Halloween is an awesome time of year, and also the time at which some of the best parties are held.

My heterowifemate and I were talking last night, and we glanced on a topic we always bring up around this time each year. It's really a difficult thing to admit happened, and I'm about to tell a story about something bad that happened to me, so if you don't want to know, skip the cut.

( This cut. Right here. )

Last night I had a dream that I was giving Jon -9's kids riding lessons, only Kate came raring up and bitched me out for not doing it the way she liked. She wanted me to use two horses and line the kids up, four per horse. We were also at a barn where they kept their foals in cages. I'm not shitting. I was pretty upset.

I've been having fantastic dreams lately, and looking at my f-list, it looks like I'm not the only one whose zzz-foolery has been exciting lately. Hifivegoteam.

Mrs. Hurr-Durr Jones and I had an epic conversation last night, and we've decided that all disappointing news should be presented in the form of:

Open the door. Get on the floor. *insert disappointing news here*

My personal favourite was:
Open the door. Get on the floor. That wasn't Jell-O.

Feel free to deposit some Door-Floor-Dump in the comments section of the and only this LJ post.

I'm in a wacky mood today, 'cos it's Kylee's last day. Y'know, I always thought we were just kinda work buddies, but we are filling every last moment with bond-inducing gossip. I don't know what I'm going to do without her. I mean, the fact that she didn't know who ABBA was filled me with at least a week's enjoyment. In fact, just last week she asked me to gargle an ABBA song for her.

Eventually, I am going to have to break in new coworkers. I thought about that this morning, because Susan was talking to me, and I was fucking around with shit on my desk. Most people would consider that rude, but that's how I operate- if I want to really listen to someone, I have to be farting around somehow. During our early days, when we had no idea what the program was doing, she'd hand me a marker during brainstorming sessions so I could doodle out my thoughts. I'm 98% sure that there aren't a whole lot of managers who can deal with that.

Sign of budget cuts: They just had a janitor pass around our 2010 calendars. They're laminated print-outs. Previously we had At-A-Glance wall calendars. The complaining is pretty much drowning out my thinking right now.

Throw me some lulz, if you want. We can lulitate each other all day, if you like. You got the moves baby, but I've got the motion.

I finally got my first rejection notice in the job app world. I've applied to over two dozen jobs, and so far, no one's even read my application. Today I received notice that while I was qualified from a practical standpoint, I didn't have the titles that the employer wanted to hire. So basically, just because my title was Senior Analyst of Awesome, rather than Awesome Analyst Of Doom, I don't get considered. Even though I've done more than the job asked for.

I heart the employment world so hard. Remind me of that when I'm fucking living under a bridge, burning my last copy of Practical Hobo to stay warm.

Both of my coworkers have been successfully hired with other companies and will be gone by the end of the month. That means that this is my show through the end of the year. They're getting a temp to help me out. So far, no one has mentioned that I get supervisor pay, even though I'll have to step into the supervisor role and start running all the fucking reports and what not.

I hate being shafted.

Yodie told me yesterday to put my house on the market. I'm just not ready.

Today, in honour of the fact that I'm officially in my last year of The Twenties, I am going to make public confessionals.

Here we go:

1. I prefer my soda room temperature and flat.
2. That being said, my parents drilled it into me that you never, ever, refuse food/drink/gifts/a free beejer from a hooker, so if the soda has ice in it, I live through it and go on to another day.
3. Thus, I have a failure to understand picky people. Mainly, the failure is in understanding why they haven't been killed, 'cos that's how my parents rolled.
4. I think it's sad when people refuse to understand something. "I don't get this" "-What part?" "ANY OF IT!" "-Well, let's start at the beginning." "NOOOOOO! I DON'T GET IT!"
5. I spit out the peanuts from Peanut M&Ms. My father thinks they're my favourite, so that's a looooot of spitting during the Christmas season.
6. My father, speaking of whom, announced that my birthday present this year shall be tickets to the Michigan State/Iowa game. I'm not sure why.
7. Every year, I call my mother in the 2am hour. I was born at 2.50am. This has yet to piss her off. Amazingly enough, considering she hung up on me when I sneezed on the phone the other day.
8. I'm wearing my favourite sweater, and it kinda smells like yuk. That makes me sad.
9. I'm going to a drag show after work today, courtesy of my old boss. Every year, I swear nothing good is going to happen on my birthday, and every year, he bails me out of boredom at the last minute.
10. I love my job. Too bad it's going away.
11. I get pissed when people I love have shitty days on my birthday. That's not fair, 'cos I want everyone to be happy on my birthday.
12. My tattoo has gotten to the itch stage.
13. I get the night terrors somethin' fierce. Last night was no exception. LOVE IT!
14. This morning, the windchimes I took from my grandparents' house started ringing like crazy. The cats and I were nowhere near them. I wonder... .
15. Everyone has been incredibly nice to me today, and I'm talking people who have no idea it's my birthday. Like the guy at the bank, or the Scrubway guy.
16. I have a ton of lipgloss. And I never wear any of it. I just gnaw that shit right off anyway. The good thing is that I haven't paid for most of it. Castaways from the drag show days.
17. It just occurred to me that "Castaways from the Drag Show Days" would be a great album title. I want to have a job where I just name things. Albums. Bands. Lipstick colours. Paint. Furniture. "Yeah, that's a Shabadang, in the colour 'Frank's Surprise.'" I could do that. I could ROCK that shit.
18. When I was six, I used to hop up on the fireplace hearth and perform "You Just May Be The One" by The Monkees for our parakeet. No one else really paid attention, and the bird was in a cage. Truly captive audience.
19. I mention 18 because I'm doing it right now, in my cubicle. Thank you, iPod.
20. You know those songs that you really like just because you liked them when you were a kid and didn't know they really sucked? I'm not ashamed of those. Obviously.
21. In college, my friends and I both flashed and Old Man Danced whenever possible.
22. I have always wanted to play the drums.
23. If I know the words to a song, I will not just mouth the words, but dramatically lip-synch, with possible dancing. If I'm drunk, I might-might-MIGHT try to sing.
24. I don't like "actually" sing in front of people, despite the gajillions of dollars my father dropped on voice lessons. Just can't do it. Don't want to do it, either, so fuck off. Exception: drunk as shit Cher impression.
25. Grocery store? Late at night? I dance to the muzak.
26. I think I might just start coming to work dressed like Ziggy Stardust. What are they going to do? Fire me? Oh, wait.
27. I don't sit in chairs like humans ought to. It's totally subconscious, too.
28. I think everything is significant.
29. Bob Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone" follows my life from age 20-26 so closely, it spooks the hell out of me. Bob Dylan's is also the only concert I've gone to alone, and he played "Like a Rolling Stone." I was glad of that.

And one to grow on!
30. I'm gonna rock this shit.

I've been bitching for years about how I want a tattoo. And I say "bitching," because I know they cost money, and while I am not stingy about cheese and (less and less frequently) a romp through the booze garden, I am very stingy about things that are not required for sustinence. As an example, I invite you to look at my house. The only piece of furniture I bought was my sofa, and all, like six, of my knick-knacks live on my fireplace mantle. I haven't bought clothes in over a year, 'cos all my stuff is fine.

Thus, I've pined and pined for a tattoo, and never actually done it, 'cos I couldn't justify the cost vs. things I need. I mean, I coulda, but it's way more fun for me to spend that dough on a super-awesome dinner party than on some ink.

I was pretty much resolved that it wouldn't happen, 'specially with my mortgage going up and my job going poof.

Bumpo and I were talking about this tonight over dinner, 'cos I'd swung into town to hang out with her and her Ralph after I did the barn thing.

Imagine my surprise when she told me about my birthday present. Yup. Tattoo.

We spent awhile driving around, looking for this particular artist she liked who'd moved shops recently. Quite by accident, we found him. No shit- we were about to scope out the only place we saw open, and when they called in the artist, Ta-Da, as they say.

But you don't care about that. Right now, you just want to know what I got, and where I put it.

It's a daffodil. It's on my left upper arm, where it can be easily covered up even by short sleeves. Unless I stroll into an interview in a tube top, no prospective employer will see it. And while I do have a tube top, I don't have a strapless bra, so we're pretty safe.

Why a daffodil? Easy- it's my favourite flower. I've been planning on having a daffodil for quite some time now. That, or an ellipsis in a parenthesis (...). But after we worked that one up, it looked to me like some kind of emoticon for shitting, so I passed.

Daffodil it is. The great thing about the placement is that I can expand on it, if I want, and make it the central part of a sleeve or part-sleeve. I know some of you are sitting there, groaning over getting a fucking flower, of all fucking things. Would you feel better if I said that by "daffodil,' I meant "Neil Diamond 69'ing a clown?" 'Cos I don't, but I also don't want any of you to stress over my dubious choices.

Petals are white, and the center blossom is orange. Orange being my favourite colour, we all win.

Bumpo got a heart of forget-me-nots, which apparently occurs in nature. See, it was an educational experience, as well.

Once I realised it really didn't hurt all that badly, I just watched. We also sang along to "Wonderwall" when it came on the artist's mix cd. Apparently not every client starts a sing-along while getting a tattoo. Who knew?

There was a moment of confusion at the end in which I almost begged him to slice of my arm. I thought he said to rub PURELL into the tattoo as it healed, and I didn't like that plan. Rubbing alcohol into a raw, scabby part of my body? No thanks. Alternate plan? NO, it's CUREL, as in the fucking lotion. I'm ok with that plan.

The initial sting has worn off, and honestly, the roof of my mouth hurts worse than the tattoo. I sliced it up having a sub for dinner at Rooster's.

So, the moral of the story is, my heterowifemate is the best in the whole wide world.

And I have now permanently disfigured my body... with awesomeness.

Austingoddess- before I continue to forget, I want to thank you for your generous package! I'm looking forward to exhausting my new supply. Your kindnes is much appreciated!!!

I'm awake because I'm something like 90% sure Harvey has a hairball, but any time the cats act weird, I have to lose my effing mind.

It's been quite a week. Finally got my retention packet, which is not to be confused with the termination packet. Just a friendly reminder that they'll pay me a lot of money to stay through 12, Feb.

It inspired me to apply for two more jobs. So far only getting callbacks from fake places with bored admins. I don't care how bored you are, as long as you work someplace legit.

Who wants some 6am memeage?
( I knew you did! )

I am not proud to admit that I found solace in a $5 bottle of screwdrivers last night.

But it's damned funny, so I'll go ahead and mention it.

First, though, I'd like to thank all the well-wishers and thoughts I've been getting from my good friends here on LJ and IRL. It's nice to know that people care, and it's even nicer to know that I've not been put on suicide watch. I've grown quite a bit since I started this blog.

That being said.

Doby called me yesterday and asked if I'd like to come over to his house for boxed wine and UHF. I'm very fond of both of those things, so I put on the same pyjamas I've worn for the past week and headed over there.

But I'm not a rude person, by nature, just an asshole, so I stopped at the gas station to buy a cheap nummy to contribute to the evening.

And that's where the $5 bottle of screwdrivers enters the picture.

They weren't that bad, to tell the truth. They were good in that, "I'm going to try to have a coherent conversation or two and fail madly before I fall asleep at 9pm" sort of way.

I'm not sure if we actually watched UHF or just acted it out. Because I roll cool enough to act out Weird Al films, but I still don't know all the words to "Your Auntie Grizelda."

Because there's no drinking and driving, I stayed at Doby's apartment. And by "Doby's apartment," I mean "the place where air stagnates." Seriously, it was a chilly night last night, but nary a droplet entered his apartment. I wandered through his place, trying to find a decent spot to rest where I didn't feel like I was choking on humidity.

Helpfully, Doby's cat followed me through the apartment and laid on my chest at each location. Not only was I drenched in $5 screwdriver-scented sweat, but I was covered in cat fur as well.

I gave up and went back to Bushwood around 5. AM, that is.

So many thanks to Doby for his hospitality, and many thanks to the fine makers of $5 screwdrivers.

I feel much better now.

Found out our jobs are being eliminated early next year.

Awesome.

Going to start working on my resume immediately. Going to move in with Bumpo if things go really poorly.

Called the vet and left word that there's no way I can afford a $200 medication, even now and then, and that we'll have to come up with alternate plans for Harvey. For however long he lasts, that is.

Also... Nanaw didn't recognise me yesterday. I was a sign and a sofa, but she didn't know I was there.

Awesome couple of days. Awesome, I tells ya!

This morning, I signed my mother up for Gmail.

She's still pretty sure she's going to lose her job in October, and I had to break the sad news to her that a lot of job searching happens on the internet these days. Yodie, being resistant to anything that has a plug, has taken the opportunity to bitch about this at every possible moment for the past several months.

EW: Hey, Yodie. Can you pass me the salt?
YODIE: Yes, but you'll have to apply for the job on the fucking internet to receive it!

Et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.

So, today, she was bitching about how her work email spam-filtered email I sent her from my gmail address, and because I lack the intelligence to put my finger up my nose, I went ahead and signed her up for a gmail account.

She can't figure out how to open an email, but she has figured out how to use gchat.

This is super-awesome, because now she doesn't have to CALL me every fucking five minutes when she sneezes or says something witty or has a beef with a coworker... she can just chat with me all day.

And while this has irritated the hell out of me all day, I'm wondering- if she's on live feed all day, then what can she POSSIBLY have to call me about every night?

Aha? Aha!

Of course, that means I've been privvy to such gems today as:
i'm going outside rite this min
and
i'm back

But I think I'd rather that than an hour plus of her going through her grocery list and every conversation she had with every coworker every day.

We'll see. We'll just have to see.

I whipped my desk chair around my cube wall, headed to Bosslady's cube to ask if I could split early today.

At the same time, motivated by our shitty printer, Bosslady whipped out of her cube and headed in my direction.

Q: If a girl in an office chair leaves her cube at 8.55am, headed west at however fast someone actually moves in a desk chair, and an older woman walking with a purpose leaves her cube at the exact same moment, who's going to end up embarrassed?

A: Kylee. Because she has to sit there and look like she Certainly Doesn't Work with Nincompoops while her boss and senior are tangled up in a mess of legs, chair, and flailing.

I crashed into Bosslady, halting fast enough to put me into this Matrix-like hover as I balanced on my chair's hind wheels. Bosslady tried to push me back to the upright, locked position, but it didn't work very well. Bosslady weighs about twelve pounds soaking wet. So I crashed back onto her feet.

Everyone seems to be ok.

So yeah, I can hop onto the back of a thousand pounds of animal and make it do my bidding, but I can't manage to keep my ass on my desk chair for a full hour.

I want to thank everyone for their suggestions yesterday. Mercifully, I didn't have to use a single one, because everyone was quite lovely. The same nurse did all of my testing, so I didn't have to explain to everyone that I was super-shy about my weight. I told her once, and she said, "that's ok. Look when you're ready."

I've technically gained four pounds from last year, but considering I'm down a pant size and can wear shirts I haven't worn for years (wearing one right now, actually, that hasn't been buttoned since 2003), I'm willing to bet that's muscle gain. That still puts my BMI in the "Overweight" catagory, but the counselor made damn sure to tell me that the BMI measurements do not consider overall muscle tone, and that he could tell that I was sporting some muscle.

So that's the bitch that I'm in right now. I really want to be thin and light for riding, but at the same time, it helps me build muscle like whoa. Muscle weighs more than fat. What the fuck am I going to do? Have my muscle removed?

I don't even know what I'm thinking right now, I'm so confused. I mean, my blood pressure was fine, and I'm only in the "moderate" risk group. I can't change the fact that I'm short and stocky- that's just my shape. And while I'm certainly going to continue to work on my fat levels, I don't know what I can do to make sure I weigh less. It's this awful Catch-22!

FML, Take 2.

Actually, right here, the whole time. I've even been reading, every single day. We've just been doing this weird project that involves making a lot of calls to people who don't know we're calling to ask them long, involved questions about their thoughts, dreams, hopes, and aspirations, or whatever.

Kinda like that, but if I went any further, too much reality would shine through.

My health screening is tomorrow, which means there'll probably be some kind of shrieking, panicked, "my life is over" entry in this spot tomorrow afternoon, when I've been told how fat and useless I am.

Honestly, I wish there was an easier way to do this for folks who might have issues. What I'd love is if they didn't announce your weight to you, but instead, let you look at it when you were ready. I plan to mention that I'm a recovering bulimic tomorrow- there's no point in simpering about something if you aren't going to *DO* something about it, y'know?

As a quick recap: Last year, all the nurses were great when I explained that I had an eating disorder- until the follow-up nurse started yelling at me for being fat and out of control. Yelling as in "voice raised/strong language," not yelling as in "oh, my delicate sensibilities."

There's something totally humiliating about having to introduce yourself by what's wrong with you. "Hi, I'm Ernie, recovering from eating disorders. Don't mention my weight, apple juice, or peanut butter." Most of the time, it doesn't matter. My fucked-up issues really don't impact me 100% of the time anymore, which is what "recovering" means. But being in a room with people who want nothing to do with you but to measure and judge you, based on your weight and waist measurement. That hurts me.

I'm scared, ok? I'm honestly scared.

'Cos this means I get to spend the entire holiday weekend acutely aware that I'm not good enough for me.

FML.

So if you're on my Facebook, you'd be hip to the fact that I had The Food Poisoning... or as I prefer to call it, #99.

Have you ever eaten something, and while you're eating it, some little naggling voice inside you says "OH YOU ASS... DON'T DO THIS!" And you say, "Bitch, I paid for this; I'm damn well going to eat it. What the fuck is wrong with you, wasting good food like that?"

You should never p-slap that voice. Never. Don't do it.

'Cos several hours later, when you're blasting into the toilet like a machine gunner with Tourette's, dry heaving into the cat box because it's the closest thing that isn't the floor or your own lap, that voice will come up to you and give you a purple nurple.

Because that voice is CORRECT, and it was the whole time, and aren't you a dick for ignoring it.

In my fridge is most of a meat-covered pizza. Yeah, I ate some meat, and don't give me any shit, because I think I've been punished about enough, THANK YOU.

You see, the worst part of having #99 is that I eat a lot of spicy food. Like, a lot. And Tuesday night I made up this jalapeno-cheese sauce that was just fucking delicious. Two jalapenos and some extra sharp cheddar, some tomatoes and basil, and I'll never do that again.

Because do you know what happens when jalapenos come back? Wait, wait... let me try another angle here: Have you ever seriously considered putting a Jell-O Pudding Pop up your ass?

I have, man. I have.

Now I can take some serious pain. Kidney stones: Yeah, I got this. Blood-soaked UTI: Whatevs. Broken foot: What's on television?

I am not ashamed to admit that I howled. I can't believe Donna didn't wake up.

I'm kinda worried that I melted my sphincter shut. Can that happen?

Anyway, I ended up taking yesterday as a sick day, not because I thought I was capable of any further 99-ing, but because I'd stayed up the entire night, trying to hover. I can't fucking hover. God, what's wrong with me? Why can't I evolve to adapt to my own needs?

I'm also out of pudding pops.
And I need to buy Donna another bag of frozen veggies.
And my neck is stiff from the heaving.

Things are still a little shakey on the hole, but I think I'll live.

I will TOTALLY give someone $20 to eat the rest of this pizza, though.

I've always picked up little clicks and phrases from other people. Always:

"One moment please!" "What is up the butt, Bob?" "We're on Eternal Circulate." "Hmmm. mmmmm." "Twattley McTwatterson of St. Twat's Place." "Nununununununu!" "Maybe later!" "Douchenozzle." "Lookamelookum." "Let us pray." "You poo on a stick." "Arse likken (is a very, very, very fine schlikken)." "I should be paid for this."

None of those are originals. I ganked them, one and all. And I feel little to no remorse for eating your words. Them's tasty victuals.

But I've hit a new low. Kylee said something about leaving early, and I agreed by saying "Verm."

Which is what Polly says when she agrees with me.

Polly is my cat.

I'm quoting a fucking cat.

This my mop.

No, no, no. This isn't my mop. This is my journal entry.

Right. Got it.

I'm really about half-starved for mental stimulation at this point. I've created my own stimulus package, which included:

-a clear plastic knife that also works as a magnifying glass
-a cup of water
-my iPod
-a sock monkey
-"Changing For Good: A Revolutionary Six-Stage Program for Overcoming Bad Habits and Moving Your Life Positively Forward"
-a tiny pecan pie that was gifted to me yesterday
-a hand-sized basketball that's losing its air
-various drawing pads, pens, and markers
-a spirally phone cord thingie
-my cell phone
-a piece of foil that I've twisted into something that vaguely resembles a crane... without legs
-a bobby pin
-a box of paper clips

I started making chain mail out of the paper clips while listening to the iPod, but the chain mail started to piss me off, so I stopped that and put the bobby pin up my nose. Then I read the book for awhile. Then I texted Daddy Hex for awhile. Then I doodled. Then I whipped the phone cord around my head and made it into a crown. Then I read. Then sock monkey danced around my desk for awhile. Then I tried to remember sock monkey's name, and failed. Then I tried batting the basketball off my head and into the trash can. Then I read.

Then I worked on my latest obsession- tracking down exactly when Tori Amos' face changed. I don't have any definitive answers. I'm not allowed to ask her directly. Still working.

Oh, and I pulled the bobby pin out of my nose after awhile, and used the knife to read the book line-by-line. It's a super book, and I love it, but the mix of quiet and rumbling noise around here can't hold me.

The floor on our section of the building rumbles like a stampede when people walk near us: pttthrrrump, pttthrrrrump, pttthrrrump. It's like waiting for an actual stampede- I get all excited that someone might be coming by to talk to me.

Instead, it's just the folks who treat our aisle like a zoo. They forget there are people in here, so when they walk by, they just stare us down. S just ignores them. K always gives them the grump. I try to smile. I'm the happy animal in the zoo. "Hello, don't forget to tip your monkey! Enjoy the show!"

Eh, so that's that.
Back to reading.

I've been wound up a lot lately, and in working with one of my fellow counselors, I think I've kinda figured out what it is. So now I need to talk about it in order to get my mind wrapped around the situation.

( Warning: Triggers Involving Weight and Eating Disorders Ahoy-hoy. )

Bosslady just said, "Well, if I'm on a boat, aaaaaand..." in the context of her conversation with her daughter on the phone.

I resisted the temptation to shout, "It's goin' fast, aaaaand" over the cube walls.

Also: I'm having trouble keeping this pen on my desk. It keeps rolling off (desk is wonked). I'm failing miserably, and the harder I flail around to keep this pen on the desk, the harder I'm laughing. So here I am, flailing, laughing, and this pen keeps falling.

Professionalism: I AM!!

I have the new phone.

I have the new phone because I left work, drove all the way to the store in Dublin and asked for my new phone. Played out a bit like this:
1. Guy tells me they don't have it.
2. Guy tells me they do have it.
3. Guy asks for my old phone.
4. I look confused and say I didn't know I needed to bring it.
5. Guy talks to me like I'm a fucking Muppet and tells me they need to get the battery from my old phone.
6. I tell him that's the part that doesn't work, so why do they want it?
7. I also tell him that I would've been more than happy to bring the old phone, but the only instruction I received was a piece of paper and a phone number and a few unhelpful grunts. (the girl who grunted was standing behind me, so I'm sure I pissed her off)
8. I then mention that I really need a phone for my 7pm client call, and though I generally plan for these sorts of things, the lack of instruction is kind of leaving me screwed.
9. Guy goes back to Muppet voice and asks me how he's supposed to get my numbers from my old phone if I don't bring it in.
10. I tell him in equal-but-opposite Muppet voice that you can't pull any data off a dead phone.
11. He snaps "YES YOU CAN!" and runs off to find a battery.
12. He returns and wordlessly hands me my phone.
13. I stare at him.
14. He tells me to bring my other phone back immediately.
15. I refrain from telling him to eat a bucket of dicks.

I did some mental figuring in the car, and called my 7pm client to see if we could push things back a bit. He agreed. I apologised profusely for letting him become a victim of the trickle-down effect of unprofessionalism. I thanked him for his flexibility, and took the phone back inside. I thanked the managerial guy for letting me use it, and told him I would feel terrible about taking property that wasn't yet mine, and that I'd be back with my old phone.

And then I drove half and hour away to Bushwood to pick up my dead fucking phone. Then I drove half an hour back to the fucking store with my dead fucking phone.

And wouldn't you know? "OH, I GUESS THIS PHONE IS DEAD. NO USING THE BATTERY ON THIS ONE!" Hurr-durr, good sir. Hurr-durr, indeed.

In my mind here, I went all Goddamn Batman on him and the girl who handed me a piece of paper with 26 if-then statements and expected me to extrapolate reality from them. Instead, I said, for the benefit of everyone, "I thank you for letting me use this phone to reschedule my appointment. I apologise for all of the confusion; HOWEVER, if this had been explained to me thoroughly, instead of having to figure out what was going on with my DEAD phone from a piece of paper that addressed LOST phones, this process would've gone much smoother."

I just got the stink eye, but I don't terribly care. I don't expect my customers to figure things out without my assistance- especially if the information I give them isn't appropriate in the first place.

Amazingly, I didn't end up on the news. That I know of. I dunno. I fell asleep watching an HBO special on the hookers of Atlantic City.

Here's you:

Hmm-hum. Deedle-dee Monday. Lala. Doin' stuff, hey-hey.

Here's me:

OWLY CHROIST EYES! blinkblinkbleed By eight, by eight. Shit... but Seven! Seven thirty, by eight? 5.30- by seven? Tomorrow if not. Tomorrow.


**********************************
The difference is that the phone guy said my phone might be in, 'cos he had to check and the THIRD TIME'S THE CHARM! But it would be an hour to get there now, and maybe a half hour after my seven (which would end at seven-thirty).

There's no easy way to get to Dublin.

I'm guessing I'll just get it tomorrow. Path of least resistance and blahblah.

I'd also like my new contacts in, 'cos I'm batting like a coquette, and I don't care to face sexual harrassment charges.

My coworker and I are getting up every few minutes and taking a walk somewhere. We just walked most of the way across town just for giggles. We'll see how far I make it today.

While I'm doing that, ( Eat at Joe's. Have a Survey. Tip Your Waitress. )