Day 164
Question: What can be worse than waking up from a nightmare where all of your stuff is stolen including your computer and an ugly expensive dog shits diarrhea down your pant leg? Answer: Waking up from a nightmare where all your stuff is stolen including your computer and an ugly, expensive dog shits diarrhea down your pant leg and you realize that you still have all your stuff but you were supposed to be at work 41 minutes ago for a mandatory staff meeting and you are so hung over you can barely look presentable, let alone sprint 8 blocks to get to the meeting. But, you do anyway.
When I finally got there, winded and covered in perfume and remnants of last night's eyeliner, I collapsed into a chair, looked around, and became overwhelmed. My eyes scanned the room to find four different men that I flirt with on my shifts each meeting my eye, this is not to mention one of them giving me mini lap dances when he got up to get water and go to the bathroom. I slunk down in my seat: they weren't supposed to see me looking this nasty until we had gone out, gotten blitzed and had mediocre sex and they looked just as bad. The more horrible part was that seeing them in the daylight --they actually, miraculously, got more attractive. As we were sitting through the talk about menu prices and the fact that we may be put under horrid new management I just sat there going from man to man thinking, damn I've found myself some dandies, and maybe, just maybe I look better in daylight too (doubt it). Oh well, I'd still take another lap dance.
My strange day continued with me re-writing the pilot outline for my TV series. Just as I was in the thick with my notecards strewn about through my open window came the sound that turns me from my usual snarky, yet pleasant self into I-want-to-kill-everything-from-plants-to-babies self: the sound of soccer. Okay, so I know soccer is a fantastic way of getting exercise (trust me, I dropped out of it after one week in 7th grade because of all the exercising involved) but really do people really need to practice in the courtyard outside my window? So I may seem like an old biddy acting like I can't handle the youngsters out having a good time but I do have a couple legitimate concerns and here they are:
1. People always tend to get hurt to the point of having to go to the emergency room during this game (at least how my pals play it) and I am no good in a medical emergency setting. If someone were to get seriously injured I would probably have a heart attack at the sight of it just worrying about them and being upset that they would allow themselves to be put into a position where they could get so seriously hurt just in the name of physical exercise. Seriously, it's not like they are running the risk of stitches and torn ligaments for Olympic gold, it's just for recreation.
2. I am always afraid that the ball will come smacking into my window. It's not so much that I fear the glass breaking but more so that I am usually sitting at my desk, which faces the window, and I would be so startled I may have a heart attack.
3. There are some pretty soccer players out there. And not only is having them prance around just in view distracting it could also give me a heart attack being as pretty people sweating from exertion is one of the hottest things in the world and I could quickly become overwhelmed.
So, I guess in general my concern comes down to me having a heart attack due to this silly soccering. It really must stop. Or, maybe I could face my fears and become part of the team maybe they need a water girl or a publicist.
Moving on, tonight I got lost. I was on my way to a part of campus I didn't know all that well but looked accessible from a map I'd seen online. I was trying to find my way to a building where a graduate of my program was going to give a talk. I was lost for so long that my mother, who was on the phone with me, said that she was bored with me being lost and that she'd rather go to the bathroom than hear about it any more. I told her I was in a dark alleyway between two buildings that was a little creepy and she said, "Well, text me if you ever get there, bye!" And, she hung up.
I did get there, twenty minutes and two dark alleys later. Thinking about it now I shouldn't have texted her to tell her I was okay. I should have let her wonder. Anyway, when I walked into the building I went up to a table with programs on it and an older man behind it and said, "I am so glad I made it here I was lost." He grunted, "The lecture is always in this building." He was clearly unimpressed with my survival tactics. I walked into the lecture hall expecting to see classmates of mine and other students, what I saw was a room full of people whose average age was 63.
I looked at the pamphlet I got from the testy doorman to discover that this talk was sponsored by a group that gives lectures twice a month. The members of this group are older couples and groups of single women who, at one time were academic types, and now look upon these sorts of things as a good night out on the town (translation: The types of people who belong to the golf club not church bingo callers). I looked up at the author and wondered if that is what happens when you sell a novel; you get to stand in a room full of old people and pretend like you know what you are talking about and read excerpts from your book. I could get used to this type of thing, old people are fascinating. Let me amend that: old people who pop out their dentures for kicks, say inappropriate things, play church bingo and talk about how it used to be are fun not these high brow old folks with their sweater vests and combed hair. That's it, when I am supposed to give readings to the elderly I am choosing an old folks home to read in, not some fussy, hard-to-find lecture hall filled with old people who took care of their teeth.
Tip of the Day: Do not go onto "Friends Exposed" on facebook because you will be clicking through questions for over an hour and during that hour you will piss off at least one person you've answered a question about and have to decide whether or not to unfriend them.
-Canadian Castaway
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