The Bad Neighbor

The worst thing about living in an apartment is the close proximity to sub-human life forms. The building where BFRB and I live seems to attract a few of them, because it's dirt cheap. Most of our neighbors are okay. Sure, one of them has a bad habit of leaving her trash in the hall (bagged and tied, but smelly) for days at a time, but for the most part, they are nice people. Our landlord is pretty careful about renters. However, even she makes mistakes sometimes…

This all started about a year ago. BFRB's neighbor moved out. We barely noticed, because she was never there anyway….she was mostly living with her boyfriend but needed an address to keep up appearances. However, when the new neighbor moved in, we rediscovered the meaning of the word annoying.

At first, he was just weird. He was a short guy with bad acne and one of those dwerpy little braided tail things on his head. He was not usually very friendly, except when he tried to hit on BFRB and brought her a snacky from Starbucks. When she blew him off (rightfully so, I might add), he became a complete asshole.

His transgressions included:

1. I was carrying a computer monitor up the stairs. We have a security door. You have to unlock it (it opens inward), which is hard to do when your arms are full. The Bad Neighbor SAT IN HIS CAR until I got all the way upstairs. I'm not saying he should have carried it (although I would have let him), but opening the door would have been courteous…since he was going upstairs anyway.

2. Door dinging our cars. Hard. And I know it was him….he drove a white SUV, and my car has a BIG WHITE DOOR DING. Not just a little paint spot. A big, jackass opening the door really hard and fast door ding.

3. Bad cooking smells. Don't know what he was cooking, but it smelled like ass. Every day, we came up the stairs and smelled this nasty shit. It smelled like a diner after the breakfast rush on Saturday.

4. Super-irritating gangsta rap, loudly.

5. Flushing the toilet and turning the water on and off every time BFRB tried to take a shower…since he was next door, this alternately froze and scalded her.

6. The punching bag. We'd be hanging out watching TV or just shooting the shit, and kept hearing this horrible, repetitive thumping. It practically made BFRB's windows rattle.

As if the above were not enough to permanently inscribe his name on our shit list…there was Max. The pit bull.

It's not like he just called the dog and took it outside and play with it. Oh no. He yelled at it…both in the hall and outside. Hourly. Then, he and the dog would RACE up the stairs….and he would be yelling at the dog for CHEATING. Our stairs are old, they're wooden, and they are very loud. You can hear when someone comes in and out. Usually, no big deal…they walk up the stairs and go in their apartment. But yelling at the dog and pounding up the stairs at 2 in the morning is not cool. After a number of these incidents, BFRB finally opened her door and told him to hush.

Our landlord is adamant that you can't have a dog in any of her rental properties. In an attempt to get rid of the neighbor without fucking up our karma, we devised a plot. BFRB called the landlord over to investigate a smell in her apartment (there really was one). We made sure, though, that he was home and being irritating as hell when she got there. She hears the punching bag and music noises, and knocks on his door…when he finally opens it, she sees the dog.

Well, she told him to get rid of it, but a month later, the dog and the annoying one were still living there and still being supremely irritating. So we came up with a new plan for not ruining our karma but making sure the asshole was kicked to the curb. I just put a note in with my rent check that said "do you know he still has the dog?"

When the landlord finally called, she said that she'd been on his ass for a month, and he kept making up stories about the dog disappearing soon. Finally, after months of this hell, she evicted him…and his replacement is fine as hell. Apology accepted.

Pull Over...It's the Fashion Police

One of my favorite things to do is people watch….pretty much anywhere. The office, the mall, the airport, restaurants, Wal-Mart, the gym…I try to be a nice person, and not judge people based upon their clothes. Sometimes, however, the mistakes are so glaring, they are impossible to ignore. My years of study have led me to several conclusions.

1. There are a disproportionate number of people who do not now and have never owned a full length mirror, nor do they pay attention to their reflections in doors, windows, or puddles.

2. As a plus-size (but shrinking) woman, I am glad that the fashion choices have improved for fat chicks. However, there are certain items that should not be offered for sale in plus-size shops or departments, because people will buy them…and wear them in public. Among these are very short, pleated miniskirts; very short skirts of any kind; clingy tops which show off little except fat rolls; legging-type pants; bikini swimsuits; short-shorts; and tube tops. Additionally, some items should require approval before purchase, like sleeveless tops, hip huggers, anything sheer or semi-sheer, skirts above the knee, and items which are very fitted. Further, I don't care what size you are…even size 4's look fat when crammed into size-two jeans and an XS shirt. Make sure those low-rise pants are wider than the fat rolls, girls….and if that means buying a larger size, cut the fucking tag out and get over it. This goes for men too. Your waist is nowhere near your ass crack, and if you have to wear your pants that low, buy some new pants.

3. Electric blue is never an appropriate shade of makeup. Your foundation should match your face. You should not have to use more than one washcloth to get your makeup off in the evening. When a new man sees you for the first time without makeup, he should still think you are the same person he went to bed with.

4. If you have to ask if your butt looks fat in those pants, it does. Or you will think it does, which means you'll feel all grumpy and insecure all night, so just don't wear them.

5. Tan fat looks better than white fat.

6. Navy blue does not go with black. Mixing patterns is generally a bad idea on your clothing, although it can be fun in your housewares.

7. Brown or navy or white shoes do not go with black pants or skirts, ever. Camel shoes are far more versatile than white, and tend to look more like grown-up shoes and less like a 4-year-old on Easter Sunday.

8. A mullet is never an appropriate haircut.

What really motivated me to write this entry is this chick who works in the office down the hall. We're talking dark side of 40, dark side of 200 lbs., dark side of the bleach bottle….and wears clothing which showcases her lovely collection of cellulite and fake tan (it's SO orange). Whenever I feel insecure, I just remind myself that things could be worse. I could be wearing a black pleated micromini. With white shoes. And think it looks SO hot.

The Laundry Nazi

Once again, it was laundry day for me and BFRB. Since we've been doing laundry on Sunday morning instead of Friday night lately, we've encountered a new laundromat attendant. Sprouting a lovely mullet and moustache to go with her clothes which were purchased at Wal-Mart circa 1985, this attendant is way too devoted to her job.

BFRB and I frequently run errands while our clothing is washing and drying....stuff like Walgreen's, Target, PetsMart, etc. We make every effort to get back to the laundromat to restart our dryers within the alloted 30 minutes, but sometimes, we get sidetracked. Two weeks ago, in our first encounter with the Laundry Nazi, we spent a little too long fucking around at Target. We returned to the laundromat to find that the Laundry Nazi had removed BFRB's stuff from the dryer because "people needed it."

Now, one of the cardinal rules of laundry etiquette is that you NEVER EVER touch anyone's stuff. I don't want cooties all over my clean clothes, and neither does anyone else. Second of all, if the dryer space is needed, it would be polite to FOLD the items you removed. Laundry Nazi violated these rules. BFRB's blankets and sheets were in a giant wad, and were halfway hanging off the folding table.

While BFRB was furious, we figured we'd never see this bitch again. The laundromat is not exactly the most long-term employer on the planet. Actually, we've determined that most of the attendants have recently been released from penal institutions, and having a completely useless job is on the list of things they have to do.

However, today, the bitch was back. This particular morning, she did little but give us go-to-hell looks (because she evidently REMEMBERED that we were the dryer hogs from hell). Other customers were not so fortunate. As an individual attempted to place their laundry in a washer, the Laundry Nazi informed said patron that SHE was USING that one (nothing was in it...and what the fuck is she using it for?? Any drop off laundry goes to the dry-cleaner part of the store, which was closed.)The patron had little choice but to put their items in the next washer over.

On this fine Sunday morning, BFRB and I kept a careful watch on the clock, plus, we were both too tired and hung over to think about what errands we needed to run. As we were folding our laundry, though, Laundry Nazi dogged our footsteps, looking disapprovingly at discarded dryer sheets and making a big show of getting in our way to pick them up. She also glared at all the other patrons in turn, just waiting for someone to commit a transgression like leaving their dryer unattended for more than 15 seconds after it shut off. Point is, Laundry Nazi knows what's up in her little fiefdom.

Well, for some reason, a few of my shirts were still damp when the rest of the load was dry, so I chucked them back in there while I folded the rest of my clothes. Being that my hungover little brain (NEVER AGAIN will I drink that much Jack Daniels without eating something more substantive than chips, salsa, and a chocolate chip cookie) wasn't working too well, I left the shirts in the dryer when we left. Luckily, I realized my mistake in short order, and went back about 30 minutes later to get them. Thinking that Laundry Nazi would have been fully aware of the problem, and seeing as how the dryer I was using was now occupied with someone else's shit, I asked her if she knew where my stuff was.

Bitch looked me straight in the eyes and LIED. She said it had been busy and she had no way of knowing. Sure, people need dryers, and you don't know what happened to the stuff abandoned in one. Right.

I finally found my shirts, wadded up on a chair but basically intact. As I left, she gave me this completely fake smirk. Well, Laundry Nazi, the gauntlet has been thrown. We'll be back. And we'll think of something to make your already miserable existence even more miserable.

Charity Begins at Work

Well, along with good things, (I'll think of some in a minute) August brings the kids back to school. Not that I have any kids. People in my office do, though. They have lots of them. They just started school THIS WEEK…and they're already trying to guilt-trip me into spending money on a bunch of overpriced crap that I don't need or want.

You see, since the US can't seem to adequately fund its public school system, they have to resort to prostituting children. Figuratively, that is. (Give them time.) I'm talking about fund-raisers. Those glossy little brochures full of shit you can buy at the Dollar Store which has been marked up to $17.00.

I wouldn't necessarily have a problem buying one or two things from a kid I knew (like my other best friend-running buddy's (BFRB2) nieces). But I have a REAL problem spending my paycheck on shit I don't want for kids I don't know to go on a trip somewhere or have nice stuff at school. I don't have nice stuff, and you all saw what happened the last time I took a trip. Therefore, I'm a little bitter and resentful about the whole thing. Plus, it's not just one person. It's 30 or 40. That's a week's pay just so people at work won't think you're a stingy bitch.

Well, I am one.

And it's bad enough when the people bringing it are your peers…but when it's your boss(es) … then you really feel obligated to sign in the little box. Sorry, but I think if you're the boss, you (a) don't expect your employees, who make way less money than you, to buy shit from your kids and (b) need to just write your kid's school a check and not make anyone buy icky wrapping paper, useless knickknacks, or various foods which taste like stale packing peanuts with cardboard coating. You know, my dad would NEVER take my fundraising stuff to work because he didn't want to make his employees feel obligated! I was the kid who usually just had 2 people buy stuff because there were 97 kids in my neighborhood.

While we're on the subject of throwing money away, let's also discuss the inevitable corporate charitable fund-raisers. United Way, disease-of-the-week club, ad infinitum. Call me crazy, but I think that charitable giving is a personal decision. If you believe in a cause, for whatever reason, you are free to spend your money as you choose in support of said cause. However, I don't like being peer-pressured into generosity….and neither does anyone else. They try to make you feel like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas if you don't want to donate money to charity…as in, "Come on, just donate $5 a week, so we can have 100% participation." Again….THIS IS MY PAYCHECK AND I WILL DO WHAT I WANT WITH IT. Plus, at this point in my life, I really don't have it to share. I'm still paying for college (both the credit card spending and the student loans), and I have other bills which must be paid so that I personally do not have to rely on the kindness of strangers for food and shelter.

Don't be bringing your little flyers to my office. It's a waste of precious natural resources….and your time.

Getting Nailed Is Not Always a Good Thing

I believe I have previously mentioned that my apartment has hardwood floors. They look really cool, and are far easier to clean than carpets (when one has a very fluffy cat who upchucks a lot). However, there's one small problem with authentic, antique hardwood floors. That problem is nails. As in old, probably rusty nails.

I'm sure you can see where this story is going….but it's still a good story anyway.

March or April, 2004. After spending Friday evening doing not one fucking productive thing and enjoying this tremendously, I decided to go to bed around 1 a.m. I always wear slippers or flip-flops in my apartment….because of the nails. However, I thought I would be safe when I was two inches from my bed.

I was wrong.

As I went to turn back my covers and fluff the pillows, my big toe crept stealthily off the area rug and onto the bare floor under the bed….and ran smack dab into a nail sticking out of the floor. Hard. As in bleeding.

I did the heel-hop to the bathroom for a Band-Aid in bare feet, hoping like hell I didn't step on another nail with the other foot. After I successfully stanched the bleeding, I started pondering exactly how long it HAD been since my last tetanus shot. After some brain wracking and mental math, the last one I remember was … in 8th grade. I'm now 30. 16, 17 years?

In a panic, I hop on the computer, hoping like hell BFRB will be up and convince me that it's ok to wait till morning (scant 6 hours away) to get a shot. However, she's sleeping. So, I type in "tetanus" on Google. The websites I read all say something along the lines of "if you cut yourself on something rusty, haul ass to the emergency room or they'll be feeding you through a tube in your cheek." Obligingly, I put on something besides pajamas and zip over to one of the nearby hospitals.

At first, I was thinking this whole visit to the ER would be relatively stress-free and quick. Sometimes, I'm such a retard.

So, I see the triage nurse, she removes the bandaid, examines the wound, takes my blood pressure, and sends me to the "insurance chick desk." I fork over the insurance card, fill out a complete medical history, and go back to the waiting room. After about an hour, they put me back in a room…right next door to a screaming child. The lights are so bright. I'm so tired. I try to read the book I brought, but catch myself nodding off.

After about another 45 minutes, a doctor arrives, accompanied by two handy med students. He examines the cut on my toe, asks me if I have diabetes or asthma or some real problem, and scribbles something. When I say that basically, I'm perfectly fine except for the impending case of tetanus, he mumbles something in broken English about a nurse being in shortly and strides off importantly with his students in tow.

20 more minutes. By now, it's 3:00 a.m. In four more hours, the minor emergency (which requires only a $10 copay) would be open. The nurse finally arrives, stabs me quickly with the needle, and runs back out muttering something about "paperwork." I get the impression I'm not supposed to leave. A note: after removal of the original band-aid, I never received any other treatment for my actual injury.

She shows back up with some instructions about following up with my doctor, and at 3:25, I head for home.

The doctor bill and hospital bill were almost $500….and people wonder why our insurance costs so much.

100 Things about Me

This is an exercise a few of my friends told me to do....so I thought I would post it. You are not allowed to poke fun at my list without affording me the same opportunity to poke fun at yours.

1. As a housekeeper, I'm great at playing solitaire.

2. I actually can sort of cook, despite claims to the contrary….I would just rather have someone else do it….restaurant, friend, Stouffer's.

3. I wish I had discovered Prozac at age 10.

4. I don't use most of the words I know in casual conversation because I hate having to explain them to idiots who don't read.

5. I am most afraid of looking stupid (which encompasses a lot.)

6. I cannot imagine ever living with my parents again, and I don't understand people who do.

7. I have a hard time trusting anyone.

8. I hate that it's difficult to change careers.

9. Hypocrisy is the thing that will piss me off the fastest.

10. I feel less attractive now than I did before I lost 50 pounds.

11. The hardest thing about working out and dieting is the lack of instant gratification. I feel like I've proved to the universe that I can make a commitment (I have been doing this for almost 6 months, after all), and now it should reward me by making the rest of the weight disappear overnight.

12. I feel like I have two warring personalities: the one who is eternally hopeful, and the cynic.

13. I can't imagine not having a cat. I love mine. When I go out of town, I miss Emily, Maggie & Sissy.

14. I hate when women make excuses for men….men they're dating, men they work for, men they're married to, men they gave birth to.

15. I have no patience with stupidity.

16. I hate having to explain things to someone more than once.

17. I believe that respect is something which has to be earned.

18. I have always hated that my name doesn't have a cool nickname.

19. My way of defusing stressful situations is to make wisecracks.

20. Some of my favorite things: chocolate cake, cats purring, thunderstorms, driving with the top down and the music up, cinnamon lattes from the Buzz, the ocean, the first cold day in fall, a group of people laughing, kissing someone who is really good at it, hanging out with my girlfriends, playing stupid computer games stoned, reading a really good book, finding a really good shopping bargain, and good live music.

21. Some of my least favorite things: getting chewed out at work, icy roads, mean people, being left out, shoes that give you blisters, ripping/burning holes in your favorite pants, computer crashes, being wrong, awkward silences, people fighting when you're in the room, car breakdowns, mono, summer, having to hang out with people you hate, and bad live theater.

22. I can never pick just one favorite anything….food, friend, song, movie, book, you name it.

23. Turning 30 freaked me out more than I thought it would.

24. I need alone time or I get really cranky.

25. I will never change my name if I get married.

26. I have a hard time expressing my feelings to people I care about.

27. I don't watch much TV.

28. I hate cell phones.

29. Talking about my finances makes me nervous.

30. It's very hard for me to admit to myself when I'm in love.

31. When I walk by a group of teenage girls and they're giggling, my first thought is that they're making fun of me.

32. I have problems with authority.

33. I don't want to talk about good things that might happen to me because I'm afraid I'll jinx it.

34. If I could be anything I wanted, I would be an advice columnist.

35. I tend to be much better at expressing myself in writing than verbally.

36. I have impulse-purchased a car.

37. I think I tend to shop for shoes or bath/body stuff when I'm the most depressed, because you don't have to worry as much about things fitting.

38. My self-confidence is, in large part, an act.

39. I wonder often what will cause my 15 minutes of fame.

40. It bothers me that my brother and I are not close.

41. The things I do when I rebel have always been way more destructive to me than to anyone else.

42. I am semi-ambidextrous…I do some things better with my left hand and some things better with my right.

43. I hate people feeling sorry for me.

44. I don't like taking baths…I prefer showers.

45. It takes me a long time to get really angry, and it takes me a long time to get over it once I AM angry.

46. I don't like seeing my friends in pain of any kind.

47. People have told me I am intimidating, but I have never ever felt that way.

48. I eat most foods with a spoon.

49. Stress makes me hungry.

50. Boredom makes me hungry, too.

51. I love my family, but I'm glad my closest relative is 500 miles away.

52. My least favorite question is "when are you going to law school?"

53. My least favorite phrase is "you're not living up to your potential."

54. When I feel sad and lonely, I like to read kids' books.

55. I am a horrible insomniac, and have been since the age of 3.

56. I always wished I was shorter.

57. I used to bite my nails, suck my thumb, and chew on my hair. Then I started smoking.

58. I'm not sure about the whole having kids thing.

59. I think the single biggest problem with the U.S. is that it's almost exclusively run by penises.

60. Strangers tell me their whole life stories on a regular basis.

61. In any conflict-type situation, I'm always the peacemaker caught between two warring parties.

62. I'm very stubborn.

63. Once I make up my mind about someone or something, I rarely change it.

64. My first impressions of people, places and things are about 85% accurate.

65. Watching really moronic movies helps me fall asleep. Infomercials aren't bad either.

66. I hate rules.

67. I once went 3 years without having sex.

68. I don't like dating people when I know I'm a lot smarter than they are.

69. I always feel like I'm completely out of sync with everyone around me.

70. If I do get married, I'm eloping. I hate weddings.

71. I hate graduations, too.

72. And funerals.

73. I'm not at all afraid of stray cats, but stray dogs scare the shit out of me.

74. My stupid fear: being in a dark bathroom with the door shut. It's something about the mirror. No idea why, but that seriously gives me the creeps.

75. My stupid human trick is remembering phone numbers.

76. When I don't like foods (i.e., tomatoes, tapioca pudding, citrus juice with pulp), it's a texture problem rather than a taste problem.

77. I love to crunch ice cubes.

78. I can usually sing you the song, but I have no idea who the title and artist are.

79. I'm actually starting to like working out.

80. I claim to hate my hair, but I'm actually pretty vain about it.

81. I cannot stand drinking milk.

82. I'm glad I have a good relationship with my mom.

83. I really love each and every one of my friends.

84. I buy myself a Christmas present every year.

85. I love picking out cool presents for my friends and family, but sometimes I don't have time to do that.

86. I don't want to date any more men who have issues with their mothers.

87. I must have caffeine as soon as I wake up in the morning.

88. It really bugs me when I don't know the whole story.

89. It's important to me to be perceived as funny and smart.

90. I've never traveled outside the U.S.

91. I really want to.

92. I hate it when things are more complicated than they need to be.

93. I wish I knew how to fix my car. I don't necessarily want to do it, I just want to know how.

94. I really hate it when people nose around in my stuff.

95. I sincerely hope that people don't perceive me as a really smart person with no common sense.

96. One thing that always depresses me is knowing my friends went somewhere fun and didn't invite me.

97. I don't like to appear vulnerable in any way.

98. If I think about throwing up, I always do.

99. I really resisted growing up physically…I was embarrassed by getting my period and wearing a bra.

100. This was way harder than I thought it would be.

Call DHS. Or the ASPCA. Whatever You Do, Kill It Before It Can Breed.

After careful observation of the felines who share my abode, I have come to the conclusion that most volcanic rocks would be better parents than I would. My cats have some serious personality disorders. Sure, at first glance, they appear to be well fed, well groomed, and friendly….but upon closer examination, it becomes apparent that they are, in fact, completely fucking nuts. Oh, I'm sorry, that's not very nice. Mentally and emotionally challenged.

First, Emily, the oldest. Fat, fluffy, and somewhat of a fraidy cat. Every time a friend comes over and pets her, she will either (a) butt her head into every possible piece of furniture in the house or (b) immediately make for the food bowl. She has an eating disorder. Also, she doesn't speak up for her needs….she just kind of looks at you and squeaks. She wants to be picked up and carried around the house, but carrying her outside sparks a complete fur-storm that can never fully be expunged from the article of clothing you're wearing at the time. If she's not done with the whole carrying thing, she will wrap her paws around your neck and cry like a kindergartener with separation anxiety on the first day of school. >

Here are Emily & Sissy, trying to ensure that I never leave them alone...>

Maggie, the middle child. Small, black, and sleek, with a few white spots. A complete loudmouth whiner. You wouldn't think that a critter that small could make that much noise….but my apartment is at the opposite end of the hall and upstairs from the front door, and I can hear her as soon as my key turns in the lock. Additionally, she is the one who will do things like steal lighters, eat plastic wrap, and fish decorative marbles out of vases and bat them around the bathtub at three in the morning. Once, my tub wouldn't drain….so I examined the hair trap. Instead of hair, it was full of marbles. She can get them out of the vase, but not the drain….guess it's cheaper than those stupid ball & scratch pad toys. She's the most outgoing, but tends to freak people (especially guys) out with her "climb on the couch behind you and stick cold nose in ear" trick. She is a possessive drama queen.

Here she is:

Sissy, the baby. Someone's purebred Siamese mated with an alley cat. I got her as an adult, unlike the other two, but she's the most possessive. She growls at people when they come to feed her if I'm out of town. She doesn't like people (other than me) to touch her. She frequently lays on her back with all feet in the air. Lazy as hell. Very territorial. Comes when you call her and drools like a dog. Simultaneously sure she's the boss and worried no one loves her. Doesn't want anything unless someone else has it first….a spot on my lap, a spot on the bed, food, etc. I'm her third owner (the other two were seriously allergic to her.) I think she's trying to make really sure she doesn't get a fourth one. She's clingier than a teenage girl with her first boyfriend.

And this is just what I've done to cats. I don't even want to think about what I would do to an actual human child. What's sad is that people's kids like me a lot.

Flowers, Cake, and Seriously Uncomfortable Underwear

Perhaps it's because I've never been married, but what the fuck is the big deal with weddings? I was taking a smoke break with one of my co-workers last week, and another smoker we know wanders into the break room. This acquaintance is an attorney, she's 27-ish, and she's usually not very high drama. She's been engaged for a while, but I guess now, they're actually making plans. Said plans are at least 6 months away, and she is flipping the hell out. Even more interesting is the fact that her best friend just got married, and she was doing her share of bitching about it.

Anyway, her freak-out centered around the following:

1. Her dad has plenty of dough, but her stepmom is the cheapest human being alive. She can't get a number from them on what they will pay toward the wedding. Said stepmonster also expects her to only invite 100 people….which would basically limit it to family only. (Ah, modern life with its steps and halves and adopteds and pseudo-relatives.)

2. She wants to go to Mexico, but wants cheap flights/hotels for all of her friends. If she gets the cheap flights, the times suck, and if the times are good, the price sucks.

3. She's okay with eloping, if it means her dad will give them the money he would have spent on the wedding…but only if it's over $10,000.

Okay. Let's stop here for a moment. TEN GRAND for ONE DAY??? Actually, that's really not even possible. You'll spend that on the caterer. It's not even a whole day. It's like 4 hours.

I'm a girl, and I guess I'm supposed to understand this. But I don't. Most of this stupid fairy-tale shit appears to cause nothing but stress. Even though you (or your family) are blowing five figures, you don't get exactly what you want…you have to compromise on the dress or the flowers or the photos or the cake or the liquor or the guest list….blah blah blah. Not to mention, you will drive each and every one of your friends insane with your requests for help with stupid shit that only you care about….and your fashion choices for their bridesmaid dresses. Your fiancé will not give a rat's ass. He will just want to get to the vacation and sex part.

The "wedding industry" is out of control. Instead of being a happy occasion where you are committing your life to someone you love, you end up almost hating them and everyone else you know. Instead of sharing this happiness with family and friends, you feel like you can't enjoy anything because one of the mothers isn't happy and your underwear is stabbing new and interesting parts of your body and you're wearing a dress that weighs 75 pounds. Plus, you haven't slept or eaten in two days.

Then, of course, there's the gift issue. There are a zillion showers, most guests get invited to more than one, and buy gifts for each….plus get zinged for a wedding gift, too. Now, let me just say something here. I am 30 years old, and my towels don't match, I don't have nice dishes or flatware, my bedding came from Target, and I don't think I own one item of furniture that didn't either (a) come out of a box, (b) come from my family or friends or (c) come from a garage sale. I don't own an espresso maker, or a blender that will crush ice, or a sandwich maker. So, in my opinion, some little snot-nosed 22 year old doesn't need this shit either! Plus, the odds are in favor of divorce, which means you'll have a 25 year old with nicer stuff than you….all because she found a man who wasn't a dick. Allegedly. To me, that should be its own reward. If they both have jobs, they can go buy their own shit. I'm not buying people who are younger than I am nicer stuff than I have; and if they're older, they already have stuff. Second weddings (and third, and fourth) should be gift-free.

I think big weddings should be illegal. I think you should throw the big party when people get divorced. That's when they need help, and that's when they need stuff. Either that, or everyone who's 30 and unmarried should get the money from family & friends that would have been spent on a wedding….so they can pay off their loans, put a down payment on a house, and/or buy some matching stuff and furniture which does not require assembly. Then, if they DO get married, they can pay for it themselves. They'll end up eloping.

Shut the Hell Up...I'm Trying to Eat My Quarter Pounder

Occasionally, when my work becomes so stressful that I can no longer focus, I check on the Internet to see what's happening in the world. Yahoo conveniently categorizes your news for you, so I usually check the major headlines, Oddly Enough (my favorite) and the Weight Loss/Health section (being that losing weight is one of my current projects.) Well, as you may or may not know, you can post messages commenting on the articles. Or at least that is the IDEA. At least on the weight-loss articles, people seem to use these message boards as a place to call everyone the names they didn't manage to think up in grade school. Further, said name calling has not one fucking thing to do with the text of the article.

Their idea of my day appears to be:

1. Wake up. Eat 17 breakfast burritos, a mocha latte, and maybe some fried lard on the side.

2. Watch TV till morning snack time, wherein I consume an entire 3-pound box of Godiva truffles.

3. Watch TV till lunch, when I eat 3 QP's with cheese, a super-size fry, some Ben & Jerry's, a large chicken fried steak with gravy, and a big pile of fried mozzarella.

4. Watch TV till afternoon snack, which consists of one bag each Double Stuf Oreos, Nacho Cheesier! Doritos, and Hostess Cupcakes.

5. Watch TV till dinner: 20-ounce steak, 7 baked potatoes with everything, a bottle of ranch dressing, assorted fried vegetables, and an entire chocolate cheesecake.

6. Watch TV till evening snack, which is some heavily buttered popcorn, a two-pound bag of peanut M&M's, and a large strawberry milkshake.

7. Bed.

Before you immediately write me off as just some fat bitch whining about people being mean to me, let me say something. I don't like people to be shitty, but at the same time, if their comments have something to do with the article upon which they are allegedly "commenting", I'll live. However, when the articles are about gastric bypass or obesity being a problem among more poor people than wealthy people, I fail to see how making comments like "lose weight—you're giving me eye cancer" or "all fat people do is eat Big Macs and watch TV" are germane to the topic. What I find the most strange about all of this is the people who are posting. You would think that those most interested in health and weight-loss issues would be those who are trying to lose weight. Further, you would think that people who take the time to comment would be sensitive to these issues. Instead, the people posting appear to be consulting this section are those who want all fat people's jaws to be sewn shut while they are walking on a treadmill, because that's the only solution that will work in their world.

I really wonder, though, in a country where 2/3 of people are overweight to some degree, why there is still such a stigma attached to being fat. Sure, it can contribute to health problems…but so can pretty much anything, if you believe everything you read. Guess maybe because it's not okay to (openly) hate people for being a different race, or religion, or sexual orientation…so all of the world's hatemongers need a target…and I guess they think fat people are a big one. (Yes, that was a joke.)

I'm not saying these juvenile, misguided souls don't have the right to their opinion. I just wonder how many of them are (a) fat (b) getting there or (c) dating/living with/raising someone fat. All I'm saying is that the place for simple insults is not a message board for news commentary. Start a frickin' diary. Start your own message board. I don't give a shit. But if you're going to post comments about the news, please read the article first and make sure you understand it.

But then, maybe they are malnourished and their brains don't work....which provides even more reason for them to remove their hands from the keyboard, pick up the supersize fries, and insert them one by one into their mouths.

Cell Phones are the Instruments of Beelzebub

I have a confession to make. I don't have a cell phone. I know I should not be allowed to survive in this new millennium without being available to everyone 24/7, but somehow, I have slipped through the cracks. I tell people I don't have one, and they look at me even more strangely than they do when I tell them I work out.

Let me explain my philosophy. Yes, they are good for emergencies. Sometimes, they are very handy when you need to reach your boss/subordinate in an urgent situation. And they're really handy on bad dates. However, these three uses do not justify the annoyances caused by these devices.

Examples:

#1. Blockbuster Night. You're at the video store, trying to pick out the Friday night feature, and the woman eyeing the new releases is talking loudly to her boyfriend and trying to convince him that he really will like "13 Going on 30" as much as "Terminator 75". This banal conversation continues through the entire store, and ends with her hanging up in a huff and renting what he wanted. You don't remember why you were even there, leave, and go home and watch whatever's on TV, which is usually an infomercial for an herbal male enhancement product advertised by completely gay men looking totally turned off while they kiss women.

#2. Wal-Mart. You're trying to remember the list of a zillion things like toilet paper, light bulbs, and lube that you needed to buy, and the white trash in the next aisle is talking loudly to his woman in the midst of slapping the shit out of his kids. In your haste to escape the noises, you forget the ice pick, spoiling your plans to recreate "Basic Instinct" with your blind date.

#3. Freeway, Rush Hour. You finally get out from the worst of the traffic jam, and are booking along in the left-hand lane, going 80, and focused on being home. You nearly rear-end an SUV-driving yuppie-wannabe talking on their phone…and driving 40. No lie. You honk, you flip, and said SUV driver gives you the glare like "What the FUCK??? You interrupted my TERRIBLY IMPORTANT conversation!!"

#4. Restaurant. You finally manage to make plans to go eat lunch/dinner with a friend you haven't seen in forever. Between the drink orders and the arrival of food, the friend receives 8 phone calls. You eat while they talk to someone else, and then they expect you to talk the whole time they are eating.

#5. Codependence. A cell phone is the single worst item for a jealous/insecure significant other to have. Text messaging is even worse. It's one thing if the stand-up or problem is a rarity in a long-term relationship. It's something else entirely if it's a daily occurrence to make sure the other person is not having any fun out of your presence or hanging out with anyone but you. Here's a hint…if someone doesn't call you back or return your text messages, they don't want to talk to you. Or they have better things to do. Grow the hell up and get a life.

#6. Booty Calls. The cell phone/text-messaging device eliminates the need for any reflective drive-home time before calling someone drunk to see if they will have sex with you. Tip: Text-messaging "are you up?" at 2 in the morning doesn't mean they want to chat.

I find it very ironic that, in an age where we have more ways to communicate than ever, we don't want to communicate face-to-face. No matter who you're hanging out with, chances are they're going to spend more time talking to a third party on their cell phone than they are listening to you. As a non-cell-phone user, let me point out: THIS IS RUDE. Unless you think someone is dead, don't answer the phone. You've got voice mail….the other person can leave a fucking message.

Basically, my bottom line is this. Until I have a job which requires a cell phone, and my employer provides and pays for said phone, I won't be having one. Why should I pay another $50 a month (minimum) for people to annoy me, or to look at my caller ID and not answer? I have voice mail at home and work. I have e-mail. There's nothing that urgent. I promise.

The Day the Universe Said Fuck You

Okay, a small disclaimer (and I hate them, because I work for lawyers, and disclaimers usually precede a hard-core ass-fucking, but this is necessary, and I promise it won't hurt): since I just started this diary, I have a whole lifetime of stories to record. The following day was in December, 2003. See? That wasn't so bad, now, was it?

It began, much like any other day, with me and the snooze button having a fight. The snooze won, as usual. Finally, I dragged my lazy ass out of bed, got ready for work, and entered the seventh circle. (Actually, a former co-worker and I have re-named it. It's now FHH. Fucking Hell Hole, for those of you who aren't good with acronyms.) At this point, I was three weeks away from accepting another job, but I didn't expect any particular drama on this day. Stupid of me, really.

So my boss is a complete asshole all day long...the usual "why didn't you do X, Y, and Z last week" followed by "I TOLD you to call SO AND SO," since his fingers were broken and he couldn't possibly dial the phone. After putting up with this utter bullshit for 8 hours, I had an appointment with the eye doctor.

At this point, I should back up and explain that I am nearly blind (I only know it's a Big E because that's what it always is), and I hate glasses. I've worn contacts since I was 13, will get zapped with the laser as soon as my insurance will pay for it, and the only pair of glasses I had on this December day was broken. And I broke my sunglasses trying to get a screw to repair the glasses. Anyway, my contacts had really been bothering me, my eyes were all itchy, etc.

As soon as the eye doctor saw my eyes, he practically ripped out my contacts and threw them away. Remember, no glasses, almost blind. After a lengthy lecture on the perils of eye infections and the responsibility inherent to the privilege of wearing contact lenses, he writes a prescription for eye drops and glasses and contacts...and then kindly informs me that I WILL be wearing glasses for at least the next two weeks.

I feel my way toward the front desk, check out (luckily only hit for a $10 copay), and then grope toward the LensCrafters or EyeMasters or whatever the fuck it's called next door. (Yes, I went to a mall eye doctor. That's what happens when your sadistic employers don't consider your optical health to be a valid reason to miss work, unless your name is on the door of the office.)

So, I am confronted with bright, blurry walls, which I know must contain a variety of flattering eyeglass frames. I spend about an hour trying on various things, pressing my nose against the mirrors, and attempting to locate something which will enable me to (a) see and (b) not look like a complete retard for the next two weeks. I finally narrow it down to two pairs, and ask the sales clerk to tell me which one looks the least stupid. Then I have to pick out lenses. You want to talk about getting fucked? Insurance will pay for the office visit, but only offers a 20% discount on lenses, and not a damn penny off the frames. As anyone who has glasses can tell you, the cheap frames make you look like short-bus rider from 1982. To get something marginally okay, it's at least $100. When you're blind, the lenses start at about $160. The kind out of which you can SEE are about $350.

This is the part of the story where the one good thing all day happens. The chick at EyeCrafters is cool. She gives me last week's sale on the lenses (50% off) and puts my order at the top of the pile because she can tell I'm about ready for the white cane. While I am waiting, I wander around the mall touching things....puppies at the pet store, clothing, etc. When my 30 minutes are up, I retrieve my glasses, pay $300, and head to Walgreen's to get my prescription eye drops.

Back to the universe fucking me in the ass. The pharmacist says that, since the prescription is not from my primary care physician, she has to call my insurance company to get approval....and they closed at 5. It's now 8:30. Fine, I say, how much are they without insurance? (I want to get rid of the four-eyes look as soon as possible.) She calmly says...$148.67. WHAT THE HELL???? FOR A BOTTLE OF EYE DROPS THAT IS SO SMALL IT BARELY CONTAINS LIQUID???? I politely stammer that I will pick it up tomorrow and head for home.

At 9:30 p.m., I remember that I haven't eaten since lunch, and decide to nuke a frozen burrito. I wrap it gently in a paper towel, place it in the microwave, and press the "Quick Cook" button a few times. Just about the time I sit down at the computer, every fuse in my apartment blows. All of them. Darkness. Starvation. Blindness. I call my landlord, and she says she'll send over the maintenance guy first thing. I spend the next two hours playing battery-operated Yahtzee by candlelight and wondering what the hell I did to bring on this sequence of events.

The next morning, awakened by the battery-powered crow of a rooster (stocking stuffer from Dad), I get up, take a shower in the dark, put makeup on by the light of a flashlight (and boys, you can't put on makeup with glasses on, so again, blindness rears it's ugly head) and go to work with dripping wet hair in 20 degree weather. At least my boss decided to be nice, or I would have had to shove my $300 glasses up his left nostril.

A Room with a View

*DEEP BREATH* I live in the ghetto. Within a block of my apartment are: a meth lab, a crack house, a McDonald's, a liquor store, a tire shop run by Hispanics, and an 18-and-up beer-only dive. There are also numerous dogs which may or may not belong to someone, (allegedly) homeless people who never fail to ask if they can "wash my windows" with some nasty old rags and a spray bottle containing a mysterious fluid which closely resembles that green shit Jack Nicholson fell into in Batman, a variety of non-running cars, porch couches, and an apartment complex with gated parking?!? Additionally, I live on a direct path to two major hospitals…so there's always an ambulance lurking about. From my window, I can see the interstate, McDonalds, the dumpster, cars which are not supposed to be there in my parking lot, and the top 2 feet of the state capitol dome (the interstate is in the way). I can usually also see some bar fights, drug deals, people peeing on the side of the building, and the homeless guy with the window rags digging in the dumpster at Mickey D's. He's pretty much quit bugging me since I suggested that if he spent as much time filling out a job application at Mickey D's as he did digging through their dumpster, he might not need to ask me for money anymore.

You might ask why I would choose to live there. The answer is simple. My rent is $230 a month less than my car payment, and it's five minutes from work. And the apartment itself is pretty cool….REAL hardwood floors (more on this later), cool architectural details, and a kickass landlord who sends our super-nice maintenance guy to fix things when they break. Believe me, in 10 years of apartment living, these things have never all been present at once. I'm much better acquainted with landlords like this:

ME: It's 105 outside and my air conditioning is not working at all. Matter of fact, there's a huge puddle forming in my hallway. Can you send someone over to fix it?

MANAGER: Not today….everyone's are breaking. Perhaps tomorrow.

ME (THE NEXT DAY): Okay, it's boiling hot, I can't stay here, and my cats aren't too happy either. Can you please send someone?

MANAGER: Well, we've had some elderly people call since you called yesterday, and we're fixing theirs first, because they are more important than you.

ME: Okay, but can I be next?

MANAGER: No, because if I let you do that, everyone would expect to have things fixed when they call. What, do you think that anyone pays attention to those landlord-tenant laws?

This exchange continued for the next THREE WEEKS, and the outside temperature was never lower than 95. I stayed with friends a lot of the time, and made sure there were many fans blowing and lots of cold water for my pets. Finally, in desperation, I called the management company which owned this complex and explained the situation. They, of course, had no clue that their on-site managers would rather drink and watch soap operas in their AIR CONDITIONED office than they would pay attention to their tenants. My A/C was fixed within hours. After this, I would call the complex office once for every problem, and then proceed directly to the owners. This included such things as a broken hot water heater and a maintenance man who could lift heavy tools to the roof but couldn't move a fiberboard bookcase to get to the panel in the wall concealing the water heater; heat that wouldn't shut off unless you flipped the circuit breaker; water stains on the ceiling; and a freezer which took a week to make ice cubes. In the meantime, every time they had to come over, they threatened to evict me for some alleged violation of the rental agreement….and they raised my rent. Needless to say, I finally moved. While the next place I lived was certainly an improvement, it left much to be desired location-wise. We're talking a 45 minute commute to a crappy $10 an hour job….my paychecks were spent on gas and car repairs. Therefore, I decided to move closer to work….which, on a budget, provides limited options. Sure, there were apartments in a more preserved area…for twice the price…and they were still next to a bar.

However, while living next to a bar provides a source of entertainment, it's also a source of frustration. It would be one thing if these stupid children partied hard on the weekends….but they turn out in force for Wednesday night karaoke. Some of us have jobs, and being awakened by two frat-boy types fighting over some girl in a way-too-short skirt screaming "Oh my God" at the top of her lungs is really disruptive to your REM cycle. One such fight resulted in the police being called. When the officer arrived, he proceeded to get out the BULLHORN. (Mind you, this is 2:30 a.m.) I suppose that, in their training, they're taught to break up drunken brawls by waking up the whole neighborhood.

Another night, another fight…two guys are beating the crap out of each other. One guy finally knocks the other unconscious (or maybe he just passed out from drinking too much cheap beer). The winner hops in the passenger side of his buddy's car. The girlfriend of the loser (who is about half the size of the winner), attempts to drag his ass out of the car. The driver takes off, nearly dragging the girl down the street. She screams at the retreating taillights for a while, then starts screaming at her boyfriend to get up. Finally, another friend gets smart and uses his cell phone to alert emergency personnel. At this point, I hear the only intelligent shouting of the evening…a designated driver telling her (surely very underage) passengers to get the hell in the car because the cops are coming. About 10 minutes later, amid the girlfriend's continued exhortations to the boyfriend to get up, an ambulance arrives, accompanied by….a fire truck. No cop anywhere (not that it would have mattered…the perpetrators were long gone…all they could have done was cite the remaining persons for public intox or disturbing the peace). Keep in mind, this is RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW….flashing lights, screaming sirens, noisy bystanders, and all.

After numerous incidents like these, and no response from police to things like gunshots or vandalism, BFRB (who lives in my building) and I had a brilliant idea. Around the 4th of July, they start selling those little "poppers" (gunpowder & sand in little twisty sperm-like packages). We've got boxes of them. If those fuckers start making noise, we just hop out to the fire escape and toss a handful on the cement. With all the concrete, it sounds like automatic fire. Instant duck and cover. At least that's the theory. So far, since we've purchased them, the patrons haven't been doing anything to wake us up. But it's summer, and the college students/bar's main patrons are on vacation. They'll be back….and we'll be waiting.

Good Hair and Bad Driving

A few months ago, I went to get my haircut at your basic upper-end mall hair salon. When I walked in, my hair was down to the middle of my back with a few long layers. When I walked out, it was shoulder length with lots of layers. This was unintentional, and it has to be the worst haircut I've had since the SuperCuts mistake. (Ear-length bozo hair, right before a job interview.) Since the recent bad haircut experience, my hair has not looked good once. Now that some of the original length has been recovered, it's in dire need of a trim, but I don't want to go back to The Butcher Shop.

I blame all of this on my old hairstylist. She was amazing. I never once received a bad haircut from her. But, she up and quit the salon where she was working, and I've never seen her again. Dana, where did you go? Did you know you were dooming me to a bad-hair future? And, of course, when I asked BFRB who cut her hair (which is just like mine), her stylist wasn’t taking new clients….grrrr.

And while we're on the subject of things that piss me off, let's discuss tourists and why they suck. I live/work in or near downtown Oklahoma City….where the bombing happened. I drive past the memorial every day on my way to and from work and to and from the gym. Every time, I am confronted with some moron in an SUV who either (a) is driving way too slow, (b) doesn’t know where they are going, so are prone to sudden unannounced lane changes and driving the wrong way down one-way streets, or (c) do not seem to understand stop signs or traffic signals. A tip: almost every gas station has a street map….and downtown Oklahoma City is far from complex. There's really only about 4 north-south streets and 10 east-west ones. The one-ways alternate. If you are going the wrong way, turn right and turn right, and you will be going the correct direction. Just a suggestion, of course. Not like I'm trying to crush anyone's individuality.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to the memorial existing, nor do I feel anything but sympathy for those who were affected by the bombing. However, I do object to the tour buses, RV's, and cars who seem to be competing to see who can make me the latest for work or cause grievous harm to my person and/or vehicle. For example, this morning, one of those ugly station-wagon like SUV's with Minnesota plates executes a right turn (he had a stop sign, I did not) RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY CAR. I, of course, take this opportunity to show that I know where the horn is. Then, he basically STOPS in front of me…so in addition to a near-wreck, I am now stuck behind this fucking asshole. I pass him, and he just looks at me like I'm a psycho bitch.

A word to all you tourist types…during the week, you are in the middle of an area where people are at WORK. That means they need to get there, go to lunch, and run errands. I'm sure that when YOU are at work, and need to get places, you don't appreciate some moron running lights, parking an RV in the middle of the street, driving the wrong way, wandering in front of cars, and generally clogging up the works. Please park safely, obey traffic laws, and walk across the street when the sign says "WALK." These are all things I'm sure you do at home. You can see the memorial just fine in two minutes when the light changes. Additionally, use of hazard flashers to double-park and take pictures is a NO-NO.

I believe that's everything pissing me off this morning…but it's only 10:30, and it's Monday. I'm sure by the end of the day people will find new and interesting ways to annoy the shit out of me. Stay tuned.

Working Out, Bounce Out, and the Failure of Retail Therapy

All week, BFRB and I have been planning a shopping field trip for today. I had convinced myself that, despite a week which is remarkable only for its utter lack of anything interesting happening, I would have some "fun" today. Instead, I left with no impulse purchases and a completely foul mood, despite BFRB's best efforts (including the old standby, comfort food in the form of cheeseburgers and onion rings) to make me perk the fuck up.

For those who have not yet figured it out, this is not a funny story, nor does it offer any pithy observations on life. This is about a crisis in confidence. You see, for the last five months, I've been doing some serious weight-loss work. I've gone to the Y 6 times a week, tried to stay away from comfort foods, and managed to lose 50 lbs. But before you start with the exhortations of glee, I should explain that I have another 90 or so lbs. to lose. It's only in the last two weeks that anyone has even really NOTICED that I've lost weight (other than the friends I have bored to tears about the struggle, that is). I've lost enough that almost none of my clothes fit, but not enough to buy what I want and have it look good. Hence the crisis.

Logically, one would assume that such an accomplishment would offer a boost in self-confidence. Perhaps that was the case at first. However, now, I feel worse than I have in a long time. At this point, I can almost hear the "they need to adjust your medication" emanating from the background. Illogical and fucked up though this feeling may be, it's very much real.

Perhaps a metaphor is in order here. Let's say, for example, that you have a car that is a complete shit pile and barely runs. I'm talking '78 El Camino here. You decide to give it an engine overhaul, repair the worst of the rust holes, and put some new tires on it. Your friends, who have been subjected to the car's various grunts and groans and unexpected vent holes, congratulate you on taking a step up. However, the asshole in the BMW X5 in the next lane just sees a piece of shit.

That's about how I feel right now...that I've done some minor repairs on a crappy car. It runs better, looks better, but ain't nobody going to be confusing it with a Lexus. The problem is, I have worked my ass off for those new tires and engine, and I FEEL like I've earned at least a new Pontiac by now....but that's not how the loan officer at Big Bob's Autos-R-Us sees it.

I don't have any friends undergoing this particular experience, so I decided to consult message boards on the internet....and it's all decidedly non-helpful. Either it's assholes talking about how fat people shouldn't be allowed to breathe, drive, wear clothes, eat anything, or receive medical care; gastric bypass patients who, while they were or are in a more similar place, are more focused on whether or not to tell anyone about the surgery or how to deal with the dietary restrictions imposed by the surgery; or people asking questions about diet drugs that really don't work. Very few people seem to be doing the weight loss the old-fashioned way.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against people who had surgery. I just thought it was a better idea to try to avoid having my entire intestinal tract cut and pasted into new and interesting shapes. And I realize that taking a pill seems preferable to spending hours at the gym. It's just difficult to do this blind and alone.

Along with this, add in the fact that I'm easily bored....and now that the initial learning phase has worn off at the gym, it's very hard to maintain focus. BFRB has been going with me, but seeing as how she's about as close to the model-thin ideal figure as possible, her reasons are different, and she is a lot more able to slack without adverse consequences.

Last week, I got a t-shirt at the gym (we have a tracking program for workouts, and I reached a milestone.) I went to do laundry this morning, and being that it's laundry day, not much could be considered clean. However, I didn't want to wear the t-shirt to do laundry....because I didn't want the "yeah, right, you work out" looks. I get them enough when I tell people I go to the Y...the appraising glance and the incredulous expression. I just couldn't deal with that today.

My whole solution to my foul mood and general frustration has been to play computer games like Bounce Out for hours on end. Why deal with reality when you can avoid it?

And You're Telling Me This Because...

For some reason, I seem to have "I care" tattooed on my forehead in some kind of ink only visible to those who work in menial jobs. Case in point: at work, we park in a valet-parking garage. (It sounds really posh, but you wouldn't want these people driving your car, nor would you want to wait for them to bring it downstairs at 5:00 with the rest of the planet.) The attendant who hands out tickets in the morning feels the need to show me pictures of her child, discuss her new job prospects, and tell me about her new dining room set that her best friend has too. Why? She doesn't tell other people this shit. It's not that I don't like her, but really, my ass is running late every morning, and I don't have the time to listen.

It goes further. Every single time I go to a convenience store for cigarettes or gas or a soda, the clerk feels the need to tell me about their medical problems, the evil manager, how hard it is to keep the bathroom clean, how difficult it is to operate the credit card machine, and how rude most of their customers are. In the meantime, while attempting to figure out the credit card machine, the clerk manages to charge me twice for my gas….and this wastes even more of my time calling the bank to get the charge reversed.

Waiters and waitresses somehow think it's okay to bitch about their evening while they are serving me dinner. The cashier at Wal-Mart tells me about her asshole husband. The trainer at the gym tries to make me see that Jesus is Lord. The kid next to me on the airplane wants me to play a game with him and tell me how much he likes raspberries. Even my therapist broke down and told me about her personal problems once or twice.

WHAT IS IT? WHY CAN I NOT GO ANYWHERE WITHOUT SOMEONE TELLING ME THEIR FRIGGING SOB STORY?? I realize your jobs suck, and you're probably poor, so your lives suck. However, all I want to do is eat dinner, purchase my items, work out, park my car, or get to my destination. So please, buy a diary, buy a dog, buy a friend….but don't confuse me with someone who cares.

Bacon, Eggs and Crack Whores

One Sunday morning, my best friend/running buddy (BFRB) and I were making our biweekly trek to the Laundromat. Once our clothes were in the washer, we decided to go get breakfast. Since Denny's was located relatively close, we elected to go there. Big mistake. Right up there with Napoleon invading Russia.

Our first clue that this would not be a quick and easy egg-munching fest presented itself immediately. The cashier and another employee were attempting to put new paper in the register. The other employee made eye contact, but chose to ignore us. The cashier was too busy figuring out where the paper went to notice we were there. This went on for about 3 minutes. Finally, these two rocket scientists managed to complete the operation, and the cashier actually said "hi" and "we'll be with you in a moment." While this was polite, it made no sense, given that we were the only customers anywhere in the vicinity. After about 5 more minutes, they finally decide to get us a table.

We were sitting in the smoking section (and spare me the lung cancer lectures, okay?), and there was only one other table filled. When our waitress finally decided to grace us with her presence, we recognized her as the other employee fixing the cash register. This was the second indicator of a truly fucked breakfast experience. It was clear, once we had the opportunity to get a good look, that she would much rather be smoking crack and giving $10 blow jobs than working this morning. She took our drink orders, and we asked for an ashtray. She introduced herself as "Jackie," even though her name tag said "Jacquetta," and advised us to "hollah Jackie" if we needed anything.

Clearly, even though we could see the kitchen and drink machines from where we were, it took a REALLY long time to walk back there and locate our beverages. We would have "hollah-ed Jackie," but there was no sign of the bitch. She must have been back in the kitchen seeing if she could light her crack pipe off the grill. Finally, after another 10 minutes, she brings our drinks…but still no ashtray. (We end up flagging down another employee, who brings us an ashtray promptly.) After the drinks are served and she at last takes our order, she proceeds to hold a 20 minute conversation with the only other people in the section about other job prospects. At this point, we really got worried. She didn't go to the kitchen to check on our food, and, in fact, didn't look at us. Let me mention that what we ordered was stuff like eggs, bacon, and toast, none of which take more than 10 minutes to cook.

When she FINALLY ceases to converse with the folks, does she go to check on food? Oh, no. She bustles around the section, gives us placemats and silverware, sashays around with the coffeepot, and finally goes back to the kitchen.

At this point, I must mention that another couple had entered our section, and were sitting at the bar. They ordered their food shortly AFTER we did. When Ms. Crack Ho finally decided to saunter back to the kitchen (the crack must have worn off), she brought them THEIR food FIRST. By the time she deigned to grace us with her presence, a good 40 minutes had passed since we ordered, and our food was slightly chilly. However, by now, we were ravenous. (Remember, too, that our clothes were at the Laundromat, waiting to be dried….assuming no one stole them or dumped them on the floor because they needed the washer. Furthermore, we both had plans later in the day, and said plans required laundry to be done by 1:30…and it was noon. We got there at 11.)

After shoveling our food down our throats like Ethiopians at a smorgasboard, we grab the check (which was not split, nor did our crack ho ask) and head for the register. Of course, by this time, there were a whole bunch of churchgoing folk waiting for tables, and more waiting to pay. After ANOTHER 10 minutes, we get to the register, and ask the cashier to split the check….the same cashier who didn't know how to change the paper. She goes to get her manager, who, despite bathing recently, is clearly stupid white trash. I pay first, and tell her I don't want to leave a tip on my card, thanks. She gives me a shitty look, but doesn't say anything. BFRB pays second, and also says she doesn't want to leave a tip. At this point, the white trash bitch starts in on her about how they work for tips. BFRB points out that the service sucked. Instead of sympathizing, the manager says that we should have asked for her to tell her about this. Who the fuck were we supposed to ask? Our waitress was busy smoking crack and looking for a new job, the cashier was clueless, and there was no one else around. BFRB reiterates that she's not leaving a tip, and the manager goes off on her about how they are busy and they work for $2.13 an hour and how she clearly doesn't understand their plight. BFRB says, "I waited tables in college." However, the white trash at the register ignores this completely and keeps going on about how she doesn't understand. Rather than arguing further with someone who has the IQ of a sea sponge, we leave, making it clear to each and every customer in the area how dissatisfied we were.

Jackie, let me "hollah" something at you and your boss: FUCK YOU.

Crazy for ICU...or, What I Did Not Do on My Summer Vacation

Crazy for ICU...Or, What I Did NOT Do on My Summer Vacation

MY BEST FRIEND WON FRONT-ROW TICKETS TO MADONNA!!!

You may now be thinking to yourself that this is either (a) a critique of has-been rock stars trying to relive their glory days by charging too much for tickets or (b) a rave about how amazing the concert was. Well, you would be wrong. This is a story about why you should never create unnecessary drama, and what is wrong with health-care professionals in this country.

Our story begins at the end of June. My gay ex-boyfriend (GEB, for short—long story) calls me at work freaking out because he won tickets to see Madonna's concert in Chicago July 11th. Well, I assume that (a) since I'm his best friend and have been for a long, long time and (b) he called me first to tell me, that I am accompanying him to the concert. Plus, his ass is in law school and he's poor, and I have a decent job and a decent car which can finance and make the trip. Silly me. I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. Gay men can create drama out of a simple phone call to decide what time to go out Saturday night.

Enter GEB's ex-boyfriend and alleged friend. He was next on the call list, and then, I get this e-mail asking if HE can go to the concert instead. GEB's ex lives in another city, and he sure as hell won't pay for GEB's plane ticket. However, GEB still wants this ex to be his current, so he attempted to blow me off in pursuit of the dick. After many emotionally-charged e-mails back and forth between all three of us, he finally saw the light and said I could go.

On July 7th, I wake up feeling like my entire intestinal tract is being inhabited by angry aliens. The 8th and 9th are not any better. We are scheduled to depart for Chicago (a 12 hour drive, we're too poor to fly) on July 10th. Well, I don't feel better. I'm in tears. I'm in pain. All I want is to sleep with occasional breaks to drink Gatorade and eat saltines. But, of course, being the idiot I am, I made the hotel reservations on Hotwire…in my name….so I had to be there or GEB would be sleeping at the bus station. I had no choice but to go. We stop at the gas station, I grab my trusty Gatorade & crackers, and we hit the road for "my kind of town."

The drive, luckily, is fairly uneventful, and it is not marred by any run-ins with the highway patrol. After a few wrong turns, we finally find our (unmarked) hotel, and are pleasantly surprised by its cleanly newness. I still feel like shit, but at least I'm not puking. That all changes the following morning….

July 11th. I get up, take a shower, and am brushing my teeth when I notice that the whites of my eyes are a little yellowish. Attributing this somewhat ominous development to the fluorescent light in the bathroom, I shrug it off. However, upon application of the toothbrush to my upper palate, I suddenly get back in touch with my old buddy Ralph.

At this point, GEB suddenly realizes that I'm not making up this whole being sick thing, and he gently suggests that perhaps I should go to the doctor. At this point, it's 10:30 a.m. We have to be downtown at the concert arena by 6:30 p.m. I locate a 24-hour minor emergency clinic in the phone book, and after a seriously shitty set of directions from the receptionist, several wrong turns, and another set of directions from a gas station attendant, we finally locate said minor emergency clinic. Luckily, I didn't have to wait that long.

The nurse whisks me back into the innards of the facility, weighs me, takes my blood pressure, takes my temperature, makes me pee in a cup the size of the one that comes with cough syrup, and then sticks me with what will be the first of many needles. After filling at least four or five multicolored test tubes with my blood, she tells me to lay on a gurney and stabs me with yet another needle to start some IV fluids.

After what seems like a year, the doctor comes in and tells me that my liver enzymes are elevated off the charts. This begins the first set of questions about my alcohol consumption habits. Seeing as how I'm really an occasional (like once a month) social drinker, I know that this does not have a damn thing to do with what is wrong with me. After establishing I'm not an alcoholic on the edge of liver failure, he tells me he's sending me to the emergency room for an ultrasound, because they think I have gallstones. I did inform the doctor and nurse that we had somewhere to be later in the evening (by this time it was about 12:45 p.m.), and they said that it wouldn't be a problem.

Flash forward to emergency room. After a short wait involving some screaming children and parents, I am taken to a room. At this point, I am in pain, scared, tired, and cranky as hell. They come in and played with the IV some more, then got out the test tubes and the needles again. This time, the tech missed, mumbled something about a smaller needle (apparently, my veins are the size of Asian vermicelli) and came back with an allegedly smaller needle….and left me with my first set of bruises.

This whole time, I have not once been offered anything for pain, nausea, or my general comfort. Finally, when the nurse comes in to tell me my ultrasound will be at 3:30 p.m., I start bitching about how miserable I am….so it finally dawns on them that maybe I need something besides a saline drip.

At last, I am wheeled to a dimly lit chamber, where an attractive man awaits with some warm lubricant. Sadly, this was only the ultrasound technician, but it was the high point of my whole hospital experience (other than 2 days of morphine derivatives, that is.)

By the time they come back with the results of the ultrasound, it's 5 p.m. Surprisingly, no obvious gallstones. Do you think this means I get to leave and go to the concert and follow up with my primary care physician? Don't be ridiculous. I am informed that I will staying overnight, and CAT scans are mentioned. Somehow, that doesn't really compare to a free concert, but I am on enough drugs by this point that my disappointment is muted. I tell GEB to go ahead and go, because one of us should at least be having some actual fun.

The wheels of the gurney once again roll, this time upstairs to a room. My roommate is very old. I will later discover that she is also (a) not a native English speaker and (b) very hard of hearing. I am connected to various monitors, given instructions on the TV remote and call button, and then pretty much left to entertain myself until it's time for my next shot. They even give me some footie slipper socks in a lovely shade of puke beige (which coordinates effortlessly with the blue and purple patterned hospital gown), in case I want to go to the bathroom. Not like I need to….I haven't had anything to actually drink in about 12 hours.

3 a.m., July 12th. The night nurses come in and decide that they need some more blood, because clearly the first 12 test tubes weren't adequate. Conveniently, they decide to stab me with needles BEFORE my next pain shot. I always love the feeling of being probed with sharp objects when I'm half awake at 3 in the morning in an unfamiliar setting.

4 a.m., July 12th. The monitor attached to the IV line starts beeping endlessly. I can't tell if it's mine or my neighbor's. Nurse finally arrives to shut it off, after 10 minutes. Glad it wasn't telling them someone's heart quit beating.

7 a.m., July 12th. Shift change. The morning nurse and lab techs arrive. At this point, we're approaching 24 hours without liquid refreshment. I complain of dehydration. They explain that I'm getting plenty of fluids and I can't have any liquids because of more planned tests and/or surgery. After they leave, I go to the bathroom and drink from the faucet. They can kiss my ass.

Here's me in the hospital...dehydrated as hell. Note the Michael Jackson-like glove. It was to keep the IV in place, or make me look like a retard. Not sure which.

10 a.m., July 12th. More needles. More bruises. More painkillers. By this point, GEB has arrived. He asks the nurse when a physician might be arriving. The nurse makes noise about surgery in the mornings and emergencies and doesn't venture a guess. Luckily, I had GEB bring clean underwear and real pajamas, or I really would be cranky. I kept the footie socks on, though. They matched my purple and green pajama pants beautifully.

12:30 p.m., July 12th. I see the first doctor since 4 p.m. yesterday. Said doctor starts yapping about tests and possibilities and how elevated my liver functions still are. More pointed questions are asked about my drinking habits. He pokes, prods, and tells me the gastroenterologist will be there shortly. The bill for his five minutes is $350.00.

2:00 p.m. The gastroenterologist finally arrives. She is very pregnant. She has lots of colorful brochures detailing the functions of my internal organs....and lots more questions about my alcohol consumption. Apparently, I'm not having a CAT scan. I'm having an ERCP. For those of you not versed in medical technology, this involves shoving a long tube with a camera and some surgical instruments down the patient's throat and then possibly snipping and slicing to remove obstructions of the common bile duct. At least they sedate you. She said that, even though the ultrasound didn't show any actual gallstones, there may be "sludge." Super.

3:30 p.m., July 12th. I am wheeled downstairs for the "procedure." The nurse says GEB has to come with me, because I won't remember one fucking thing that the doctor says after I come out from under the sedation. The nurses in this area of the hospital are all wearing lead-lined cheerleader outfits. The first nurse attempts to put on a hospital gown over my pajamas. The second two nurses do something with drugs and then wake me up afterwards. The doctor (yet another one, because the pregnant one couldn't do x-rays) says that they didn't find even a hint of sludgy gallbladder residue, and that they need to test for hepatitis.

4:30 p.m., July 12th. These sadistic aliens finally decide I can have clear liquids. Apple juice and jello have never tasted so good. GEB informs me that he has nowhere to stay overnight. I give him money for the Motel 6. He's also driving my nowhere-near-paid-for convertible. He's a horrible driver in an unfamiliar town. Is it time for more drugs yet?

Overnight, July 12th-13th. Beeping monitors, loud conversations between the nurses and my non-English speaking, deaf roommate. Just another night in the depths of hell.

6:00 a.m., July 13th. The vampires are back. Last needle stick. The bruises on my right arm are growing hourly. I am beginning to resemble a heroin junkie. I ask the nurse when the doctor will be there and when I can go home. She utters the usual "I have no way of predicting that."

2:30 p.m., July 13th. The doctor finally arrives. Tells me that her "best guess" is that I have mono or some other kind of mysterious viral infection. She does, however, tell me I can go home. Good thing, because the jello didn't taste nearly as good at breakfast and lunch. Equipped with various medications for nausea and pain, GEB and I locate Walgreen's and a gas station (since he clearly did not notice the dry gas tank and the handy warning light). At 4:30, we set out for home.

8:45 p.m., July 13th. We arrive in St. Louis. On the way there, I had foolishly promised a visit to the arch. GEB held me to this. In serious pain, I climb the 80 zillion steps, visit the restroom and the gift shop, and wait for him to take some pictures.

2:30 a.m., July 14th. Tulsa. We're on the wrong fucking turnpike, and I have no money. Guess falling asleep was a bad idea. Eventually stop at Wal-Mart to get cash and ask directions. We'll get home….just an hour later than planned.

5:30 a.m., July 14th. Home at last. I fall into bed and sleep for 3 hours, then call work and my doctor's office. They inform me that I have an appointment at 9:30 Thursday morning. I take another painkiller and go back to bed.

10:00 a.m., July 14th. Wake up. Call mom. Very upset that I didn't call from the hospital. I explained that we had a cell phone with no charger and that the custodians of evil didn't let you dial long-distance on their phone. Still, the conversation is over relatively quickly.

3:00 p.m., July 14th. Mom calls again, totally freaking out. This time, it's an hour of me promising that if I'm ever abducted by aliens for medical experiments again, I will call her immediately and give her the phone number.

8:30 a.m., July 15th. I call the doctor's office to make sure they are getting my medical records faxed from the hospital, and am informed that my appointment is, in fact, NEXT Thursday. After chewing some ass, they agree to a 3:30 appointment.

3:30 p.m., July 15th. See the doctor. He agrees that I probably do have mono. Sends me to the only lab my insurance will pay for to have some more blood sucked.

4:30 p.m., July 15th. Arrive at the building which is supposed to contain the lab. I am informed by another tenant that this lab hasn't been there for 2 years, and that they need to quit handing out that stupid list. She tells me to go down the street to the real lab.

4:45 p.m., July 15th. After finally figuring out how to get into the parking garage, I go to the lab with great trepidation. The lab tech immediately makes for the right arm, which I jerk away in a panic. He looks at the bruises, bemoans the incompetence of the techs who did it, and gently takes blood from the left arm. This is the only site that is not bruised. This man deserves a big, fat raise.

2:00 p.m., July 16th. I start calling the doctor's office, inquiring as to the results of my lab tests. No response. I need to know if I can work Monday or not. I don't have any sick time, and haven't for a week.

4:30 p.m., July 16th. Still no response. I call the doctor's office again, and get an answering service. I'm panicking.

4:37 p.m., July 16th. The nurse finally calls and confirms the diagnosis of mono. She also makes some noise about not working for another week. I throw as much of a fit as I can muster about how not physically taxing my job is, and she finally gives in.

8:00 a.m., July 19th. I return to work and have to tell the story of my capture and release about 70 times. At least I didn't get fired.