Because I am Nothing if Not Ambitious

As luck would have it my sister arrived on Sunday night and what would you know I had to start work on Tuesday!

Story of my life.

But we managed to cram in some good times when I wasn’t at work. Relaxing on a family friend’s boat on the lake, sipping wine and eating tapas at Press, chowing down on sushi at Nikko, thrift store hunting, American Idol madness, and an eventful Thursday night in uptown involving a champagne filled hookah, lots of booze and late night Jack in the Box.

It was a good (albeit stressful) week.

And I think it goes without saying that my new job (which requires me to work from 3-1130) has left me deprived of things I once took for granted in my slothful days of unemployment.

Among them are…

1. 40s, spicy peanuts and Jeopardy with the Boo

2. A never ending onslaught of mind-numbing reality television

3. Happy hour

4. Cuddle time with the Boo

5. Cooking dinner

6. General debauchery

7. And of course this blog and all my lovely blog friends

I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Yes, the hours aren’t terrific. The drive is a bit taxing. But hey, beggars can’t be choosers yo!

I figure I’ll just grind these first few months out till they have no choice but to promote me to a new tax bracket at which point I’ll promptly request normal people hours, an office with a view, and a revolving door of minions to fawn over me, tell me how glorious I am, and basically do all the real work.

Sounds doable.

If I Didn't Love American Idol So Much My Credit Would Be Atrocious

Is it just me or does anyone else delay the inevitably of paying monthly bills, even when the funds are present, until precipitously close to destitution, eviction, or at the very least, your cable being cut off?

(Actually don’t answer that. I know it’s just me.)

And I have no idea why I do it. Ya see, here’s the thing. I may not have a “job” right now and I may not be pulling in a weekly “paycheck” (I feel the quotes add a certain level of maturity to the situation don’t ya think?) but I always have a way to pay the necessities.

Some way, somehow, every month I turn just enough tricks do just enough freelance work to pull it off. And when the money gets to my account I revel in the illusion of optimism and wealth.

(Delusional? Yes, but I blame that on my parents. Growing up they always told me to use my imagination. They never dreamed it would pave the way for my large capacity for denial.)

Granted I’m more than willing to splurge on happy hour drinks, a night of sushi and Blockbuster or anything else completely irrelevant, unnecessary, and completely ludicrous.

But when it comes to bills? HELL NO. They are NOT getting my money. I greedily horde my meager wages in incarceration until that final day of “grace period” ends. Not until the latest possible day acceptable. Not until that foreboding text from T-Mobile warning me that I am seriously overdue on my balance and will be losing my service in approximately 24 hours.

Only then do I give in. But would it really kill me to just pay it “on time”? Just because I delay paying it doesn’t mean I actually get to KEEP the money. It’s the same as the concept I used to harbor…that if I didn’t SEE the actual bill in my mailbox then I wouldn’t have to PAY it.

(What? Delusional remember? See above.)

I guess there’s just something a little tragic about watching your checking account balance slowly deplete the same day it finally gets past single digits. But apparently this is part of “growing up”? (What is this you speak of? I want no part in it.)

Now excuse me. I’m off to pay my phone bill which is now, coincidentally, 11 days late. I’m such the champion for responsibility, huh?

The Ebb and Flow of My Constant State of Annoyance (Or Why I Should Probably Seek Therapy)

As you all may know by now, I am rarely ever not annoyed.

The dogs and their curious slobbery ways annoy me. The sound of my dishwasher blaring loudly over the TV volume that’s already set to 45 out of 60 annoys me. The fitted mattress that NEVER seems to stay down on my side…EVER but somehow miraculously clings to the Boo’s side all snuggly like night after night. The fact that I live around a bunch of morons who think it’s acceptable to puke chunky Checker’s fries and Goose and Cranberry all over the breezeway and not clean it up for THREE DAYS!!!! (Ok, that’s just disgusting. And yes, for the record, I’ve remained hibernated in doors while it’s been out there. And no, I’m not making this up. I really wish I was. Can you see now why we’re so ready to move already?)

But that brings me to my next and most current annoyance, boxes. Remember how I waxed poetic on loving boxes and tape and the tangibility of finally being able to see our move approaching? How it made me happy and joyous and gleeful for the blessed day?

Well, now…not so much.

I feel like I live in a hobo fort and it is not fun.

You can’t walk anywhere without stubbing your toe on the end of a box or a garbage bag of trash, hangers or clothes to be donated. You can’t see the TV from the couch unless you’re perched at just the right angle craning your neck like a Pepping Tom.

I am literally boxed in.

Pun intended. (Or not. I really hate puns.)

The Boo’s cleverly pushed up his departure time for school ever so slightly to escape this cardboard prison we’ve constructed, meanwhile I’m left knee deep in shitty moving tape that never stays on the little metal thing like you want it to so you end up peeling away 1/3 of the role just to restart it again.

That and Always ultra protection maxi pad boxes. Because nothing says class like boxes that scream “We’re too cheap to buy moving boxes so we stole some feminine hygiene ones from our local Publix. “

“Oh and by the way, we’re your new neighbors!!”

That’s Just How I Roll

To say that I’m a bit of an exaggerator would be the understatement of the century.

It’s no shock that I have a tendency to sensationalize situations, a penchant for fabrication, a flair for the dramatic if you will. (I’m something straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Mrs. Bennett anyone?) Never in the interest of lying, per se, but more so in the constant pursuit of a more refined satirical art. I take the extremes in every situation; I spin normal mundane monotony into Laguna Beach quality excitement.

It’s what I do.

It’s who I am and I think that’s become more than obvious to anyone who knows me or even simply reads this. I never just state the facts. That’s too boring. I exaggerate and elaborate and embellish for the good of the story and ten times out of ten it’s all done out of good, sarcastic fun.

Because I am nothing if not a sarcastic bitch.

However, as with any written form of communication, blogs can easily be misconstrued. If you can’t see my dry, sardonic face and hear the sarcasm dripping from my tongue then you might take things literally and that could be bad for everyone involved.

Bottom line: my last post was a dramatization of a normal day in my life. Just as most of the other things I write here. Yes, it’s true, everything that I write about does happen but not necessarily in the extremist way (and with as many adjectives) as I typically describe them. So with that being said, I don’t want anyone thinking I’m literally in need of being shipped to a California rehab center. I have not lost control. This is not my cry for help.

This is just me. Being hopelessly dramatic (as always) in the midst of mind-numbing monotony (all around me) and in the hopes of being somewhat entertaining (but mostly failing.)

So just to be clear if I was to post true recounts of my day to day life in all their tedious normalcy then it would go a little something like this:

Yesterday was the day that I slipped and fell at Publix. It hurt.

But you know I’m much more likely to spin it like this:

Yesterday was horrendous. I drove to the store in the blistering heat in my car whose AC has given up the ghost and has subsequently invited an excruciating tete a tete with my skin every time I slap my sweaty bare limbs against its leather seats. I search endlessly among the hordes of mongrels teaming with diseases at our local Publix and finally find my few measly purchases. Ready to hightail it out of there ASAP and not necessarily wanting to wait behind a middle aged imbred with a sack full of nickels, I promptly walked across the front of the store scanning the aisles ahead of me to obtain the fastest exit route. It was then that it happened. With my gaze upwards and my attention diverted, I swiftly felt myself losing balance in a pool of unidentifiable liquid. Horror and panic gripping my heart, it was then that I felt myself come crashing down in the very front of the store among the multitude of appalled onlookers. My left knee bent askew in an ungodly position, my right ass cheek bruised and soaking wet and my tub of low-fat moose tracks frozen yogurt flung several feet in front of me, I picked myself up off the ground. Willing myself not to cry, wondering if I’ve had a concussion and inanely repeating over and over “there should really be a sign there” to the one lonely store worker who showed any concern. I hobbled my way out of the store with my soggy smushed ice cream and my wilted self-esteem, called the Boo and promptly broke into a sob fest. In my car. In the parking lot. With my hot, sticky seats. Oh, woe is me!!

Because THAT’S how I roll.

How to Successfully Wake up and Feel like a Douche

1. Set off on a low key Sunday lunch at the beach of crab legs and Blue Moon with the man friend.

2. Decide that one pitcher of beer is simply not enough. Must order a second.

3. Polish it off like your mouth is the Mojave and the sweet orange nectar of the gods is the only cure.

4. Drive to International Mall to pick up some more Proactiv. On the way past the restaurants and bars leading to the entrance, suddenly decide you need to pee or your bladder will burst. Give man friend license to go on without you.

5. Become distracted on the way out of the 36+ draft offerings at the bar you conveniently picked to relieve yourself. Cozy up to the bar (alone) and order just one drink. You are waiting after all.

6. Call the Boo and tell him to hurry up and meet you back for just one more drink.

7. Decide you have all the money in the world (which you don’t) and continue to order more $10 mojitos and $8 blueberry beer.

8. Drink yourself into a coma, text randomly and drunkenly just to alert more people that you once again are exhibiting signs you should be on the next Intervention.

9. Mumble incoherently all the way home. Black out. Wake back up and begin seizure-like dancing hysterically to Christina Aguilera.

10. Immediately upon returning home and drifting in and out of states of consciousness suddenly decide that you are STARVING for the exquisite cuisine that is Checkers.

11. Leave house unannounced without the phone that you’ve now lost to meander your way to the nearest breeding ground of grease and bacteria (aforementioned Checkers).

12. Somehow make it home. Eat food. Begin crying for unknown reasons. Stumble (again) out of the house and around the surrounding hood bemoaning your plight and still crying.

13. Make it back home. Leave multiple asinine, violent, and expletive filled status updates on your Facebook in an attempt to look hard. Somehow realize this is not the best idea. Delete all 8 of them.

14. Cry some more. Strip off jeans and resign to sleeping on the couch.

15. Wake up. Void all intestines through a deathly retching into the porcelain god.

16. Crawl into bed. Black out.

17. Wake up to a raging headache, terrifying panic attack, flaming eyes from several irrational crying drags. Feel like poop in a can.

18. Vow to never drink again….at least not for a few days.

How was your weekend?