Caterwauling

Saw this over at Joelle’s:

Ralph Waldo Emerson — May 25.

1803 for him, and *mumblemumble* for me.

It was on my. …

Oh, you mean where was I at?

Second grade, in a classroom during a stupid film about animals or some crap like that. I so totally got thrown out of the classroom. It was brilliant.

No, but I stood by and witnessed it once. I felt really bad, because no matter how much of a shit the victim was, I should have been above being a participant.

Only upon request.

If I’m really comfortable with someone, I’ll touch or whack them playfully during conversation. It’s my weird way of connecting with them.

I don’t hit in anger, though. I don’t want it done to me and refuse to implement a double-standard.

That’s why the good lord invented karaoke, so assholes like me can be shown exactly why we weren’t meant to be rock stars.

I was in some middle-school productions as a member of the chorus. Frightening.

Their hands. I am big on grooming, and well-kept nails and skin make me tingle. Because there’s always that “next step” in one’s imagination about what those hands and fingers can do when taken to task. …

Conversation. Laughter. Persistence. Brilliance. Depth. The element of surprise, particularly because I am always on guard.

Normally, just a grande or a venti regular. *snooze*

But around the holidays, I am addicted to the gingerbread lattes.

Jesus H, I have to pick only one?!?!

Screwing up my finances. That perm in fourth grade. Those late-night threesomes with Ben & Jerry — all of them. Giving up those freelance opportunities because I want my “me” time when I come home. Not going to Sarah Lawrence — not finding a way to afford it, rather.

Yes.

I’m shy. *bwahahaha*

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Subtitle: Spray, delay, walk run the hell away

In my earlier post about perfume shopping, “A rose by any other name,” I had mentioned that there was a fragrance I really, REALLY wanted.

Enough time has passed, and my coveting of this perfume has not ceased. So in my journeys today, I decided I had to have it.

Now, I know how to buy — and apply — perfume. But people do not exactly know how to SELL it.

I am the world’s best customer (when I want to be, of course). I do my research and know exactly what I want when I walk in. I do not fuck around — give me what I want and then I will leave.

I started by asking for a sample vial of this fragrance. Notice I said a VIAL, not a “please nuke me with this shit.” Alas, though, I live in an area where people do not speak great English; either that or common courtesy is simply severely lacking.

In any case, I was told there were no take-home samples. Fine, then. I said I wanted to buy the small bottle (for just shy of a Benjamin Franklin, egads — I have expensive taste).

Now, you’ve gotten the clue that I have made up my mind that I wish to purchase this item, no? I have decided that I deserve to treat myself to something that is going to make me feel good and is going to last for quite some time. My mind has been made up to live with it and to love it. I was going to take it home WITHOUT SNIFFING IT because I knew what it smelled like.

Until. …

Crazy Perfume Bitch decided to take the tester bottle from the counter, and she aimed it at me. Taken aback, the only thing I could croak out was, “Coat!” because my mom just sent me a brand-new leather coat on Wednesday (my younger cat annhilated my last one by jumping ON my coat rack at home and shredding it — I was heartbroken and am so thrilled to have a replacement).

So the bitch yanked the coat back and sprayed the shit SEVEN times. SEVEN. Onto my chest. Luckily, my little glittery brown tank top is low-cut enough that it didn’t get damaged in the nuking, but it sure stinks of this fragrance.

Here’s the deal — the perfume? Gorgeous. Has vanilla, patchouli and sandalwood undertones. I mean, if you come to my apartment, I am likely burning all of the above in the form of incense and/or candles.

After I paid for my once-coveted perfume, I shot to a restroom and furiously scrubbed my skin. I mean, who the FUCK sprays their chest, No. 1, and No. 2, SEVEN TIMES??!?!

Seriously, there are many ways to apply a fragrance. When you’re doing body splashes and lotions and oil mists and such, spritzing the chest is appropriate.

But with intense fragrances, you only want to hit your pulse points (wrists, an inch below your earlobes, perhaps the backs of your knees if you are going out for the evening). Sometimes you can hit the cleavage, but from a twee bit lower.

What you DON’T do is waste the equivalent of two months’ worth of perfume till you have a veritable RIVER running down to your navel.

My throat actually hurts right now from that supreme display of bullshit. And that bitch got COMMISSION?!?! I have half a mind to return it to another store — why reward assholitry with cash?

Even after I scrubbed myself raw, I had three Mexican dudes trailing me around the damn mall. I mean, I couldn’t get rid of them. Incidentally, I’d grabbed lunch at Taco Bell just before this debacle — perhaps they could smell that past the cloud o’perfume?

I felt so good after the first time I said everything that had previously been going unsaid (due to me being a downright puss else trying to keep the peace), I think it’s high time to attempt to unwind from the stress monkey that I’ve become again.

THE FIRST HAPPY HOUR TODAY: MEETING NOAH

I just want to brag that I got to meet the beloved babalah himself, Noah. (Scroll down for photos that simply can neither contain nor fully convey the Absolute Cuteness.)

For as ridiculously, utterly adorable this kid is in photos? About 70 times more so in person. Congratulations Amalah, and thanks for letting me meet him!

If I could guarantee mine would turn out that absolutely perfect, I *might* even want to have one someday.

THE SECOND HAPPY HOUR, BOTH TODAY AS WELL AS IN A SERIES INVOLVING ADULT BEVERAGES

My workplace has started organizing happy hours; we had our second one tonight.

I was there for about an hour by myself, drinking bloody marys and socializing with the regulars (serious props to the guy who was drinking beer-and-tomato-juice — not for that drink (ugh) but for getting the manager to bring me horseradish for my drink. Yum!).

In between conversations, I was scribbling errant thoughts to myself on the back of gas station receipts that I have cluttering my wallet. (I have more receipts than I do dollar bills. Sad.)

A couple of guys and gals from the office did end up showing up — five out of 200. I suppose we are going to be the “happy hour” crowd from now on. Same place, next month — right guys?

While I had fun, of course, I found myself missing the old happy hour crowd from when I worked at Easter Seals — we didn’t make much money, but we somehow managed to drink a lot. Beer was cheaper back then, I guess.

GHOST OF HAPPY HOURS PRESENT

John’s posted some photos of our recent Old Town blogmeet.

Seriously, next time I am so totally requesting that someone cover me with a llama head — I hate myself in photos. Especially when I’m sitting down. Ugh. But everyone else looks splendid, so I’ll shut up now. Thanks for posting those, John!

GHOST OF HAPPY HOURS PAST

Talk about clinging to the past — I have few photos hanging on my walls at home that were taken after that time when I worked at Easter Seals — I had the most fun of my life back then, and nearly every photo I have is of the group of friends drinking at this bar or that bar.

I was one of the major instigators (and perhaps the grand goddess of them all) when it came to getting the masses together to get drunk.

God, those were the days — Howard, the other Dawn, Rob, Lynda, Melissa, the other Melissa, Mike, the other Mike, Crystal, Chris (ah, Chris. …), the other Chris (lord, we had a lot of duplicate names!) and so many others used to join me in barhopping like the world was ending. Not like we were sober enough to notice.

We used to have parties at our homes, too — Howard had the best setup, what with a full BAR in his basement, but I did OK. I always had fun cooking and cleaning for DAYS beforehand. Like, I used to take days off of work so the apartment and food would be perfect for my friends.

FUTURE HAPPY HOURS — SEND RECIPES!!!

Speaking of party foods and such, I’ve volunteered to host a “Carnival of the Recipes” for New Year’s. (See Ted’s for an example.) I’m trying to work up a theme involving party foods and holiday decadence — send me your recipes and I will feature you and hopefully send some traffic your way for the holidays!

We have a variety of kitchens at work. The weird thing is, I rarely if ever use the kitchen that’s located smack-dab in my very department.

At my old job, I would never hang a right out of my office, because my boss and her secretary were situated about 100 feet to the right, and beyond were two people I really just wanted to avoid at all costs.

I had a corner office, so I’d shoot out of my door to go around the floor the other way, else I’d beeline straight for the stairwell across from me, go upstairs and then drop down on the other side (usually to go visit my friend Shan or to go to the bathroom or whatever errand I needed to run).

In effect, I really went out of my way to not be seen and/or otherwise engaged in a conversation. Because one person would always be trying to sell some products for her kids, two would try to get me to gossip and I didn’t trust either one (besides, they made up gossip all the time — I technically never said a word to them but somehow was one of their favorite conversation topics) and, overall, I just viewed it as avoiding landmines.

It wasn’t anything overly personal against any of them — I was just pretty good at keeping myself out of trouble..

So here I am now, working with people I genuinely like and possibly even adore, and they are all situated to my right. As is the kitchen.

The weird thing? The highlights of my day are when I get to talking with any of them — this is a funny group, and no exchange goes by without a zinger that lights up my day.

Yet I still go left.

Old habits die hard, I guess.

God, I’m strange.

I was just rushing to grab a closing door today when I realized, “Why am I in such a hurry?” I mean, what is it about the fact that a door is open and is *just about* to fall shut that terrifies us so?

OK, granted, the fear of getting one’s fingers caught is one thing, but the handsome stranger who was going through it saw me and waited with a smile for me to scamper toward said door. I had all the time in the world, yet it was like I was in a hurry to go nowhere.

Or, like my mom always says when you ask her where she’s going, “Nowhere, fast.”

It reminded me of a few nights ago — I was behind some moron in Old Town who was trying to make a left turn from a right-hand lane. I could have passed on the right, of course, but I would have hit an oddly placed medial strip. I didn’t bother, of course, because I knew I wasn’t exactly rushing. But there was something about that idiot consuming MY air and taking up MY space that put this insane rush of adrenaline in me and really annoyed me.

Anyway, why is it that some of us let our blood pressure skyrocket when — if you think about it — we’re not heading anywhere good or even anywhere we really even have any grand desire to go? Or, worse, somewhere we’ve already been?

My guess is that we’re trying to keep ourselves from running in the opposite direction.

I was just in the shower, thinking how marvelously quickly the week has gone, when I realized it’s only Wednesday morning.

*thunk*

It’s kind of like when you wake up screaming but realize you’ve been awake the whole time.

Anyway, here’s some tunage for today. It’s my way of wishing y’all a happy hump day.

On another note, I was thinking how when we have wonderful weekends (as I’ve been experiencing lately), that makes the weeks seem kind of crappy because all the errands that normally get run are sitting around, staring you in the face (laundry, post office, cleaning, etc.) until another weekend rolls around.

But then again, great weekends give you the strength to get through a week in hopes that the next weekend will be even better than the last.