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OHMIGOD I love it when people call me to yell at me.
YESSSSSSSSS.
I LOVE THAT SO MUCH I WANT TO MARRY IT. AND KISS IT, WITH TONGUE.
What’s the word? I can’t figure it out. I’ll explain in long-winded fashion. You tell me the word.
It’s the word that describes the feeling of having plenty to do, things you enjoy doing and normally wouldn’t mind doing, but finding that you are simply not in the mood. You’re excited about something that will take place in a few days, but still, the thing is a few days away, so the excitement is ebbing and flowing. It’s not a bad feeling, nor is it a particularly good feeling. I sometimes have this feeling when my feet are still sleep-warm and I’m out and about. Or when I wake up while in the middle of a dream and can suddenly drive that dream, but steer in strange ways. I don’t know what that feeling is called. What that state of being is called. I’m there, in this very moment, I am there, but I still don’t know what it is.
Maybe I’ll just leave it unlabelled, and call it being a girl.
Scene: While driving Doug to work this morning.
Doug: So. Two years today, baby.
Therese: Yeah. That’s like… a long time.
Doug: It is.
Therese: We’re not a new couple anymore.
Doug: Nope.
Therese: So I guess we’re an old couple. Or at least, old news. So I guess this means we’ll have to stop being disgustingly in love in public now then, huh.
Doug: Yep. And now I can start farting in front of you.
Therese: What? No.
Doug: Yes. (he smiles)
Therese: No! NO. NO.
Doug: Yeeeeeeessssssssss. You love me. You won’t leave me for farting in front of you.
Therese: I wouldn’t test it, if I were you.
I know it’s petty. I know this. But dammit, I have a bloooogggg, and if this isn’t an outlet for frustration, then Doug is. And no one wants to see Doug punch someone for being mean to me. Cause you see, he offers. Which delights me.
So back to my point. This woman (and here we pronounce “woman” with extreme derision, please) was very rude to me. RUDE, Internet. And for what? No idea. Probably because I’m younger, more attractive, have better shoes, and dress with style. We have only ever had one interaction, she and I. As a result, though, the fact that she exists annoys me.
Her way of insincerely thanking people for calling, it annoys me. Her sugary voice, it annoys me. Her terrible 80s haircut, that was terrible in the 80s, it anno… okay, no, actually, it delights me. Because she’s walking about looking like an idiot, and this brings a smile to my face. That, and her high-waisted elastic band jeans. Ahhh. Those pants warm the cockles of my cold, cold, heart.
This is how it happened: she was stuck on a call (I am a technical support person, by the way, and answer the phone for a living at the moment — so does she), and was asking around for help on how to resolve an issue. Since I wasn’t on a call when she asked, I instinctively answered her panicked plea for help. She dismissed my advice, saying “oh, I KNOW honey,” in that sugary, contempt-filled voice. Dismissed me! And ooh, how that voice oozed derision. It doubted my skills! Internet. I have got mad skills. I, am the bomb. She may have been here for 6 years, and I, 6 weeks, but I am a rockstar. Even if I wasn’t, though, there is no need for her to be so patronizing. I was just trying to be helpful.
Maybe a little less sugar, and don’t flavour your coffee with urine every morning, Elastic Bitch Pants. It might improve your disposition.
I didn’t say anything, and just turned away. That was yesterday, and she has yet to say anything else to me. Anything at all. Whether good morning, screw you magoo, or whatever. In my ever so humble opinion, this is a terrible person to have be in customer service. You know: bitchy, laced with insincere warmth? That’s the worst kind of person to have help other people.
People can sense insincerity, Elastic Bitch Pants. They smell it from a mile away and it is piewy. YOU SMELL OF PHONINESS.
Internet? I’ve just heard that Elastic Bitch Pants, grating voice included, has a horseshoe up her butt, and that she regularly wins all sorts of contests, including the most recent one at my company.
Proof, if you ever needed it, that life is not fair.
You may hear more about Elastic Bitch Pants in future. I hope not, but you know… I suspect that you will.
… if you cry and ache when you’re disappointed, even if it’s no one’s fault.
… if you decide you need a night of doing exactly what you want to do without explanation, because you are too exhausted to pretend to be anything but who you are.
… to have nothing but sliced apples and caramel for supper.
… to ignore the answering machine for a couple of days, for no reason other than it’s just not convenient for you to return those calls just yet.
… to secretly be interested in the craziness that is tabloids, and thumb through them while waiting in line at the grocery store.
… to buy a computer game and wait until you are in the perfect mood to start playing it, even if that mood doesn’t hit you for three weeks after you bought the game.
… to let your carefully-applied pedicure chip, and not repaint it right away.
… to wear the exact same outfit you wore after work tonight to work tomorrow, because it makes you feel just the right amount of special.
… to miss your parents when they go to Brazil for a month. So much that you momentarily (and gleefully) revert back to calling them Mommy and Daddy when they come back.
… to secretly be looking forward to the loot your parents brought back from Brazil, after having been there a whole month.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is what giving myself permission to be me looks like today.
If you have a cat, or like them a lot, you will understand my dilemma. If you don’t, you will probably think I’m an idiot.
You see, Internet, I’m hungry. But my cat has settled herself quite firmly and comfortably on my lap. And she doesn’t look like she has any intention of moving any time soon. Even when I readjust, she just sits and purrs, demurely swooshing her tail.
So I find myself wondering how much longer I can hold out, and whether Sita the cat will take pity on the rumbling of my stomach.
Ahh, that classic struggle between having a cat finally sit on your lap, and doing… well, you know. Anything.
Suddenly, I’m especially glad that it’s my day off.
I was just thinking the other day about how much I love mornings. Not the kind that come after a night of playing dice with your sister and surrogate sister who are both visiting for the weekend and staying up even though your eyes are swollen. Not the kind that comes after being up til 2AM because you were playing with your boyfriend (if you know what I mean). And definitely not the kind of morning that happens after you’ve stayed up finishing a delicious, delicious book, only falling asleep when your tired eyes closed of their own volition at about 4AM, book fallen on your chest.
I’m talking about the kind of morning that starts with a little extra time. The morning commute is bearable, the sun is shining, and you walk the few blocks down from your place of employment to the coffeehouse. You take your time, having caught a moment where there is no one in the coffeehouse, and make your careful selection. Your blueberry muffin is heated, you eat it on a plate, and you sip your unhurried sip of delicious mocha, closing your eyes for a deeper sensory experience. You get to your desk early, you get all set up and you realize you have a few minutes to kill, so you start daydreaming as you stare lazily at the Olympics, admiring the athletes.
Yes. Mornings like that are very, very nice.
Hello, hello, hello, Internet! Remember me? I’m still alive and well.
You see, Internet, I’ve been working overtime lately, as well as doing things like taking bellydancing classes and entertaining my sister for the weekend. Beyond that, I’ve filled my every spare minute thinking about and writing my that screenplay I was so happy about last week. Since there are only so many hours in the day, ye old blog hath suffered. Not to mention Doug, who has probably forgotten what I look like. Still, I have a moment to water it, so to speak, and so here we are.
It’s a lot like school, actually, what I’m doing right now. I’m constantly busy, to the point that I am actually unable to finish a novel, a novel that I would easily finish in two nights of pleasurable reading, in a whole week. I haven’t been able to finish it! This surprises no one more than me. I have this restless desire to sit and do nothing, and feel like a hamster on his wheel.
Also, I have forgotten where I was going with this, other than to say a great big HELLO!
Seriously. It has taken me all day to write this, and it feels all disjointed. Obviously, this means I will have to post more than one post. So I guess this’ll be the first one today.
This morning I had a dream, a great dream, an exciting dream. And I lingered in bed long enough to remember the important details. So I’m writing a screenplay of the dream. It’s funny, and it’s an adventure story. And that’s all I’ll reveal for the moment.*
This is so very exciting. I’ve never written a screenplay before, so I’m diving right in, without knowing anything except format.
Wish me luck!
Warning for Cymbria: Expect a call from me within a week or so to discuss at length, oh writing-buddy o’ mine!
*Note. I haven’t stopped writing my novel, I’ve just been seized by a new story for the moment, which I’ll have to spit out as soon as possible. I haven’t given up on my novel, it’s just taking a longer time than I thought it would. Just FYI, before you ask.
“How much do you love me?”
“Um…”
“Doug? That information is not written on the boobies.”
“I was just looking… for… something to measure how much.”
“Mm-hm.”
“And when I was looking at your breasteses, I was just thinking…”
“Mm-hm.”
“That, um, they weren’t big enough to… express how much I love you.” Here, he paused to ogle them. “And they’re pretty big. Preeeeeeeeetty big.” His eyes widened. “Huge.”
I looked down, too.
“Honey? I’m trying, I’m trying really hard, but I’m having a difficult time finding the compliment in that statement.”
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