I don’t feel tardy:
So, I’m not the receptionist anymore.
Now I sit at a new desk and get to interact with people, and people say things like, “Hey Sarah, what’s up?” and I can shrug and say, “You know, just hustling,” and I don’t even have to use my phone voice. People also say things like “Hey Sarah, can you sort these color copies for me?”, and I believe my new official job title is “everyone’s bitch,” but, you know, whatever. Hopefully just one month of this and then I’m moving, up and away and on.
There’s a temp answering the phones now, and she’s my age, and she called me sugar earlier, and she needs to learn right now that that shit ain’t gonna fly. However, the best part is that when I opened the drawer of my new desk, there was a Barry Manilow’s Greatest Hits CD and an unopened can of Coors.
It’s 5:10, and what am I doing right now? Just hustling.
I wish I had a locker so I could have a locker mirror, and I wish the locker mirror would say “Ooh la la!” in David Lee Roth’s voice whenever I reapplied my lipstick.
Bill Andre’s Plan:
This could have been plucked from the pages of my own middle school diary. And to be honest, my flirting techniques are still pretty much at this level of sophistication.
I once had this elaborate plan to meet a boy I had a crush on in middle school that involved deliberately running into him in the hall, sending his books flying, and then as we both bent down to pick them up, coyly saying, “Oh, I’m sorry… uh… ” (here I look at his name written on his math book cover) “… John Smith.” And then I’d smile this big winning smile and he’d just hand over his ID bracelet like that.
One of the many kinks in this plan was the fact that he carried his books in a zipped backpack, located on his back. Also, he was an asshole who just shoved back when I ran into him. Thanks for making me think adolescence would be fun, TV!
Hello lucky lady:
I hope that before I die, I’ll get a chance to stand next to a guy at a casino and he’ll lean over and make a big show of having me blow on the dice before he rolls them.
The only time this weekend that I wasn’t sleeping, I was drinking, and the only time I wasn’t drinking, I was laughing, and the only time I wasn’t laughing, I was kissing, and then this morning I woke up all cheerful with the sun streaming in and I sat up in bed and stretched and little woodland creatures scampered in with my robe, so I really can’t complain.
Also, I just got back from the dentist, and he told me I should be proud of myself because at this rate, I’ll still have all my teeth when I’m 98. Then he gave me a new toothbrush, told me to tell my mom and dad hi, and totally checked out my legs. It ruled.
Give me a break:
The Oscars were a good time, but frankly, not enough Nell Carter Tribute to suit my tastes.
When I think of you now, I just remember one night. I remember the night before you had to leave the first time, the night when we made all that pasta. We were so hungry, and all day we talked about all the pasta we were going to make, and all the things we were going to put in it, and how we couldn’t wait to eat it, and then we made it and there was so much, it just sat there on our plates untouched while we ended up finishing the bottle of wine on the floor near the stereo, and all the lights were low and our faces were pink from the wine and from laughing so hard, and we sat next to the speakers and whispered and laughed and drew fake tattoos on each others’ arms, and suddenly it went from 11 to 3, but we were afraid to walk the thirty feet to the bedroom because then the magic might leave, because we thought the magic was in that room, not us, so you dragged the mattress off the bed, sheets and all, and pulled it into this room, pushing the table out of the way, the plates of pasta still sitting there patiently, and we laid on the bed on the floor and listened to The Sea and Cake and read the mermaid book together, the rain falling steadily on the roof, and I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember suddenly being very certain that the world would never end.
The worst song to have in stuck your head during client meetings, church, or lunch with your mother:
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, “Full Grown”
Sometimes I wish I was still in college just so I could skip classes.
I’ve lived in the same place my entire life, and that fact never fails to astound me whenever I remember it. If I could go back in time and tell 17 year old me that I’d still be here in eight years, I wouldn’t believe myself. Every college I applied to was far away, except for the one here that ended up working out best with scholarships and whatnot, and then some medical whatnots right before college graduation set me back another year, and now hey, what’s up, almost 26! Still living in Tulsa? Oh, me too! Asjdlaksjflkdeathstagnationthecryingatnightohmygodgetmeout.
So, I’m looking to move. Soon. Preferrably within the next six months. The only problem is, I’m not sure where I want to go. I’ve thought about Chicago, I’ve thought about San Francisco, I’ve thought about Boston, I’ve thought about Atlanta. I’ve thought about a lot of places. But I honestly have no idea. Career opportunities are a factor, of course, but seeing as how I abandoned my career to answer phones and write a book six months ago, they’re not that big a factor. And climate is a factor too: if I have to live through one more rotten humid Oklahoma July and August, I will fucking cut someone. Maybe I’ll go all Angelina Jolie and cut myself. It won’t be pretty. And while I’m not really looking for 3 feet of snow all winter long, I do own way too many cute coats and scarves to live this close to Texas.
So, give me any suggestions. Sell me on your city. I’m open-minded. Just don’t tell me to move to Arizona, because I am not going to move to Arizona. Or Kentucky. Unless I can move in with Bob Nastanovich. Okay, go.
So fucking lame:
Whatever happened to people in videos and commercials trying to out-tap Savion Glover? There’s a trend I’m glad to see end.
Things my mom said over dinner this weekend after the waitress dropped a tray of margaritas on her:
Mom (under her breath): Fuckin’ A they’re going to give us a free meal.
Me: Whoaaaa, pottymouth! I didn’t even know you knew that term!
Mom: You’d better not tell anyone I said that.
Me: Uh, fuckin’ A I will.
Laying it out:
Things I have to look forward to: that industrial-sized vat of Country Time lemonade mix in my pantry; bachelorette weekend trip; out-of-town visitors; almost time for thunderstorms again and this lady at work told me all about how they’re so good because they bring negative ions which sounded like a load of hippie crap to me until the Discovery Channel backed her up so I’m cool with that; I got this great new shower curtain; and my birthday is in exactly three months, so there’s the promise of cake and birthday sex. What? You doubt my promise of birthday sex? Don’t doubt the wonders I can work in three months, doubter.
Things I do not have to look forward to: owing the government approximately 7 kazillion dollars in taxes. Hey, whose great idea was it to fuck me up the ass twice for being unemployed? I’m going to pretend like it was Julia Roberts just because I’m too tired to add anyone else to my hate list.*
*My hate list: Hitler, Julia Roberts.
Things my dad said to me while running yesterday:
Okay, really, that’s about it. But then we talked about the Scopes Monkey Trial. While we were running.
My dad is cooler than your dad, and probably cooler than you, too.
When I’m in charge:
I think it should be allowable that if you ever hear someone say, “That was such a random thought!”, like, oh my god, I’m so ZANY, you can just slap them, because seriously, the odds that that person is stupid and annoying are just off the charts.
The post where I say a bunch of cool stuff but sadly, all you’re going to remember is that I posted a link to my picture:
I came home from work on Friday to find the best care package in the world waiting on my doorstep. People, if you don’t already have a crush on Caitlin or want to braid her hair or some shit like that, you need to get on the stick, because she is so fucking awesome I want to cry. Seriously, I almost came when I opened the box, because it included tiny vodka bottles, a lime, chocolates, a Hot Hot Heat CD, slutty red nail polish and lipstick, a devil rubber ducky and bubble bath, plus the best card ever, complete with detailed instructions on how to use everything. I have never received a cheer-up gift this excellent from anyone I know in real life. Sister, you definitely raised the bar.
So I used my gift and hit the town, spending my evening surrounded by an ever-changing roster of attractive boys. If you’ve had a shitty week, I really cannot recommend anything better than a Friday night of milkshakes and bowling and lots of drinking with cute boys, especially when you’re the only girl for most of the evening. I totally felt like the belle of the ball, and not just because I wore my magic red maryjanes and got a strike bowling and Emily had on a nametag that said “Dickrash” and a boy I had a crush on two years ago flirted with me and Steve took pictures of Jon almost hooking up with sisters and my ex-boyfriend bought my dinner. I think it was really the red lipstick that did the trick. Caitlin, you’re a saint. I’m pouring out a little vodka from a tiny bottle for you.
Weddings dreams and baby seats:
So, some things I’ve learned about myself after this weekend:
- The seamstress is not amused by the fact that I have not yet bought my bridesmaid shoes. She is even less amused by my offer to just wear the boots I have on now. Me? I am terribly amused.
- Being maid of honor does not mean showers and flowers. It means running interference and carrying a flask and making sure no one fucks with my girl. That includes you, grandma.
- Things that evidently I should not have mentioned to the bride’s parents, grandparents, and younger brother: the bachelor party, the bachelorette party, the bride ever having drank any alcohol ever in her life, the skunk under the bride and groom’s new house, politics at the dinner table, the possibility of a flame kit on the younger brother’s new car, people’s ages, and the words “Jesus,” “chicks,” and “asshole” in such close proximity.
- Apparently, I am not very good at hiding my disgust with any sentence that includes the word “updo.”
- What do I want engraved on the inside of my wedding ring? No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.
- What songs do I want played at my wedding? “The Girl from Ipanema,” “Mrs. Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter,” and “Girls” by the Beastie Boys.
- Do I give a fuck about what color the ribbon is on the favor boxes? Fuck no.