Mr. Morning Person Security Guard

When I walk into the building every morning, I am greeted by security. They always say good morning and most of them know me so they add some other comment as well. There is one guy, however, who I dread seeing when I get here because he is one of those Morning People. I have never once seen him anything less than absolutely beaming at the prospect of starting a new day, and no matter how grumpy I am, he just keeps smiling that bright shit-eating grin.

As much as I like my job, it is still work, and there is nothing pleasant to me about being forced out of my bed before 8 am every day to go somewhere you have to stay until 5 pm every day. Not to mention I am not a morning person and am a generally grumpy, sarcastic individual. So I send him psychic resentment mixed with disdain as I fake-smile back every morning he's there. Luckily they rotate their duties, so next week it should be someone else. Maybe even the tall bald guy who saw me drunk after the wine tasting we had here and, I am sure, is a kindred spirit in hating the Man in his many forms.

I'm Working on It . . .

I'm working on something. Something that I'm going to post here but it's taking me some deep thought. It was started by the conversation that the MF and I had last night--a sort of checking in on the status of us thing, making sure we are roughly on the same page. Actually, though, it was started long before then, but that gave me the motivation to try to put it down in writing.

It's all about us--what I want and can handle from him, what I can't handle from him . . . but it is really me putting words to a way of thinking I've developed in the last few years--a way of thinking about my life, which includes men in general (and him in specific, now). And I'm doing it for him because there are some things I need him to know about me, and about what I do and don't expect. I think he will be relieved when he sees it, and there is a chance he won't like some of it. But I think mostly it will relieve him, and--I hope--free him and me up to be more honest about our feelings for each other, for other people, and about how we want to fit into each other's lives.

The Office Is Full of Floozies

(I'd apologize for the inappropriate nature of this post but then most of you have read this blog long enough to expect inappropriate . . .)

This is how low I’ve sunk: I went to the ladies’ room a few minutes ago to remove my panties because they are old and uncomfortable, so now I am going commando (with a skirt on) all because I have been too lazy to do my laundry for two weeks. And on my way back to my cube, I walked past the secret service guy who is in the office today preparing the Republican senator for President Bush’s visit later this week. And here I am walking around like a floozy with the breeze blowing across my ass cheeks.

AND.

And I went and told my office mate because I wanted to make sure it wasn’t obvious that I was walking around without panties on (not being a person who generally makes a habit of those types of things [at least in public]), and guess what I found out? She (who shall remain nameless) walked to work from the train station today as her panties crept into her ass crack so when she got to the office, she stormed into the bathroom, tore them off, and threw them into the trash. So there are two panty-less, skirted chicks in my office today. If only the secret service guy knew . . .

And THEN.

I got this email from my friend Raquel when I got back to my chair from the excursion:

HERE'S A RIDDLE TO MAKE YOU SMILE. Pantyhose quiz Q: How many animals can you fit into a pair of pantyhose?

Now, think about it...

Answer: 10 little piggies . . .

2 calves . . .

1 ass . . .

an unknown number of hares . . .

and of course one (1) . . . ahem . . .

Stream of Consciousness

why they are opposite . . . going to be an aunt again . . . the things that make him right . . . forgiving/forgetting . . . i'm sure i'm forgetting something . . . why so sensitive?

I like stories where the timing is completely different from all the other stories, where you’re never sure whether you’re near the end or just the start of another chapter of the story, not even when you pay attention to the timing of where the beginning and the end are. They break the rules, stretch the bounds of story-telling, not to the point of unbelievability—not to the point where they seem to break the bounds of reality—but just to the point where you are never sure what might happen next. You know there will be an end, eventually, but you don’t know exactly where it will come or what will happen when it does—but you know for absolute certainty that the path you take getting there will be highly enjoyable. I love stories like that, to be honest.