Oh, Tuesday

Days till Hull: Tonight!
Days till Thanksgiving: 2


So this morning I awake feeling particularly refreshed and alert. Immediately I begin to worry, because if I ever wake up before my alarm goes off I always feel exhausted and cranky and like I might kill the first person I see. It's very light outside, which also makes me worry, as I set my alarm for 7:15am so I could shower and do my hair, and it's usually still pretty gray out there at that time.

I reach over and grope for my phone (aka: my alarm clock) and when I pick it up, I realize, to my horror, that the screen is dark - and won't turn on. Which means it's dead. I scramble out of bed, trip over the sheet, and dart across the room to hurl my eyeball at the microwave clock (since I don't sleep in my contacts and therefore am blind as a bat) and see, to my horror, that it is 9:35am.

9:35am. For the first time since I was 14 and started working, I've overslept. I've never even overslept my jobs as a hostess, never mind my jobs at the other law firms and publishing agency. Now some people might just shrug and head into work, but since I had no phone to call with, my (stolen) internet never works in the morning, and I'm hardly a normal person, I very nearly have a heart attack. I get all the workings of a panic attack, and proceed to run around like I'm on fire, half-screaming, throwing clothes on, brushing my teeth with far too much toothpaste, and then darting out the door with minimal makeup on. It was like a nightmare come to life.

After huffing and puffing for 8 blocks I realize two things:

1) I am seriously getting out of shape again

2) My endometriosis is seriously the biggest fucking pain in the ass in the entire world.

2.5) Oops forgot one more thing - I can't wait for menopause in January. I'm going to throw a menopause party, then run to work and enjoy the brisk air, and then pump my fists victoriously when I am pain free (and 20 minutes early, to boot.)

So that's the way I start my crazy Tuesday (Wordsworth, eat your heart out.) Right after work I have to bolt home and make sure I've packed everything I need for Thanksgiving Break, because Super Shuttle is picking me up between 7:25-7:40pm and I need to be ready; otherwise the permanently pissed off driver will probably take off and leave me stranded on the sidewalk. And Dulles is so very far away.

Tonight I take the red eye flight back to Boston, and thus begins the insanity known as Thanksgiving Break. My family will be my family, which will mean we'll drink, we'll fight, Turkey will be thrown, and maybe - just maybe - miracles will happen. It's such a special, magical time of the year. Now where's my bottle of Pinot Noir, I need to get this party started now; there's no way in hell I can get on the plane and arrive in Hull without having been thoroughly soused for a good 9 or so hours.

Overheard at Work

In a meeting going on in the other room:

Person 1: We're definitely trying the crack dealer approach.
Person 2: And that's great, I want to perpetuate that.

Travels, Jobs, and the Great Cat Rescue

So I once again have survived an 8+ hour Amtrak trip, although this last trip wasn't an over night, which meant that they didn't blast the cold air (so I didn't have to wear two jackets and fourteen sweaters under them), but no one was sleeping so there were people talking constantly and believing (incorrectly) that their lives were interesting enough to share them with me.

When I travel, I don't particularly like making small talk. (When I fly, I'm too busy screaming to manage an actual conversation, but that's another point entirely.) I like to put my ipod on, maybe do a few rousing crosswords, and spend the rest of the time staring out the window and making myself dizzy, or attempting to nap in between people moving around and poking my seat and letting their child scream directly into my ear.

On this trip I had several chatty seat mates, although the strangest of them all happened to be the one that mercifully didn't speak as much. He sat down beside me, and I noticed he was pretty good looking. I gave him a curious once-over, he made some polite small talk, and then he was mercifully quiet. But not long after sitting down, he took a shirt out of his suitcase and put it on - normally this would be of no interest whatsoever, but the shirt was a pale yellow with little cherries and flower blossoms all over it. It was something straight men should run screaming from, and someone gay men should burn immediately. He then proceeded to put on the most heinous pair of horn rimmed glasses I have ever seen, and then he topped off the horrific transformation by pulling out a Star Wars series book and reading heartily.

Seriously, wtf? If you're a good looking guy, why ruin yourself by gleefully reading a book about Star Wars, and dressing yourself like a gender-confused outcast with terrible taste in clothing? I just can't take anyone reading Star Wars books seriously, because 1) the movies were enough, for the love of god!, and 2) I just can't take Darth Vader seriously. Anyone that's part robot, speaks through a water filter, and calls himself Darth just isn't scary. And I tend to associate Darth with Garth from Wayne's world.

Dude! I am your father!

Anyway, I made it through the rest of the trip without further incident, and started my first day as a Grown Up that Works All Day and Goes to Bed Around 10pm After Bitching About Children These Days and How I Was So Much More Mature When I Was Their Age. Seriously though, was I that annoying when I was 18??

My new job is pretty much totally schwing, to borrow some lingo from Mr. Garth. My bosses are relaxed and have good senses of humor, I'll have some projects between my text twist and celebrity blog time, and I generally get to relax and do as I please. Not bad for a first job. Only problem is that I have to go to Omaha next week. OMAHA. Do you know what's in Omaha? Corn. And fields. And people that burst out of cornfields with chainsaws. That's pretty much it. However, our corporate headquarters are in Omaha, and I have to go meet the staff, so I get to go on a trip with my bosses. To Omaha. In a plane. A PLANE. I might get fired before I even get there, as I tend to claw at the person sitting next to me when I fly, and my bosses might not appreciate me peeling the skin from their hands because I'm a giant, giant pussy and am convinced that the plane is going to plummet from the sky at any moment. With my luck, we'll take one of those tiny planes with two rows of seats on one side, and only one on the other - you know, where the stewardess has to move the very fat man on board to the other side of the plane, just so you'll stay in balance and not go careening across the sky.

Next stop, Omaha!

In more friendly and less deadly news (until her parents find out), Erin and I have adopted a giant, fluffy cat named Cleo (or Catzilla for short, per my own twisted mind.) She is the coolest cat ever; very relaxed, very chill, very much a stoner, I think. She seemed a little perturbed at being scooped up and sped away from her home (especially because she's spending two nights as a fugitive in Kristyn and Becca's dorm room), but I think she'll adjust nicely. She played with her toys last night, hunted through the closet, and gave lots of those looks that cats give you which clearly say I'm going to kill you in your sleep. Because cats are intelligent and viciously evil creatures, and all they want to do is murder you and dispose of the body, in order to have full reign over their surroundings.

Courtesy of ICanHasCheezburger.com, perhaps the most frightening site on the entire internet

Jobs and Puppets and What-Have-You

First of all, let me say this: Jeff Dunham - no matter what Comedy Central says - is not a stand up comedian. No sane, amusing person plays with a horrifying gaggle of ventriloquist dolls. That is a profession purely taken up by serial killers, mass murderers, and people that eat human flesh.

Now you have seen the face of evil

That said, thankfully my day didn't consist of a madman sharing my flesh with his freakishly disproportioned puppets. I woke up this morning feeling particularly refreshed and happy, and sauntered over to the new apartment building to take a giant leap of faith and purchase an apartment without actually being gainfully employed (besides working temp for the feminists.) I think it was my new skirt, because it made my junk-in-the-trunk butt look great. Who says weight gain has to be a bad thing?

Anyway, I foolishly signed a lease, but in a freakish twist of luck - cause, you know, I've been a homeless, broke nomad without a job for most of the summer without any luck in sight - I ended up not only getting the lease approved immediately, but I got a job. Like, a real, full time, paying job (!)

I think my official title is something like Marketing and Legal Bitch, but who knows. I have a fabulous desk and since I am literally the only female in the office at the moment, I get to decorate with frames and plants and whatever it is that will keep all the men staring in confusion and wondering why women are so weird.

Whatever, as long as they're not bringing puppets to work, I'm good.

Down with Feminists

Since I'm still in the interview process (meaning I have no job and no apartment and live off Erin's extra Digorno pizzas, while watching a guy on LA Ink announce that his cat is his soul mate), Erin decided to take pity on me. She was recently promoted from Front Desk Bitch to President's Assistant Bitch, and accordingly the Feminist Majority needed someone to come in and temp for them while they looked for a permanent replacement.

I know, I know. The Feminist Majority has a bit of a reputation: men hating, revolutionary bi-curious women that forgo shaving and get thrills from wearing tank tops and mini skirts, while shouting derogatory slurs at men for their past crimes. They beat up pro-lifers with their own posters of half-aborted babies (which look alarmingly like raw chicken breasts), they constantly find new and inventive ways to talk about vaginas and then bring the hate if you get uncomfortable, and when it gets cold they don't wear jackets, they wear layers of plaid flannel button-downs and pretend to be lumberjacks.

I was so pumped. I like hating on men, shaving sucks, plaid flannel brings out the green in my eyes, and if Angelina Jolie propositioned me I'd totally hit that. And I have ALWAYS wanted to beat the crap out of a pro-lifer.

Unfortunately, when I went in I only met super nice women of varying ages, all of whom appeared to shave on a regular basis, liked the majority of men, were even-tempered and polite, and more than happy to help. There was no screaming, no vagina comments, and not a single flannel shirt to be found in the entire office. Not even a hint of plaid anywhere.

This is gonna suck.