What if I told you the person behind this blog is 58 years old? That the pictures you've seen of me are actually those of a relative? What if everything you've read about me, that I have supposedly confessed to the internets, is all a lie?
What if, in reality, I was a man? A 58 year old man?
I just wonder what you would think.
(Obviously those who have seen me naked would be harder pressed to imagine this. But you don't have to play.)
A month later, the doctor who performed the procedure called to say they found an ulcer-causing bacteria in there and I needed to go on meds for 2 weeks. I was actually relieved because I still had serious tummy issues, so at least now I knew it was all in my head. I tried to make an appointment. The earliest they could fit me in was 3 weeks later.
That was today. So I had to take the morning off work, pay to park, then wait 30 minutes to see the doctor. All so he could just write me 4 prescriptions. That's it. He didn't examine me. He didn't do a damn thing that warranted me going into the office at all. In fact, he could have called the fucking pharmacy 3 weeks ago and I could have been finished with these damn pills already instead of spending all that time suffering unnecessarily.
Fucking asshole.
So now I have the joy of taking 18 pills a day for the next 14 days. During which time I can't drink because of weird side effects from one of the meds.
You can imagine how irritated I am.
I know everyone gets pissed that Thanksgiving is glossed over in favor of the more commercialized and lucrative gift-giving holidays in December, but I just bought Monsieur's gift and I'm feeling pretty damn satisfied with my purchase.
He loves Kenneth Cole. So I got him:
In return, I'm asking for:
And after the conversation we had last night about how I'm awesome at providing him LSU football highlights when he sleeps through the early games, and am therefore the bestest girlfriend ever, I totally deserve it.
Especially since he kept offering me scotch, but I was trying to protect his finances so I only drank beer. The alcohol I like is quite expensive, and he's gotta save it for that fabulous gift.
I really am a great girlfriend. Worth all 3.375 carats.
- The beach a mere four miles away
- A cooler climate than the rest of the city
- My favorite dive bar, where the owner knows my name, and the Sunday morning regulars greet me with a high five, especially if the Saints are winningThere are far more negative things, like traffic, ridiculously high rent, traffic, never-ending street construction, and did I mention the paralyzing traffic?But the one thing that I noticed on the ride home tonight was the line of planes. Little points of light. Like a linear constellation. It reminded me of the week after 9/11. My roommate, who had just left NYC, and I headed down to the beach one night. It was eerily deserted, like most of the city. People were afraid to leave their homes in those first few days. But what struck us most was the absence of that line of lights hovering over LAX. It was strange.For some reason, leaving that to move 30 miles inland is making me sad.It's funny what gets you.
The stat counter is filling up with new blogs that I had no idea were pointing in my direction. So instead of reading my rantings about work, lets spotlight them:
- Ambiguous Amber: A journey into the mind of an ADHD thirty-something. Justifyingly Sassy. Offensively Witty. Excessively Dramatic.
- Knaphrodesiac: Stealing candy from children since 1980.
- So This One Time...: I am single, twenty-something, and have a lot of random things to say...mostly about men and sex (my two favorite subjects).
I have no real idea how they ended up here, so I'll wait to hear that from them. Ladies, feel free to share.
And while we're at it, why don't the rest of you lurkers share how you got here? Confession is good for the soul. And it makes good reading.
I just pulled off one of the most chaotic events of my life. Mostly because it required coordination between 4 separate organizations, none of which seemed to want to help me out by cooperating. Fuckers.
And this was for a charity, of all things! Remind me to never do that again.
This is how it went:
6 weeks from notice to execution
16,000 dollar food and beverage minimum
600 estimated attendees
9 top level sponsors
70 mid-level sponsors
27 hours personally dedicated to this in the last 3 days
46.5 man hours of staff time in the last 2 days
5 feds on site
1 super happy GPG
75 minutes spent in heels
1 back-up pair of flats
27,000 dollars spent on food alone
400 dollar bar minimums
6 cash bars
2400 dollars in alcohol apparently consumed
756 confirmed attendees
2 hours of cocktails
175,000 dollars raised for charity
1 very weary GPG
All this and I supposedly was also thanked in the speeches. Of course, I wasn't in the room to hear this, but I was told about it after the fact. Which is almost as good. Except not at all. Because if I'm going to work my ass off this hard for something that wasn't even supposed to be my responsibility, I want to bask in my 2 seconds of glory, dammit! Especially in a room filled with 700 drunken people.
But at least I got the feds. And that alone is worth its weight in yummy.
I never said my job didn't have an upside.
My time is valuable. I cost my company a great deal of money, especially after 5 pm...not what I'm worth, but relatively speaking, I'm not bad off.
So when a minimum wage clerk at Office Depot wants to waste time playing games with me instead of finding the item I'm paying $300 for, I get a bit irked. Understandably so.
Therefore, it wouldn't be considered rude at all if I snapped at him, told him to get is ass in gear, and get the shit I'm trying to buy.
Don't waste my fucking time.
Over the weekend, I realized I'm living a life I don't quite recognize. Not totally happy with it, I've decided to do away with the hypotheticals and accept certain truths.
In list form:
- Quitting my job would not be the end of the world
- Maybe having a kid wouldn't be so bad
- I'm moving back to El Valle next month
Usually, when I want to make a big change in my life, I just cut off all my hair and take up a new endurance sport. But this time, it's going to take more than a sassy haircut and a renewed commitment to the gym. I have to shake it up completely: relocate and start fresh.
I'm lucky that I have the luxury of making these decisions on my terms and no one else's, even if coming to grips with them is breaking my brain. And no, I'm on pregnant...but apparently the biological clock started ticking on Saturday.
Probably due to the fact that Saturday marked the 6-month countdown to 30.
Crikey.
In the meantime, happy 6th birthday to my G-brat. She's 6 today. What a fun age.
Have you seen those Careerbuilder commercials where workers are in a Survivor-type environment, the tagline being "Do more than survive the work week"? There's one where hapless workers are enticed by free doughnuts and bagels, only to fall down a hole and get trapped in mindless meetings.
That gives you an idea of what my typical workday feels like.
Meetings are like purgatory: an endless limbo of people talking in circles, deciding nothing but to continue "thinking by committee" at the next meeting.
It's so painful that stabbing myself in the eye would accomplish more and still hurt less.
But recently I've noticed an even more annoying trend: chewing gum in meetings. In fact, one director goes so far as to bring in new flavors every time we meet. What the fuck? So everyone sits around the table chomping away at Berry Blast or Citrus Melon.
Do you know how difficult it is to take a department head seriously when they look like cows chewing cud? It's awful. I lose respect for them with each smack of the gum. And then I start to wonder why they make more money than I do. Which makes me depressed. And makes the time in the meeting that much more miserable.
Sometimes I wish it was a little more like Singapore.
You know how the American public has a severe obesity problem? Well, the new joke at Disneyland is that instead of being "this tall to ride this ride," you must "weigh less than an elephant."
Fat fucking Midwesterners are breaking the boats in the It's a Small World ride. They have to close it down in order to rejigger it to allow their fat asses to keep taking up space.
And in another 50 years, they'll probably have to do it again.
The writers strike is on. Coffee drinkers beware.
I just bought raspberries. Five bucks for a handful.
The price of gas is climbing in leaps and bounds.
So the California economy is going to take a dump because an entire industry is about to grind to a halt. Food is becoming prohibitively expensive to get to market because the gas in the trucks is too fucking high.
We can't eat. We can't drive. We can't be entertained.
And the holidays are just around the corner.
Lovely.
Oh it's late. Again. Sue me. No really, go ahead. I have lawyers in my pockets. And I'm just dying to force them to do my bidding. For 33%. Unless we go to trial, then it's 40%.
Fucking lawyers. They're also the reason last month's wrap up is so late. Lets all hate them together.
2 casual Fridays spent in a suit
11 events requiring my attention
17 stories before my lungs exploded in an icky mucus nightmare
6 days sick in bed
3 half-days of work missed
1 birthday party missed
24 years on the planet achieved by our favorite Shambot
3 months achieved by her baby son
1 Yoda costume for the baby
16 dollars for two Clippers tickets
1 surprise appearance by the newest member of the Phoenix Suns
21 points scored by my boyfriend Grant Hill
2 glasses of Simon LA's yummy California syrah
1 book unsigned
1 free glass of scotch
1 double shot of tequila spilled at Stone Rose
10 pieces of sushi
3 glasses of California Symphony @ T&A's
132 minutes cracking up over the unrated version of "Knocked Up"
1 little Krazy child taught to root for the losing Bruins
3 Saints wins
0 promised Saints t-shirts delivered
4 Raiders losses
0 Raiders merchandise owned
1 generic hooded costumed figure
1 NASCAR fan without his mustache
15 dollars to park
4 blocks walked, both up AND downhill
80 million freaks dressed up for the WeHo Halloween Carnaval
