal, we could tell our grandchildren how we met!
And it wouldn't be in a chat room or eharmony or at a bar or at the welfare office! Here is how we met. Yesterday.

My mail box had somebody else's mail in it. After figuring out which unit was the correct recipient of the mail, I remembered that the person/people there always have something fabulous being prepared for dinner. By the time I get home and walk past the door, which is always open, I WISH someone would step out and offer me some dinner. Then I get to my own apt, and well. There isn't anything to eat.

I approached the door the next night, and saw that it was open. I knocked on the screen door. There was movement in the living room. A guy was on the phone. He looked towards the door like I was a lot lizard and he was Pat Robertson, and asked if I needed something. "Um, they gave me your mail. I put a note on it, but the next time I opened my box, the note was gone and the mail was still there. So I thought I'd just bring it over." By this time, he was at the door, pushing it open, and sticking his hand out. I offered him the mail, which he took with his other hand, and kept his right hand extended for a congenial shake, saying, "Oh thanks a lot."

"I'm sure you know my name is Barney..." I interrupted him, clasping his hand. "No, I didn't know your name, I don't think we've ever met." He looked confused for a minute. "Isn't it on my mail, here?" Doh. "Oh, yes, of course, ha ha ha...." I said.

What's up with men and their FIRM, DEATH-LIKE grips? All you have to do is make sure the other person's fingers don't slip out of yours for a couple seconds. Oh, whatever, this isn't beautiful, so I shouldn't even talk about it. Since it is the story of HOW WE MET.

We both shared a pleasant giggle. OK, I laughed nervously, I can't remember what he was doing. Then he said, "But what is your name?" "My name's MH, I live right over there. Very nice to meet you, Barney." He said thanks and all of that.

So. Just in case that girl I've seen over there sometimes is just his sister, who knows what we may tell our grand kids someday? Except oh wait. It wouldn't work out!

1. He is obviously financially responsible. He has the same credit card that I do, and his statement was like one piece of paper, unlike mine. That tells me they don't have much to say to him, unlike what they say to me every month. Plus, he drives an OLD Toyota Camry. Plus, his apartment is tiny. See, I can't be with financially responsible guys because they are the ones who always insist on going dutch all the time. It's FINE going dutch, but they also try to get in your pants at the same time. Selfish and selfish.

2. Hm. I still think that's his girlfriend I see sometimes.

3. He LOOKED me up and down. Is that how he usually looks at women? If so, I know I'd be pissed off every time we went to the movies. He'd be ogling all of the young ladies, and would forget about me. I know the type.

4. I think he's at least a few years younger than I am. Once he found out that I'm old enough to have followed the Grateful Dead around for a couple summers (if he knows who they were), it would be over.

5. He's most likely a MUCH better cook than I am. Actually, that might be great!

6. His apartment is always SPOTLESS. Warning! Warning! Obsessive Compulsive Disorder! He'll expect women to be perfect, and he definitely would faint if he saw my apartment as it is right now.

I could probably think of many more reasons why it wouldn't work out.

But he sure is cute!

in which Frank struts his stuff


Frank's the guy in my office who doesn't want me to forget that I am a miserable dumbass at times. If he would just leave me alone, everything would be fine. But ooh no. Maybe I'm an idiot, though. I probably am. I'm an idiot.

Frank went on vacation without even telling me. I got to my desk and on my laptop are two books he borrowed like a YEAR ago. I thought he'd donated them to hell and I wouldn't see them for a pretty long time. When a coworker mentioned that he was on vacation, I asked where he went. "Nowhere," she said. "He's just going to work on his yard." I know. It's none of my business what the guy does, right? Right.

I just can't figure out when I'm supposed to give a fuck about what he does. Sometimes he won't leave me alone. He wants to tell me ALL about what a goddamn historian he is, and how he should have been a history teacher. He can go on for hours about that. I'm supposed to LISTEN to that crap! And I do, too!

I don't give him a cold stare every time he makes a comment about my looks or how happy he is that I decided to come in that day, or when he asks me to take lunch with him. No, I laugh good-naturedly because I really do like him. If I didn't, I'd tell him to go fuck himself next time he BEGS me not to cut my hair. I'd throw my elbow at his groin next time he comes over to me and touches my arm while he makes a statement about the printer acting up.

I did make a mistake on New Year's Eve. I guess I bruised his pride or something, who the hell knows, because he's a man, and I have never been able to understand any of them.

Today, he's strutting around our office like he got one over on me. I said that I hoped he had enjoyed his vacation. "OOOOOOOhhhh I DID.... Yeah, I just worked on the yard, (sniff) got some boulders back there, little landscaping." I said that sounded fine, just fine, and it all probably looks so much better now, he must be feeling a grand sense of accomplishment about the whole thing. Yeah, he said, he did. It was just relaxing, ya know. Yeah. I turned BACK around to my WORK, because if he thinks I'm doing anymore fishing for attention, he is wrong, wrong, wrong.

"So, MH. What did you do last week? I probably should have given you a call to see if you wanted to catch a movie or something, geeeeez, I'm sorry." Come on, now. Why can't Frank just leave me alone? Have you ever heard of a guy who has been flirting shamelessly for almost a year, he has ZERO action anywhere else in his life, but can't come out and say what he REALLY thinks? It's so frustrating.

This was my cue to say something like, Oh, yeah you should have caaaaalled me. But it's time for me to take a stand. I'm not going to whine around ( him ) when he oh geeeeeeez doesn't call me. I simply said, "Okie dokie, I've got so much work to do out in the field! I'll see you tomorrow!" And gave him one of my ever-so-friendly smiles.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

...in which I sabotage my nutritional intake

I am such an idiot. Yesterday is a perfect example of why I stay away from malls.

I met my friend for brunch, and we had planned on going for a little bike ride. I'm a flexible gal, though, so when she mentioned that she hoped to be able to use a Talbots GC, I didn't mind the change in plans. We headed over to the nearest also the most ostentatious mall in the area. Having not set foot in a mall in MONTHS, I was awe-struck and almost rabid with greed. Even though I don't have any money, what do you think I did? And I could just kick myself. It's not that I'm sorry that I chose the items I bought; they are all things that I could in all fairness justify. If I had the money. But I don't! Why did I do that? I've never done that before. Maybe I share an element of anguish with Jean Valjean, but I have not considered that aspect of my behavior enough to make a clear connection.


The next catastrophe to befall this hero of the overworked and under-responsible was the canker sore I noticed yesterday. I know it's a canker sore, because my brother gets cold sores and he told me the difference. Plus, we all know that I'm not swapping germs with anyone else, so there's no need to freak out about the HPV1 question. If I did contract it from somebody, I strongly suspect that it was that trashy looking girl who slopped together my Gelato yesterday. I was wary of her. And for some reason, perhaps my vast scrutinous talents, I just didn't trust the spoon she stuck in my two scoops. But I did ignore that little voice, and now look what I have. But as my brother said, it's a CANKER SORE, not a COLD SORE.

Of course, I've done everything possible to inflame the damned thing and generally make myself look like I ought to be quarantined. I had some might brillian ideas late last night. First of all, the canker sore is curiously in a place that I always bite my lip if I'm stressed out. So I probably was biting it and then I went into the sun, which probably made it worse. I didn't have any lip gloss or whatever, so my whole lip just dried out. When I got home, it started to really sting. I put some triple anibiotic ointment on it. That tasted like complete dung. Then I thought, hey, this thing is really starting to swell up my whole lip. So I put this other stuff on it that I got from the dermatologist last time I had a my legs lasered. It's this stuff that's supposed to keep your skin from getting swollen or whatever. So I slathered a bunch of that on. Then I watched an episode of Star Trek Voyager, which helped a little bit.


Then I decided that my problem was that the canker sore keeps getting moist, and if it's constantly moist, how can it heal? So I put a cotton ball between my front bottom teeth and my bottom lip. I looked REALLY bad at that point. I dumped a bunch of iodine on too, because everyone knows that iodine is a cure-all for just about any ailment you can think of. By the time I went to bed, my mouth was the color of baby shit, my lip was about 12 times its normal size, and I was exhausted. Plus I had an awful taste in my mouth. My brother told me that whatever I do, don't brush my teeth with some stuff that has oh I forgot something that starts with S. I looked and of course that's all I have. I used baking soda straight from the box, so I might as well have not even bothered.

It's not as bad today. I'm trying to ignore it. Maybe I'll pout out my bottom lip all day and pretend that my WHOLE lip is swollen. It will be an interesting experience to see if big fish lips are really sexier. I've never been impressed with them, but I'm not a guy either.

But now I'm looking around my apartment, wondering if there is anything in here I can part with, and that TWO eBayers would want to fight over. I don't see anything at the moment. I have a great pair of Ann Taylor roll- up cargos that I got yesterday for a price that seemed fair at the time, and that someone might want to bid on. NWT! Sigh.

Sunday, March 18, 2007

That being said...



Alright, I did go out and get slightly wasted tonight. I didn't mean to, it just happened. I met lots of desperately needy men. Men are pathetic, I must say. They need to get control over their desire for sexual gratification. It is the only thing that seems to drive them. Women get made fun of constantly about how we "hook" our men, but at least our aspirations are somewhat noble, in that we are looking for long term life partners. Shame on anyone who isn't.

Quele rats. I could sense, with every sip I took, that different men gauged just how intoxicated I'd become; and they attempted to use it to their advantage. Good thing I'm not 21 anymore, despite what those other drunkards may perceive my age to be.

Yes. I saved my personal indignities for after the party was over and I was safe at home. I made the GRAVE mistake of tearing into the boxes containing both of my wedding dresses. I had one for the ceremony and one for the "scooter ride" to the reception.




I still can't decide which gown is my favorite, but I thankfully I was WAY too inebriated to try on the ceremony gown tonight.



Sad that I just **had** to go out and get completely shitty when I am lonely, depressed, and considering calling up that freaking LOSER to tell him he can come back and I'll take care of him.

Good thing his phone is shut off.