Yesterday, I was talking to my brother who had just made me aware of some freelancing work online. Applying for writing work online is about as fun as stabbing ones own eye out, which is to say NOT. But I have to keep myself in expensive heels and wine somehow, so I went and checked the site out. It seemed pretty straightforward until I came to the spot where they wanted a copy of my resume.
Um.
You see, I haven't had to think about one of those in a very, VERY long time. Like, seven years. In fact, I couldn't even find a copy of my old one to update and slap up on the website. This struck me as funny and also rather stupid since I used to work for a recruiting company and was often waist deep in resumes. So, I thought, how hard can this be? I'll just make a new one! And I did! In about 20 minutes. And it's not really any better or worse than the resumes that used to come across my desk on a regular basis. Except those people were trying to be CEO's and so had fancy things like MBA's and PhD's. And sometimes several other letters that were in ALL CAPS. Posers.
So I made a resume and got that shit up there. And then I thought to myself, what if I wrote what I REALLY thought about all of my past jobs? So I did, but just for myself. Here. Enjoy.
EXPERIENCE:
Pilates Instructor
I spend most of my day barefoot, which is pretty nice. I get to boss people around all day and they listen without question. My biggest worry is that someone will fart at an inappropriate time during their session. This happens at least once a week, but I’ve taught myself to NOT burst into laughter when it does occur which I think shows tremendous growth.
Some Internet Company
CEO and HR and PR Bitch. It was the dot.com era, baby. I did it all.
Have I ever told you how the CEO of this company was a furry? No joke. He dressed up in stuffed animal outfits with his girlfriend and would have sex. I know this because I went over to his house before a photo shoot to tidy up with the other PR bitch and the two outfits were strewn across the bed. We were afraid to touch anything. Also, one of the BizDev hotshots pressed me up against the copier one time and said how my skirt did perfect things to my ass. I elbowed him in the ribs, HARD, and then put in a complaint with HR about him immediately, but it WAS a good skirt. He tried to friend me on Facebook and I took GREAT pleasure in hitting the IGNORE button. I also got poo’d on by a girl who came in high off of her ass after a particularly long lunch with the finance guys. She passed out in the bathroom and while I was trying to drag her out from underneath the stall where she was choking on her own vomit, she lost control of her bowels. In my hand. That was not a great day.
Some Executive Search Firm
EA & Research Assistant
Essentially worked with a search team. I started out as the assistant, but my boss realized that I sucked at it and so said, Do research! I said, Ok! without really ever checking as to what that meant. I spent the rest of my time there trying to figure out how to read whatever the computer spit out at me and getting paid way too much money to do it. Really, I used this time to hone my business casual wardrobe. I can take anything from office to drinks, ladies, should you ever need help in that area of your closet.
Some Antiques Dealer
Art Restoration
Restored antique art for private dealer who was drunk all of the time. His penis made several appearances since he always walked around in his bathrobe which continuously came undone. His son skulked about and was often high on cocaine. He asked me out once and I said no, because hadn’t he ever seen those commercials from the 80’s where they put the egg in the frying pan and said, “This is your brain on drugs!”? I mean by my calculations his gray matter was almost completely pulverized and I didn’t have time for his fathers penis AND an idiot all in one lifetime. That’s asking a lot.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
My weekend. Or, how when everything is perpendicular and parallel I experience spontaneous orgasm.
You know how sometimes you're really excited for the weekend because of the prospect of sleeping in? and no work? and whatever wild and crazy thing you do on your days off? sex in a tree? I'm just riffing here. But then you're all wheee!, you get home, pour yourself a cold one, relax on the couch for a while and then find that suddenly it's Sunday night and you're watching Friends reruns on TBS and you think, "WAIT A MINUTE! Where did my weekend go?" and then you're all depressed and disgruntled because Monday is staring you in the face like a zombie who is trying to figure out how to best suck out your joy and verve?
Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.
This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!
I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!
I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.
I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.
I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.
She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.
I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."
Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!
Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.
This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!
I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!
I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.
I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.
I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.
She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.
I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."
Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
I think I just put my bra size on the internet.
An excerpt from the email I sent to my sister yesterday regarding my flight home. Because, you know, airports hate me.
C,
The flight home yesterday was easy, though I did have something of an event at the airport. You know how I had my purse and my computer bag? Well, despite the "rule" of only being allowed two carry-ons, I've never had trouble bringing those two bags AND my roller bag onto the plane since both bags fit under the seat and my roller goes overhead. WELL, I lined up to board and the woman (who had battled her eye liner and lost given the sheer thickness of the kohl she had going on around her peepers) took my pass and said, tersely, "Nope, you have three bags. One has to go." I was astounded and told her that both bags fit under the seat and she goes, "Doesn't matter. That's the rule that you only get two. Go over there and fix it or check a bag and pay for it. NEXT!" And she truly hollered the "NEXT" with some gusto, clearly being done with me and wanting to just get the show on the road. Perhaps she was anxious to get home and wash her face. I don't know. I was annoyed at the prospect of a convenience fee - WHICH I WAS NOT GOING TO PAY. And yes, I'm aware that I just yelled that last sentence. But SHEESH.
So I marched over to the side and decided that I could smash my purse into my roller bag. Which I did, but only with the assistance of an airline worker who had to SIT on the bag to get it closed, and only after one of my bras decided to fall out and INTO THE PATH OF THE PEOPLE WHO WERE BOARDING. So now everyone in line knows that I wear a 34B. Did I mention that the plane was full of business men one of whom snorted as I said, "Um, you're sort of on my bra" while plucking at the pant leg of the man in front of him? It was neat.
So bag problem aside, I joined the line AGAIN in a serious sweat and all shades of red. My deodorant was really pushed to its limits. The woman looked at me and said, "Don't do that again," with a tone implying that I had REALLY sinned by trying to bring on more than the allotted luggage. You would have thought I had just drowned some kittens given her tone. Point taken.
Finally on the plane, I found an aisle seat and commenced with trying to shove my roller bag overhead. Which, with the addition of my purse, was not going to happen. And I pushed REAAAAALLLLY hard, even standing on my seat and using my shoulder. Nope. I motioned to a stewardess and said, "Look, I think I'm going to have to check this bag." She was thrilled, because it meant I was also going to have to PAY. She trotted off to get a tag for my bag, and I thought, "WAIT. I can just take my purse out and shove it under the seat along with my computer bag LIKE I AWAYS DO and it will be fine." Which I did! But first, my bra had to make an appearance AGAIN, which was fun for the guy who picked it up and handed it back to me with a chipper, "I think you dropped this!" I died a thousand deaths, let ME tell YOU, but I didn't have to pay to stow my bag, so ha-HA! Who needs dignity? NOT ME!
The rest of the flight was a non-event, though really nothing can top a stranger handing you back your BRA. And it wasn't even one of my cute ones. It was of the nude-colored, utilitarian variety. I can't decide if that's better or not, but now I feel all squirmy, like if he ever sees me again, he'll think, "Oh GOD, that's the woman who wears REALLY BORING UNDERWEAR. Quick! RUN! She must HATE SEX!" And I'll have to be all, "NO I DON'T! CHECK THIS BAD BOY OUT!" and then flash him just to prove that I have proper, lacy underthings. Which, I suppose, could get me arrested. But at least my reputation would be intact. As a ho. Sigh. I can't win with this one.
The End.
xo
J.
C,
The flight home yesterday was easy, though I did have something of an event at the airport. You know how I had my purse and my computer bag? Well, despite the "rule" of only being allowed two carry-ons, I've never had trouble bringing those two bags AND my roller bag onto the plane since both bags fit under the seat and my roller goes overhead. WELL, I lined up to board and the woman (who had battled her eye liner and lost given the sheer thickness of the kohl she had going on around her peepers) took my pass and said, tersely, "Nope, you have three bags. One has to go." I was astounded and told her that both bags fit under the seat and she goes, "Doesn't matter. That's the rule that you only get two. Go over there and fix it or check a bag and pay for it. NEXT!" And she truly hollered the "NEXT" with some gusto, clearly being done with me and wanting to just get the show on the road. Perhaps she was anxious to get home and wash her face. I don't know. I was annoyed at the prospect of a convenience fee - WHICH I WAS NOT GOING TO PAY. And yes, I'm aware that I just yelled that last sentence. But SHEESH.
So I marched over to the side and decided that I could smash my purse into my roller bag. Which I did, but only with the assistance of an airline worker who had to SIT on the bag to get it closed, and only after one of my bras decided to fall out and INTO THE PATH OF THE PEOPLE WHO WERE BOARDING. So now everyone in line knows that I wear a 34B. Did I mention that the plane was full of business men one of whom snorted as I said, "Um, you're sort of on my bra" while plucking at the pant leg of the man in front of him? It was neat.
So bag problem aside, I joined the line AGAIN in a serious sweat and all shades of red. My deodorant was really pushed to its limits. The woman looked at me and said, "Don't do that again," with a tone implying that I had REALLY sinned by trying to bring on more than the allotted luggage. You would have thought I had just drowned some kittens given her tone. Point taken.
Finally on the plane, I found an aisle seat and commenced with trying to shove my roller bag overhead. Which, with the addition of my purse, was not going to happen. And I pushed REAAAAALLLLY hard, even standing on my seat and using my shoulder. Nope. I motioned to a stewardess and said, "Look, I think I'm going to have to check this bag." She was thrilled, because it meant I was also going to have to PAY. She trotted off to get a tag for my bag, and I thought, "WAIT. I can just take my purse out and shove it under the seat along with my computer bag LIKE I AWAYS DO and it will be fine." Which I did! But first, my bra had to make an appearance AGAIN, which was fun for the guy who picked it up and handed it back to me with a chipper, "I think you dropped this!" I died a thousand deaths, let ME tell YOU, but I didn't have to pay to stow my bag, so ha-HA! Who needs dignity? NOT ME!
The rest of the flight was a non-event, though really nothing can top a stranger handing you back your BRA. And it wasn't even one of my cute ones. It was of the nude-colored, utilitarian variety. I can't decide if that's better or not, but now I feel all squirmy, like if he ever sees me again, he'll think, "Oh GOD, that's the woman who wears REALLY BORING UNDERWEAR. Quick! RUN! She must HATE SEX!" And I'll have to be all, "NO I DON'T! CHECK THIS BAD BOY OUT!" and then flash him just to prove that I have proper, lacy underthings. Which, I suppose, could get me arrested. But at least my reputation would be intact. As a ho. Sigh. I can't win with this one.
The End.
xo
J.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Why with the sequins? WHY?
My time down south is coming to an end. I leave today to float up back home, but I’m happy to report that my head is in a much better place and I won’t be rending my garments and falling to the floor in paroxysms of misery and angst.
I've decided that I ought to open up a cottage industry, finding wedding gowns for people. (I just lost ALL of my male readers right there, I guarantee it.) I came down here with the intention of doing a lot of sitting and inspecting the insides of my eyelids, but my niece went and got engaged a few weeks ago, and we decided that a bulk of this weekend would be dedicated to finding The Dress. Seeing as I accomplished this with Angie just recently, I was primed and ready to wade my way through fields of sequins and bead work and tulle to find something sleek and magnificent for Heidi.
(Honestly, I’m having a hard time with her being engaged. Not only do I feel as though I was JUST changing her diapers yesterday, but so many of my memories are of her being small and racing around - she never walked - with a fountain of blond hair coming off of the top of her head that seeing her in dresses that make her look decidedly statuesque and grown up have me thinking, “WAIT! Is she potty trained yet? Come here and let me help you blow your nose!” I feel as though I’ve spent the last 20 some years standing still, and all of the tiny people in my life have just grown up so quickly around me. It’s strange, this getting older thing.)
We did find the most perfect and beautiful dress for Heidi. Poor Scott is not going to know what to do when she walks down the aisle. I suggest we have a glass of water on hand, more to throw at him than anything as there might be fainting involved. We were fortunate enough to find the right dress at the first boutique that we went into. Though, feeling as though we ought to do our due diligence and cast a wider net, we went to another shop yesterday. Bad idea. We walked in and it looked as though a sequin factory had had intestinal issues and exploded all over everything in sight – we all immediately broke out in hives, dry mouth and my left leg is still itching. Our requests of things that were “Sleek. Sophisticated. No trimmings,” somehow got translated into, “AS CLOSE TO LITTLE BO PEEP AS POSSIBLE.” All that was missing was the flock of sheep. Sweet fancy Moses, we didn’t last long and decided that we needed to go back to the original shop and try on The Dress once more just to erase the memory of the prior shop. And then have drinks. DRINKS WERE REQUIRED AND PURELY MEDICINAL.
And then we spent the rest of the day decorating various flat surfaces all over the house in an effort to recover. We do not like shopping. The end.
I've decided that I ought to open up a cottage industry, finding wedding gowns for people. (I just lost ALL of my male readers right there, I guarantee it.) I came down here with the intention of doing a lot of sitting and inspecting the insides of my eyelids, but my niece went and got engaged a few weeks ago, and we decided that a bulk of this weekend would be dedicated to finding The Dress. Seeing as I accomplished this with Angie just recently, I was primed and ready to wade my way through fields of sequins and bead work and tulle to find something sleek and magnificent for Heidi.
(Honestly, I’m having a hard time with her being engaged. Not only do I feel as though I was JUST changing her diapers yesterday, but so many of my memories are of her being small and racing around - she never walked - with a fountain of blond hair coming off of the top of her head that seeing her in dresses that make her look decidedly statuesque and grown up have me thinking, “WAIT! Is she potty trained yet? Come here and let me help you blow your nose!” I feel as though I’ve spent the last 20 some years standing still, and all of the tiny people in my life have just grown up so quickly around me. It’s strange, this getting older thing.)
We did find the most perfect and beautiful dress for Heidi. Poor Scott is not going to know what to do when she walks down the aisle. I suggest we have a glass of water on hand, more to throw at him than anything as there might be fainting involved. We were fortunate enough to find the right dress at the first boutique that we went into. Though, feeling as though we ought to do our due diligence and cast a wider net, we went to another shop yesterday. Bad idea. We walked in and it looked as though a sequin factory had had intestinal issues and exploded all over everything in sight – we all immediately broke out in hives, dry mouth and my left leg is still itching. Our requests of things that were “Sleek. Sophisticated. No trimmings,” somehow got translated into, “AS CLOSE TO LITTLE BO PEEP AS POSSIBLE.” All that was missing was the flock of sheep. Sweet fancy Moses, we didn’t last long and decided that we needed to go back to the original shop and try on The Dress once more just to erase the memory of the prior shop. And then have drinks. DRINKS WERE REQUIRED AND PURELY MEDICINAL.
And then we spent the rest of the day decorating various flat surfaces all over the house in an effort to recover. We do not like shopping. The end.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Old cheese
So a new week! Yay! And I'm still in Southern California with some of my favorite people, which is delicious. Last week, I felt like I was in some sort of hellish holding pattern...some purgatory...you know, where you have to do your taxes all day, the cork always breaks off in the wine bottle and your pants are just a little too short and you have on lame socks. That was Last Week in a nutshell.
But the week took a remarkable turn for the better on Thursday. Amazing what a short plane ride south can do for one's spirits. I had boarded in San Jose and was settling into my aisle seat (preferred since it has such easy access to the often needed potty) when an older woman came up and asked to sit in the window seat. I happily gave it to her and hoped that no one would require the middle seat since I like my space...you never know when might want to break out into jazz hands during a flight. That extra seat gives you ample space to really flail.
The older woman was kind and chatty. We exchanged some pleasantries and about five minutes in she said, "Well, dearie, I'm afraid it's just one of those busy bladder days. I'm going to have to head up to the toilet, and from the looks of it (people were still boarding) I'm going to be swimming upstream and causing quite a ruckus." I let her out and she made her way back up to the front. Her comments of, "I'm so sorry, but my bladder just won't WAIT," faded as she was swallowed up by the passengers. I went back to reading my book (which is excellent!) and was surprised a few moments later to have someone smack my shoulder with considerable force. I looked up to see what I thought at first was a LARGE man, but ended up being a homely woman of impressive girth hovering over me. "I want to sit in the window seat. Get up," she said.
I don't like being bossed.
"The seat is taken," I replied, looking back into my book in the hopes that she wouldn't consider the middle seat since there was so much hate spilling off of her, I didn't think there was enough room for both her and her bad attitude in our row.
"Is your friend IMAGINARY? Because I don't see anyone there," she spat, apparently under the impression that I was put on this earth solely to make her life miserable.
Now, I really wanted to run with that because how can you not when given such a golden opportunity? I wanted to say, "No, idiot, he's right here next to me. Don't disparage my boyfriend Chris Pine like that." But with FAA regulations being so tight these days and not wanting to get kicked off of the plane for being a kook, I said, "No, she is in the bathroom."
"If you're trying to save a seat for a friend, I'm going to get a steward up here to make you give me the seat. You're not allowed to save seats. I want the window. Move."
I couldn't believe this woman was arguing with me when the back half of the plane wasn't even full. I stood up, partly to give her what for, and also because I saw the cute little woman from before come out of the restroom and knew she would want her seat back. (There are certain moments when I'm especially thankful to be tall - for instance when someone is irritating me and thinks that I'm just this little blond thing that can be pushed over. I was over 6 feet that day, being in high heels. It was glorious watching her lean back and blink as I rose over her). "I'm not saving the seat, the woman who is ALREADY sitting in it is on her way back and if you would kindly move, she'll be able to take her seat again. So if you'd still like to get a steward up here, that is fine with me as I'd dearly love to explain how rude you've been. I'm sure the passengers that you're holding up behind you would agree. So please, just find somewhere else to sit." See? I can be polite even when I'm basically telling someone to shove it.
The older woman slid back in and I sat back down after the angry woman moved on muttering something about how she couldn't believe she was being forced to travel with a bitch such as me. I got comfortable again, and the little old woman turned to me and said, "I'm SO GLAD you got rid of her. She was being just hateful to the people who were working the counter. HATEFUL. And then she came and sat next to me while we waited to board and she smelled of old cheese. It was quite awful, as old cheese tends to be. It would have made the flight very long, don't you think? Would you like a Wethers?"
And I DID want a Werthers. It was if Last Week went to the back of the plane with the Cranky Woman and the Lovely Older Lady ushered in the New Week with her cheery disposition and candies. I settled into my seat with my book and smiled the whole way to SoCal. And I've been smiling since.
But the week took a remarkable turn for the better on Thursday. Amazing what a short plane ride south can do for one's spirits. I had boarded in San Jose and was settling into my aisle seat (preferred since it has such easy access to the often needed potty) when an older woman came up and asked to sit in the window seat. I happily gave it to her and hoped that no one would require the middle seat since I like my space...you never know when might want to break out into jazz hands during a flight. That extra seat gives you ample space to really flail.
The older woman was kind and chatty. We exchanged some pleasantries and about five minutes in she said, "Well, dearie, I'm afraid it's just one of those busy bladder days. I'm going to have to head up to the toilet, and from the looks of it (people were still boarding) I'm going to be swimming upstream and causing quite a ruckus." I let her out and she made her way back up to the front. Her comments of, "I'm so sorry, but my bladder just won't WAIT," faded as she was swallowed up by the passengers. I went back to reading my book (which is excellent!) and was surprised a few moments later to have someone smack my shoulder with considerable force. I looked up to see what I thought at first was a LARGE man, but ended up being a homely woman of impressive girth hovering over me. "I want to sit in the window seat. Get up," she said.
I don't like being bossed.
"The seat is taken," I replied, looking back into my book in the hopes that she wouldn't consider the middle seat since there was so much hate spilling off of her, I didn't think there was enough room for both her and her bad attitude in our row.
"Is your friend IMAGINARY? Because I don't see anyone there," she spat, apparently under the impression that I was put on this earth solely to make her life miserable.
Now, I really wanted to run with that because how can you not when given such a golden opportunity? I wanted to say, "No, idiot, he's right here next to me. Don't disparage my boyfriend Chris Pine like that." But with FAA regulations being so tight these days and not wanting to get kicked off of the plane for being a kook, I said, "No, she is in the bathroom."
"If you're trying to save a seat for a friend, I'm going to get a steward up here to make you give me the seat. You're not allowed to save seats. I want the window. Move."
I couldn't believe this woman was arguing with me when the back half of the plane wasn't even full. I stood up, partly to give her what for, and also because I saw the cute little woman from before come out of the restroom and knew she would want her seat back. (There are certain moments when I'm especially thankful to be tall - for instance when someone is irritating me and thinks that I'm just this little blond thing that can be pushed over. I was over 6 feet that day, being in high heels. It was glorious watching her lean back and blink as I rose over her). "I'm not saving the seat, the woman who is ALREADY sitting in it is on her way back and if you would kindly move, she'll be able to take her seat again. So if you'd still like to get a steward up here, that is fine with me as I'd dearly love to explain how rude you've been. I'm sure the passengers that you're holding up behind you would agree. So please, just find somewhere else to sit." See? I can be polite even when I'm basically telling someone to shove it.
The older woman slid back in and I sat back down after the angry woman moved on muttering something about how she couldn't believe she was being forced to travel with a bitch such as me. I got comfortable again, and the little old woman turned to me and said, "I'm SO GLAD you got rid of her. She was being just hateful to the people who were working the counter. HATEFUL. And then she came and sat next to me while we waited to board and she smelled of old cheese. It was quite awful, as old cheese tends to be. It would have made the flight very long, don't you think? Would you like a Wethers?"
And I DID want a Werthers. It was if Last Week went to the back of the plane with the Cranky Woman and the Lovely Older Lady ushered in the New Week with her cheery disposition and candies. I settled into my seat with my book and smiled the whole way to SoCal. And I've been smiling since.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
CS™
I know, I know, I KNOW. It’s been more than a week. I’ve had one of those spans of time when really, it was better for you all that I didn’t write. There were several doctors visits, my car was in the shop, I wasn’t sleeping. I sat each evening in front of the computer and most of what fell out of my brain was HATEFUL and FULL OF BILE and SMELLED LIKE SCALP. So, ew. It was nothing you would want to read, I promise. I just spent a lot of time telling Last Week to SOD OFF. It was about as fun as beating my laundry against river rocks or grinding my own flour. Which is to say, not very.
I’m now in Southern California, which is very good for my soul, so next week should be better. I’ve spent the past few days sleeping in, drinking good wine and basking in the company of my family. These things foster the Creative Spirit (CS™) whereas Last Week was chasing after It and trying to induce blunt force trauma to Its tender and sensitive head. Last Week was a crusty old bitch that smelled like chlorine and old mustard. Last Week was just being an asshole. This Week is cooing all sorts of lovely things into Its ears…the CS™ will be present and ready for duty. But for now, as you were. I'll get back to you on Monday.
I’m now in Southern California, which is very good for my soul, so next week should be better. I’ve spent the past few days sleeping in, drinking good wine and basking in the company of my family. These things foster the Creative Spirit (CS™) whereas Last Week was chasing after It and trying to induce blunt force trauma to Its tender and sensitive head. Last Week was a crusty old bitch that smelled like chlorine and old mustard. Last Week was just being an asshole. This Week is cooing all sorts of lovely things into Its ears…the CS™ will be present and ready for duty. But for now, as you were. I'll get back to you on Monday.
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