Queen Jealousy

I’ve always been that girl who says “I totally have no problem with my boyfriend talking to other girls,” or “If he wants to flirt, that’s fine. He’s a natural flirt. He comes home to me.” I’ve even upped the ante and said, out loud, “I don’t mind if my boyfriend goes to strip clubs.”

But, like almost everything I say, all of these declarations require addendums.

I don’t have a problem with my boyfriend talking to other girls, as long as I know said other girls. If they’re old friends, I need to have heard about them numerous times. If they’re new friends, I need to be introduced. I have to be familiar with the notion of this girl to whom he’ll be speaking. It helps me digest it better, curbs my natural inclination toward suspicion.

I’m fine with the flirting, with the actions of the “natural flirt” of a boyfriend that it seems I’ve found myself claiming for the last, oh, ten years of my life. But it cannot be overt flirtation. Just subtleties that are almost flirting: Coy smiles and soft voices are flirtations to me. That, I’m okay with. Outright body-leaning-in, obvious flattery and inquiring of phone numbers? Not so much.

Strip clubs? Hey, I’ve been to a strip club or fifty in my life. I don’t mind them one bit. So, no I don’t mind if my boyfriend goes. But I prefer that I’d be there with him. Because it’s one thing to look at boobs with your girlfriend, another thing entirely to look at boobs while your girlfriend is at home. If he takes me with him, I feel like it’s an experience we’re sharing. There’s nothing to hide if you’re okay with me being there, too. But, still, in most circumstances, I’m okay with a guy’s night at a strip club. But not one man alone, and not with the intent to chat up the strippers. And no lap dances. There has to be a line somewhere.

But, you know, in noticing that all of the “liberties” I “grant” require provisos, I’ve noticed something: I’m jealous. I’m jealous and competitive and not that liberal at all. Hmph. And, as with most things in my life, I was the last one to know about this. Or rather, I’ve just now admitted it to myself.

My ex used to check out girls when he was with me. I tried and tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t, claiming that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. “It’s not like I’m being unfaithful,” he’d say with a smile meant to distract me from the anger.

Though always weak in the face of that smile of his, I’d persist: “It’s not about fidelity. It’s about winning.” I struggled to demonstrate the complexities of the female brain, while he looked on in confusion. “Look,” I’d say, “if I’m walking through a mall, and some guy who is obviously with his girlfriend – holding her hand or whatever – checks me out, I’ve won. Because I can say, ‘Oh, man. That guy, who is with that girl, just totally checked me out. Poor girl.’ He’s supposed to be with her, into her, but I was able to distract him. I won. And I don’t want some other girl winning, while I’m there, holding your hand, stupidly unaware that other girls are winning all over the place.”

He said he understood and agreed to stop. A week later, when he thought, apparently, that he was a vampire and therefore invisible in mirrors, I caught a reflection of him totally checking out another girl.

“She just won,” I said without even looking at him. “No woman should win but me.”

I considered it my competitive nature, not my jealousy, that was making me miserable in that situation. But looking at it now, I’m sure I was just jealous that some other woman was garnering the attention of the man I called mine.

Thanksgiving Eve is a big night around these parts. Actually, it’s probably big everywhere as a night of reunions with friends who’ve moved away, but whose families still reside in your town. Everyone comes home for Thanksgiving, and they all go out to local bars and catch one another up on their careers, their love lives, their lives in general.

“Did you want to go out Thanksgiving Eve?” I asked Billy as we readied ourselves for work Tuesday morning.

“What do you want to do?” he replied as he squeezed Colgate onto his new toothbrush.

“I don’t really care. It’s not a big deal to me. I didn’t grow up here, so the thrill is kind of lost on me. But I thought maybe you’d like to. I’m happy to go if you want to.”

He began to brush his teeth, but stopped before the brush reached his mouth. “No. Nope, nope, nope. Because I just know I’ll get in trouble if we go out.”

“What do you mean?” I laughed, rubbing lotion into my legs.

“I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I know that somehow, I’ll wind up in trouble with you by the end of the night, so we should probably just stay in.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded, playfully jabbing him in the ribs.

“Because I’m going to know people and have to talk to them, which means I won’t be able to give you my full attention. Which you’ll take as ignoring you. And some of the people I know will be female. And you’ll think I’ve either dated or slept with them, and be angry with me for even looking at them. So no. Let’s rent a movie or something.”

I started to argue, but the sharp sting of truth kept me quiet. He was right. Last year, we went out, and I spent the evening alternately pretending to be interested in the various historical recaps of his youth that he shared with friends, and pretending to not be bothered by the fact that some of the people he introduced me to didn’t bother acknowledging me at all. I spent much of the night studying my cocktail glass and smoking too many cigarettes so that I had something to with my hands. But I seldom meet his friends, and it’s rarer still that I am introduced to them, so I plastered a smile to my face and ran with it. Because he’s my boyfriend and I love him and it doesn’t always have to be about ME.

But I was irritated. I remember getting mad, sitting there, surrounded by too-loud music and no one to talk to. “I came to be with him,” I said to myself, “not to be out alone.” But the more accurate picture is probably that I was just jealous. Because other people had his attention. The attention that I don’t want just for the sake of wanting it, but because it’s his, and he has a way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the world when he’s talking to you. I was aware of the way some of the women looked at him. Because of the way he makes everyone feel special. Because everyone loves him. And I wanted to post a sign on his smooth forehead, over his sincere smile, announcing my possession of him, but I couldn’t. So, instead, I asked probing questions all the way home; questions that stopped just short of “So, did you ever sleep with [insert description of woman here]?”

“I promise you won’t be in trouble,” I said, wiping my hands on the hand towel.

“Oh, you can’t fool me. I know. I’ll be in trouble. Somehow.” He had begun brushing, and his words came out clumsy and garbled.

I sighed and gathered my belongings to leave the bathroom.

“When are you going to trust me?” He asked, his mouth now filling with frothy toothpaste.

“I do.”

He spit. “No you don’t. You think you’re liable to lose me at any second.” He paused, perhaps considering the ridiculousness of the fact that I actually do feel that way. “Just trust me.”

I started to say that old worn out line about it’s not YOU I don’t trust; it’s your friends/other women. But it occurs to me that that’s not saying much. When it comes down to it, you’re still telling him you think he’s not strong enough to overcome the temptation of other women or peer pressure. Which, is basically, saying he’s weak and – Ta-Daa! – you don’t trust him. So I stopped. “I do trust you. I do. I’m just…Jealous.”

“REALLY?” he said, in that sarcastic, Oh my god I never thought of that before! How positively enlightening! way. I slapped him on the butt and went to open the bathroom door.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me back to him, attempting to kiss my just made-up face with his Colgate-rimmed mouth. I backed away, he moved in, back away, move in. We danced like that until I howled with laughter and finally allowed a gentle kiss on my lips.

“You’re such a weirdo,” I said, licking the minty paste from my lips.

But the conversation left me wondering where the murky line between trust and jealousy lies. Can you trust and be jealous at the same time? Are they mutually exclusive? Or do lack of trust and jealousy just mean the same thing?

Because, the way I see it, it’s not that Billy’s ready to run off at the first sign of trouble, or at the first glimpse of a stripper’s boob. It’s just that I see him as the most attractive, charismatic, charming, intelligent, warm, funny, incredible man on the face of the earth. And any woman who sees that is going to do her best to get him from me. In my sick imagination, the sight of him walking into a room is followed immediately by the sound of hundreds of panties falling to the floor.

Of all of the impressions a girl can have of her boyfriend, isn’t that the best kind to have? I mean, does he really want me to see him as a loser who, when he goes out, people go out of their way to NOT talk to?

But the side effect of having this glorified opinion of him is jealousy. I know that he wouldn’t betray me. I do. I don’t believe he’d ever hurt me that way. I know he loves me and only has eyes for me. But I’m still jealous.

“I do like where your head’s at,” he said when I presented him with my quandary. “But why can’t you still think of me that way, and then think, ‘And he’s all mine.’?”

“Because it doesn’t work that way,” I told him.

Or can it?

Because this jealousy? It kills me. I know it can stem from insecurity and lack of faith, but can’t it also be attributed to just having an awesome boyfriend that you don’t want another bitch to even think about putting her paws on? Because that’s where I think mine comes from.

Attention World:

There’s a store in the Rockaway Townsquare Mall, that rhymes with Schmictoria’s Frecret? It may have the worst. Employees. Ever.

I walked into the store hoping to buy at least one new bra. Because a girl like me finds one bra that she falls in love with and doesn’t deviate from that until the bra decides it’s had enough of her and begins to go limp in protest of being worn day in, day out. And it was time for a new one. So I strode in, a very specific idea of what I needed in my mind. My friend had told me about this certain bra that was supposedly wonderful under T-Shirts and pushed up and did everything a bra was supposed to do while being comfortable. I needed it.

So I headed toward the correct section, scanning the wall-mounted hangers for the one I wanted. In my travels to what appeared to be the correct section, I witnessed an employee getting bitched out by a customer. In her hand, the customer held the all-too-familiar “FREE PANTY!” flyer that every American gets roughly 1,845 times a year. She was clearly complaining that the one style of panty that could actually be free was no longer available in the store. “What do you mean, you don’t have any more?” she argued. The sales girl continued her task of folding panties, all but ignoring the customer, and replied, “I mean, we don’t have anymore. Sorry.” I could understand the sales girl’s apathy. So you can’t get your free panty. Big deal lady, get over it. I shook my head at how uptight, how demanding customers could be and arrived at my section.

The racks - which are normally so neat and tidy in every other Schmictoria’s Frecret I’ve been in, and even this one on prior visits - were all in disarray. The push-up bras were mixed in with the regular ones, as were the strapless and convertible versions. There was no rhyme or reason to the size, either, and so I went for the ol’ fail-safe of going into the drawers below the displays to find my size. It’s been my experience that whatever I couldn’t find up top would be down there, an organized oasis of bras, broken down into size, style and levels of padding.

But the drawers were just as bad as the racks above them. After searching for well over twenty minutes, and not once being approached by the normally helpful staff, I had to go and seek out some help of my own.

I pride myself on not being a bothersome customer. I’m the kind of person who buys something I may not like all that much if the sales person is really nice, if they’ve helped me and didn’t make me feel like a bother and made an effort to do their jobs well. On the other hand, I will not buy something, even if I LOVE it, if the sales people ignore me, or if I have to interrupt their personal conversation to get a fitting room or pay for my item. I’ve been in customer service for years, and, well, I’ve been a customer for years, and I know how it’s supposed to go: You, the employee, are nice to the customer. You treat them like you’re glad to see them, you accommodate them, you make the sale. You treat them with respect, you are kind, and you are helpful. Because you are being paid to be there. And you know what? That customer that you hate so much for just walking into the store? She’s paying you to be there. So you act like it. And, in turn, as the customer, you’re nice and courteous. You’re not mean for no reason, you aren’t an asshole; you’re nice and accommodating, too. It’s a very symbiotic relationship when both parties are decent. So I try not to demand too much. If I can find my own size, I will. If I can let myself into a room, I will. But the employees, they’re there to help me.

Which is why I was so surprised to have to track down one of the two girls working the sales floor. One in particular had passed by me no less than four times. And the fact that she would not make eye contact with me made me believe that she was actually ignoring me on purpose. This was not the same girl who was just being bitched at for not having free panties available, this girl was carrying around bras and, I guess, hanging them up in their appropriate spots. Though the racks certainly didn’t support my assumption, so I’m sure she was just carrying them around to look busy.

I tried to catch her eye twice, but failed. So, on what must have been her fifth trip past me, I had to actually say, “Excuse me.” She looked up at me with a mix of apathy, disdain and irritation.

“Yes.”

She was dressed in the customary all-black suit that most employees wear, only she had decided to dress it up with a Louis Vuitton scarf, that was bundled loosely around her neck and made her head appear to be floating on a cloud of fake silk. (I say fake because, really, if she’s working at Schmictoria’s Frecret, can she really afford a $400 scarf? Because, hey, we all know that the Prada bag I have in my closet was purchased from a street-side vendor. I mean, c’mon, I’m a secretary.) Her reddish-brown hair was piled high above her overly made-up face, and everything about her screamed “I don’t want to be here, and I’m above you anyway.” The way she looked at me suggested I’d just crawled into the store directly from the nearest garbage can, and that I was clearly not good enough to be in the store, let alone in her presence.

Quite the contrary, I was all done up and was carrying my fancy-pants real purse. I was dressed well, and I was ready to spend money. Which, really, should make no difference. I’ve learned that you can never treat anyone like they’re broke. It's the old Don't judge a book by its cover addage. Her clear superiority complex drove me mad. What happened to treating the customer well?

I hated this woman’s attitude, but I needed something and was willing to overlook it. “Can you tell me where I can find this certain bra in my size?” I asked nicely.

She extended a bony finger and pointed past me. She was pointing at a wall maybe ten paces way and gave a fake smile. “Over there.”

I followed her finger, then turned my head back to her. “Yes, I know. I was just over there. But I can’t find my size. Can you help me?”

Her smile flickered off, then back on. Her voice went from bothered to condescending. “They’re…Right…Over…There,” she said, slowly so that I could understand her.

I’ve never been refused, when asking out-right, for help. Never in my life. “Seriously?” I said, bewildered. “Wow.” I was seriously shocked. “Well then. THANK YOU SOO-OOO MUCH FOR ALL OF YOUR HELP.” My reply's pace mirrored the sloth of her words. My eyes rolled as I spoke more loudly than necessary, hoping that she’d pick up on my sarcasm.

She didn’t. She just nodded like she’d done something helpful and walked away, bras dangling from her little demon arms.

Because I was desperate, I walked back over to that section. Only this time, I was furious. My blood was boiling. My blood pressure was high. I was incensed. I just couldn’t believe it. She’s supposed to help me. And if she’s new, or doesn’t know, she’s supposed to send someone to me who CAN help. But she didn’t.

What I wanted to do was run through the store, my arm extended, wiping panty after panty from their folded positions on the tables and onto the floor. I wanted to yank the racks from the wall. I wanted to throw bras in the air and let them fall wherever they may. I wanted to knock over mannequins and punch through the signs. I wanted to wreck the store and then walk up to her, panting, out of breath and sweaty, push my hair back from my face, take a satisfied deep breath, stand up a little straighter, adjust my purse on my shoulder and smile. “I think you have a few more bras to put back,” I’d say, flicking one of the bras in her hand as I said bras, to make sure she understood what I was talking about. Then I’d smile and point back to the disaster I’d caused and say, “Right…Over…There.” And then I’d walk out, smiling serenely and standing tall, rounding the corner to get lost in the mall crowd.

But I didn’t. I’m not aggressive. I’m passive-aggressive. Instead, I went ahead and looked at every bra, sure to take it down from its rack to check the size, then leave each one on the waist-high counter instead of putting it back. I opened the drawers and checked each one of those, too. And, naturally, I pulled each one from its drawer and left all of those wrong sizes on the counter too. When I was finished, I had found one bra: Right size, wrong color and style. So I went back over to the sales “ladies,” Little Miss Louis Vuitton and the one who was previously defending the store’s lack of panties. They were facing away from me, chatting, as I walked up behind them. As luck would have it, they were chatting about ME!

“So she says, ‘Can you help me,’ and I’m like, ‘Uh, hello. They’re right over there.’ And then she, like, rolled her –”

“Excuse me,” I said sweetly. They both startled and turned around. A guilty look flashed across their faces. “I hate to interrupt your little discussion here, but I can’t find the size in the selection right over there, so I’m going to need,” and I pointed at the saleslady I hadn’t yet spoken to, “you to help me.”

Louis Vuitton walked away, and the other one was clearly miffed that now she was stuck with me, the customer bold enough to actually ask one of them to do something.

“What did you need?” she said, looking over my shoulder. Her voice was detached and obviously uninterested in bothering with me.

“Well, your coworker told me that I could find whatever I needed over there,” I pointed behind me, then looked at her again, a smile on my face, my voice syrupy-sweet. “But I can’t seem to find it there. So I need to know if you can find it for me.”

“If it’s not over there, we don’t have it,” she said, as though she was stating the obvious. As though she couldn’t believe I was dumb enough to not understand that. It was at that point that she turned to walk away.

I don't know why I persisted, but I did. I guess it was sort of my way of not giving in to their obvious desire to just get rid of me.

“You don’t have any in the back?” I said.

She stopped, sighed, and turned to face me. “Yeah, we do.”

Maybe I'm crazy, but I just don't think I should have to ask a direct question like to make her offer to check the back for me. I thought that was part of her job. “Well, do you think you’ll have any other sizes back there?”

“Mmm-hmmm.” She confirmed, but making no effort or offer to move or check.

I took a deep breath. “Well, since you’re the one paid to be here, and I’m the one looking to pay for a bra, you think you could, oh, I don’t know, go back there and check?”

“Sure,” she said. There's just no other way to describe her tone: It was mean.

She asked for my size and said she’d be back. “Oh, first,” I said, talking to her back once again, “I need a fitting room. Would it be too much trouble to let me into one?”

“Follow me,” she said, not even turning around.

So I followed her into the fitting rooms, where she begrudgingly let me into one of the mirrored rooms. And I stepped in, closed the door behind me and tossed the bra on the little seat inside. And I let out a disgusted sigh as I prepared to try on the thing…But then I stopped. Wait a second, I thought. Do I really want either of these women to earn a commission – even a SMALL one – considering how RUDE they were? And the answer was an explicit NO.

So I opened the door and walked out, hoping she was in the back room, rifling through bins of bras and that she’d come out to find me gone. But I know better. She was probably just hiding out around the corner so she could say she checked in the back, but there weren't any for me.

It may sound a little old-fogie of me but if I had to be nice to every person whose path I crossed for the last ten years of my life in the interest of keeping my job, how do these people get away with it? And how do they not think it's wrong? And, damnit, what the hell has happened to customer service?

I may have to write a letter.

Take the Good with the Bad

Does it say something about how my week is going to go - or at least about how my day will go - when I come in to work to find a dead mouse under my desk? Is that some kind of omen? He didn't die of natural causes, so it's not like he came here to die or anything. But of all the mousetraps in all of my office, he had to eat out of mine.

It started when I came in this morning to see my two coworkers taking the garbage out behind my desk. They thought there must've been food in there, and that's where the slight odor was coming from. But, an hour later and the smell was still around. After three blasts of Fabreeze Air Effects, I finally moved the garbage can to see if food had somehow fallen behind the bin itself. And there it was: A mouse, curled up, post mortem, hiding behind my trash can. After yelping and calling out to my boss to "GET IT OUT OF HERE" (because he set the trap and is therefore responsible for removal of the corpse), it's gone...But it seems to be the icing on top of the really shitty cake that is today.

Because I woke up feeling ill-at-ease, due to a dream I must've had somewhere between falling asleep wrapped in the arms of my boyfriend around midnight, and waking up sweaty and panicked at 6:30. The details of the dream escape me, but I know I must've done something very, very wrong in it.

And I have a pimple the size of a small animal growing out of my face. It's one of those that is impossible to cover up without the use of a veil or bandana worn robber-style. It's just too round and robust to compete with any makeup. And, naturally, it's the first and only thing I see when I look in the mirror. I'll go to check my eye makeup, and my eyes will automatically travel down to my chin, where I see the pimple gestating. I think, last time I looked, I saw a horn or a leg forming. I can't be sure which.

So, while tilting my head just so to allow minimum visibility of said blemish, I decided to just get to work. And trying to open my email proved to be too much for my Dell to handle. I'd click the icon, and my computer would think for a minute, then shake its head vigorously from side to side and cross its little wire arms and refuse to open it. Then it decided that I couldn't have Word, either. Or Excel. OR the internet. That was my breaking point. So I shut down.

OVER AN HOUR LATER, I'm finally back up and running. That hour included, but was not limited to: Having to End Task my way out of every program running on my computer, as it would not allow me to manually close them out. Waiting for my computer to end said tasks. The Shut Down dialogue box coming up three times, only to disappear before I could click "OK." Finally clicking the box, only to have the computer go ahead and end a bunch of programs I wasn't even aware of. Going through the arduous process of letting it shut down. Then facing the even more challenging process of getting it started again. Once it was running again, I decided it best to do a virus scan. Which came back clean, but would not let me run any other programs while it was sweeping.

It was in the middle of this process that I found the mouse.

BUT. We did get the new Playboy in the office today - the one with Cindy Margolis "Nude, for the first time ever!" in it. So I guess it's all about the yin and the yang today.

It Rhymes with "Witchy"

You know the kind of mood that makes you angry for no reason? The kind where the hair on your head annoys you just by being there? The kind where every syllable uttered in your direction is bound to set you off? The kind where the PHONE RINGING may just drive you insane?

That's my mood today.

I don't know why, and I don't know how long it's going to last, but I know that I am horrible right now. I want to RIP my hair out of my head. I want to go home and just lay in bed, stare at the TV and not speak or listen to anyone. I want be naked, too, because my SWEATER IS DRIVING ME CRAZY, with its seams touching my skin all over the place. Ugh.

I ate a Tums last night before bed, and now I have this horrible aftertaste/film in my mouth. So not only is there an awful taste just hanging out on my tongue, but my coffee tastes gross.

I was so ready to go to the gym tonight, but I have an appointment to get my hair cut. Which is fine, but it seems like every time I plan to go to the gym, something comes up and I can't make it. I brought my iPod and everything. And, you know, I really wouldn't mind that I can't go to the gym, but I'm paying $50 a month for a gym that I use an average of once a week. And that's a good week. That's $12.50 per visit just to fuck around on the elliptical for an hour or push myself to near-heart-attack in step class.

And, not that any of you want to know this, but my birth control pills have gone and fucked up my cycle, so now I have my period AND my PMS for TWO WEEKS instead of one. Which not only makes me angry, but it also makes Billy very, very sad. Because he has to deal with THIS mood for not just one week, but, now, for two.

And you know what else? Lost is making me mad. It's all questions. No answers. And, really, I'm getting tired of paying stalker-like attention to that damn show every Wednesday night, looking for clues, trying to remember where I saw that person before and what their significance was. This is TV, people. I'm not a detective. I love my Grey's Anatomy, where I can just watch and be sad or happy and that's it.

And, hey, that's on tonight. That's the light at the end of my tunnel.

So, anyway, that's what's going on with me. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to sign off and go scratch all the itchy places on my back that my sweater is causing.

Bitching is Good for the Soul

I was alone at work on Friday. Well, that's not entirely true. There were people in the building, I was just the only one in the office. I knew in the first hour - when the phone wasn't ringing and the door wasn't opening to let in customers - that it was going to be a long day.

I'm not sure what it is these days, maybe it's this, but I'm running terribly short tempered. I've been unable to keep my cool in the face of even a slight amount of irritation. It's unlike me to immediately jump to The Defensive or The Bitchy, at least this consistently. I am woman, and we are known for our mood swings...But at work, I'm a different animal entirely. I have a keen ability to be friendly and firm at the same time, and a fairly impressive knack for being a kind, smiling, perpetually nice person when it comes to customers. My voice is always cheery when I answer the phone, my attitude is always pleasant when customers come in to visit. But, when I'm in a mood like this, I see every phone call, every opening of the front door as an intrusion. An annoyance. Aggravation. And you would think that I'd welcome something to do, someone to talk to. But, instead, I have to fight to keep the irritation off of my face.

Earlier in the week, a customer of ours came in with his girlfriend and his girlfriend's son. Our customer, we'll call him Phil, introduced his girlfriend to my boss and me, and then said "And this is her son, Patrick." He put his hand protectively on the kid's head of sandy hair, then turned his attention to the child. "Patrick, go over there and hang out with Laurie."

This is not the first time this has happened. In fact, it happens all the time. And, at the risk of offending any parents out there, I just don't get it. What makes them think I want their kid to come over and hang out with me? Do they even care that the last thing I want to do is shoot the shit with a six year old? Why do they think it's perfectly acceptable to stick me with their offspring? I know that the very fact that they're there, in my office, implies that they have something to do or go over while there, and they don't want to be bothered watching their kid while they do what needs to get done. But I have things to get done, too, and I've never seen Babysitter on my list of responsibilities. And even if I don't have anything to do, I still don't want spend my time keeping a six year old entertained; I can think of a million things I'd rather do. I guess it's not the hanging out with the kids that bothers me most (but, yes, that does bother me), it's the audacity of the parent to think it's okay to shove them onto me. I wonder if it's because I'm a twenty-something, unmarried woman; perhaps they look at me and think Look at her, unmarried, no kids. I bet her biological clock is ticking like mad. She probably welcomes any chance to play with children. I bet she loves kids.

Hey. You know what? I don't. I don't love kids. In fact, I'm not even comfortable saying I like them. And, unless I have some sort of tie to them by blood or love, I don't want to spend any more than a minute or two with them. They make me uncomfortable, they make me feel weird, and they make me feel like I sound stupid. I can't relate to them, I don't have any patience for them, and pretty much anything sounds better than having to hang out with them. Particularly in an OFFICE setting, which isn't really conducive to child-like activities. They want to play on my computer, stand behind my desk, open my drawers, and color with my highlighters. Well, I'm sorry. My computer is my own, and I don't want some kid putting his grubby paws all over it, nor do I wish to take the risk that he could hit a button and fuck something up. I don't like anyone standing behind my desk and I don't want anyone in my drawers, due in large part to the fact that I just don't want anyone - child or adult - that close to me, sucking up my personal space. I particularly dislike children opening my drawers because they see letter openers and my fancy white-out and my hidden stash of chocolate, and a million colored pens and they want to touch or play with or eat everything they see. Which brings me to the highlighters. I'm so particular - possibly even OCD - about my writing utensils. I like specific pens, I like my highlighters to stay clean and maintain their sharp, perfect-for-highlighting points. Kids don't understand that.

So when Phil unleashed his kid on me, the kid did just as he was told: He came over and stood right next to me. And Phil and his girlfriend went off with my boss to finish up their work together. And they left me with the kid. For an hour. I would be lying if I said it didn't irritate the shit out of me.

Additionally, to round out my week of crap, I had fights with our vendors, audibly losing my cool over the phone when a certain guy wanted me to fax him the same invoice for the fifth time because he couldn't find it due to his desk being a mess. The fax machine jammed twice when I attempted to send it, and he called each time he didn't receive the whole fax to tell me that he did not, in fact, receive the whole fax. This was at 4:42. I leave at 4:30. I had plans for the evening. And they did not include fighting with a fax machine OR an incompetent, messy ass.

I was told by customers how our business works. Nothing, nothing, makes me angrier than being told something I already know. Yesterday, I said to a complaining customer that I was the only person here - because my boss is on a small vacation, and my other coworker is on her honeymoon - but that I would gladly have my boss give her a call, if, of course, he called in while he was out on his vacation. "Yes, well, he always calls in when he's not in the office," she said, as though that very day was my first time ever in the office without him. Apparently, it hasn't been me fielding his phone calls in his absence, giving him the status updates when he calls in from the road. It's been her. Silly me. And here I thought I've been working here all this time. Clearly she knows so much more than I do. Clearly. And another customer just explained to me that, even though I didn't see it there, I should have the key to his house somewhere in my office. He explained to me why I should have his key. "I understand that," I said, doing my best to measure my voice so that it came out steady, and not in a scream, "but there still aren't any keys for you here. When and if I am able to speak with my boss, I'll see if he knows anything about it."

"Well," the customer said, "you should have my keys."

By 9:30, I was ready to go home.

In a drastic turn of events, today, I was actually quite busy. And, in between answering the phones and making calls and paying bills and balancing the bohemoth of a checkbook I keep there, before I knew it, it was quittin' time. I'm cautiously optimistic that the rest of my week will follow suit.

As long as no one sticks me with their kid.

One Man's Trash...

Z100 premiered Paris Hilton's new song on Monday morning. Billy and I listen to Elvis Duran and the Z Morning Zoo every day in the shower. We love their phone taps and their banter and the (usually) good music they play in the morning. As I finished my shower on Monday, Billy came into the bathroom to shave. I heard Elvis talking hyping up the fact that they were about to play the song, but I couldn't hang around in the bathroom to listen to it (I have a routine to stick to, you know). I had, however, heard bits and pieces of the song on the internet, having watched Paris attempt seductive, come-hither moves on a white sandy beach while accidentally flashing her nipple on TMZ. I'll admit, I wasn't as repulsed as I thought I'd be by her "music." But, in my defense, I hadn't heard the whole song.

I went back into the bathroom minutes later, to find that I'd just missed her vocal stylings. "So," I said to Billy, reaching past him for my new Pantene Hair Serum. "How horrible was the song?"

"Not bad, actually," he replied, rinsing his face in the sink.

"Hmph," I uttered, flipping my head over to apply product to my hair. I began scrunching the serum into my strands.

"Actually, it sounds a little Gwen Stefani-ish," he offered.

I stopped scrunching. How dare he compare Paris Hilton to Gwen Stefani. One is an icon, one of my heros. The other? She's an airhead. And kinda slutty.

"I don't think so," I replied, haughtily. "I heard some of it online, and I hardly think it sounded anything like Gwen Stefani." I followed my statement with a snort of contempt, a sort of half-laugh that was meant to illustrate my superior taste. "Gwen is a muscial genius. Paris is just, Paris." My voice dripped with disdain.

Billy loves Paris Hilton. Because she's hot. And naughty. And stupid. All of the things men admire in objects of lust. (He would not, however, choose to be stranded on a desert island with her. I asked.) And he knows how I feel about her. I think he enjoys defending her to me because it gets me all riled up.

"Why do all women hate Paris Hilton?" he asked, purely curious this time. Not at all mocking, as is his usual M.O.

"I don't know." I finished my hair and flipped my head back to the upright position. I grasped for a tangible reason to hate her. "Because she's stupid, I guess."

But that's not the real reason. The real reason is that I'm jealous. It's just not fair that she got to be born with all that money, and an incredible body. It's not fair that she gets to dress in high-end designer clothing without having to work for it. I hate that she fucks up over and over again, and still has the balls to keep going back out. I'm jealous of her confidence. She thinks she's the hottest, best, most amazing thing in the world. And no one could convince her differently if they tried. She suffered the embarrassment of a sex tape, and yet she still wouldn't go away. She didn't hide in shame. She just kept on doing what she was doing. She made no excuses. She's unflappable. And she's not ashamed to try acting, to try singing. To just try. And, I'm sorry, but I can't help but admire that about her. And that makes me mad. So I just decide to hate her instead.

Because ME? I make a mistake and I'm crucified for it. If not by someone else, then by myself. I have to work for everything I have, and my purchases are made at TJ Maxx. And, God, if I went through that sex tape scandal, I'd hole myself up in my bedroom and never come out. And I'm too chicken shit to sing kareoke. I'm afraid to even attempt to write for a living - and that's something I know I'm good at it. So, yeah, I admire her guts. I'm covetous of them.

But I still think the song sucks.

I Got Nuthin'

I know I should be committing some serious time to writing about my trip, but I just can't. Because:

1. The computer at home? Still not fixed. Apparently, today, my other half will be calling the snail of a technician that's supposedly fixing it. I can't even remember the last time I was on the computer at home. It's been that long. I don't even go into the room that used to house the computer, because seeing the computer desk empty just makes me want to cry a little bit.

2. I'm bitchy, so I'm not at all in the mood to recount the excellent time we had. For a number of reasons...
a) I have spent, in the last seven days, over five hundred dollars on my decade-old car. Between my starter and my rear shocks, I have had just about enough of getting that shit fixed. When I went to pick her up yesterday from the repair shop, the guy giving me back my key asked me how I was doing today. "I'd be better if I wasn't a regular here," I replied, as I ripped a check for $254.27 from my checkbook. I will say that it's nice to have a car that starts all the time now, rather than having it be a crap-shoot every time I turn the key. And it's nice to no longer be at the mercy of an all but uncontrollable rear end. But, still, $500? That's two car payments.
b) The weather has been nice here lately, so we at work have taken to keeping the front door open during the day. Because of this open door, we've welcomed into our world a fly the size of a small pterodactyl, which, for some reason, loves to fly about my head during the day. I hate that thing. It's loud and fat and slow, yet still I am unable to kill it.
c) I just am, okay.

3. Yesterday, my boss was in a horrible mood for the few minutes he was here (he came in and then immediately left for an appointment). When my coworker asked what happened to him, I said I didn't know, but confessed that I was cleaning out our coffee pot while talking on the phone when he got in. "It was probably you, then," she said, matter-of-factly. "He's been complaining that you have too many personal calls and you're on the internet all the time." I concede on the internet thing, but the calls? I do not talk all that much. And I always use MY cell phone, not the business phone. And I try to keep the conversations to only when I'm on my cigarette break. But, at any rate, it would've been nice of him to say something to me, rather than just letting me go ahead and continue doing what I've been doing, then just resenting me for it.

4. I'm not sure if Billy and I are fighting or what, but I feel like something's off right now with us. The thing about Billy that I've learned during the one or two fights we've had in the past is that he has a hard time letting things go. So, where I can just get over a fight in the matter of a few hours, he must cogitate and stew over it for days. Rarely does just going to sleep bring him back to normal. I don't get it, but that's him. (And, no, the fight we may or may not be having is not about the stupid shit I wrote about on Wednesday.) At any rate, I cried as I left the house this morning because something is definitely wrong, he won't talk to me about it, I can't fix it, and I hate it. My friend suggested it's just the growing pains of moving in together. Which, even though I've really already been living there for eight moths, is quite possible. Because, for some reason, actually moving in with him has made me more insecure, rather than giving me the positive vibe I was expecting. I keep thinking that maybe he regrets it, maybe he thinks he made a mistake, if he dumps me now, I have to go back to my parents...Consequently, I am now ultra-hyper-extra-special sensitive to his actions. This is really only the equivalent of shooting myself in the foot, seeing as tension begets tension, so I know it's entirely possible that I'm the only one freaking out here. It could all just be in my head. Maybe he really isn't mad or upset about anything, like he says when I ask him if we're still fighting. But I don't know. And it's driving me NUTS.

5. The cold/sinus infection/bird flu/whooping cough that I've had for the last two weeks is refusing to go away. On the bright side, my face no longer feels like it's going to explode, and my nose isn't constantly running anymore...But on the dreary side, this fucking cough will not go away. So I spend a lot of time, normally when it's least appropriate, suffering through a wet hacking cough. And then I light another cigarette and wonder why my cough won't go away. Don't judge me.

6. I'm tired. Like, crazy tired. And I'm not sure why, although I can sort of trace it to two things: One, staying up waaaaay too late on Wednesday night to watch our recorded season finales of both American Idol and Lost. Two, having to get up early to take out my parents' dog, as they are out of town. Oh yeah, and moving. And coughing. And fixing my car. And fighting (maybe?) with Billy.

7. That dog. I love my parents' dog. He's the cutest fucking golden retriever in the whole world. Seriously. In. The. Whole. World. But my dad doesn't bother with a leash when they go for walks, so when I take Sam (that's the dog) out with his leash on, he's not exactly sure of how to behave. He has no leash manners. He pulls and tries to run, yanks me around...Yesterday, he saw a deer down the street as we were on our five o'clock walk 'round the neighborhood, and he leaped at it with such force that he nearly ripped my arm from its socket. But I held onto that leash and attempted to pull him back to me. I say "attempted," because he really didn't want to come back. While I was on one end of the leash, bracing my self by practically squatting with my legs in a wide stance, leaning all my body weight in the direction opposite of him, he was at the front of the leash, choker collar (not the one with the spikes, mind you) around his neck, hacking from being choked, yet still crouching down and crawling with all of his strength toward the deer and away from me. Trust me, the last thing in the world I want to do is cut off his oxygen supply, so I ran in his direction to alleviate some of the stress, and all he did was try to take off running again. During all of this, I was screaming his name, trying to get him to come to me, bribing him with treats, calling him an asshole, trying EVERYTHING to get him to forget about the deer and come to me. Nothing worked. Until, finally, the deer was out of sight. At which point, he abruptly turned and RAN full speed back toward me. But I was still leaning back and bracing myself for him to run in the other direction again. So I almost bit it onto the concrete. And, best part, my neighbors were sitting on their deck. Watching. Which was totally not embarrassing at all.

8. My big Friday night plans? The Real Rainman on the Science Channel. Jealous? What? No? Why? Well, maybe I'll do a little laundry first. What do you think about that?

9. And, no, it's not that time of the month.

So, that's it. That's why I'm not posting about Belize. Yet. I must wait until I'm in the right frame of mind. And that's all there is to it.

It's a Sabotage

My car stopped starting this week. Tuesday night, to be exact. In front of a majority of Billy's family, I tried, unsuccessfully, to start my car until finally giving up and running to Billy to tell him that Gwen just wouldn't start. Naturally, as soon as he walked up and stood beside Gwen and me as I click-clicked my way through starting attempts, the car decided it would be funny to start, right then.

"Figures," I whispered, with a trace of bitterness, as she whirred to life. Billy laughed at me.

"Let's go drop it off right now," Billy said, leaning against the door frame.

"It's midnight," I argued, "and, besides, shouldn't I call them first or something?"

"What if it doesn't start again? Better to get it there while she's running than to get it home and have to get a tow truck or something."

So I gave in, and Billy followed me to the auto repair shop, where I parked Gwen in front of the garage, filled out an envelope detailing her ailments, then dropped that envelope, key inside, into their "Secure Key Drop."

"Poor Gwen," I said, sliding into Billy's passenger seat. "She's sick, too. Just like me."

"She'll get better." He put his hand on my thigh and we headed home.

The repair shop called me early the next morning, to tell me that it was, in fact, her starter. But that a new starter wouldn't come in until the next day. So Thursday was to be the day I'd get my car back.

"Thursday," I said to Billy, closing my cell phone. "Two days without my car."

"You can just drive mine," he replied.

Inside, I jumped for joy. Billy's Lexus is low and sleek and sporty. I love riding in it, and the materialistic bitch inside of me loves the idea of driving around in his car. But it's also his little baby. He rarely drives it himself, normally opting to use company cars instead. The hood of his car is long, much longer than mine, and it's a little nerve wracking to drive someone's beloved automobile when you're not used to a car that low, or that long.

But I was able to suck it up and drive it. With the windows down. And the radio up. I used the keyless locks and entry every time I parked. I felt glamorous. The car rides so smooth, the whole thing feels buttery and luxurious, nothing like the SUV I'm used to. When the auto repair place called to tell me it would be another day before I got Gwen back, I wasn't upset at all.

But Friday night I picked her up. My friend dropped me off in front of my car, waited while I started her. Perfect. And so I drove.

Immediately, I noticed the difference. You can't drive a luxury vehicle for two days, then hop into your ten year old beast and not feel some sort of disparity between the two. I could feel every bump in the road. I felt like I was being tossed around her interior. And then I heard it: The thick THUMP coming from her rear. Could it have been there before? Am I just noticing it now because Billy's car was so quiet? I figured I'd give it a few days. If it was a normal noise, I'd stop noticing it within a day or so.

But Sunday came and I was still hearing it. As I moved things from my condo and into Billy's, Gwen's tail-end thumped whenever I went over a bump. So Billy hopped in with me, and after hearing the noise only once, concurred that it did not, in fact, sound good. After narrowing down the noise to the rear driver's side, Billy crawled under my car. After shaking my vehicle from side to side, then up and down, and making some loud, worrisome noises, he crawled back out from her underbelly and back into the passenger seat. In his now grimy hands, he held a piece of my car. A rusty, old, broken, thick and what appeared to be a necessary, piece.

"What's that?" I asked, horrified.

"Your strut is broken."

"Huh?"

So explained the strut to me. And the fact that what I was hearing was essentially metal slamming into metal every time I ran over a bump. Apparently, the lift Gwen had to get on to have her starter repaired was the final straw. Snapped it.

So I had to call this morning to make another appointment to get her fixed.

If I didn't know any better, I'd think I did this on purpose, just to get the chance to drive Billy's car again.

But I'm supposed to be moving. My room is packed, and ready to go, I just need to cart my belongings to their new home. And Billy's little car isn't very conducive to moving.

And this is exactly why it's hard to sit and recall my wonderful vacation. Because between all of my coughing and sniffling, my car is falling apart, and there's a whole house that needs to be moved out of. I think my car has it in for me.

Despite the series of events that have transpired over the past week and a half, I've tried a number of times to write about my trip, but they all seemed, how shall I say it? Phoned in. I need to write with a glass of wine and cigarette; not clandestinely at work.

Cross your fingers that our computer is ready this week. It will make things so much easier.

Reasons that Yesterday Sucked

1. I had to do my taxes. In a mad rush. Four days before that well-known deadline of April 15th. Because I'm a procrastinator.

2. And I didn't know until after I did them that they didn't have to be postmarked until April 17th. If I would've known that, I probably would've waited even LONGER. So it's probably for the best that I thought I'd have to get 'em in the mail by Friday.

3. I drove to Wendy's for their Southwest Taco Salad (Which I loooove) and, during my lovely, spring afternoon drive, I was cut off by three people. Please understand that I live in a town that consists mainly of two-lane roads: One lane going my way, one lane going the other way. But, from time to time, (three times, in fact) the road expands to let people out of Wal Mart, Staples and Lowe's, hence giving us two lanes to work with. For all of about four car-lengths. Oftentimes, there is no one coming out of those stores, so that extra lane just sort of sits there, unused. A few assholes see this as their opportunity to get one goddamn car ahead, because that's really gonna cut down their commute time. The first time, the driver was a teenager, so I just sort of shrugged and said "Kids. What'cha gonna do?" The second time, it was an adult, and it kind of pissed me off. I'm very much of the Wait Your Turn mentality, so it frustrates me when someone just has to get in front of me. If you're passing me - or anyone else, for that matter - on a two lane road, that's fine. Fair enough. Par for the course. Yadda, yadda, yadda. But to use a lane that's not really a lane to go 42 mph as opposed to my already-disobeying-the-fifty-billion-posted-35 mph-speed-limit-signs 41, and, oh yeah, I can't go any faster because there are other people ahead of me is just much to Asshole-ish for me. The third time it happened, it was an old lady in a Mercury. I'm sorry, but when I am made to feel like I'm going too slow for someone who can barely see over her steering wheel, I feel disgusted. Like I'm holding her up or something. Please. I've been stuck behind her geriatric brethren on one lane, no passing roads, going 15 below the speed limit on numerous occasions, and I stayed right where I was. How dare she pass me?

4. Wendy's forgot to give me a fork. Do you know how ridiculous it is to make me pull around and go inside for a fucking fork? That should've been included without so much as a thought because I got a fucking salad? How do you forget that? It is not the first time this has happened to me, and it infuriates me. Plus, I'm lazy. And that meant I'd have to get out of my car to go inside and ask for a fork. But, trust me, if I could, I'd totally just pull around the drive through a second time for that thing. I'm that unmotivated.

5. There was a line in Wendy's. It was a big night for dining out in Milford, apparently. (I noticed some of my fellow residents even put on their good flannel and camouflage for the evening. Not me, though. I wasn't counting on getting out of my car.) Anyway, there was this huge line, and the forks at the little condiment/necessities kiosk were all gone, so I had to go to the counter. And this always presents a dilemma for me. Because part of me wants to wait in line because, hey, I know what it feels like when someone just jumps right to the front because their thing is "easy" or whatever. But the other part of me thinks "Hey, no way. I waited in line and I got screwed. Which means I have to wait in line twice? Uh-uh." So I thought about it for a sec, then, despite the slight twinge of guilt I felt, I just walked up to the nearest pre-pubescent cashier to ask for the utensils they cheated me out of. And, wouldn't you know it, some "lady" (and I use that term very loosely) said "What? You ain't gotta wait in line like everybody else?" No, ma'am, I ain't gotta. Because I'm young and still have all of my teeth. And that, my friend, gives me a free pass. Which is what I wish I would've said. But I didn't, of course. Instead, I got all nervous and apologetic (I hate confrontation with strangers) and explained - very quietly, I might add - that I already ordered through the drive thru and just needed a fork. I'm an idiot.

6. I think waaaaaaay too far into things.

7. My roommate/landlord called to tell me our house sold. Which means I am now, technically, homeless.*

8. I ate that Wendy's salad only to get home and find out there were freshly grilled, homemade hamburgers waiting there. D'oh!

9. I went to bed too late. I'm tired today. Hence the lame list.




*This may not be so true. An event that occurred since I woke up this morning, but before I left for work, may have drastically improved the way I feel about Item #7. Post to follow. Later. After I figure out if Billy's sincere invitation to move in with him, I mean really move in with him, was truly an invitation, or something he accidentally blurted out in his Day Off half-awake/half-still-asleep/not-quite-alert-or-conscious state. Stay tuned.

It Changes With the Wind

So yesterday I woke up all about love. I was all hearts and teddy bears and rainbows and batting eyelashes and butterflies. It was a little sickening, yes. But it happens. And when it happens, it does feel lovely. But it always passes rather quickly.

Hence, my mood today. A stark contrast to my googley-eyed demeanor of yesterday, I am more bitter and tired than loving and affectionate. It has nothing to do with Billy, or any events that occurred besides the fact that I fell asleep and woke up. That's really the only thing to which I can trace this mood.

But now that it's here, everything is aggravating it.

Everything, like:

1) It's snowing. It is fucking snowing. And sleeting and freezing rain. And it's windy. And, oh yeah, it's fucking APRIL! There's something very wrong with waking up on an April morning and seeing flurries.

2) Because it's snowing, I chose to wear a turtleneck. But not just any turtleneck, my favorite sweater. It's a wool sweater, probably knit by someone in Mexico or Japan, but looks like it could've been carefully crafted by my grandmother. It is in the most beautiful shade of mottled blue, not unlike a robin's egg. It's gorgeous. And, I got it on sale: $25 down from $100! But, it is very, very, very itchy. So I wore silk underwear underneath. Naturally. But the silk undershirt I have on doesn't protect my very sensitive neck. And the sweater, at this very moment, not only itches like a million mosquito bites, but is also sort of choking me. So I've got that going for me.

3) I have a strict policy that dictates that, whenever I wear a turtleneck, I wear my hair up or back. It has to do with my low tolerance of anything in my face during the day. And I notice that turtleneck + hair-down = a lot of hair in my face all day long. PLUS, I feel like my face is being suffocated by said turtleneck + hair-down combination. Did I mention I hate having hair in my face? So, anyway, normally, I'd have my hair up in a classy little low ponytail or a fancy French twist with a mess of curls on top. But when I dried my hair this morning, scrunching it and scrunching it to achieve the right amount of curl to perfect either of my two preferred hairstyles, I noticed that I was having an awesome hair day. So I threw caution to the wind and abandoned my tried and true rule of no wearing your hair down when you're in a turtleneck...Especially an itchy turtleneck. And it has been horrible. I'm constantly brushing loose tendrils of hair from my face. And it's slowly reaching the point where I may be forced to either a) rip out my hair or b) rip off the sweater and work in my silk undershirt. Tres sexy.

4) Because of the undiagnosed OCD that forces me to fixate on how irritated I am by my sweater and my hair (which, by the way, despite thoroughly pissing me off, does look positively awesome), I cannot concentrate. I don't have much to do at work as it is, but spending all of my energy focusing on how frustrated I am does not allow for much excess energy for completing the two - count 'em, two - tasks I have on my agenda for today: Enter some bills, call a customer. And what am I doing? Blogging about how annoyed I am that I can't concentrate on my work.

5) The fax machine jammed. Three times. On the same fucking page of the same fucking fax. The only way to get it to go through was to fax each page separately. That kicked ass.

6) There's a woman who calls here every day. Every. Day. She's a customer of ours, and apparently, she is of the mindset that harassing us on a daily basis will keep her present in our minds and therefore get us to finish her job faster. She calls each day, before 8:30 with an equally stupid and unnecessary question. Many times, she's "just checking in." I can't stand it. But, the thing is, she's really nice. So I can't hate her. And she's always so sweet to me when she calls, telling me it's a pleasure to talk to me in the morning because I'm so nice and cheery. How can you hate that? So it puts me in quite a quandary. Do I spend more energy being annoyed that she has now called TWICE today, or do I just focus on how pleasant she is when she talks to me? Given my mood, it's fair to say I'm leaning towards hating her, but there's that little piece of me that just wants to give her a break.

7) I went to have my breakfast earlier (a sliced banana with vanilla yogurt), and after opening the yogurt, I saw that there were no spoons. Nor were there any bowls. This vexes me. Because I like to slice the banana into a bowl, then drown it in the yogurt and eat the two together. So, because I am stubborn, I sliced the banana into a tupperware container, dumped the yogurt on top, and ate it with a fork. Which was fine for the fruit part of the breakfast, but a little challenging when it came to actually getting the somewhat runny yogurt from the bowl to my mouth.

8) My desk is a mess. And it's really not my fault. Because, somehow, over the course of the three hours I've been here so far, there have been numerous items left by other people. Files, catalogues, magazines, mail, schedules. It's making me feel claustrophobic.

9) Fuck, my neck itches.

But it's not all bad. I've taken to putting big pink Xs on my calendar as each day passes and brings me one step closer to my trip to Belize. Twenty-two days away and counting. And all I have to do in that time is a) get my body bikini ready (and I'm guessing the half block of Gruyere Cheese and a fig-n-almond pie/cake thing Billy and I ate on Sunday aren't helping that situation) b) tan c) figure out what the hell to pack and d) figure out how best to get my hair to look awesome when I'm constantly in and out of the water. For the record, I think item "d" is impossible, but I'm going to give it a shot. Because I don't really fancy the idea of looking like a drowned animal for a good three-quarters of my vacation. So, we'll see.

I'm really looking forward to later tonight when I get home and get the fuck out of this sweater. Because, then, I'll be comfortable and watching American Idol. And probably eating too much. But at least I won't be itchy.

No, Really. Pick Any Lane You Want. I Insist.

Yesterday, I decided to take a different route home. Because Wednesdays are my Kickboxing days, I find that it's quicker, and more difficult to talk myself out of going to the gym, if I take Interstate 84 directly into Milford, instead of the long, boring, winding back road that takes me directly to the house I stay in with Billy. And this is especially important on Wednesdays, as that is Billy's one day off during the week, so normally I have to fight the urge to abandon the gym altogether in exchange for just going home and being a bum with my boyfriend.

So anyway, Interstate 84. It was very windy yesterday. So windy, in fact, that the doors to my office blew open three times, causing various papers and objects on my desk to blow around while I tried pathetically to pin them down, while simultaneously calling for someone else at work to go close the door. (As an aside, they didn't. I don't think they heard me over the giant funnel cloud twisting its way through the office.) When I got in my SUV at the end of the day, I didn't even consider the wind situation until I was already on 84, with no exits for another ten miles.

The "wind situation" is this: When the wind whips around on the interstate, my car just throws up her 4Runner hands and gives in to the gusts. If the wind decides it wants to push me, say, onto the shoulder or into the woods, Gwen the 4Runner just says "Sure, why not?" and happily goes along. I'd like to say that it has to do with her high center of gravity and larger-than-necessary tires, but I really thinks she's just a pussy. At any rate, it makes me nervous. When it's windy, I refuse to use cruise control and generally drive with my hands glued into the 10-and-2 position, trying to anticipate the wind and steer Gwen back on course should she give in too easily.

I was doing alright, keeping her in only one lane, for the most part, when it came time for me to pass an elderly couple doing roughly 20 miles under the speed limit (which, if I'm not mistaken, is just about as dangerous as driving 20 miles over it. But I digress...). I approached their Mercury Sable and got nervous. What if the wind suddenly picks up and shoves me right into their driver's side door? What if I can't steer her back in time? What do I do? I just had this bad feeling. So I calculated my passing very carefully, sure to stay as close to the shoulder as possible to allow for maximum margin for error. And just as the nose of Gwen aligned with the trunk of their car, I noticed something. Their tires were creeping closer and closer to the dashes between our two lanes.

I continued to pass them cautiously, keeping an eye on their tires, trying to decide if the wind was to blame for their drifting. But I wasn't feeling any particularly strong gusts in my car, and their car kept coming over toward me. When you've driven for a substantial amount of time, you know that there will be times that cars are going to drift. You're playing with the radio, getting a drink, applying your makeup, whatever, and you start to head over into the next lane. We all do it. But then you catch yourself just as your tires start to flirt with the oncoming or neighboring lane, and you whip yourself back into your lane, maybe gasp a little bit, then say "Whew, that was a close one," and keep on driving.

But that is not what these geriatrics did. They just kept coming over. I was trying to hug the shoulder, but I was focused on their tires, which were now completely over in my lane. And there was the white-haired geezer, eyes clearly on the road ahead, with no sense of urgency whatsoever to move himself back to where he came from. I could be more understanding if he were preoccupied taking his Centrum Silver or drinking his daily can of Ensure, but he wasn't doing any of that. He was just driving, with his eyes on the road.

And I hate to use my horn. I hate it. HATE IT. I think it's obnoxious and it makes me feel silly. I never know if it's appropriate or just rude, so I generally lay off. But before I knew it, I had my palm slammed against the center of my steering wheel, Gwen screaming at the old folks to get out of my fucking lane. A look of shock mixed with horror, disgust and indignation was frozen onto my face, my eyes wide in preparation for their startled glances at me. I intended to give them a look that said "What the fuck are you doing?!" when they looked over. Maybe they'd give me a look back saying "Oops! Sorry!" and give me a little wave, and I'd roll my eyes and then the whole thing would be over.

BUT HE DIDN'T EVEN LOOK AT ME! When I honked, he just slowly meandered back into his own lane. He didn't even glance over. He didn't even look panicked. And half of his car was in my lane. His wife (I'm guessing) in the passenger seat didn't look over either. They just kept their gazes fixed on the road ahead...Which, I would think, would've tipped them off that they were all over the fucking road.

Naturally, my pulse was racing and my ears felt like they were going to explode from the inside out. I hate that feeling: The one you get where you were almost in an accident, but you weren't, but it still freaks you the fuck out and your hands shake and it takes you, like, a good five, ten minutes to recover. Yeah. That feeling. It followed me the rest of the way down the interstate.

Which only made me hate our driving policies in this country. I don't think it's right that you can just go get your license renewed until you die. I think you should have to take the test over again at a certain point. Because although there are some drivers over the age of 80 who are perfectly capable of keeping up with traffic and staying in one lane, I think it's safe to say that there are many drivers, young and old alike, who have no business being on the road at all.

I'm looking at you, Mr. Mercury Sable.

Allow Me

I am, to quote Julia Roberts in My Best Friend’s Wedding, at the end of my rapidly fraying rope. And all it took to push me that close to the edge was one innocent trip to the bathroom. I went to wash my hands, and there it was: A bare paper towel roll; a skeleton of a roll with old tracks where the glue used to hold the paper to the cardboard. I shook my hands violently to free them of the water I’d just drowned them in, and threw open the door. “I swear to God,” I said, loudly enough to be heard throughout the office. “If you use the last of it, replace it.” I continued to huff and silently complain as I went into the cabinet containing all of the other perfectly good – and new – rolls of paper towels in the office.

This comes on the heels of replacing the toilet paper roll at home last night, where one lone paper clung for dear life to the roll, his other Cottonelle friends having long since abandoned him at the hands of my lovely boyfriend and me. But I know I didn’t leave that one stupid sheet there. But Billy’s sick, so, mentally citing his fever, body aches, chills and near overdose on Tylenol for the oversight, I lovingly replaced it. Then went downstairs to get him ginger ale and the AlkaSeltzer Flu I bought him.

I woke up (late) this morning and flew through my getting-ready routine. When I'm late, I always wear my hair up. Always. And the updo is always aided by many a bobby pin and a generous helping of hairspray. I pin the hair on top of my head back, then twist the rest of it up into a classy-yet-messy, uh, twist. As I was fighting with a bobby pin, jamming it into a mass of my brunette hair at the base of my skull, Billy, who was just getting out of the shower, smiles and says "Hey, Elvis." He was making fun of the poof of hair on top of my head. Then he picked up my cheap, $0.98 Suave Maximum Hold Aerosol hairspray (just cheap and strong enough for late days like today) and said, "God. This stuff stinks, huh?" Why yes, it does. Thank you for noticing. His bitchiness, I decided, could be blamed the flu. And, so, my day began.

I sprinted out of the house with my travel mug full of coffee, which I successfully emptied in the twenty minutes it takes to get from my house to the office. And I needed more. So, when I got in, I went to the coffee pot. Now, this is no ordinary coffee pot. It’s a special Keurig coffee maker, which makes coffee on a per-cup basis, with handy little “K-Cups” of coffee grounds. You put the K-Cup in its spot, press a button, and the pre-heated water flows through the punctured cup and into your mug, all fresh and just-for-me. But it can only do that if there’s water in the maker. Which, naturally, there wasn’t. The little red light that says the maker is unwilling to work for you laughed at me, and pointed to the two people in the office (one employee, one guest) who just made their coffee. “Sucka!” it said, and threw its little coffee ground stained head back with laughter. So I filled the damn thing until it beeped at me to say “Whoa! Whoa! I’m full already! God. Slow down.” And then I waited the five minutes it takes to heat it all up. Then I put my special Caramel Vanilla Cream K-Cup in the coffee maker and hit the Make My Effing Coffee Now button and went back to my desk until I heard the whirring stop. Ahhh, my coffee was ready. I pulled the full cup from the tray, delighting in the carmelly goodness wafting from my fresh cup and into my nose. I opened the refrigerator for the Half & Half. Which was, of course, gone. I pulled open the trash can. Ah, yes. Naturally. There it is; It’s empty and has been thrown away. Which, incidentally, was exactly what happened to my cup of coffee. With no powdered creamer available, and me being absolutely, positively, 100% unable to drink coffee without some sort of cream, I had no choice but to let the steaming hot and completely fresh coffee go streaming down the drain.

The trash can which had been emptied of its garbage and bag, but was left without liner, presumably for me to replace, was just another thorn in my side. And that barren paper towel roll delivered the final, fatal blow.

Couple that with the fact that the warm and sunny weather from this morning has deteriorated into cold, windy and overcast and I’m shot. The clock says it’s 1:00, but I’m pretty sure it’s really somewhere closer to 4:30, and Dell is just fucking with me.

I’m ready to go home, curl up with my sick boyfriend and sleep. At least then, I won’t have to replace anything.

Today Sucks - A List For Your Friday Perusal

1. I have a pimple that is bubbling just below the surface on my chin. I know it's there, even though you can't see it yet. And because I know it is there, and can vaguely feel it, I cannot stop touching it.

2. This is sure to aggravate the pimple and make it angry, and red and huge, by the time it decides to spring to life on the lower half of my face.

3. I think this pimple is growing because I'm 99.9% sure I'm fighting with my boyfriend.

4. The reason we're fighting has mutated, and now I'm not quite sure what started it to begin with. But I know it has to do with him thinking he's cute by giving me the assignment of a "writing exercise" of an instruction manual about Moi, then mispronouncing my name (which, FYI, he has never pronounced right in our whole relationship, and for some reason I chose last night to jump on my soap box about it) (see the pronunciation jab in the beginning of this post), then me getting mad at how stubborn he is, then me thinking I'm cute by writing a Governmental-like instruction manual with subparagraphs and asterisks and ancillaries that was supposed to sound unintelligible and confusing, but he took it seriously. He swore he wasn't mad, but our last conversation suggested otherwise.

5. I'm pretty sure we're fighting because, in the midst of a heated discussion (which was awkward, since I was at work and my two coworkers were right there, and I was trying not to allude to the four page behemoth post I'd created earlier in the day at work) - where he was telling me he was confused and I was trying to explain the truth - out of nowhere he told me, in a hushed and hurried voice, that he had to go and he'd call me back (he's at work too. But he was outside. I could hear the wind. Either that or he was breathing really hard.). He hasn't called back, which is normal, because he can get tied up for literally hours on end at his job. BUT, my sitemeter tells me that he had time to diddle around on Divinities for nine minutes and twenty-two seconds. Right after we got off the phone. Which begs the question, did he really have to go because someone came in/something came up, or did he just want to re-read it to stock his Argument Arsenal? Or was he just sick of talking to me? Or - oh, God - did he want to show it to someone else for backup?!

6. See why I have a pimple now?

7. This stupid blog is going to be the death of me. More trouble than its worth sometimes. I feel like I'm always re-explaining what I've already written here because it can be easily misconstrued. If I had a fucking dollar for every time I got some asshole anonymous commenter who needed a reminder that my whole life is not on this blog, and some parts are creative and there's more to me than you read here...Duh. But that's extended to my boyfriend. I can't believe that I had to explain to him that I was being funny.

8. Which, incidentally, is why I don't do humor. I just don't think it translates when I write it. (See: THIS POST) It sounds funny in my head, because I know how it should be read. But I think sometimes that just doesn't come across. I feel like I need to preface "funny" posts (notice the quotation marks around funny...) with instructions. To be read in a sarcastic/obnoxiously informative, know-it-all/ exasperated tone.

9. I have to work tomorrow.

10. But before I have to do that, I have to go home tonight. And so does Billy. And I know I could do the really dramatic "I'll just be staying at my place tonight," thing, but I wouldn't. Because I'm totally enamored of my boyfriend and I don't want to spend the night away from him if I don't have to. And not only would I be totally bluffing, but he'd totally let me go. And I just wouldn't be able to deal with that too. So tonight, we're going to have to "talk" about "today," and I hate, hate, hate having to have "talks" with him about stupid shit like this when he's worked a 12 hour workday. Especially when it all could've been avoided if I could just do funny well.

11. And I'm so ridiculous that I actually just sat here for a minute and wondered if he'd be breaking up with me tonight.

12. Oh my god. I am crazy.

13. Billy once told me that I'm the only "sane" girl he's ever dated. Ha!

14. The best part of my day? This Blog. Seriously. I've read all the way back to May of 2004. Not today but over the past, oh, two months. It's a little out of order when you do it that way, but it's fun nonetheless. And yesterday, I almost peed in my pants right here at my desk while reading it. So I fired it up again today. Because if there's one thing I need to day it's to be distracted. And if there's another thing I need today, it's to laugh. And she can do funny.

15. I have a half hour of work left. I'm going to spend that time going through the aforementioned blog's archives and trying to pretend I'm coughing when I'm really laughing. Then, later tonight, I will smoke and drink heavily.

16. But I'm looking forward to the making up with my man. If you know what I mean, Billy.
16.a. Why is it that fights (real or imagined) with Billy always ultimately turn me on? That's fucked up.

17. I just realized that I've never actually fought-and-woken-up-with my boyfriend before. Never. Not once. It's a very different feeling. It's both a little scarier and more reassuring than the fighting-then-going-home-and-waiting-to-see-who's-going-to-make-the-first-move-the-next-day that I'm used to.

18. It's time to wrap this shit up and get a move on to get ready to go home.

Cause Unknown

He can hear it in my voice, he says, when I'm upset. It's the softness in my speech, my languid words. So he asks, what's wrong. And when I say nothing, he tells me not to lie to him. But it's not exactly a lie; Sometimes, I'm not quite sure what it is. I know there's something there, something amiss, just below my surface. But I can't quite put it into words, can't pin down the cause. I feel it in my body, a weariness. My nerves raw and exposed, frayed. I feel the heaviness in my eyelids, my extremities. It's my short fuse, my forced smile. It's difficult to laugh, to exchange pleasantries, to be affectionate.

And I think, it would just be so much easier to be angry. To have a reason, something tangible to be upset over, something solid. But, as it is, I have to carry around this cumbersome and obscure frustration. It weighs me down. It makes me unable to joke, unwilling to take part in casual conversation. My mind is occupied with naming my problem, then fixing it. And if I were actually angry, I think, then I could expel it.

But since I don't know, I force the reasons. I think, I could be mad at him; for laughing, for not wanting to help, for his indifference to our sleeping arrangements. But I can't be mad at that; I know that's not what's making me blue. Pick your battles, they say. So I choose not to fight with him over some annoyance I manufactured. I climb into my car, wearing my snow boots, my coat and a grimace, and I drive on snow-packed roads to my house. And I listen to weepy music, with crying trumpets and melancholy pianos, and I hand myself over to my unnamed despondency. I feel my confidence eroding. And I pull into my lonely driveway, walk into my quiet house, still carrying the tears that I refuse to let fall: What's the use in crying if you don't know why you're doing it?

I fall asleep, trying to write, trying to solve my mood. I wake up feeling exactly the same way: Tired, detached, discontented. And I stand on the porch, first thing in the morning, dog leash in hand, in my morning coat and fuzzy slippers with that same grimace from the night before, still searching for the cause. I drive to work dodging the grimy remains of yesterday's storm, and I listen to talk radio to distract myself from the gravity of my mind frame.

I know it will pass, just as soon as I give up trying to pin it down. Someone will say something funny at just the right moment, and whatever this is hanging over me will disappear just as suddenly as it came. Until then, I'll bury myself in busy work, trying to keep my bare nerves from brushing against anything or anyone, waiting for them to heal themselves.

Scrambled Eggs

I got the information in the mail on Friday. The stocks my former employer had purchased in my name totaled almost ten thousand dollars. It was one of the few benefits I reaped from working at the bank. I was giddy. I calculated, quickly, how much of that would have to go to taxes in 2007, then how much would be left over. I fantasized about paying off my car and my credit card - the only debt I have in my life, besides my phone - and tucked the paperwork back into its official-looking envelope.

"Dare I say it?" I said to my mom. "That things could be -"

"Don't!" She interrupted. "Don't jinx it!" She knew I was going to say Things could be working out for me.

"Oh! Right!" I said, and we shared a giggle over our insane attachment to superstition. But I still thought it: Yes, this is all going to work out.

I called my "Financial Advisor" yesterday to tell him the good news. We had already discussed what I'd do with the money once I got the statement. I told my friends, my family, my boss that I'd be debt free just as soon as everything went through. Visions of extra money each paycheck danced in my head as I faxed the statement and the accompanying paperwork into my advisor. Mentally, I had already written out the checks that would rid me of my monthly obligation to the bank and the credit card company. I was as good as unchained from debt.

And then I got the call.

"Uh, Laurie," Pat, my advisor, said into the receiver, "this is a retirement plan. If you take it out, you're going to pay a hefty penalty to the government on top of having to claim whatever you take as income."

I wasn't aware of any penalties.

Quickly, I scanned the documents that came with the statement. Clearly, I had been blinded by the bottom-line total of my money, and paid little attention to the subparagraph 1-B that said withdrawing any money while I'm under 59 and a half years of age - I suppose that "and a half" is very important - will result in a penalty. Taking anything will cost me 30% of whatever I take. Minimum.

"But," Pat continued, "you can roll it over into your current retirement account, or another qualified plan, and there aren't any taxes or penalties." His voice was hopeful, suggesting that I shouldn't be as pissed off as I was starting to sound.

"But I already have a retirement account. I wanted to use this now." It wasn't his fault that I didn't pay attention to what the bank gave me. I suppose the fault was solely mine. But I was still angry. I was so ready to have that extra money. So ready. And, just as quickly as I found it in my mailbox, it was gone.

My mood, since I accepted the fact that I will still have to pay my credit card bill and car loan every month, has been gloomy. It's like I have this little dark cloud hanging over me. The money was right there, so close I could almost taste it - or use it, as it were - and then it was ripped away from me. It felt like the bank seized one last opportunity to fuck me. And that just brings me down.

So, naturally, I was late getting up this morning. And I knocked over bottles on the bathroom counter while I did my hair. And I got stuck behind a bus on my drive in to work. I can literally feel my nerves, and everything that's getting on them. My hair is pissing me off, my shirt itches, and I feel fat.

Yes, obviously, I'm in the throes of a feminine cycle. Obviously. But I think that if even I weren't, I would be irritated right now. Because all it takes for me is one inconvenience or disappointment - like ten thousand dollars that I can't use until I'm Fifty-Nine-And-A-Half years old - and suddenly any and every occurrence in my day is a possible catalyst to a breakdown. I just know I'm going to cry before this day is over. I just know it.

I suppose this is what happens when you count your chickens before they hatch; You don't get chickens at all. Just eggs. Fucking eggs.

Tardy

It was almost sixty degrees here yesterday. Standing out in the parking lot at work, I could smell the sun on the asphalt. Wearing my sunglasses and no coat, I savored the taste of spring that Thursday offered.

Today, the morning DJ I listen to said the high would around fifty-five. When you're used to snow and thirty degree weather, 55 feels positively tropic.

It was raining this morning, though. And I was late. I sped down the road to work with my windshield wipers on full speed, clearing the glass of the thick droplets of rain that threatened to impair my vision. I drank my coffee and listened to Howard Stern, sure that today would be better than yesterday, maybe not in terms of the weather, but at least in terms of my mood.

And then I saw it: My boss's car, heading in the opposite direction. I couldn't be sure he recognized my car, but if he had, I'm sure he took a second to look at his clock. It was already past eight, and I was a good fifteen minutes away from the office. I'm supposed to be in at eight.

Climbing into my car this morning, I thought of the reasonable excuses I could employ for being late: I got stuck behind a dumptruck/tractor-trailer/school bus on the drive up, and I had no chance to pass (I take a long, two lane road to work). I had no power this morning and was therefore not ousted from sleep by an alarm (even though the power was fine and I just hit the snooze button about thirty times). I couldn't sleep last night. I have stomach problems. I ran through them all, wondering which excuses sounded better than the truth which was that I just didn't realize how much time I took getting ready this morning.

I pulled into work, unlocked the door, turned on the lights and sat down at my computer, sure that the boss would stroll in only seconds later. I figured, since he was going in the opposite direction, he was probably just stopping at the local mini mart for coffee and would be right behind me. I made myself look busy in preparation for his arrival. I also expected the phone to ring, with him on the other end checking that I'd finally made it in. I decided to go with whichever excuse popped into my head in the exact moment I spoke to him. If I gave any excuse at all.

And, just as I suspected, the phone rang.

And, just as I suspected, it was my boss.

However, not as suspected, he was calling me from Atlantic City. "We came in to gamble last night and decided to stay over. We're leaving now," he said through the receiver. "I'll be back in about three hours. You can call me if you need anything, I'll be on the road."

Ever have one of those days where you just feel lucky?

Because, now, the rain has stopped and the sun is shining. My other coworker called and said she'd be stopping to see some customers on the way in, which means I'm alone in the office for at least another half hour; which means I can check my email and drink my coffee in silence. And I don't have to work tomorrow. Hopefully, this is a sign of a good weekend to come.

Meow

I'm the kind of person who asks these sorts of questions a lot:

What's wrong?
Are you mad at me?
Is everything okay?
Etcetera, etcetera.

More often than not, these questions are directed toward coworkers, friends...And, more than likely, toward a female.

Women are strange creatures. They don't come out and tell you they're upset with you. They're catty, and they do sneaky little things that let you know you're on their shit list. I should know; I do it myself. I can't look at you if I'm upset, or I'll answer your questions in quiet, monosyllabic responses. I won't let you tell me I'm wrong, I'll argue with you for no reason, just to show you that you're not the boss of me.

I didn't say it was mature.

So when I see these traits exhibited in the women in my life, I instantly seek out the cause. But, frankly, I don't really care if you're upset because your car is on the fritz, or because you're stressed out. I just want to make sure the root of the problem isn't me.

I have a problem with wanting everyone to like me. I want to please everyone, I want to be the cool girl you work with, the cool chick you hang out with. I don't want to be the one who gets on your nerves, and I can't stand the thought of you saying something like "God, I just can't stand Laurie today."

I'm especially aware of how you feel about me when I feel less-than-spectacular about you. For some reason, if I'm upset with you, it's extra-special important to make sure that you're not upset with me. I start to wonder if my latent anger toward you has seeped out and has become obvious. Because very rarely will I want anyone to know I'm angry with them.

My frustration with the people in my life, women especially, comes in waves. My affection or disdain for someone ebbs and flows, and if I like you today, I'll probably shift back into dislike in a matter of moments. But that dislike will pass, and before I know it, I'll like you again. That's just how I am. I let little things get under my skin; Like the way you say my name, or how often you call, or how often you unknowingly invade my personal space. But these, I realize, aren't character flaws. They can't make me hate you, and they can't warrant my distaste for you beyond a few hours. They're just my little idiosyncrasies that I'm projecting onto you. And I know that. So I try not to hold you responsible for my obsessive-compulsive disorder.

But, sometimes, my frustrations get the best of me, and I'll find myself grotesquely annoyed with someone over something silly like two phone calls in a row. I get overly competitive, and find myself angry over a bout of I do this better than you. Even though I know I'm probably the only one competing. So I'll seethe, and maybe even vocalize (out loud, but to no one but myself) how irritating you've become. But I know it will pass, if given time.

And, of course, there are times when my aggravation with someone is warranted: Perhaps you've made one too many jokes at my expense, knowing that I'm too good-natured to stand up for myself, and too proud to let you know you've hurt my feelings. Or maybe you've taken the liberty of calling out one of my many flaws. Flaws that I try my best to ignore. Maybe you've been mean to someone I love, or you've challenged my intelligence. These things, to me, are sufficient reasons to be upset with you.

But if I'm annoyed with you, and I begin to notice that you may, in fact, be annoyed with me, too, I go into repair mode. What did I do to make her mad? How can I fix it? I simply cannot let sleeping dogs lie. And I cannot live with knowing someone is mad at me. It drives me crazy.

In my head, I go over the things I may have done to upset you. And I'll think of excuses and explanations that I feel will dismantle the situation. So I'll try to drag it out of you by offering you the opportunity to tell me how pissed you are at me. And then I can offer you my prepared "explanation" (that is, probably, really just an excuse...An attempt to explain away truly shitty behavior on my part.) and we can get on to being friendly again.

And, deep down, I'll be annoyed with you for being annoyed with me.

Men, I don't envy the fact that you have to deal with women.

Child's Play

It is one of the greatest mysteries of my time. I have tried and tried to solve it, but the answer still eludes me: Why, oh why, do people stick me with their kids?

At work on Tuesday, a friend of the boss came in with his three year old son. As my boss, his sister, Lisa, and the friend spoke, I heard the friend say "Go talk to Laurie."

WHAT?

Good - and outgoing - little boy that he was, he came right over to me. And I, the twenty-five-year-old-girl-with-little-to-no-experience-with-children, was forced to make conversation. With a three-year-old. So we talked about dinosaurs, naturally. And his new toy truck. And I asked him how old he was and if he went to school (I don't know when kids start school) and he told me how strong he is and how he lifts heavy boxes all the time.

He was very cute, I'll give him that. And not at all annoying. It was about the time, however, that he decided to demonstrate the speed with which he can run, that I started to lose the gumption required to undertake this particular task at hand.

I find it hard to relate to kids. Of any age. I know I always hated being spoken to like a child, so I tend to speak to children the same way I would speak to an adult. And I feel like an idiot. Because, clearly, a three-year-old is not an adult. And I don't know what kids like to do. I don't know what they enjoy, what their interests are. I have to watch my language, for both obscenities and big words.

But I get through it. I seem interested, and I ooh and aaawww at the appropriate points. I usually punctuate a conversation with the wee one with a "S/He's so cute" to the parent. And, for that, I think the parents think I enjoy the kids.

But I don't.

When I worked at the bank, I had a particular customer who would burst through the door with her two awful grandchildren and instantly instruct: "Go see Laurie!" And the little monsters would run over to my desk, try to open my drawers, try to tell me about their days...And it drove me nuts. I had work to do. I had things that I could be accomplishing beyond babysitting. But, obviously, somewhere along the line, I gave the impression that I liked to have them crawling all over me and offering me the remnants of their half-chewed lollipops.

Don't get me wrong, there are kids out there that I love (Okay, ONE kid out there that I love: Adrian, my Godson). And I know that there are women out there who love other people's kids. But I'm not one of those women. I don't even like other people's dogs.

I'm starting to wonder if I was born without the maternal instinct.