It’s official. The Universe is trying to tell me something. And it’s one of two things:
- Don’t you ever tempt fate again by saying something like, “It can’t possibly get any worse than this place.”
OR
- GET OUT, GET OUT NOW!!!!!!!!
I can’t decide which one to think about first.
I’ve mentioned Miss Honey before, but she became a non-issue for 6 weeks when she was out with her self-inflicted (smoking alcoholic that she is) heart attack. But, she’s been back to work for 2 weeks now, culminating in yesterday’s 10-hour free-for-all.
It was a state government PARTY. At her house (aka, cube). Since my iPod wouldn’t cover it up, I had to hear. They were all giddy about the big department lunch scheduled for 11:30 (when the state bell rings, I have gathered). So, starting about 8:30am, they printed the restaurant menu from the website and had discussions about what they’d order, what they liked and didn’t like AND WHY. “Do you like spinach?” “Well, I like raw spinach like in salads, but not cooked spinach.” “Yea, I don’t like cooked carrots, but I like raw carrots.” “Really? Now, see, I like cooked carrots.”
This spawned other hours-long discussions, you know, as office discussions among productive members of society tend to do, about food shopping, recipes, operating the TiVo, AT&T, golf, unclaimedmoney.com, death certificates, the pub (her haunt) and throwing up but not really being sick discussions.
The one that stopped everyone in their tracks, though, was about crepes on the restaurant’s menu. It confused ‘em. They all asked each other, “What’s a crepe?” “I don’t know.” “Do you know?” “No, I don’t know.” “Well, let me look it up,” Miss Honey said. Which she did and then became the crepe spokesperson. “It’s like a tortilla,” she explained. “Ohhhh,,” they all said in unison. But they all decided they didn’t want to order crepes. Or tortillas.
I had such hope that they’d wear themselves out and be quiet(er) after lunch, but no dice. Discussions after lunch were around the soup, the bill, the tea, the walk there, the weather, mowing the grass, and on and on and on. Until quitting time when they all said things like, “One more day down” and “Will Friday ever get here?” and “What a long day” and “I’m so tired.” Parties can wear out a yayhoo.
By 5pm, I can’t even stand myself. I leave the work trailer for the home trailer. I’ll save this for another day, because I can only handle so much of my own whining. But just this: I complained to the condo’s Board representative about a man whose dog attacked my dog, Sabrina, for the third time last week. The Rep directed me to contact the President (blowing me off by knowing that he’d just blow me off, too). But I looked up the President on the FaceBook. He’s 75 if he’s a day, way too into karaoke and his every other wall post is about either getting drunk at the Blue Martini or having fun on Percocet, which he’s taking for his back, ha ha (his haha, not mine).
I got home last night to a tweet from one of my favorite people in the world, Cynthia Morris, that said, “Your intuition has no agenda other than your ultimate well-being. Always listen to it!”
This morning, I parked my car in the garage lot and prayed. And tempted fate again by realizing I could declare to God and his baby Jesus that, “I will never, ever, ever, in this lifetime sit through another 8-hour day like yesterday. If that means homelessness or a $25,000 debt (I have one more year of college to pay for, which means I need a steady income until August 2011 that provides an extra $25,000 cash), bring it on, you stupid Universe, because I’m just old enough to not give a shit.” (That too old to care thing is new, but I think I’m going to really dig it.)
So, take that, trailer park. My stay here is getting more temporary every day. I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Never.