Road Trip
I'm sure there are people who have lovely things to say about the Red Roof Inn...Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.Last night I had the pleasure/karmic punishment from one of my past sins like coveting Nicole Kidman's wardrobe or having impure thoughts about David Boreanaz of staying in the Red Roof Inn before my morning meeting in Nashville.Now, maybe I would have had a better experience if I hadn't chosen the Red Roof Inn right next to the highway. (I also think we all know how difficult it is to book a hotel room online, especially with a limited budget and lack of familiarity with the city. I liked that internet special and proximity to the office. I knew my own laziness would come back to haunt me one day, but how could my love of bargains get me in so much trouble? It's not like I was trying to buy a Gucci off the back of a truck or anything.) And, while some people might enjoy the lull of semis moving down the interstate well into the early hours of the morning, I found it a tad nerve-racking.Then there was no Lifetime or Bravo in the cable offerings. Is a girl supposed to make it through without a "Project Runway" marathon or reruns of the "Golden Girls"? The in-motel channel kept telling me to push the "menu" button on the remote for happiness (no joke), but I'm pretty sure that for most Red Roof patrons, happiness = porn, and I wasn't up for that. When I want my Estelle Getty, nothing else will do.(Now, I'd like to go on with my story, but this is the point where my father needs to stop reading so that he won't have a heart attack. I got my sense of worry/vigilance honestly. Daddy - remember that I'm home safe now and do have a slight tendency to exaggerate. Also - seriously - stop reading.)A little bit later, there was a phone call to my room at 1:00 in the morning by someone looking for Mohammad in what I can only assume is miscommunication over a drug deal, and I think I saw a man talking to a couple of "working girls" in the parking lot. (Either that, or they were just underage and looking for a crystal meth hook up. Who can tell these days?)I'm just thankful for deadbolts.
Weekend Woes
Question: How do you know when you've watched too much Lifetime? (And, yes, even for me this can happen.)Answer: When Sarah Chalke actually shows up in your dreams (because you've seen that commercial for "Why I Wore Lipstick to my Mastectomy" too many times), and, as if that isn't bad enough, in your dream she's killing old people for their homes and social security checks. (I know, I know - I didn't think lovely Elliot from "Scrubs" and the former second Becky from "Roseanne" was capable of such maliciousness either, but after watching "Single White Female 2: The Psycho," I realize that danger lurks everywhere.)(As another side note, "Single White Female 2" is not nearly as enjoyable once you get a sense of deja vu/carefully repressed memories moving dangerously towards the surface during some of the scenes. I once had a roommate go out and get my haircut. In a word? Awkward.)Also, in another bit of oddness/it's amazing what you'll find interesting when your entire day consists of watching Lifetime, one of the movies focused on 2 characters named Laurel and Susan. Now, Susan is the only person I know who can watch as much Lifetime as me, and, strangely enough, in proof of what is the true kismet and symbiotic nature of our friendship, the last time I realized that I had watched too much Lifetime, I was with Susan, and we both reached our "television for women" saturation point at the same moment.You see, Susan and I have spent many of our hangover days lying about the house with Lifetime on - usually I'm digging Doritos crumbs out of my bed from Susan's 4 a.m. snack and she's reminding me that no boy should ever see my yarn collection before the 7th date because otherwise, between that and the dog sweaters, he'll probably run away screaming. Sometimes we head out for a strange combination of Sonic tater tots, Captain Dee's hush puppies, and Taco Bell soft tacos, and sometimes we don't.Anyways, on one of said days, we were in the midst of "Bella Mafia" (a truly horrible film starring Jennifer Tilly, Vanessa Redgrave, Nastassja Kinski, and James Marsden as a very odd sociopath/incest-lover) when we both lost our will to live.I don't know if it was James' desperate attempts to make out with his mother, grandmother, and cousin, the presence of a wheezing pre-teen albino who was never fully explained by the script, or, oh yeah, the fact that it was 4 FREAKIN' HOURS LONG, but we still refer to that as "Black Tuesday."It was months before we could even flip past the channel without cringing.Luckily, we powered through for our annual celebration of Meredith Baxter-Birney, but it wasn't easy.(Since asides are my thing today, I feel the need to add that, although "Bella Mafia" is atrocious and is best avoided at all costs, the Lifetime movie neither Susan nor I can condone in any way, shape, or form, is "Danielle Steel's The Ring" wherein Nastassja Kinski plays the widow of a Nazi who lies about being Jewish to get a guy's attention in post-war America. Now, that's just wrong.)
A Trip to Party City
Two things are weighing on me today:1. When did the word "sequel" stop meaning a continuation of the story (as in the incredible "Die Hard" trilogy, "Father of the Bride 2," and, from what I hear although I've never actually seen any of them, the "Star Wars" films), and start referring to a re-telling of the same story with a smaller budget and less credible dialogue (as in "Bring it On Again," "Cruel Intentions 2," and "I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer")?2. When I'm going to boil water, I always run the water hot before adding it to the pot, and when I'm going to make ice cubes, I always run the water cold before filling the tray. Although these actions seem intuitive and logical, I doubt they make any significant difference to either boiling or freezing water. Is it possible that the temperature of water pre-boiling or pre-freezing makes either process go any faster whatsoever?I know these questions sound rhetorical (like when I ask why LeeLee Sobieski is still allowed to make films or if Lindsay Lohan actually thinks that people buy this "exhaustion" excuse for a bad hangover), but they're not. Any answers/thoughts would be greatly appreciated.
Hidden Dangers
Last week, I had to send out a rather dire S.O.S. out to my sister because I had eaten too much candy corn. (My tummy hurt. There was moaning. It seemed like a good time to call my sister and complain. After all, she spends her life gutting houses in post-Katrina New Orleans or living in a house without electricity while she helps out with organic farming in Rhode Island, and I devote myself to the CSI franchise and the consumption of chips and salsa.)Her natural response was, "How much candy corn is too much candy corn?"And, that got me thinking.Before "the incident," I never even considered that there could be too much candy corn. (In a bad way that is. Before last Thursday, anyone claiming to have "too much candy corn," would have been my new best friend. "Too much candy corn? That sounds like too much fairy dust or too many children's dreams.")Thinking back, I'm pretty sure that the actual candy corn kernels didn't do me in. (You know what I'm talking about - the triangular, tri-colored pieces. While it might not have been the best idea to mix the white, orange, and yellow ones with the white, orange, and brown ones - based on past experience, I think my stomach can tolerate that.) What I think was the coup de grace, if you will, was the candy corns that are miniature little pumpkins. And, while I love the candy corn pumpkins most of all, I have concluded that it probably isn't the best idea to consume piece after piece of what are basically lumps of corn syrup and sugar-like chemicals. Even thinking about "the truth of candy corn" kind of makes me feel a little bit sick all over again.In short, beware of seasonal treats. There really can be too much of a good thing.
Work is Good
Well, what I learned yesterday is that even though I thought I had reached a truly frightening point in my daytime existence (please reference previous post about involvement in soap plot lines and affection for syndicated game shows), I wasn't anywhere close to rock bottom.Sometime yesterday afternoon (probably in the lull between "One Life to Live" and "General Hospital"), I went outside. Now, I'm not sure where to begin painting this scene, so bear with me as the details unfold...I went outside because I wanted to put some pumpkins I had recently carved on the stoop for everyone to enjoy so we could all embrace the holiday spirit. (I don't know when I became fifty on the inside, but it happened. Also, as a little tidbit, I am freakishly good at carving pumpkins, so I tend to spend way too much time doing it in the month of October. I don't do faces. I tend to have huge spiders in their webs, skeletons, bats leaving a haunted house, etc. And, to defend myself, I can't play sports and I'm tone deaf so I don't run, throw/catch balls, or sing. Some people get to shine on the soccer field or inside a karaoke bar. I have pumpkins. Just let me be.)I was also wearing a green velour track suit because I haven't done my laundry in awhile, so there's the uni-color faux sport-style dressing to consider. And, I had Cassidy with me, and she goes off her leash in the yard in front of my apartment building, so she was running around me in circles (dressed in her own Halloween-themed hooded sweatshirt from Target) while I decided the best way to arrange my pumpkins.And, of course, this would also be the moment when my downstairs neighbors returned from their lunch, and I had to let them know that their dog had somehow gotten out of their apartment over the weekend. (After we all looked at my handiwork, naturally.)Could I have looked and/or sounded more like the neighborhood busybody with nothing better to do with her days? As I discussed with a friend of mine, I'm actually kind of hoping they think I'm an unwed mother so at least all of my idle day time and disconnect from reality could be blamed on a baby.If I start talking about starting a Neighborhood Watch anytime soon, I want someone to intervene. I promise that it will be for my own good.
Monday
I think we should all be glad that I'm returning to full-time, all day work soon.On Wednesday, not only was I looking forward to watching all of "General Hospital," but I also squealed with joy during one of the big reveals. Yep, I squealed. Now, I have always had a problem with excessive clapping. (You know, I clap when they sing "Happy Birthday" in a restaurant whether I'm at the table with the celebrants or not, and last year I had a particularly embarrassing moment when I clapped during the televised Emmys after Megan Mullally and Donald Trump sang the theme song to "Green Acres." Does anyone clap while watching an awards show on television? Apparently, I do. And, of all things, was the Trump/Mullally musical number worth a round of applause even if I had been in the audience? I think not.) But, I have never had an issue with girly, out-loud squealing (post the age of 12 when it was time for someone to call a boy on the phone during a sleepover) until now.I really don't think I should be this invested in who the father of Elizabeth Spencer's baby is.And, right now, it has been ten minutes since "Family Feud" ended, and I'm still bothered that Rick lost $20,000 for his family by responding to the "name a playful animal" prompt with "beaver."Beaver? Seriously? I may be a clapping, soap-opera-loving freak, but I still wouldn't say "beaver" on national television unless it was absolutely necessary. And, I certainly wouldn't say it when I was 13 points away from the big money.(Really, it's going to be good when I go back to work and these aren't the primary issues that plague my day.)
You Know it's October
Too Much Television
It has been suggested before that maybe I shouldn't watch any of the "Law & Order" franchise. After all, I can be a bit "alert" when it comes to issues of personal safety and crime. I won't walk my dog on a certain route after dark because there's a dumpster there, and I don't want to make it easy for someone to attack me and quickly get rid of my body. (Why should psychos have it easy?) I also won't get gas or use an ATM after dark, and the idea of keeping a taser gun in my glove compartment has certainly passed through my mind. I check the back side of my car before climbing in, I live on the second floor of my building because of the window/break-in issues with a first floor, and when I worked at the bank, I made it clear to anyone who would listen that should they ever choose my line to hold up, I would hand over any and everything I could, probably without ever touching a panic button, because my life meant much, much more to me than their money.In short, I have enough to worry about without introducing crime dramas into the picture.However, usually I can't get enough of my "Law & Order." I really want Jesse L. Martin to be my platonic male best friend. (I think he would smile at me and agree to sing old love songs whenever I went through a particularly painful break-up.) Sam Waterston looks like my dad. Mariska L. Hargitay, even though we got off to a rough start when you were Anthony Edwards' girlfriend on "ER," I've come to love you, too. And, I've developed some odd crushes on Christopher Meloni and Vincent D'Onofrio lately. (I suppose, if you're as concerned about violence as I am, what could be better than falling for a sympathetic, yet brilliant police officer? I'm working on my issues.)Unfortunately though, I might have finally overdone the "Law & Order" last night. It was the "SVU" marathon - of course - and there was a story about a rapist who stalked speed dating groups. And, also of course, I only recently went through speed dating for the first time myself.(Speed dating is another story for another day, but I will say that it confirmed what I have always known, and that is that dating is entirely awful. Rather than strengthening my resolve "to get back out there," having sixteen bad dates in one evening literally made me sad that I had foregone an evening with my dog, "Cold Case," and a pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food for the experience.)Anyway, after watching a story about a rapist who met his victims at speed dating, I didn't sleep so well. I think my well-meaning friends might have been right all along.But, what I also found interesting is that this is the episode that finally broke me. Not the ones with gruesome mob murders. Not the random convenience store hold-ups. Not the psychotic jilted boyfriends, stalkers from the coffee shop, or schizophrenics that attack innocent by-standers on public transportation.Nope, it was Dean Cain as a speed dater that got me.I think it must have been the trauma of speed dating combined with the build-up of a "Law & Order: SVU" marathon that really did me in. Even though Dean Cain played Scott Peterson, honestly, he's just not that great of an actor. If he's enough to scare me all on his own, I'm an even bigger wuss than I thought... And I already knew I was a big baby.
My Weekend Errands
So, yesterday when I was at the Super Target, it also happened to be free sample day. (Don't forget that this is the Super Target, so there's a grocery store in there in addition to all of the housewares, Halloween costumes, and women's active wear. Also, I might or might not have gone shopping just because I knew it was free sample day - you'll have to come to your own conclusions on that one.)And, as I was wandering through the aisles, I came upon the Slim-Fast meal bar stand right next to the woman with Ghirardelli dark chocolate squares, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about this odd organizational choice since.Are you supposed to see the chocolate first, and right after you bite in look over to the diet products and feel overwhelmed with guilt so that you must have both products? Does the chocolate make you realize that you've been having way too much of that stuff lately, so you buy lots of Slim-Fast vowing to finally start that diet you made a New Year's Resolution about? (You're going to ignore "Soap Opera Digest" at the register too. This is willpower.) Or, maybe the diet products shame you, and frustrated with yourself, you give in to the wonderful comforting power of chocolate and end up with the "family size" pack even though you know you're going to be the only one eating it?It makes no sense to me, but I imagine some consulting or marketing genius is behind the move, and I want to know what the rationale is.Personally, I skipped the Slim-Fast and went straight to the Ghirardelli lady without any sense of shame or personal defeat. I like to think of this as a sign, not of my lack of impulse control, but rather as an indication that the weight-obsessed media and numerous images of Nicole Richie haven't gotten me down.I'm just that strong - try not to be in awe.
I AM the Whitest Person in America
So, it seems that there's a new song called "Chain Hang Low." (Well, "new" wouldn't be accurate considering that it's based around everyone's favorite summer camp song, "Do Your Ears Hang Low," but let's just go with it.)When I first heard it, I thought it said "Chain Gang Love."I'm really glad someone corrected me last night because I have been very bothered thinking of ways that members of a prison chain gang might show affection towards one another.
Please Pardon my Gloating
This probably doesn't need to be said, but I got very little from my devotion to Anna Nicole Smith's reality series, "The Anna Nicole Show." I did realize what an unhealthy attachment to one's pet was, who not to hire as an interior decorator (answer: Bobby Trendy), and why what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas, but there certainly wasn't a lot I could share with my friends or bring up over Thanksgiving dinner.But, today changed everything.I can now say that countless, often unfortunate, hours of Anna Nicole Smith voyeurism led to this moment - I told you so!I knew that Anna Nicole's lawyer, Howard K. Stern, was in love with her. And, I knew that they were making out when the cameras weren't rolling. (Ask my friend, Josh. We were convinced.) And, now that Howard K. Stern has announced that he is the father of her new baby daughter, I feel gloriously vindicated.I feel right and a bit smug, and I always like being right. Sure, the cost was high, but these fleeting moments of superiority sure are fun.Like I said, I knew it all along.
A Slap in the Face
Now, of course, I'm aware that some overly eager agents, media outlets, and rising starlets are willing to exploit my and others' love of celebrity gossip to generate publicity and attention for themselves and important projects. (Yes, I feel that I can use the phrase "exploit." They use me to sell movie tickets. I use them to get a daily fix on a life I'll never have. This is exactly how I justify my US Weekly addiction/subscription.) Need we reference the recent Jessica Simpson/John Mayer faux romance to prove my point?But, I really do feel that Aaron Carter has crossed the line. He gets engaged at 18? (Again, how many Macaulay Culkin and Jerry Lee Lewis references do I have to make before people realize that teen marriage is usually very bad?) Then he calls off his engagement within a week? And, interestingly enough, all of this occurs just as the reality show "House of Carters" is set to debut on October 2?Even I'm not that naive, Aaron.(Also, can we talk about the fact that Aaron's former fiance once dated his brother, Nick, too? Is he in such need of a girl to generate gossip with that he takes to his brother's pool of exes?)For shame, Aaron, for shame.After all, you were once the guy that Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff were vying for. Hell, because of you, Lindsay Lohan cut her fingernails against La Duff long before taking on Paris Hilton and Brandon Davis. There was a time when you were semi-big. And, maybe that's why these last few years have been so tough on you, but, you divorced your mom and your sister is regularly charged with assault. I have a feeling that your reality show would have sold itself.There was no need to sink to such tactics. But, now that you have, I, for one, won't be watching.
Unsettling Discoveries
Truth be told - I'm bothered today.First of all, there really are very few marketing and advertising campaigns that actually bug me. Do I like the commercial for "Head On," the headache cure you literally rub on your head, that just repeats the phrase "Head on, apply directly to the forehead"? No, but once I change the channel, I'm free. Do I think it's right that the people behind the Lunesta butterfly have much, much more money than me? Not necessarily, but I can deal.However, the jingle "get your fash' on" fills me with rage. Whether it is in Old Navy ads or being sung about in something related to J. C. Penney or Sear's, I just can't stand it. I want it to go away. And, even more so than that, I want it to be erased from my memory. "Get your fash' on"?!?! I can only conclude that this was once a bad joke that somehow got out of hand.And, last night, just as I was cringing from one of these Old Navy commercials, I saw a preview for tonight's episode of "The New Adventures of Old Christine," and I hit upon the second matter that is weighing on my mind today.Scott Bakula (Do I need to mention of "Quantum Leap" fame? After all, it was more of a gift to the world than just a television show...) will be guest-starring on Julia Louis-Dreyfus' show this evening, and it seems that he has somehow decided it's ok to have shoulder-length hair in his middle age.This does not sit well with me.I love Scott so much that this kind of criticism is painful for me, but I'm hoping that through our conflict we can reach a greater level of closeness. Oh, Sam/Scott - Why would you do this to me? It is not alright to have long hair past the age of 35 unless you are Willie Nelson. And, it is certainly not alright to live most of your life with short hair but then grow it out in middle age. This is why people mock mid-life crises. Are hair plugs next? Is there a poorly decorated loft with a futon in your future? The sports car with a vanity plate? Insisting you're going to chuck it all for culinary school?I beg you, Scott - cut the hair and get back to making sure the "Quantum Leap" reunion movie gets aired sometime before the end of 2007. I don't want to put conditions on my love, but these two little things would make me so happy.And, it's all about making each other happy, right?
Thursday's Thoughts
While this may come as a shock to many people, I have actually been accused of being a control freak before. (Personally, I've always thought the phrase "control freak" seemed a bit reactionary. Is it really so wrong to know how you like things? I love diet coke, but I do not love diet coke in a plastic bottle. Fountain soda is the best, and coke in an aluminum can comes in a close second. I will occasionally choose restaurants or convenience stores based on these criteria, but is that really so wrong? Although, I suppose the answer to that question depends on whether or not you're on a road trip with me, but bygones...) Now, sure there are times when I've wanted to ask the Subway sandwich artists if I could come behind the counter and make my own hoagie because it is maddening to watch their technique with the spicy mustard, and I do have a 3-step process for cleaning my rugs, but I still think "control freak" goes too far.Plus, I don't think enough people acknowledge how much better I've gotten in the last few years. My underwear drawer isn't hyper-organized anymore. (I used to have a system based on color, fabric, and style that also involved a sliding scale of general preference, the least favorites being farthest back in the drawer, etc.) Everything still has to be folded, but the categories are gone. I don't always rewind videos when I'm done watching them. I can wait a whole thirty minutes to pre-treat a stain. And sometimes, when I'm feeling really confident, I let other people mail letters for me, and I actually do a fairly convincing face that lets others think I almost trust them and that I don't have sweaty palms thinking about whether or not my bills will be paid on time.Yes sir, I've come a long way baby.But, I will say that on days like today - which, incidentally, is Laurel's Seasonal Decor Day when she takes out her home accessories for the coming fall season and realizes that she really is turning into her mother - my "controlling" ways can come in quite handy.All of my pumpkins and gourds were exactly where I put them and nicely separated from the Christmas decorations which will not be needed until the day after Thanksgiving. It was the easiest Seasonal Decor Day on record, and none of that would have been possible without the power of organization.And, now, if you will excuse me, I think I should stop writing. With these confessions about my underwear and love of gourds, I feel like I've already said too much.
The Last Straw
Well, in case there was any lingering doubt whatsoever, I now know that the allet-bay uild-gay and I will never get along.It seems that all of the meetings will be on Tuesday nights. (And, yes, of course the meetings are mandatory. If you miss a meeting, you have to make it up with something called a "flex point," and flex points scare me the most of all. I think tea and/or large-brimmed hats might be involved.) But, sticking to the original point - Tuesday nights?!?!Doesn't everyone spend his or her Tuesday night camped out in front of the television fantasizing about a life with Hugh Laurie...uh, I mean watching the critically acclaimed show "House"? Why would you ever plan anything else for Tuesdays when a British man with the most beautiful baby blues in the free world is making snide comments and almost killing his truth-challenged patients? Why - in the name of all that is good and holy - why?So, instead of spending my evening with House, Cameron, Wilson, and the rest of the gang, I will be listening to a scintillating debate on the new amendments to the allet-bay uild-gay's by-laws. Is it acceptable to change the age of membership from 26 to 24? Should the language read "Men's Committee of the Guild" or just "Men's Committee"? Is the invitation chairman responsible for all invitations or only those related to the actual ball?It should be thrilling. I am truly a lucky girl.
Customer Service Woes
At present, there are few entities I disdain more than my former pet insurance company. (I know, I know - it's weird to have pet insurance. You see, what happens is that you go and pick up a cute little puppy from the pound, and they offer you a few months of free pet insurance as a thank you for adopting a homeless dog. You think this is incredibly sweet, and you never sleep anymore because you're house training a puppy, so you don't notice when the letter arrives in the mail telling you that you're on a short-term plan, but that it will automatically renew if you don't send a letter, and then, before you know it, they have access to your direct deposit, and they own you. It sucks.)Well, my dog passed away right before last Thanksgiving, and the pet insurance company has not only spent six months taking monthly payments out of my checking account for a policy on a dead dog, but also continually ignores my current claim related to his passing. I have sent the same faxes three and four times over, my veterinarian has threatened to never recommend their policies ever again, and I call and call and call.However, despite all this, what annoys me most is the way that they try to "handle" me on the phone. Every time I call, a customer service agent asks me what happened to my dog. Now, we all know that they know exactly what happened to my dog. They are staring at the computer screen with my claim for euthanasia on it. (In all of my experience, euthanasia has never been a go-to topic for fun and laughs.) But, they make me tell them anyway because I know that they're hoping to move me away from anger and frustration to sadness.What they need to learn is that this will never happen.Just today, I am on a double dose of Tylenol Allergy/Sinus because I can't breathe through my nose, my last paid writing gig was researching trivia about the state of Florida for middle school students, I haven't been on a date in the year of 2006, my downstairs neighbor thinks that everyone wants to hear trance music or Reba McEntire's "Fancy" at all hours of the day and night, and I am doing laundry at my parent's house in an airbrush t-shirt that says "Live the Dream" while watching "Yes, Dear."There's no way Petcare Pet Insurance is going to be the one that breaks me. If I find a reason to cry, I guarantee you that my pet insurance company won't be it.And, considering that I had to fight back the urge to tell one rep that "I would end him" this afternoon, I really do hope for all of our sakes that this matter is cleared up soon.
Truth in Voicemail
A message only a member of my family would leave:"Laurel, it's your sister. I hear that Britney Spears just had a baby boy...Call me when you know more."
Obligations
Well, it seems that during my Birmingham absence, I was appointed as a co-chair to one of the allet-bay uild-gay's committees. (The allet-bay uild-gay is a "social and philanthropic" organization with the primary function of putting on a debutante ball and allowing grown women the opportunity to wear formal gowns and white gloves ten years after those items should have been safely stowed away in their respective attics. Please refer to previous posts for more information. Also, the allet-bay uild-gay takes itself very seriously, so I have cloaked them in the anonymity of pig Latin to try and escape any personal repercussions for revealing our secrets and inner workings. If you've seen "The Skulls," I'm sure you understand.)Anyway, I'm now the co-chair of the newsletter committee - which is probably the best committee for me to be a part of. After all, I like to write and edit. For a few shining moments after I learned the news, I thought this could finally be my chance to get excited about something involving the allet-bay uild-gay.I was so naive.It turns out that my only responsibility as co-chair of the newsletter committee is to address the newsletters before they're mailed out. Yep, I just have to stick on the labels. I doubt that I can even be trusted to go to the post office. That's probably chairman stuff - not co-chair stuff. There's no writing. There's no brainstorming. There's no content review.And, most of this would be fine for me, except for one little thing. I now quote the newsletter they have put my name on, "The Ball was a huge success impart due to your generous contributions to Friends of the Ballet..."Impart?!?! Impart rather than "in part"?!?!? This is what they included me on?!?! This?!?! Honestly, for a girl who proofreads menus and other signs without even realizing it, this is truly painful.It makes me wonder if this assignment was really some kind of punishment. Does the allet-bay uild-gay hate me? I mean, I don't know why they would dislike me so. What, with my outright mockery of the organization, "relaxed" work ethic, and refusal to do anything in the morning, you'd think that I would make the perfect member.And, what makes this really awful is knowing that I will never be allowed to copy edit the newsletter before it goes out. Even mentioning this mistake will probably be considered an act of insubordination or be greeted with the ever-familiar, "Oh, who cares anyway? No one notices those things. Let's just go ahead and send it out."Who cares? I care. I notice. I don't like having my name on gross misuses of the English language. It hurts me. It hurts me deeply. I can sense the eyes of all my professors on me - and they're judging eyes.The allet-bay uild-gay has struck again. When will I learn that they only hurt me?
Under the Weather
I don't have much to say today because I woke up around 4:00 a.m. with the beginnings of a massive cold. On the plus side, all of the head congestion means that I can barely hear the trance music emanating from my downstairs neighbor's apartment. Unfortunately though, the flip side of that is that my own chewing seems ridiculously loud and overly intrusive to my enjoyment of "One Life to Live."And, speaking of chewing, I couldn't remember if it's "starve a cold, feed a fever" or "feed a cold, starve a fever," so I just ate half a bag of cool ranch Doritos. (That's a decision that seemed much more reasonable before the cold medicine started to wear off.)Also, I think my cable guy might think that I'm mildly retarded or struggling with a crystal meth addiction. When he knocked, he woke me up from my Nyquil-induced coma, so it was 1:00 in the afternoon, my hair had an odd spiked look, and my answer to every conversation starter he tried was "Uh-huh."Of course, when I finally got past my mono-syllabic uttering, our interaction culminated in me talking to myself out loud while the poor cable guy tried to escape."So, do I have DVR now?""No, but I can get it for you. It's just a different box.""Cool, that would be great...But, you know what, I don't need DVR. I'll be fine...Or, maybe I do need DVR. It would be convenient. And, I wanted to record something tonight..Nah, I don't need it. It seems silly...""Uh, ma'am? I've got to go, but you can just call the office when you make up your mind."