Sinkin' to a New Low

So yeah. I'm bored. I am home. Alone. I actually thought I would have companionship today, but it was not to be. Therefore, I am watching tv. That is the reason for my title. I have just finished the third of three episodes of the Ashlee Simpson Show. Brain cells gone. Mind erased. Ugggghhhh....
No seriously. It wasn't that bad. I mean, I feel for the girl. It's gotta be tough having a blonde idiot for a sister and a money-grubbing, pseudo-gay man for a father. And the mother: what is up with her? I mean, they have all that money, yet she still manages to look like she just walked out of the Norton Virginia Wal-Mart, bug zapper in hand. Oh well. Who am I to judge? I just wish Brittney Spears had a reality show. I would seriously watch that shit. No kidding. Brittney (is that how you spell her name?) mesmerizes me, the same way that mullets and men who drink beer out of cans mesmerize me. I like my over-produced pop-stars a little dirty around the edges. Just not Christina Aguilera dirty. She just makes me mad. Yeah, I can't believe I'm discussing this either.
I am off all of this weekend, which is odd, as I have never been off an entire weekend before without having actually asked for it. I think I will fix a big Sunday type dinner tomorrow. It will be good. I want some homemade lasagna. I want to be in the kitchen all day, and have little smudges of flour on my cheeks.
Well, I should sign off. I think I will work on typing up all these recipes that I have left and then download some music (Come and get me coppers!!!!). I want to get a good Power Ballads cd, that I can blast in my car.
Oh and by the way, I am thinking of starting my own mail-order cheesecake business. Sound good? I think so.

Pain, suffering and other sad news from the front

So today I have woken up with a terribly bad earache and sore throat combination that by its very presence has rendered me nearly unable to face the world.  It sucks.  That's all I can say.

Yesterday in the world of the Southern Belle, the day was spent moving things in my kitchen around as my apartment complex decided that the appliances they installed somewhere circa 1973 were no longer working well enough (brainiacs all) and that new ones had to be put in.  A group of sweaty men reached my door at 8:30 in the morning, and did not leave until almost 3 in the afternoon.  Although I am excited about the fact that I can now bake a pie without having to worry that the crust will combust after 15 minutes in the oven, I still have all of my kitchen supplies just kind of laying in the dining room where I put them after I was forced to find them an alternative home.  This also sucks.  To make matters worse, in the midst of it all, the apartment manager, a woman who wears too much hairspray and sells Mary Kay make-up out of the back of her car, comes to view my apartment, which is not at its tip top best at the moment.  Especially since I had to clean off the top of my refrigerator and every bottle of liquor/ wine I own was sitting on my dining room table.  So now she thinks that I am some crazy fiendish alcoholic who never pays her rent on time and drives too fast over the speed bumps in the parking lot.  I mean, she knew the other stuff, but the alcoholic bit just sets everything off real nice, don't you think?  She continues to give me this strange look, kind of like the one I used to get from my elementary music teacher when I demanded to sing Tina Turner in lieu of The Star Spangled Banner.  I feel thoroughly chastised.

I am off today, and it is a good thing, as I am not feeling well enough to single handedly take on the incredible sugar craving that grips my sweltering, crowded city.  I am planning on doing my best to fix my kitchen again and watching an insane amount of TV.  Sounds fun.  Sadly fun.

And before I go, a bit of emotional questioning.  At my lovely place of employment, we had an associate who was recently injured in a car accident.  Really injured, as in, she is still unconscious.  I didn't know her that well, and what I did know of her, I did not like.  In fact, I had taken to making rude comments about her and dreading those times when I had to work the same shift as her.  Now, I have these strange mixed feelings about the whole thing.  A friend has asked if I would like to go to the hospital with her to see the girl, and I really don't want to go, but at the same time, I feel like I owe the girl something.  I mean, she is younger than me, and could possibly die from this.  However, I feel like going would put me in that same category of people who visit the hospital because they gain some sort of enjoyment from being close to tragedy.  You know who I mean.  I was not close to this girl, and I certainly don't want to act like it now that she is in bad shape.  I don't know.  I am really unsure how to feel about this tragedy.  I mean, I feel bad for her because I don't want anyone to be hurt, but at the same time, I don't want to fein an emotional attachment that was not there before this accident.  It is a tricky situation. 

On that note, I shall retire for the day.  In The Heat of the Night is on, and if there is one thing that can make me feel better, it's the Sparta Police Department and the racially charged dialogue they develop while wearing the tightest pants ever.  God bless Mississippi!

Notes from the Unemployment Line

So today is the day that I will have done permanent and irrepairable damage to my reputation at work and that I will surely be sacked outright. Allow me to explain. Last night, a sexually frustrated (virgin!) friend of mine and I started typing a blog-like thing relating our thoughts on the two men who currently inhabit our psyches on my register on an archaic Notepad program. It was a riotous look at our lives, mostly containing me cursing about the lack of progress I am experiencing with my midget friend. Oh, and there was sex involved. My (married and decidedly unvirginal) manager, whom I love to pieces, has this dream about me doing several unmentionable things, so I decide to write in my primitive blog type creation how I want to do those things, just not with him. It makes me hot, there were shots of Jack Daniels involved, yada yada yada. All on Notepad. Guess who forgets to turn the thing off before I leave? Yeah, that's right. Me. The idiot. So I call work this morning to get my fellow disillusioned cafe employee to turn it off, and she says that our conservative 40-ish male manager has already read it, giggled and turned it off himself. Although she tends to think that he will not fire me (which he has every reason to since I wrote that I would like to have sex in our store using company whipped cream and chocolate sauce and surrounded by company books), I am surely going to be unable to face the guy. I mean, he's kind of lecherous anyway, and now that he knows what my lucky underwear looks like and that all it takes is some 70's Bowie and a bottle of beer to get me in the mood, I'm sure the mood between us will be completely unpalatable. Plus, he's just the kind of guy who would tell fellow co-workers that I am, how do I say it, sexually frustrated and need the type of loving that only a midget can provide.

So since I will be fired today, or stomp off in an embarassed haze, I guess that limits my encounters with Shorty to, well, the five minutes before I become so completely embarassed that I disappear into the parking lot never to be seen again. Yesterday he sidles all up to me, as par usual, and acts all interested only to leave me with this stupid little wave. I could kill the guy. I swear I could. My wonderful manager (the married, unvirginal one who dreams in color) says I should ask him out, as he is probably nervous about the whole thing, given he is short and balding in his mid-twenties. And I don't want to do that. So I guess I have no choice but to wait on him to make his move which should happen just prior to him becoming completely bald and me dying surrounded only by my twenty pet cats. Bastard. He has to know what he is doing. I bet he gets off on it, the short son of a bitch. God, I love that guy. I don't know why, but he just has some strange hold over me. A painful, incredibly nonsensical hold over me. Bastard. All I know is that I will wear a short black skirt today so his parting views of me as I leave forever will be good ones.

I should go, as I should probably go scout the papers and see if Starbucks wants a disillusioned, somewhat sulky Southern girl to make their mochas and grind their beans. Speaking of which, at this time I will relate the one thing I shall not miss at all about my current employment: the chai latte with whip woman. We have this customer who comes in all the goddamn time and orders a chai latte with whipped cream. This pisses me off because 1) my ex boyfriend always drank chai lattes and 2) she is hugely obese and acts like I should bow down to her fatness, and because I don't she gets pissy with me. She always reminds me that she wants no water in it, which is strange because we never put water in the noxious drinks, and I have told her that many, many times. So I make the drink, swirl some cream on top and give it to her. She always, and I repeat always, drinks it half the way down (sometimes over the course of 20 minutes) and then waddles back up to the counter and says that I forgot to give her whipped cream (even though both of us know that I didn't) and could I please just fill it up. So I do, resisting the urge to call her a fat fuck and run away screaming. So just know, chai latte woman, I will not miss you. You are evil, and I hope that you get sour whipped cream someday and it food poisons you and you are unable to drink chai lattes for the rest of your sick, sad little life.

Ha ha. Go to hell, chai latte woman.

Blog Envy

Ok, so I know the ole blog is not quite the greatest in the world. No pictures, lots of empty words, a kind of rambling sense of what's going on in my life. Yeah, yeah, I know these things. I am trying to get my digital camera hooked up to this computer so I can show you my lovely face, but, well, I am not the most technological being in the world, so the going is slow. Sorry. Since no one reads this but me, I am not breaking my back trying to learn new things.
I worked last night for the first time after a three day break. It was interesting--we were out of those frozen blended super-sweet coffee drinks that people tend to enjoy, so I got the sublime joy of telling our loyal patrons that they had to journey somewhere else for their sugar fix. Some of them actually looked close to tears. Since I hate making those drinks, I felt nearly overwhelmed at their misfortune.
I am going back today for another round, and everyone's favorite balding midget will be working. I will continue to play it cool, as I have been advised that it would probably be best. I am becoming aware that nearly everyone at work knows I am interested in him. Ho hum. It is strange that the older you get, the more life resembles the sixth grade. Everyone is always gossiping, little things that normal people probably ignore develop into huge interesting stories, and your relationships involve a lot of standing close to each other with no sex. I am just waiting for him to ask me to wear his jacket or to go steady.
Speaking of my achingly bad love life, yesterday Glamour magazine informed me that it is "ok if your type is short and bald." Thank you Glamour! Please note that I am saying this only somewhat facetiously.
Oh well. I should shower and finish doing my laundry. Then I should go to work and actually try to be somewhat welcoming to the customers. Hmmm. Actual participation in that plan may vary.

Cool as a cucumber, lovin' grade school style

Well, the family has retired to their hotel for the night, so here I am, single and cute on a Saturday night. Ho hum. Looks like another night for me to sit at home and enjoy with my two favorite men: David Bowie and Elliot Stabler from L&O:SVU.

So on the love front...today we had a meeting at work. Honey, I mean to tell you I played it cool (as evidenced by the title of today's extraordinary edition). Seriously. Lots of lip gloss and a cooler than thou attitude contributed to a totally mesmerizing performance that even I was proud of. Our lovely midget seemed intrigued, yet I didn't give him the pleasure of speaking to me, choosing merely to flash him a couple of dazzling smiles. As you can probably tell, I am very proud of myself. I think my friend was proud as well. A couple of days of this and I should be finally ready to cheat on David and Elliot. Score one for the home team!

I love how this teensy crush has turned me into a Cosmo columnist. He he. I like my new girlie self, but I swear to God, I think I could get sick of it quickly. I think I lose brain cells with every giggle I utter and every tube of lip gloss I consume. And it's not a conscious decision. Since entering the single world, I think I have become less Jessie Spano and more Kelly Kapowski without even really thinking it over. Maybe I have lost the ability to think. It is a distinct possibility. My family says I am "bubblier." Whatever that means, I think it probably must be good, as they smile at me a lot, and have given me money. Again, score one for the home team!

Well, I must go. Before I settle in with Elliot, I think I will journey out for some adult beverages. Tonight I shall buy something tasty. Ha ha, world. I am a dumb girly woman with a bit of money and a raging need for sugared down alcoholic beverages. Hear me roar.

Doin' the family thing

Today is the start of three glorious days off for me, three days that could hold a wealth of excitement, joy and sexual encounters. Sadly, my family is in town, and it is my duty to show them the sights. Today we are taking my niece and nephew to a theme park, a place where I have about as much chance of meeting someone as I do of becoming a Hilton sister. Oh well. It's not that I'm complaining about my family. They're cool. It's just, well, I'm a selfish bitch. If I have time off, I would really love to spend it with margarita in hand.

Last night at work, I managed to spend the whole night thinking about the mutant midget whom I have come to adore. Do they call it a crush because that is what it does to you? I have ceased being an intelligent person: I have morphed into this person who is sort of on auto pilot as all of my thoughts are pretty much consumed by this person. In essence, my entire being has been "crushed" by the cute laugh of this person. I have heard from a reliable source (a friend of his who is actually not much of a friend) that he is planning on asking me out. I am, on advice from a friend of mine, "playing it cool" until that time. I don't really know what "playing it cool" means, but hell, I'm ready to give it a try. Shameless, unabashed flirting hasn't really done the trick so far.

Oh well. I should probably go as Designing Women will be on shortly and I should take a shower to get ready for my trip. Tonight I shall conquer my digital camera in order to spice this thing up a bit. Look forward to it, readers!

Later.

So when did my life turn into a Melrose Place episode?

my first post...i feel so...strangely virginal.

oh well.  in the last little bit of my life, i have fallen out of love with a fiance,  become  infatuated with a short balding man who does little more than lead me on (painfully so), and watched more law and order than any one person has any business watching (or admitting).  i have become a coquettish flirt with a penchant for gin and a flair for overt sexual references.  this new-fangled technological doo-thingie will serve as a record of my new strange life and you,  well,  you'll watch patiently because you enjoy the torrid webs that i weave.  don't you?

must go to the place of my employment (imprisonment?).  sadly the afforementioned balding midget who yours truly remains completely ga-ga for is off today so i plan on bitching through another eight hours of my life.  ho hum.

later.