ammogirl

So.  Here I am, running on, oh, four hours of sleep, and all I want to do while Lindsey is in her tennis lesson is read my damn Stephen King book, because I’ve had it for a WEEK, and I am only halfway through.  And that is not okay with me.  But instead I had to listen to a Tennis Mom while she talked at me about her daughter.  Even though I had established first off that I have very little free time right now so I like to utilize tennis hour for me only, reading here, alright bye!

But no.  She would start talking, and while I tried to ignore her, we were the only ones in the room and I’m not rude (really!) so I would politely look up while she went on–”Oh, you’d nevvverrr be able to tell she’s 11″  “My daughter just has such a feeeeel for the ball”  “She practically grew up on the tennis court, she can hit the ball with her eyes closed, just look at her”–and I would nod and smile, and then glance, puzzled, at the courts, where her fabulous daughter had thrown herself in a dramatic heap after tossing her racquet to the floor in anger.  I wanted to say, “you’re right, I’d never be able to tell she’s eleven” implying that, ahem, she acts more like five.

After awhile I gave up, slowllly tearing my eyes from the pages in front of me one last time, the creepy world of Stephen King fading away (but only until I go to bed.  more on that later) and just gave my full attention to her.  Because she very clearly wanted it.

You guys.  Trust me.  I do not radiate Please Talk to Me wavelengths.  Yet I am a magnet for people like this.  So I heard all about how she didn’t appreciate being ‘called out’ over not bringing in coffee today during a meeting.  And then I heard it again.  And then I heard how her husband didn’t understand why she was upset, and that she had to relate the entire story to him (and by default to me, AGAIN) how it had gone down so he could SEE SHE HAD BEEN WRONGED…you know?

I…had no idea what to say to all of this.  After the billionth sentence ending in “…you know?” and a pause, I tossed out, “yeah, no–you shouldn’t have to deal with…that?” and thank god it satisfied her and on we went to topic #572: the Moving Back to the States, No Jobs in Sight, Building a House blues.

It was then that I casually placed my hand in my pocket and very stealthily drew out my cell phone, laying it on the table just so, where I could see the time pass…so…slowly and she would not be able to see that I was doing so.  And I realized that 51 minutes had passed.  Fifty-one minutes.  She had talked.  For FIFTY.ONE.MINUTES.

I can ramble with the best of them, but 51 non-stop minutes to someone who is clearly longing to be doing something else?  Never.  Especially after today.  It was totally painful for me to sit through.

Anyway, yeah, when I was getting ready for bed last night I looked at my closet door, which is slightly propped open so I can hang my robe on the corner, and noticed I had placed my Mardi Gras mask right above it.  I thought, “I should probably fix that” but then stupidly left it, so that anyone who happens to be scared of the dark, sleeping by themselves, and owning an industrial-sized imagination could glance over all bleary-eyed in the middle of the night, see a person just waiting for their chance to strike, and thusly lay awake terrified with no further chance of getting back to sleep.  Not that that happened to me last night.  At 2 am.  Nope.

Tschuss!!

I spent so much time getting the video post to work that it felt like I had posted for ten days straight. Don’t ask me what I did to get it to work finally; all I know is somehow I turned off my WYSIWIG editor and I’m stuck with the non-WYSIWIG one. Probably…until John comes home. So.

Lindsey’s gone this weekend on a trip with a youth group–no, wait, before you laugh at my hypocrisy, the what I think is actually irony for real, of the daughter who sort of enabled the end of me and religion 15 years ago being involved with a youth group, let me explain. She only goes because her friends go, and those friends only go because, well–their friends go. They are using god as a social chaperone, if you will. I know this because I am friends with several of Lindsey’s friends mothers, and they all feel the same way about religion. Also, Lindsey will full-on admit to it, unabashedly. Whatever, she’s a good girl and an four-day trip with her friends in a religious atmosphere is will harm neither her nor I. Also, because she’s gone it’s just me and Taylor this weekend, and we are having fun. She’s the one who’s ‘transitioning’, if you will, between ‘I am the baby’ and ‘I am NOT A BABY, GODDDDDD’ and our dealings have been mostly conducted on eggshells lately. This weekend is good for us.

Anyway, Friday was…ugh. We had a lunch run to Subway, right? And I got my sandwich and was fully invested in it, because it was GOOD, until I happened to SEE THE HAIR that was in it. It was so fucking gross. I grabbed it and pullllllllllled it out, and it was like, eight inches long, and I laid it next to my sandwich, wrapped it up, and put it in the trash. Then I said, “there was a hair in my sandwich” at which point my co-workers started in with the, “oh, the guy that made your sandwich was dirty” and “omg he had such greasy hair” and I tried really hard to not react or anything but my disgust of HAIR IN MY FOOD is documented and I could not stop the gagging and I realized that holy crap, I was going to THROW UP. I ran down the hall, out the vault door, and sped in to the bathroom, where I emptied my stomach into the first available stall. I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT! I have never ACTUALLY thrown up from disgust, although I say that I am all the time.

For a short while after that I had to listen to the “maybe it was YOUR hair” and the, “come on, it couldn’t have been THAT gross” until lo and behold! ANOTHER person in a different office FOUND A HAIR ALSO. However, he just pulled it out and continued eating but at that point, it had become officially disgusting, and the manager was called and money was refunded because HI HAIR IN FOOD IS GROSS.

And then at the end of the day when I was changing out of my uniform, the lock on the freshly painted conference room door got stuck, and I was instantly panicked and pounded on the door and was all, “hey! HEY! Let me out!” while my coworkers stood outside the door and laughed and laughed. Yeah, nice guys, down to the last one. After a bit of pushing and pulling and holding the door handle just so, I was able to turn the key all the way and popped out to even MORE laughter, because of COURSE they wouldn’t believe me when I said the lock was stuck and assumed I had just forgotten I had locked it. Yeah, okayyyy, “oh no, here I am behind a door that I locked that won’t open! What should I do! I am a girl and therefore can’t think of simple things like turning the key! Please rescue me!” I know better than to argue with this bunch of jokers when they are in this mood, though, because it’s the mental version of me swinging away while they hold me just out of range with a hand on my head. You know what I’m talking about? Ugh. MEN.

Now I’ve gotta run–I finally got my hands on Stephen King’s latest and I can only read it during the daytime. Creepy!

Tschuss!!

I must really like you guys. Or hate you, depending on how loud your volume is.

I don’t know why it’s sideways. Do you think it would make a difference if it wasn’t?

Tschuss!!