Monday, February 28, 2005

Poor Architecture Stud

A.S. has the barfing flu. Is there anything worse? He called me from the bathroom floor last night, begging for help. So after I emerged from my warm cocoon of down and wooly socks (post-fox hunting thaw-out nap... so delicious) and went over to ply him with Gatorade and pat-pats, there-there's.

Isn't it weird how whenever you're sick, you revert to things your mom always did to make you feel better? Chicken noodle soup is so nauseating and slimy, so in my family, Momma always got gingerale and lime sherbert, and those two things always work. A.S.'s mom did beef boullion, so he wanted that especially. And if my stomach hurt, my mom said to lie on my tummy till it felt better. My ex's mom said to pull your knees up to your chin, but the psychological impact is just not there for me. It only works if your own mom tells you to do it. What did everyone else's mom recommend?

The Lacto Pescetarian neighbor (I've got to come up with a new name for you) said she had an evil boyfriend who never took care of her when she was sick. She would call him from her deathbed for gingerale and stuff, and she'd have to look sharp for the darting hand as it cracked the door and threw in a bunch of medicine and juice. And she'd call him back and say, "I'm lonely.... come over." And he'd crack the door again and throw in a shirt and say, "Here, smell this." Reason number 40024 why it would be easier to be a lesbian.

Guilt Assuaged

I've been debating all weekend about whether I should actually take this new job. I actually really love what I'm doing (writing for a living) and I looooove the people I work with (Nerve Cell excluded). I'm going to miss Little Miss Nobody extremely, but she promises to still go running with me and eat lunch since we're just right down the street. It feels so mercernary to quit writing for a living and go into PR just for the money...

But The Nerve is pushing me just a tad too far. And it occurred to me this morning that if I leave, I won't have to respond to any more of his no-brainer questions and have an irritation-fomented stroke everytime he so much as looks at me.

I've actually been rather good at fielding his retardedness up until now. He asks me to answer a question, and I say, "Oh, you mean a DIFFERENT answer than is given in the following sentence? Of course, Nerve." And he says, "Um, wait, let me look at it again." Or he asks me to write a freakin sidebar with two more interviews while I'm trying desperately to finish another story under deadline, and rather than leap across the desk and slap him across the mouth, I say, "Gee, Nerve Cell, that sounds really important. So I can either drop the 14 million things that I'm doing and get right on that. Or I can do it Monday. Or I can give you the information and you can do it your own damned self." And he usually leaves me alone. I've recommended this strategy to Miss Nobody (saying no with style), but she's nicer than I am.

But this morning when I got in, Nerve had a redonculously dumb question about a chart that was actually answered by the CHART TITLE and insisted that I write a caption for it. And I immediately became so hostile that I lost absolutely every molecular crumb of guilt I had for leaving his fat ass in the lurch.

So, bite me, Nerve Cell. I quit.

Friday, February 25, 2005

Holy Crap!

I got the job! They just had me in for an incredibly inconveniently timed second interview (deadline week is NOT a good time to leave the office) and offered me almost 50% more than I'm making now. He said a bunch of other stuff too, but I stopped listening after he said they'll give an additional 25% raise after six months. My brain went all dreamy thinking about paychecks.

Of course, now I'm SCARED, because I had planned on applying to a couple of other places too, and now I have to COMMIT. And this job is going to be HARD. I'll be director of PR for, like a $40 million company. And in my brain I am still 16 looking for summer work! Crisis! Responsibility crisis!

Thursday, February 24, 2005

Zzzzzz

I. am. so. tired. I. may. die.

Pulled an all nighter in order to get The Nerve off of my back re: this in-depth story. I'm not sure it was worth it. The idea of going home and sleeping makes me want to weep.

The ADD meds make my stomach hurt and the way my heart is racing, I don't think I should have anymore caffeine.

And I have two more stories to turn in, which I could do so fast... only I can't think anymore. And I have court today for my $500 speeding ticket, and at this rate, the judge will look at my haggard, bloodshot, sunken eyed visage and investigate my apartment for meth production. AND I have to babysit tonight. AND my sister is in town and I'm supposed to go eat dinner with my family after babysitting. AND I need to call the tech company about another stupid interview with the assclown sales guy. AND my apartment smells like dog pee and mustard and every surface is covered in laundry and/or dog hair.

Woe is me.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

No self righteousness here

Woo is eating her dinner, finally, which is wonderful since she hasn't been feeling well this week. She's kept me awake the last couple of nights pacing and barfing. My vet thinks she probably ate something vile in the woods last Sunday, which sounds suspiciously like something Woo would do. She's a terrible scavenger.

Apparently old dogs sometimes have a lot of anxiety, which explains why Woo paces all the time. She's on valium to make her relax a little, because she must walk 10 miles every day just doing laps around my kitchen, and her kidney issues make her terribly thin anyway.

It's hard having an old dog, and I feel so guilty for getting frustrated. Most of the time Woo's still pretty spry, and I try to be patient with her on her slow days, but every once in awhile I forget that she can't help it and end up dragging her along behind me. That makes me feel mean and small.

After she got too old to jump on and off the bed, I never minded getting up to get her a drink of water. But now she doesn't have much bladder control, so she can't sleep up here as often (unless she's on her hazmat) and ends up pacing all night. The noise of her little toenails clicking around and around and around and around my apartment in these aimless circles starts to make me feel like a Poe character. She wanders into things and gets stuck and I have to get up and help her and put her back into her basket. But she doesn't stay there, and we have this awful Sisyphusian pattern all night long that makes my heart race and my head ache and I end up wishing they made doggie straitjackets so I could just close my eyes without feeling tense and watchful. Locking her in the bathroom or a crate just makes her howl, and at three a.m. when I'm so tired and feeling guilty for waking up A.S., I'm not capable of rationalizing that Woo can't help being old. What must she think when the hands that reach out to her turn from helpful and reassuring to rough and impatient?

I also wonder what sort of parent I'm going to be if I get this resentful and irritated with a poor old dog. Will I be the kind of person who shouts at my children for repetitive whining and interrupting while I'm trying to write? Will I shove them into bed and hold them there if they get anxious during the night?

What about my parents--when they get old, will I give them just enough care to get by and be comfortable, or will I be big enough to give them time and love without secretly wishing it was easier or less messy? I'm so frightened I'll be the sort of daughter who will change their diapers but make them feel ashamed for needing me to do it. Most people would say I am good to Woo, but I think I'm only really good when I have the time. I hate that I resent Woo, even in those miserable morning hours, because I know how much I'll miss reaching out for her when she's not here anymore.

But let me ask you something. Why is it that when I'm out with Woo, people are compelled to make some unsolicited remark such as, "She sure is walking slow" or "Is your dog's leg hurt?" She's almost 19, for pete's sake. If she wants to take 30 minutes to walk around a half mile lake, FINE. I'm just glad she's walking. And forgive me if I don't want to explain that she can't take arthritis medicine anymore because of her kidneys. And what I REALLY resent is when people hear how old she is and rather than saying, "That's amazing. How lucky that your wonderful dog is still with you," say instead something obnoxious like, "Isn't it hard to lose a pet? It's like losing a child." Why would you say something like that, especially to someone you don't know? I don't ask how old someone's mother is and then shake my head and talk about parents dying.

Maybe I'm the one who needs to be on valium, not Woo.

Monday, February 21, 2005

good god amighty!!!

I am writing my first ever post from my newly modernized apartment. Yes, I finally have DSL. I was so excited getting the box, it was like Christmas... in Meheeco. Because all the damned directions were in espanol. Fuckers. (ooh, $13.75)

And then I found out the only phone jack in my ghetto apartment that functions is the one furthest from my desk... the one under my bed, crushed up against the far wall hidden behind 42 paintings, boxes of recipes and a case of trashy novels. So yes, I am writing this post from under my bed. One of the dust kittens just bared its teeth at me. Back mofo, or I'll pull out the new upright vac my parents gave me instead of the Japanamation iPod skin I asked for!

So anyway, now that I've had a total meltdown crying jag from drinking too much wine and translating Spanish... let me tell you about the interview I had with the sales dude at the tech company i'm trying to work for. The salary discussion was nerve wracking, and I should have just stolidly refused to discuss what I make now. Because it's bad. Anyway, he asked me a bunch of obnoxious questions about my five year plan (vomit) and what my first accomplishments would be if I came to work there. And I wanted to sound really aggressive and all "this job is mine" but I think I just sounded scared. I meet with the CEO and former marketing person this week, so maybe there's still a chance.

Ooh, unforeseen hazard of home internet... A.S. is wandering about and he's not allowed to read my blog, because then I couldn't bitch about stuff anymore. Post! POsT!

Friday, February 18, 2005

Blurg

Musical Roads: In Japan, the Hokkaido Industrial Research Institute has embedded grooves into sections of roads which boom a tune up through cars. They’re in the process of planning different melodies for different locations, picking songs that are somehow associated with the locale.

Do I want what everyone else has?

In the past month (mentally counting) FIVE of A.S.'s and my mutual friends have gotten engaged. And another friend was expected to propose to his girlfriend last night.I'm not counting on going down that road anytime soon, especially because Architecture Student is still, duh, a student with another year of school. And a thesis year at that. Quelle nightmare. Plus, by the time he's finished, he'll probably upgrade me for the newer model with boobs. (Hate her, whoever she is)

Anyway, I'm getting tired of saying, "I'm so happy for you!" I am for the most part, but FIVE couples! Sheesh! What the HELL is going on?

The first batch of my friends already has babies, and I can only be grateful that it's my 18-year old dog waking me up every night and pissing on my floor and not someone whose psyche I can fuck up in utero. (Damn, that's $10.50. No swearing during Lent.)

At least this way I can live up to my dream of embarassing my family by being the fox hunting old maid at family reunions wearing tweeds and sturdy shoes and swearing and drinking from a flask. I'll need lots of dogs and a jaguar to fulfill this vision. And a novel. I plan to be very eccentric. Now all I need is funding. Wish I had a rich relative ready for the big dirt nap.

Begone sinus hell

Just had a CT scan on my sinuses and my neck still hurts from the horrible pose they fold you into for 15 minutes while they tinker with their giant cancer-making machine. They asked me so many times whether I was pregnant, I started to get paranoid that I was. Why can't they just put a little lead blanket over you and protect your as-yet unblackened womb and leave you the hell alone? "Womb"... what an ick word. Poor little future flipper babies.

Thursday, February 17, 2005


This is The Bean. Isn't she edible? I love that the pumpkin is bigger than she is.

Ass Call

You know what an "ass call" is, right? Where you sit on your cell phone and it accidentally calls your boss... and you better hope you're not on your two-hour appointment/coffee break in Starbucks calling him an asshat to your best friend???

Well, I have a new more literal definition. My niece, who I call "The Bean" is two (no, don't stop reading, it's funny) and has recently become fascinated with all things telephone. The other day my sister was videotaping her playing with her toy cell phone and actually got a great blackmail moment on film:

My sister: "M, who are you calling?"

Bean: "My hiney." [all nonchalant, like "None of your beeswax."]

My Sister [cracking up]: Oh, really?

Bean talking into cell phone: "Hello, My Hiney. Whatchoo doin'?"

My Sister: "[uncontrolled snorting...]"

Bean: "Yeah, me too. I love you. Bah Bah, Hiney."

God, she's so cute I could just devour her.

It's almost Friday, which is so great. It's a full music weekend, since I'm seeing Doc Watson tomorrow night. And then Saturday I'll be in Myrtle Beach (lameass town) for Wilco. Architecture Student and I are meeting some friends at their beachhouse for some beer drinking and a 30th birthday party beforehand. My poor liver.

Woo, the oldest, baddest JRT in the world...

old dogs

I have to leave Woo for the weekend, and my eccentric godmother is taking her instead of my parents. NERVOUS! I got this dog for my tenth birthday, and yes, that makes her 18-anahalf. She's like my child. I wake up all the time just knowing that Woo needs water or that she's stuck in her basket and needs a assistance. She's the coolest most invincible dog ever. Here is a list of things that have not killed Woo (yet):
1. Snakes- 3 water moccasins and 1 timber rattler
2. Raccoons-she's killed four
3. Drowning- a big raccoon held her under water and my dad had to give her mouth-to-snout resuscitation.
4. Poison
5. Horses- kicked once in head, one in chest- both required staples
6. other large dogs- assorted Rottweilers and Alsatians were her favorites
7. Car- one hit resulted in 160 stitches and a broken pelvis
8. Falling- one from second story porch, one 18-ft after chasing a squirrel up a tree breaking a leg
9. The mailman- though God knows he tried. She's immune to mace
10. Falling off a cliff
11. Stroke
12. Breast cancer
13. Heartworms- forgot her pill just once. Let that be a lesson to you, people
14. Kidney failure- the vet says her kidneys are improving

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

This is the greatest thing I've ever seen.

Go here. http://209.17.131.1/craft/dress.htm You won't be sorry.
I found it on GypsyWaif's blog during some latenight websurfing.

Can you electrocute yourself by drooling into your keyboard?

Because that might happen.

I woke up to go running and got dressed and looked at the clock and it was only 3:00 a.m. (groan) I'm not sure if I imagined my alarm going off or if it really did, but I was a little chafed. When Miss Nobody finally called at 6 o'clock to go running, I bailed because I was too tired, and then the neighbor started pressure washing his house at 6:45. My mood is somewhat dismal today. Boo.

On a better note, I got another freelance assignment yesterday, which is actually going to be pretty fun to write. Oh, and I looked on Salary.com to find out how much I should ask for this PR job, and it said $74K. Personally, I would hunker over like a whipped dog if I ever dared to ask for that much money, but it would be nice, wouldn't it?

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Valentine Synopsis

Total number of Valentines: four
Number from sweet Daddy: one
Number from eccentric godmother: two (one was supposed to be from my dog)
Number from hot architecture student: one

Number of dinner invitations from Architecture Stud(ent): one
Number of his roomates joining us for dinner: one
Number of hot sensual moments involving Architecture Stud(ent): zero
Number of hours of sleep thanks to nervous and uncommunicative boss and extra work: also zero

Valentine's is obviously strictly a retail holiday, but it's kind of sweet to see all the bubbas in Victoria's Secret trying not to appear as though they are shopping for themselves. I bought the Garden State soundtrack (very good) and a Kings of Convenience CD for Architecture Stud(ent) and some non-flowery smellumy massage butter and wrapped up the hot little number I purchased while in Charlotte-- which is really for me, but it's always fun to see his eyes glaze over.

So it was with a certain amount of annoyance that I learned that his roomate would be joining us for dinner. My downstairs neighbors suggested I wear something mega-foxy to make A.S.'s eyes cross and his roomate uncomfy--subtle revenge appeals to me on so many levels. God bless lace tank tops and stilettos.

A.S. had made lamb chops and served pears, parmesan, walnuts and truffled honey for dessert. Yum! And he appreciated the saucy outfit I was wearing. And we necked in the elevator... meow! (that elevator is too quick)

And then he went back to the studio and I went back to my laptop to work on The Nerve's stupid rewrite until 4:30 a.m. Hot.

What really sucks is that I've spent so long on that miserable, thankless, God-awful story that I've achieved some new form of writer's block and I am well aware that it is terrible and not my best work even though I really wanted it to be important and intelligent and that poor Miss Nobody is going to have to fix it. And it makes me feel bad to do that, since she is the only reason I am not in prison for physically assaulting The Nerve. Miss Nobody, if you're reading this, I owe you lunch. And not just at Whole Paycheck, but a REAL lunch.

Monday, February 14, 2005

man stuff

A.S. arrived at my door this morning (as my dog was taking a tail-quivering dump in the front yard, I was disposing of aforementioned mussel remains in the trash and depositing smelly wine bottles from the party, and I was all sweaty from running with Miss Nobody... i.e. not at my best) with a Valentine's present. I told him I would wait to open it until I can give him his tonight. Which means, when I have BOUGHT him a present. So of course I peeked at it, and it's really really nice- a 45-minute massage at a very posh spa here in town. That more than makes up for the REVOLTING bracelet he bought me last year. And I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, but it was disgusting. I may need to post a photo of it in all its heinousness. A) I don't wear bracelets, watches or anything else on my wrist. B) It was brass. C) Brass turns my arm green. D) It had flat stones invarying hues of green and grey. And I do not mean precious stones. Just... stones. It looks like something a blind woman in Miami would wear.

Anyway, what do I get him? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? I was thinking a really good jazzy-bluesy-funk CD (think Tina Turner's "I Can't Stand the Rain" type music) with some man-smelling massage oil. Rowr! Two people have recommended the Garden State soundtrack. Any suggestions? Anyone? I'm begging you, people.

Sorry about Friday's whine

Sorry about the harangue on Friday. Some days you just have to get it OUT.

I'm glad Miss Nobody had a good time at my dinner. It was much more sedate than last year's for some reason.... maybe because we didn't start with six bottles of champagne. Last year we all ended up dancing/stumbling to musical accompaniment in my bedroom and I had wine sloshed on all my doors, windows, walls and floors from people falling down. We also had a candy heart war that resulted in some of my grandmother's crystal getting smashed (didn't bother me at the time) and paintings falling off the walls and heart-shaped bruises on people's foreheads. I'm still finding the damned things under furniture A YEAR LATER! Also, my neighbor, The Lacto-Pescetarian, fell down the stairs in her kittenish get-lucky heels and sprained her ankle. Her response was, "It'll be fine! Somebody get me some more wine!" The next day her ankle looked like a haggis with the bloat, which is a particularly nasty comparison for someone who doesn't eat meat.

So my rule for the Valentine party is that everyone has to bring a bottle (or six) of wine and I have to make at least four new dishes that I've never made before. So I made tuna tartare (v good), crab fritters with spicy lime sauce, shrimp cakes with wasabe vinaigrette and mirin sauce, and pork tenderloin with apricot wasabe glaze (and ginger, soy and garlic too). It was very yum. Then A.S. and I made fortune cookies (extremely comical process that involved a lot of swearing and shrieking and laughing and ridiculing) that looked extremely UNfortunate. All the fortunes were designed to end with "in bed," so people had "You will become a famous trapeze artist... in bed" and "Someone will give you a giant ring... in bed." That one actually took a little explanation and people had to explain whether THAT kind of ring involves the twigs or the twigs and the berries. I don't know that we ever came to any solid conclusion on that...

So the party was great fun, and my apartment smelled like Oriental Garden the next day, which was very nasty on top of having a hangover and bilious wine belly. Bleh. I had to wash every glass, dish and utensil I own and scrub the floor with clorox and a brillo pad. And I'm not an anal person... that's just how gross my kitchen was. Oh, the humanity.

And A.S. and I made Asian mussels for dinner last night too. Mmmm, moules. Too bad we didn't have any frites. If you like mussels, write this down. One 14 oz can coconut milk, one Tablespoon nam pla (fish sauce), 1/3 cup lime juice (about three limes), 1/3 cup white wine, one Tablespoon sugar, about 3-5 crushed garlic. Bring to a boil and dump in about 4-5 lbs of mussels. Steam for 8 minutes. Add chopped cilantro. Devour like starving peasants. It was so divine. Truly.

Friday, February 11, 2005

Quelle Nightmare

I nearly quit on today. In fact, I haven’t ruled out that option. The Nerve/Asshat decided at THREE O’CLOCK on Friday (our deadline) that my extremely exhausting profile story should actually be an article instead of bulleted profiles, and that I should have an intro to the whole three-issue article plan as well as an intro to this particular article, and then do sidebars with remaining information on each person. Miss Nobody said she could see the blood rising out of my collar and the whites of my eyes growing and growing. I couldn’t even hear what he was saying I was so mad, and I was thinking, "I wonder what would happen if I leapt across the table and slapped him across the mouth." So I’m still working on it, which sucks, because it consumed my life last week and I have two more stories exactly like it that I need to start on NEXT week. I do NOT get paid enough for this s***.

By the way, I gave up cursing for Lent and it's not making this any easier.

I have this sacred rule that there is no crying at work, but I swear I got so frustrated with The Nerve's lack of leadership/decision making/grasp on reality that I nearly put my head on my desk and broke down. Instead I went home and start drinking at 4:00. WHY do I have to make this an article??? WHY???? I TOLD Bob the week before that I wasn’t going to be able to rewrite this so we needed to DECIDE on a format.

Anyway, I have a job interview next Friday, and maybe I'll get the job and they'll pay me twice as much as I'm making now (easy since I make zip) and awesome vacation and benefits and I'll actually be able to do grownup things like save and invest so someday my hypothetical children can live in a house that is not in a subdivided neighborhood. WHOOPEE!

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

DOOM

This week I have to interview every member of county council for THREE counties. That's about 25 people. And if The Nerve wants me to write about 400 words on each one, that's 10,000 words on top of the other three articles I need to turn in also. And thus far, I have to say I am FRIGHTENED by the stupidity of the elected officials in this county. What a useless shower of bastards. What an astonishing lack of education, vision, common sense, prehensile thumb...

In short, nobody better mess with me. I am [--] THIS close to crazy.

Monday, February 07, 2005

Motivation x's None

Christ, it can't be Monday already.

This was one of the most unrelaxing weekends I've had in a long time. I drove up to Charlotte to visit some friends and my 10-month-old goddaughter, and the poor little baby had in ear infection and would cry every time she was wasn't being held. So I tried to give her parents a break and sent them to bed and played with her... until 4:45 a.m. She didn't want to be still, so most of the time I had to walk around with her, talk to her and definitely NOT focus on Jerry Maguire. And every once in a while, while letting her rip pictures out of my new Gourmet magazine, my head would fall back and the old neck would jerk, and she'd suddenly notice my attention was not STRICTLY devoted to her... and then hoo, boy!

God, I'm glad I'm single with no progeny.

And then I headed home on Sunday and stopped over at my sister's house to help her prepare for the Super Bowl monstrosity my brother-in-law had wrought. They had at least 100 people (probably more like 150), with shrimp and grits inside and two rooms filled with hors d'oeuvres, and an oyster roast outside and mustard fried venison and a bar in the garage. There were two big-screen TVs, and about five others scattered around the house. And the reason I was invited is because my adorable two year old neice had contracted the barfing flu and my sister was too tired from staying up all night to get ready. So I entered the house armed with Lysol, Oust, Clorox wipes and Purell. Throwing up is my least favorite thing in the world and I think I handle it worse than most people. My sister is the same way- she threw up once in the six grade and was so traumatized by it she refused to do it ever again. She is now 33 and managed to go through college frat-type parties, a debutatante season and morning sickness WITHOUT THROWING UP. Anyway, little Typhoid Mary was up and feeling better and wanted me to hold her the whole time, and my sister kept giving me stinkeye every time I'd lay a finger on the Lysol. I left before halftime, went home and burned my clothes and rinsed myself in Betadine solution. I may be purple, but I ain't catching the barfing flu.

Has anyone seen this yet? This woman found some old Weight Watchers recipe cards from 1974 in the attic and they're horrendously funny. I laughed until I couldn't breathe on some of them.

Friday, February 04, 2005

Begone evil spirits of ADD!!!

Just realized I left my Starbucks triple mocha sitting on my mantlepiece this morning. Son of a...

Happy freakin Friday

You know what I love? That the side of my blog cuts off "Architecture Student" so it reads "Architecture Stud." Smirk. Well, I think so anyway- I do like them skinny and poetic looking...

Poor A.S. He's worked himself to a nub this week, and I've seen him for about an hour total. Night before last I cooked dinner, and he dropped by for 30 minutes and then left again, the ungrateful sod. What the hell? I made pork chops. PORK CHOPS, I TELL YOU! And a pork chop is worth some loving, goddammit! I was sending him mental stinkeye the whole time I was washing dishes.

I have so much to do at work today that I don't even know where to begin... so I blog instead. Typical. I meant to write a bunch last night too, and instead I cleaned my apartment, so now I'll have to think of ideas for my nex Skirt essay while I'm driving to Charlotte this afternoon. But what irks me is that I had today off (not half, not some, but ALL DAY off) and Nerve Cell came and rocked back and forth on his feet behind my chair in oh so creepy fashion and put the pressure and guilt on, while somehow not actually communicating anything at all, so I've put off my trip till this afternoon. (grumble)

In better news, Miss Nobody and I ran four miles today and I am completely recovered from the agony of the hot tub toenailectomy episode. Yay!

Thursday, February 03, 2005

creepy

He Who Must Remain Nameless (see Dooce) is really starting to creep me out. He walks behind my chair, presumably reading over my shoulder, and asks how my stories are coming... and then doesn't leave. He just stands there with nothing to say. And I'm sitting here with this giant question mark over my head, like "WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME???? I'LL GIVE ANYTHING! JUST GO AWAY!!!"

It's kind of like in college when you've smoked things you shouldn't before Thanksgiving dinner and have to make decent conversation with your tedious uncle so-and-so without letting on that you have no idea what he's talking about and are just rambling in a frantic attempt to appear not stoned. Actually, I do that when public speaking too. Not get stoned- just ramble with absolutely no point. Public speaking gives me fear-induced gastroenteritis. This is why I am a writer.

Anyway, this is very awkward. I wonder if he is bored or lonely or just lacking in social skills. But this madness must cease.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

doom

God, I'm so bored I've resorted to shooting rubber bands at poor Little Miss Nobody to entertain myself. She is not amused. And I just ate sooooo much sushi. I may explode and die and make a smelly mess of gizzardly rubble right here at my desk.

I am so very sleepy too, and it’s raining and dull and gloomy and pooey and dismal outside my window and I want to go home and nap with my old doggy. She is clean and sweet smelling and needs mashing.


The only thing I've accomplished all day is planning my Fifth Annual I Hate Valentine's Day Dinner Party Extravaganza. This is where I invite 15 of my closest friends over for five million courses of something I've never made before, we all drink too much wine, throw candy hearts at each other, dance/flail drunkenly around the room at 3 a.m. and suffer the most godawful hangover for the next week. It's fabulous and nerve wracking and too expensive and I just can't wait.

hooky

I played hooky from work yesterday and went fox hunting instead. God, it was fantastic to be on a horse again, and galloping through the woods and jumping everything in sight. Actually, this douchebag in front of me kept letting his horse run out on all the fences, so I gave him serious stinkeye and passed him. Hell, I've had my colors since I was eleven, so he can just deal.

So the hunt secretary said she'd give me a pro-rated membership deal, although I don't know if I can afford even that. I hate being poor. I had to spend 100 freaking dollars on a new helmet yesterday, which is so unsatisfying... kind of like buying a new mop. It's a nice one, and will go a long way towards making my dad happy about my riding again. He never used to worry about my falling off (maybe because I never did), but since the accident two years ago, he hates the idea of me being on a horse. It's kind of endearing in a way, because he's not much of a worrier.

I have GOT to get off my butt and do more freelance writing, because I have all these great ideas that I have been sitting on for FOREVER and there's no excuse for it. I wish I could take a week off work and save up my inspiration, but in all likelihood, I'd just fritter the time away cleaning the oven or napping. Also, good news: my editor wants me to cover more public policy type stories, which I love. Hooray!