I was driving to work this morning and the radio advised all listeners to stay off the roads today. "Oh great," I muttered, "Who is going to test drive a car during Hurricane Ivan?" I was obviously right and no one showed up all day. Not even the lady who bought her car yesterday and was supposed to come today to pick it up. Apparently she called her insurance company and they refused to employ any new policies today. Smart business move, but weird nonetheless. At around 5:15 PM my boss (who was currently offering a $1,000 to anyone who could sell a car today) decided it would probably prove beneficial to close the store early. So I got to leave 45 minutes early while everyone else (who arrived at noon) closed until 6:00PM.

So what did I do all stinking day while stranded at work? My boss suggested pulling people out of the sky while they were flying around in the the tornadoes and selling them a car. However, I made the distinct decision to work on my blog. That's right folks! A profile, pictures, and a comment section that took 7 hours for me to figure out (note the time stamp). It's so lovely I can't neglect it any longer!

Hurricane Ivan taught me a lot about HTML format and the fact that my wind chime works.

My Boss

Henry: Jamie, I gave you a job. I give you a paycheck. I gave you an apartment, a new TV, a washer and dryer...I've been so good to you. Why did you do this to me?

Jamie: What did I do?

Henry: You bought me tea in a bottle. I don't drink tea in plastic!

he says that i'm a lush i'm a lush i'm a lush and i wonder if i will ever break through my typecast. why not i'm the lush of the century, part one. people used to tell me they want to be like me and that was so long ago, and the buzz has finally worn off, and she's not talking to me anymore and i wonder if she ever existed or did i say all those things to myself in a Vince Lombardi "back to basics" peptalk where you learn to love thyself.

maybe i'll just become the lush again because that's what they expect, that's what they want out of life. i had fun last week when i lost the doorknob, i lost my way, i lost reality. they talk about me and laugh and want to go home with me and i know i'm the third party in that bed, so at least i'm not the fool.

i'm tired and i want to go to bed but there is another party...there is always another party and that's what they want out of me and i gave myself all away and if i'm drunk i don't care. maybe one day i'll get myself mailed back to me and i'll become whole again but the post office is so damn slow.

Whats red and goes CRASH! ?

My bloody nose and the car accident it caused

Snow day today.

3 inches of snow covers my truck and prevents me from going to work and signing up angry diabetics for free mailings.

Mmm, 3 inches:
Half of a one dollar bill... or half of a one-hundred dollar bill!
A bowling alley or putt-putt pencil
A movie ticket stub (regardless if it was a good movie or not)
An angry man's d**k
A votive candle
Salt and pepper shakers
A landscape photograph

Okay, so 3 inches doesn't seem like a lot, but I'm satisfied.

I can't speak for the angry man's girlfriend though...

An excerpt from my new short story:

“Jill!” Nazi Pool Mother shouts at me, one hand shielding her eyes from the sun, the other one akimbo on her hip in boot camp fashion. She doesn’t even have a name anymore. It is a widely accepted fact among lifeguards that the housewives the neighborhood association puts in charge of “pool management” (as it appears on my résumé) are the meanest, nastiest, most intolerable people on earth. Especially the middle class ones. Because they’re not as affluent as some of the other mothers, middle class mothers treat it as if it were a paying job that could stabilize the family. The same job their husbands don’t allow them because then the children would grow up to become people like me: cranky and incinerating in a really tall chair.

“Jill! Pay attention!” Nazi Pool Mother begins again. “During your break I want you to unclog the toilet in the boys’ bathroom. It’s stopped up with number two.” I would just love to hear her to say the word shit in her floral one piece suit and knee-length skort.

I slouch in my chair with my hat sinking lower over my face like a lead fish. I must look like Uncle Remus’s Tar Baby the way I’m all covered up while simultaneously melting away. If I can’t hear you, you can’t make me clean up shit on my break.

Nazi Pool Mother taps her foot, “Jill, do we need to have yet another meeting?”

I don’t get paid enough money to clean up some preteen’s prize that he probably left on display for his friends. Not on my break. Not ever. I don’t even know how to use a plunger and I can honestly say I am too good to clean up someone else’s “number two.” Oddly enough, in my three years of working, this wouldn’t be the first job I’ve quit on account my having what I think is a very basic human standard.

Breathe. “Excuse me, but extracting feces from stercoraceous porcelain was not clearly identified in the ‘duties’ portion of the contractual agreement that I signed upon the launch of my tenure at this facility.” Heh, let’s see what she thinks of that. I don’t care, my legs are sweating.

The tapping evolves into a stomp – the first sign of a tantrum in two-year-olds – “Well let’s just see what your boss has to say about your ‘can’t do’ attitude.” Ooh, she’s mad.

My boss travels from pool to pool with a glass of Triple Sec and Coke and keeps a stash of ecstasy in the glove compartment of his white ’86 Ford Ranger; I don’t think he’s going to care. Needing to look in the opposite direction of Nazi Pool Mother, I gaze back at the lake. Dark gun-metal gray clouds collect above the stale water. Either God is answering my prayer or damning me for what I just said...

More to come!

I laughed when I realized the highlight of my day was I put one quarter in the tampon machine and two fell out...