Nightly Notables

Erin and I went to Screen on the Green last night and watched "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory." We got really into it and bought Wonka Bars and Everlasting Gobstoppers for the show. Other people got really into it too, just in different ways:

• Number of people attending: 17,000
• Number of people I recognized: 1.
• Number of people dressed like Willy Wonka: 2, including my favorite transvestite if you think Willy Wonka is a short shorts kind of guy.
• Number of people dressed in costumes that had nothing to do with the movie: 8, ranging from B52's impersonators and one girl who obviously mistook Screen on the Green for the Kentucky Derby.
  
• Number of people running around with sparklers shouting, "GO CHARLIE!": 4.
• Number of drunk guys who stripped down to their underwear and did their best subconscious reenactment of "van down by the river guy:" 1.
• Number of times I screamed, "But there are children here!:" 6.

And I got to have this conversation with the one person I did recognize:

Brandon: I was at "Breakfast at Tiffany's" last week.
Jamie: Me too! Oh, so you were the straight guy.
Brandon: (Laughing) Yeah, that was me. So I really liked the movie. I have such a crush on Audrey Hepburn. If it wasn't so wrong I... I'd...
Jamie: Have sex with her dead body?
Brandon: She's dead!?
Jamie: Yeah, for like 7 years now. Cancer.
Brandon: Although I really loved that movie, there's one thing I don't get.
Jamie: What's that?
Brandon: They never actually eat breakfast.

She totally does, but I didn't have the heart to tell him that. He was already upset enough when I spilled the beans that she was a hooker.

That's bad, right?

My Calvin Kleins had been sitting by my computer for the past week as my inspiration for my "Blue is my world" series. For reasons unbeknownst to me, or more likely, a victim from me drinking too much and doing things around my apartment that leave me scratching my head for days, they had been moved to my kitchen counter. A pant leg hangs perilously above the trash can-- perhaps I was going to throw them away, but chickened out at the last moment.

I came home from work, dropped my keys into the basket, and walked to my kitchen where I immediately stepped out of my shoes. It's amazing how quickly habits can form. I sorted through the mail, dropping the bills into a box that I will invariably forget about until the night before the bill is due. The rest, pizza specials mostly, go straight into the trash.

My Calvin Kleins greeted me from above the trash can. I looked at them and thought about how I really need to write the conclusion to end the series that only girls can understand. It was then I noticed it. The blue was a little darker and the pants lied underneath... is that... is that plaster?

I picked up my jeans and they were damp. I scratched at the white and it flaked off, leaving behind a white residue where the plaster had been.

I looked up:


The leak I complained about weeks ago had never been patched up. We had been having more storms and, in my first floor apartment, the ceiling had opened itself up. Or, judging from the picture, unzipped itself.

Slightly panicked, I raced down to the leasing office. Only one girl remained and in front of her a cute boy was filling out an application. His mother sat next to him and his father sat across the room, reading a newspaper.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Um," I didn't know if I should be saying this in front of the prospective resident, but I was also a little pissed. "I came down here two weeks ago and complained to you about a leak in my ceiling. It never got fixed and now the ceiling has literally opened up and plaster is falling everywhere."

The mother sat silently, but her eyes widened a good bit. The boy kept his head down while filling out the application, but his brow furrowed and he stuck his tongue out a little bit while trying to concentrate. The father in the corner flipped the page. The office girl froze, sending me a mental "Oh shit."

"We're, uh, having that leak problem you complained about earlier in only your part of the building," she tried to qualify. "It's by the patio door, right?"

"Well, one leak is. But the leak that's dropping bits of ceiling into my apartment is in my kitchen. A third leak has also begun there."

"I need to, uh, call my manager. I'll call you before I close," she said.

The next day I went to work. I'm glad I left the buckets out because it began to rain. Again. Surely more bits of plaster and more water would be making its way into my apartment. I called at noon to check on the status of my apartment, they still didn't know anything, or if it had been inspected yet.

The office girl called me back right before I left work for the day. "We saw the damage. We're having the people who built the building come out and inspect your apartment tomorrow. In the meantime, please feel free to stay in our guest suite."

I declined the offer because of my dog. That's bad, right? I mean when they have to call the people that built the apartment building, and not just a contractor, that means this is serious. She mentioned something about "replacing the ceiling." I can understand replacing carpet, or replacing cabinets, but I've never heard of replacing a ceiling before. That's bad, right?

The captain of my brain ship is drunk at the wheel

So I, uh, made a web page for my dog over the weekend. She now has her own MySpace of sorts. She'll get more photos up when I find out what the hell I did with my scanner.
You can view it here:

There is also a Catster for all you cat owners. Not that I know of course. I'm way too cool and spend all my spare time biking and reading poetry in the park and visiting places like Morocco and Japan... not sitting in front of the computer making a webpage for my dog...

***

After staring at the Abercrombie and Fitch picture in the post below, I am now convinced that one day the model's balls will drop, instantly crushing the pedestrians walking below him.

***


I've been in a small funk for the last week and a half. Ever since I got sick, things have slowly been degenerating around me and generally just not going my way. I hadn't had a bad day in months so I guess I'm having them all now in one go.

I had a martini for dinner last night (vodka with a twist) to try to relax a bit. Just one and it wasn't even strong. I dreamed I checked myself into a mental institution to rest and meditate for a few weeks. It seemed to work. When I woke up my first thought was (after I realized I wasn't in an institution) that I couldn't really do that because I'm pretty sure my health insurance wouldn't cover it.



***

If anyone knows of a good psychic in the Atlanta area, please let me know. No, I'm serious. Really, I am.

Blue is my world when I'm without you, Part 2

Part 1

After I exhausted my cheaper alternatives for blue jeans, I had no choice but to head to the mall. I don't really like the mall- too many people who look better than me, and too many people in general. In my price pattern, I headed to the cheaper of the 2 malls. Atlanta, in some evil-genius strategy, only has 2 malls and they are literally across the street from one another. Both have a Gap.

I exhausted Bloomingdales, Macy's, and Neiman Marcus. I felt fat and ugly by Urban Outfitters, Guess, and Gap. I vowed never to enter American Eagle or Hollister again. Then I saw it: Abercrombie. I had been telling friends recently that I haven't bought anything from there since I was in high school, but I still wore the clothes every day and they fit me better and lasted me longer than any other article of clothing. So what if pants are $70? They'll last me 10 years.

I counted on my fingers, it had been 7 years since I walked into an Abercrombie. I saw all the colors that perfectly match each other and can be worn interchangeably. I was a sucker for the Abercrombie orange. I touched a few t-shirts, mentally noting that I needed to come back here after this whole jeans fiasco. I held up a t-shirt that read, "Blonde with a brain" and laughed. I needed this. But something didn't seem right about the shirt; it looked... smaller. Distracted by the sight of jeans, I set the shirt down and walked away.

My penchant for jeans that cover my butt crack left me with only 2 viable options at Abercrombie: a "distressed" pair and a normal pair. I don't mind the holes in the knees-- I can't wear blue jeans to work anyways, so what did it matter? I looked up at the wall and tried to find my size.

Double zeros and zeros were on a shelf at the height of my shoulders. At the height of my head was the shelf of the twos. Above that, the fours. I kid you not-- the shelf with the sixes and the eights were right below the ceiling. Even at my height, I couldn't reach them. Logically, it makes sense because the double zeros are probably shorter than me, the six. But one thought kept running through my mind over and over: Fatty can't reach the jeans. Fatty can't reach the jeans. Fatty can't reach the jeans.

This fatty was not about to ask the size double zero behind the counter to grab the stick and poke down the big girl sizes. I began the super cool and super stealth move of jumping up while trying to knock any pair down. After looking like a thorough ass clown, I was successful.

Teeny-tiny Double Zero opened the dressing room door for me. 7 years ago, Abercrombie sizes ran big. This was not the case anymore. Also Abercrombie does not account for body parts such as the hips. Or the ass. Or the waist for that matter. Knees down they looked great though.

Goodbye, Blonde with a brain t-shirt. I fear I shall never see you again.

With perfect timing, my phone rings. "How's the jeans hunt?" Erin asked.

"When did I get so old?!" I cried. I told her about American Eagle and Abercrombie. "I want pants that go right up to the bottom of my belly button, why is this an impossible request?"

"Abercrombie is for skinny preteens," she snarked. "You know they have a weight requirement to work there?"

"Yeah, I met Double Zero. It didn't used to be like that," I sniffed.

I thought back to my jeans at home. Dear Calvin Kleins, why the big gaping hole? You fit me perfectly even fresh from the dryer. You came with a belt that matched most my winter wardrobe. You had the perfect dark wash that seems to be coming out of style in lieu of acid wash.

Eff this.

I went home and picked up my jeans folded neatly on top of the bed. Every time I stitched them back together by hand or by the sewing machine, they always ripped apart again. Almost immediately. As soon as I climbed in my truck, I felt a breeze on my left thigh. In college I had one foolproof method that fixed hems that came undone and bra straps the dog chewed through.

I went to my night stand and opened the bottom drawer, hoping it would still be there with a few other select school supplies. Under the binder of every paper I had written in college, and next to the three-hole-punch, I found it. I was lucky.

I turned my bad pant leg inside out and began work. I lined up the newest ripped edges and began stapling. That's right. I did it. I stapled my pants back together. If thread wasn't going to keep this tear together, little metal prongs would. I put the jeans on and admired my work. The pants, even with the staple edges, looked better than anything I had on that day. You couldn't even seen the staple edges because of where the rip was.

"You stapled your pants together." Erin, somehow, was not surprised.

"Yes, yes I did."

"Well you can't really tell."

"He's got no business getting personal with my ass anyways, so I think I'll get away with it."

Erin laughed.

The staples did the job. Not once throughout the night did I feel my pants tear. The next morning I pulled the jeans off the floor and admired my work again. The rip was still closed, but a new one began at the top of the row of staples. The staples compromised the fabric even further and now my pants looked like Frankenstein's monster's neck.

Looks like my hunt for blue jeans continues. There's only one place left.

We run down Moreland into the neon light

My truck needed a part. Of all things, it wasn't the windshield wiper fluid, or the power seats-- it wasn't something I could have done without for a few days. It was the switch that turned my brake lights on when I stopped. Without it, you wouldn't know I was slowing down until you almost hit the back of my truck.

It was after work yesterday and I was driving very cautiously to the parts place to buy a new switch. Unfortunately, the only one I knew of was on Moreland Avenue.

This is where you shudder.

Even if you've lived outside of Atlanta, you've still heard of Moreland Avenue, and you know it's bad-- like baaaaaaaaad. Moreland Avenue has been featured in rap songs such as "Murder One:"

"Moreland Ave. on a hot summer night, Pete wanted to kill someone and do it tonight...Looked for a passed out bum and they found one, Pete slit his throat just for fun/ The bum went running through the bushes and weeds, They held his arms and made him bleed..."

Yeah, so that's Moreland Avenue.

I found the Advance Auto Parts: it was still painted bright yellow from the old days. When they redesigned the stores, the Moreland Avenue Advance Auto Parts was obviously not a candidate for the upgrade. The entire store and parking lot was surrounded by a 10-foot chained link fence... with barbed wire winding across the top. Never seen that at an Advance Auto Parts before.

Enter me, perhaps the whitest girl ever. You know when Chappelle puts on whiteface on Chappelle's Show? That's me. I ran inside and got the part I needed for my truck. I walked back out into the parking lot and looked both ways-- I really didn't want to drive home without brake lights, so I needed to go ahead and put the part on. Here. In this parking lot. In this neighborhood.

The switch is located by the brake pedal. I opened the car door, put my purse on the seat, and laid down on the floor of the driver's seat with my legs hanging out of the truck. The steering column prevented me from seeing anything approaching. Great, I thought, I'm going to get mugged in this parking lot and I'm going to be trapped under my own truck while he does it.

"What's wrong with your car?"

See, I didn't even hear him approach. I climbed out from under the driver's seat. A homeless looking man in a red t-shirt and black jeans and holding a new black backpack was staring at me.

"I'm, um, trying to replace the stoplight switch," I smiled nervously and climbed back under the steering column, hoping that if I just went back to my work, he'd go away.

"Your brake lights are on! Now they're off. They're on!" He's trying to help. By this time I disconnected the old switch so that the lights wouldn't come on at all, but I couldn't get the damn part off because of this wire.

After a few minutes of brake silence, the homeless man shuffled forward a few steps, "You need help?"

I didn't want to admit it, but I truly did. I couldn't get the part off the wire. I got out of the truck and grabbed my purse--that also had my keys in it--off the seat. I stood by the side of my truck while he climbed in. I tried not to look nervous, but I wear my emotions on my face; I can't hide them.

An old black man crossed the street and entered the Advance Auto Parts gate. He's in a gray suit with 70's style aviator shades dangling around his neck, except the shades were bright orange. He was wearing one of those old man driving hats and carrying a brown paper bag. Inside the bag was a French baguette among a few other groceries. He had a long face and gray mustache that reminded me of an old Richard Pryor.

He walked right up to me, looked me up and down, and stopped and watched. The homeless man shouted from in my truck, "This is connected by a ____ wire!"

"What does that mean?" I hollered back.

The old man took a step forward and said in a raspy voice, "That means it's bent and tied around the part."

The homeless man got out of the truck and ran over to wear he laid his backpack down. He opened it up and pulled out a wrench of some sort.

Unbelievable, I thought. Who knew a homeless man would carry around a wrench? Then I thought, My mother would absolutely kill me if she knew I was on Moreland Avenue, having a homeless man work on my truck. I think her heart just might explode from it- which I still believe is true.

He ducked back under the steering column and got to work. The old man looked in his bag of groceries, pulled out a smaller paper bag, and walked over next to the curb where the homeless man was tooling around in my truck. He set the bag down, and walked away, disappearing down the street. I have no idea if they knew each other or not.

Just then, my brake lights flashed on. It became my turn, "They're on! Now they're off. They're on!"

The homeless man sat on my running boards and used his hand to push down the brake pedal. My lights came on and off with his movements. "They're fixed!" I cried. He looked extremely proud of himself and it was only then I wondered if he knew anything about cars or not.

I had previously pulled a couple of bills out of my wallet so I wouldn't have to open it in front of him. He got up, wiped the sweat from his forehead, and walked towards me. I stuck the bills out. "Thank you," I said.

He took the bills and saw I handed him $2. I didn't know what the going rate was for part installation by the homeless.

"I need $11," he said.

I must have looked confused or frightened because I knew I didn't have $11 on me.

"I'm trying to get home to Conyers," he explained. "And I'm doing small work to try to get home." He paused, "Me and my son."

I hadn't seen a little boy around, only the small paper bag now in his hands. I didn't care what his reasons were, I just didn't want him to get upset with me. I opened my wallet and prayed he couldn't read the "Ralph Lauren" stamped in the leather. I pulled out the remaining $2 and handed it to him.

"That's all I have," I said and I showed him there were no more bills in the wallet, probably one of the dumber things I've done.

"That's okay, thank you."

I got in my truck and pulled the hell out of Moreland Avenue. Meantime, the homeless man began walking down the street, whistling, and tossing my old car part in the air and catching it again.

You know what sucks?

Finding out a friend of yours died via MySpace.

Effing Clown.

A couple of days ago I made my monthly Mecca to McDonald's for their tasty Big Mac and fries, my ultimate lunchtime weakness. I gathered my tray of deep fried goodness and sat in a booth. I pulled out my book from my purse when I saw it:

The nutrition box printed on the side of the Big Mac box.

It was not there before.

I grabbed a fry and used it as a prod to rotate the fry box. Yep, there was one there too. Well, this is new. I suspiciously eyed my grease stained containers. I did not want there to be a nutrition box on there; I did not want to know exactly how bad they were for me. I knew it wasn't good, hence I only eat there once a month. I am happy and content in my ignorance; I don't need to know the details.

I eat more fries while debating what to do. A character is about to die in my book and I was really looking forward to reading it... but that damn box. The white nutrition box on the cardboard colored container was mocking me.

I've never been good with temptation.

As I guessed, a Big Mac is not good for me. All 536 calories of it. All 47% of my daily fat allotment. I used another fry to spin the red fry container. Not as bad, the potatoes were around 300 calories and only used up 38% of my daily fat allotment. But 47 plus 36... and I realized I was done eating for the day. My simple pleasure was almost a 1000 calories and all of the saturated fat one could handle in a day. My mouth salty from the fries, I grabbed my Diet Coke and drank. At least this is calorie-free.

So thanks, McDonald's, for ruining my lunch hour and completely bumming me out. I hope you're pleased with yourselves. And now every Mecca trip once a month will continue to be as glum. Effing clown.

Blue is my world when I'm without you, Part 1

I had a date. A couple of days beforehand, I wandered into my closet and pulled out my blue jeans and examined them. I put them on a shelf a month earlier after I ripped them for the third time after trying to sew them back together. I had worn the jeans so thin that there was a rip below my left buttock that no amount of mending could fix. I stuck my hand through the hole-- No, these won't do, I thought. I can't go on a date with ripped jeans.

The next day after work I began my jeans hunt. Naturally when shopping I start at the cheapest place and work my way up until I find what I want. I drove to the closest shopping center and walked into TJMaxx. It was there I realized that not a lot of people buy blue jeans during the hot summer months. They only had a few pairs, all on clearance, and I grabbed a few and tried them on. I settled on a pair of Tommy Hilfiger for $12.99. I stood in the dressing room mirror and looked at my reflection, trying to imagine the pants with slinky date tops. I cocked my head, there was nothing wrong with the pair I selected, but there was nothing right about it either.

Barefoot in the dressing room I thought back to my beloved pair waiting for me a home. Blue jeans are as important to a person's style as is her hair. I didn't need to recklessly buy any pair--this was a big decision. I buy a pair of jeans about once every two years, I can't believe I was going to waste my purchase on a pair of too-blue blue jeans. I sighed and yanked them off of me. I knew nothing less than a multiday journey laid ahead of me to find the perfect pair, as perfect as my poor Calvin Kleins, if not better.

Next up the price ladder was Old Navy, which was perfect because it was located right below TJMaxx. I took the escalator down and headed straight to the wall-o-jeans. First of all, they weren't dark enough for me, but they were under the $30 rank. I grabbed what I could in my size and went to the dressing room.

Oh.

Dear.

God.

I am wearing a "special edition" pair of Old Navy jeans. What makes them special edition? They're predrawn on. The little bird by the pocket I could get over. All the dots up and down the zipper? It's like a connect-the-dots around my crotch. I thought of being on a date and trying to explain:

"No, I didn't draw that..."

"No, I wasn't wearing them while someone else drew that."

"Yes, I bought them this way..." Even in my head, I hung my head in shame.

"No, I'm not obsessed with my vagina, Old Navy is."

I actually licked my finger and tried to rub off the "special edition." Nope, this is special edition ink.

Next.

My Southern Soldier Boy

There is a store in Athens called the Civil War Store. I never went there, but I always meant to check it out. I'm sure it's filled with your typically roadside stop goods: Civil War paraphernalia, Old Georgia flags and plates, and your typical redneck t-shirts. Maybe that's why I never made it there, I've seen it already.

Once a year, the store becomes popular with the students. It's when a few of the fraternities and sororities get together and have their own Antebellum days. Milledge Road becomes blocked with countless Scarlett O'Haras and Melanie Hamiltons, but never any Prissies. Ruffles and umbrellas, and petticoats- oh my. The boys all don their Confederate uniforms obtained from the Civil War Store. It's actually quite a sight. Most Greek houses on Milledge are indeed Antebellum houses which makes the setting just perfect.

One night, it must have been a Tuesday because I was at Wild Wings waiting for a table, and I saw him walk in. I'd seen him around a few times at various bars. He was obviously a student, but when he makes his way downtown, he always wears a navy Civil War hat. He walked in the door and the bench filled with black people seated beside me saw him and sharply inhaled.

"Oooh!" One girl shrieked.

I sat in silence, watching this unfold.

The black party all pointed at him and then spoke to each other in a circle. The boy in the hat was oblivious. They became louder and louder as their obvious feelings grew. They leered at him and continued their pointing and hushed talking.

Finally one girl gets up from the bench and walks towards him. His back was turned to the group so she poked him on the shoulder.

She's going to punch him in the face! I wildly thought.

He turned around. "Your hat really offends me," she told him angrily.

He smiled slowly. "Ma'am," he said, "This is a Union hat." She didn't get what he was trying to say, what I knew all along: navy is for the north, and gray is for the south. "This isn't a Confederate hat," he tried again.

"Oh," she said. She just stood there in front of him for a minute and then turned around and walked briskly back to her friends.

I tried so hard not to bust out laughing, but I was unsuccessful. The people on the bench turned to look at me, and I thought, No, they're going to punch me in the face!

Let's get high on NyQuil and hibernate

I didn't think I would have anything to write about this morning so I was planning to tell a story, but then I got out of bed.

My head is still stuffy and I think I actually felt worse this morning than previous mornings. My symptoms have compounded into something that can only be relieved by a DayQuil, which was at work. I would have to wait an hour or so to feel better.

I follow my morning routine on autopilot, not really thinking about anything. Despite the dog's reluctance to go out, nothing was unusual.

I closed the door to my apartment and locked it while balancing my two glasses: a glass of Slim Fast for my breakfast, and a glass of iced tea for my caffeine at work.

I've been taking a new way to work this week and I get stopped at a light. I pick up the glass of Slim Fast and take a sip.

It happened in slow motion: I lowered my arm to put the glass back in the cup holder. The glass slipped out of my hands at the last couple of inches, bounced off the corner of the cup holder, and dumped in my lap.

Nooooooooo!

It was too late. I was completely covered in chocolate milk. I looked up helplessly: the light was still red and there was nowhere for me to go. I let out a small cry while chocolate milk ran down my legs and collected in my seat. I could feel my butt slowly getting soaked. My hands were dripping from where I tried to catch the glass. Chocolate milk ran down the console and began to drip on the carpet.

I looked in my backseat hoping to find a towel that I mysteriously left there and forgot about and found only my tennis shoes. This became the longest light in history. "Ewww! This is so gross!" I cried.

I had a box of wetnaps for little accidents but I knew that they were no match for a disaster of this proportions. I rolled down my window and shook out my hands onto the pavement, the last thing I needed was to spread this sticky mess onto the steering wheel. I sucked on my fingers trying to get the last of the milk.

It didn't help. The second I touched the steering wheel, I felt it get sticky and gross. The light finally changed and I made an illegal u-turn and drove back home.

I walked into the office almost a half hour late. "My, you look nice," Erin said.

"Oddly enough, this isn't my first outfit for today."

If anyone has any luck, please send it my way. I fear I have run out of good fortune and soon must be forced to repost those lame ass bulletins on MySpace. I didn't believe them when they said that if I didn't repost then something bad will happen to me. It says if I repost, my crush will kiss me.

*Crosses fingers and hopes Patrick Dempsy knows the way to my apartment*

It's raining, it's pouring, I'm not an old man, but you know the rest

I woke up yesterday morning and something was wrong.

And it wasn't the tangled mess of sheets.

It was my head.

Breathing was difficult, my skin felt hot, and when I slid out of bed I felt dizzy.

I was sick.

Was it the hours spent in the park last night and my sinuses were stuffed up? Or was it when I babysat my sister's sick baby last weekend?

How can something that weighs 20 pounds make me feel like this?

I moaned and went to work anyways. No one would ever believe that I magically got sick on a Monday morning. But when it was 9 am and my boss found me passed out on my desk, she sent me home.

Nikita was surprised to see me home so early. I caught her sleeping in the living room. She yawned and stretched and wiggled when she saw me. Usually she's under the bed when I get home and now I had proof that she doesn't spend all day under there.

I coughed, blew my nose, grabbed a blanket and laid down on the couch. Daytime TV- the one perk of being home sick. Forget the soccer game that people took today off for, I wanted Montel. I wanted DNA tests and babies' daddies.

I settled for Family Feud hosted by that guy from Home Improvement. One of the families was the dumbest family I've ever seen. They didn't have a single point and when the host asked them "Where would you least likely want to fall asleep?" they responded, "While smoking."

Yeah, because that's a place. Effing morons.

I drifted off to sleep during the $20,000 round and awoke when the storm came. Thunder, lightning, the whole works. I love being at home during storms and couldn't believe my luck.

I must have fallen back asleep because when I woke up, I heard a dripping sound. The storm had passed and I listened to the sound some more. That dripping sounded close; it didn't sound like it was coming from outside. I walked to the balcony door and I stepped in it. A puddle. In my living room. There was a new crack in the ceiling and water was coming out of it. I looked in the kitchen where there's another crack in the ceiling and I found the sound I heard. *Drip* *Drip* *Drip* The island in my kitchen was completely soaking wet. I grabbed the big pots and stuck them under the streams of water coming from my ceiling. Thank God I was home on a Monday afternoon, I thought.

I put some pants on and walked down to the office to let them know I was drowning in my own apartment. And then I realized that I live on the first floor--there are three floors above me--how the hell was water coming through my ceiling?

They said that they can't patch up my ceiling until it dries. I noticed it was damp in three more places between the kitchen and the balcony door.

I woke up this morning, took double the medicine, and went in to work. While driving I noticed the gray clouds and it was raining by the time I got to the office.

I sure hope I left those pots out in the correct places.

Why every time I try to tell you how I feel, it feels like a hiccup comes up

Ompf.

Last night I stumbled through the door and flopped down on my bed fully clothed. The hiccups began. Big, body shaking hiccups.

The plan was to make my bed after I got home. I hiccuped and rolled off the bed and stumbled to the dryer. I pulled whatever I could out of there, separated the sheets, and left the rest on the floor.

I teetered back into my bedroom and fell back on the bed again. The hiccups were getting stronger and my whole body shook.

I found the sheet surrounded in elastic and pushed everything else off the bed. I crawled to each corner and put the sheet on. *Hiccup* *Hiccup* The first 2 corners were fine, but the other 2 just weren't happening. I couldn't believe I didn't have the capacity to make the bed.

*Hiccup*

I rolled over and laid on the bare mattress face first and pathetically moaned. "Meh." I just wanted to go to bed. I just wanted to go to bed on clean sheets. My shoulders and throat started aching from hiccuping so violently.

I woke up at 6 this morning and examined my handiwork. The blanket was still on the floor. The fitted sheet was only on 3 corners and the other sheet was on upside down.

I really wanted to sleep on clean sheets.

Lesson: Always make the bed before you go out. Never count on waiting until after Crown is imbibed.

Don't tell Jamie-- he probably lives in Minnesota

Every morning at work I log in to my computer, check my office e-mail to moderate my blog comments, check my personal e-mail, and then my MySpace account. Every morning in that order. The people whose desks are near mine know this too. Morning talk is usually about anything interesting I may find in my inboxes: from exactly how many lonely horny housewives there can be to the time a few weeks ago where I whined in a high pitch, "It's not fair!"

A girl shouts through the cubicle, "What?"

I really truly believe that there are people in my office that I've never spoken to face-to-face, only through our cubicle walls. I shout back, "A guy just found me through my MySpace. I haven't seen him since high school and he turned into a total hottie who 'thinks a lot about the time we spent together.'"

"Well that's good. What's not fair about that?"

"His page says he lives in Minnesota." Then I mumbled under my breath, "I could never live there." I didn't think anyone heard me, but everyone did and erupted in laughter.

And now Minnesota has become the official punchline for me in the office.

All the bosses are out of town this week and I'm spending a few extra minutes going through my inboxes, hoping for something good. All those quizzes everyone's been filling out? Read them.

This morning I hear her through our cubicle barriers talking to the guy next to her, "It's quiet this morning."

Guy: "It's cause everyone is out of town."

"No, that's not it. We usually hear from Jamie about now. Jamie, are you here yet?"

"Yeah, I'm here!" Nice to know everyone looks forward to hearing about my single life like I'm a weekly television show. Or a freak side show.

"What are you doing?"

"Um, I'm looking at this picture I found. Here, I'll send it to you."

Click to enlarge.

I hear them make noises as they look at the picture.

Guy: "You know we have to do this, right?"

Another guy: "Who's going to keep the list?"

Girl: "I will!"

And so we spent the better part of the morning figuring it out. We're up to 78 out of the 100.

I am officially terrified of Angel Girl

I had a dream about Angel Girl.

It began as the story line of Grey's Anatomy and I was Ellen Pompeo's character. I was having an affair with Derek, as in he was the actual guy in my dream. But in season 2 where Meredith cuts things off because he's still married, I just kept on trucking. The problem was Derek was married to Angel Girl. I was torn because she's my friend, but, come on, McDreamy is just... well... dreamy.

I was walking down the street with a friend of mine, who had previously had a thing with Derek. She was warning me about him and how he's not as nice as you think, but I refused to believe her.

Angel Girl had been out of town which made things easy for Derek and me. I was at their house and I saw an empty nursery. Either Derek and Angel Girl had a miscarriage, or they were trying for a baby. I turned to Derek and realized he was never going to leave Angel Girl for me. I backed away but he pleaded with me.

He convinced me to go to a restaurant with friends, and while we're there, Angel Girl returns from her trip. He leans across the table and touches her. It was all I needed. I got up and left the restaurant with my friend followed me. She's consoling me and not saying, "I told you so." But while we were talking about it, Angel Girl walks up. She overhears what I say and found out about the affair.

She loses it. She starts chasing me down the street, throwing things at me. I run and try to hide, but she always finds me. She says she's going to put me in jail and I said I didn't do anything illegal.

And this is why I'm now terrified of Angel Girl:

She picks up a board off the ground, bashes herself on the head with it, and throws it at me with perfect aim. The board hits my arm, leaving her blood on me. Now she could tell the police I accosted her with the board and she runs off to find them.

That was a pretty badass move, Angel Girl.

Dear Blogger

Thanks for behaving like MySpace all day when I'm trying to revamp my template. You made it a quick and painless transition.

'Preciate it,

James

I can't tell you how much better I feel.

Stolen from firefly:

List ten things you want to say to ten people you know, but never will for whatever reason. Don't say who they are. (Duh.) Use each person only once and only use one sentence.

1. I know how much it would mean to you if I could say, "I love you," but I just can't.
   
2. You tried so hard to get rid of me, but I'm still here and you're not.
3. I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me, but I can't handle being vulnerable in front of you.
   
4. I can't believe you married him; you were her best friend.
5. You didn't try hard enough.
   
6. You should get that lazered off your face.
   
7. I need a break from you-- I think it's the only way for me to come around.
8. I secretly thought you were an idiot the whole time I was with you.
9. I don't think I ever gave you enough credit.
   
10. I know you want a relationship with me, but you never said you were sorry.

Edit: me also completed this meme.

HAHAHAHAHA!

We are slowly staging a war on Half-Nekkid Thursdays.

I'm in Will. I'm in.

Well after 5:30 PM. I like my job and all.

See ya later effers...

I'm off to our beach house!

Shameless

I was sitting on the floor working on my computer so she took the couch. Go figure.

Razor Blade Hair

When I was in high school I was a lifeguard. The pay kicked ass, but I was so miserable. First of all, I don't tan. My freckles join together and resemble a tan, then I just burn. Lifeguards know few things that other people don't: we know what it feels like to have only your knees and the top of your feet burned; we also know what it feels like to whack yourself in the face with a whistle.

Sitting on top of a tower when it's 115 degree heat index only puts you closer to the sun. I suffered from heat exhaustion. I'd take my break and go throw up in the bathroom. The sun made me that sick.

One day, without telling my mother, I stopped by a SuperCuts or something equally as awful after work and I ordered the lady to cut off all my hair. She didn't want to, but I was set on it. My mother saw me and cried. Think Molly Ringwald, that's what I looked like that summer. But at least I wasn't getting sick from the heat anymore.

Since then every summer when the thermostat hits 100, I make a hair appointment. I get my hair cut short and then thinned with a razor blade comb. My hair is that thick. Today is no different, but I have sense enough not to look like Molly Ringwald anymore.