My Adventures With This Guy

So there's This Guy.

At work. I don't know his name. I have only a vague idea of what he does and who he works for, but yet This Guy? Totally has it in for me.

Last week, I was walking from the parking garage to the office. I was about 10 steps behind This Guy. He didn't pause to hold the door for me, but whatever. As I came through the door, he was at the elevators and looked over at me. I smiled at him and sped up a bit. He got on the elevator. I sped up even more, only to have the doors close right in my face.

Now see, we're on the top floor of our building and these elevators are slooooow. We always hold the elevator for other top-floor people. I'll feign obliviousness for anyone I don't know, because nothing pisses me off more than those second-floor people who take the elevator when it's ONE FREAKING FLIGHT OF STAIRS. Plus? Elevators. Sloooooooow.

So this was...odd. I'm sure This Guy knows we work for the same company; we pass each other all the time in the hallways. Plus I was wearing a suit and we're the only damn company in the whole damn building with a formal dress code. The other floors are full of people in jeans, shorts, tutus, etc.

But whatever. I got another elevator. I moved on.

Flash-forward to 5:30 pm. Walking back through the parking garage to my car. As I turn up the aisle to my car, a big SUV comes flying (FLYING) around the corner. It's taken the left far too close and I have to jump over to the right to avoid being hit. Guess who's driving? I trip and sort of fall against a nearby parked car, which promptly announces to the world that it! Is! Being! Stolen!

And now this morning. I'm about 10 steps ahead of him on the way to the elevators. I hold the door for him and some woman I don't know. (You know, to be all nice and martyr-like.) (I have not really moved on.) He gets on first, and instead of stepping to the big empty side of the elevator where I wasn't? He steps to the same side I'm standing. Where I am holding the door open. It was like I wasn't even there. I had to let go of the door and jump back to avoid being stepped on. And of course, the woman who got on after him was from the third floor and you need to swipe your security card to get the elevator to stop on the third floor. The swipey thing is on the side where we were now both standing. Without looking, he steps backwards to let the woman swipe her card and whacks me in the chest with his briefcase. Ow.

And instead of apologizing? He just kinda turns around and grunts in my general direction, like his briefcase was just attacked by an invisible force-field.

We get to our floor and he gets off and goes to swipe his security card to enter the interior of the floor. (We're totally nuts for security. There are combination locks on the ladies' room.) To my surprise, he opens the door but steps back to let me go first. And as I say "thank you" and walk through...the door closes right on my foot. Ow.

So. This Guy has nearly run me over with his car, nailed me in the chest with his briefcase, and bruised my ankle with a door. Either I have suddenly developed super-invisibility powers or I will soon be killed by This Guy. I should at least figure out his name so I can etch his initials on the elevator walls with my last dying breath or something.

Stuff I Think About

I am vaguely unnerved by the seedless orange I am eating right now. It's certainly convenient, but there's something about seedless fruit that screams FREAK OF NATURE MAD FRUIT SCIENTIST MWA HA HA.

(Of course, I've met more than my fair share of sinister fruit in my time.)

Also, decaffeinated coffee? What's the deal? How do they do that? And non-dairy creamer. And especially the non-powder non-dairy creamer. The little flavored liquid Mini-Moos that look like milk, taste like milk but ARE NOT MILK. And can sit out on the counter for weeks without refrigeration. That's not right. Food should not be an oxymoron.

And that's my freak-show genetically-modified breakfast today. I brought yogurt and baby carrots for lunch. But don't even get me started on yogurt and baby carrots.

'Bye Kurdt

I was 16, but I didn't have my license yet. I was riding in the backseat of my parents' Ford Taurus. I forget where we had been or what we were talking about, but just before we got home the conversation turned in the direction of Evil Rock Music. I'm sure I wasn't listening.

But I remember hitting that *dip* at the end of our driveway at the precise moment my mom said, "And just today, that singer of that group went and killed himself."

I was listening now. "Who? Which singer?"

My parents didn't know, and were probably a bit disturbed at the way I made a beeline for the TV inside and started flipping through the channels. My mom brought it up as a cautionary tale—one of the many reasons I was not allowed to listen to "secular" music. Singers went and killed themselves all the time and sometimes took their unsuspecting teenage fans with them.

I still find it odd that I couldn't find anything about his death on TV that night. I still didn't know it was him. There were so many grunge rockers teetering on the edge of self destruction back then: Scott Weiland, Shannon Hoon. I asked my parents where they had heard the news.

Rush Limbaugh. RUSH. LIMBAUGH.

My dad taped Rush Limbaugh every single day, filling entire VHS tapes with his rantings. I popped in the latest tape and hit play. I kneeled in front of the VCR and hit fast-forward. It was near the end. It was about a 15-second spot. Kurt Cobain killed himself. Shotgun to the head. They played a clip of Heart Shaped Box and Rush mocked the unintelligible lyrics. (Just a few days later Rush would call Kurt "a worthless shred of human debris." Because he's so fucking perfect.)

I watched the clip a couple times and then went to my room, trying to act like I didn't care. I turned on my radio and heard Smells Like Teen Spirit. I put my hand over my month and stood there, frozen.

I remembered staying over at my friend Donna's house, listening to Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Mudhoney and Mother Love Bone. The sheer deviancy of her CD collection shook me to my very core. We would listen to song after song and work ourselves into the cocaine-like frenzy that only sleep-deprived 16-year-olds can achieve naturally. One night the artwork from Nirvana's In Utero scared us and we blacked it out with a Sharpie and then colored black streaks in our hair with it. I was too scared to buy any CDs of my own but instead commissioned Donna to record a bootleg collection of grunge rock cassettes of epic proportions. My favorite Nirvana song was Sliver from Incesticide but I could never remember the title.

Donna really got the music, I didn't. We both wore black the day after Kurt's death but I washed my hair and wore makeup. I spent most of the day trying to wipe it off and look more desolate. I listened to grunge but owned Mariah Carey's Christmas CD. Later, Donna and I would watch a recording of Courtney Love reading Kurt's suicide note to fans on MTV. Donna bought a new copy of In Utero and gave me the defaced one. I kept it under my bed with my contraband Rolling Stones until Donna asked for it back. Her mom had listened to some of her CDs and threw her entire collection out.

But back in my room, the night he died, I stood frozen, entranced. For the first time I think I actually heard Kurt sing. I understood, but it was too late. My mom walked in and I jolted back to reality and turned the volume down, fast. My mom was concerned. Did I really like that singer? Was I just saying I didn't to make them happy? Did I listen to his music?

Three questions. I denied each one. No! NO! No.

Outside, the cock crowed, and Kurt was still dead, never to rise again.

Coffee, Tea or Me?

Due to a recent purchase at Pottery Barn, all Amalaholics are hereby invited over to my place for coffee.

Cutest. Thing. Evah.

I can offer you CREAM.

I can offer you SUGAR (complete with its own leetle tiny sugar spoon).

I can offer you SPRINKLE (which is really Ghirardelli hot chocolate mix, which is really yummy):

And for all you tea drinkers, I can offer you HONEY (complete with some adorable little wooden honey dispenser thing).

And of course, I can offer you plenty of REAL coffee accessories.

I will also wear my finest Juicy Couture track pants and Michael Kors tube top while serving coffee, like any good hostess would.

Mmmm Godiva...

Mmmm Grand Marnier...

And oh yeah. Coffee. That.

Random Thoughts From Florida That I Remembered Just Now

1. What in the name of all that is holy and good would make a woman think that a pastel paisley-print, plastic snakeskin purse would ever be a good idea? Seriously. This was the ugliest purse I had ever seen in my life. I couldn't stop staring at it. She probably thought I liked it, which is a shame. Perhaps that's why she bought it. She heard women in the store gasping and screaming at The Horror Of The Ugliness and misunderstood. Seriously.

2. When traveling, one should always bring an extra pair of underwear because there is no better feeling than getting to your hotel and putting a fresh pair on.

3. I love grits. Why have I not been eating them before? I've been living in the quasi-South for four years and never tried them. Damn Yankee snobbery. The next time? Someone says to me, "Kiss my grits," I'm totally going to say, "Don't taunt me." Although I don't recall someone ever saying that to me, but you never know. Love. Grits. I wish I was eating some right now.

4. Anyone who does their Spring Break in Pensacola? Totally has a mom who watched some exposé on Spring Break and told them they couldn't go anywhere cool like Cancun or Panama City.

5. You should not be surprised when a $2 margarita turns out to be very, very crappy.

6. It's very awkward when you are driven around by someone who is totally in love with their little town and expect you to rave about how nice it is. Repeatedly. We were given the grand driving tour of Pensacola and by the end I was complimenting what a nice shade of blue the mailboxes were. Tool.

7. I borrowed my author's laptop on Wednesday to check my site and read all my nice comments. But since he could find it later I cleared his Internet history. Afterwards, I realized that he didn't have any bookmarked sites but instead just relied on Explorer's cache of visited URLs. I still feel bad about this. Especially when I told him that "just happens" sometimes.

8. In the South you get called "Honey" a lot. It's kind of nice, except when you're mad and want to tell them to fuck the fuck off.

PUI: Packing Under the Influence

I'm back from Florida. Finally. But more on that later.

First, let me give you the results of my packing efforts, chronicled slightly obsessively here. It should come as no surprise that I made a few critical errors. Such as the seven different shirts I brought vs. the one pair of pants. The three skirts vs. the fact that I would never need to wear a skirt, ever. The white capris that sit really, really low vs. the seven shirts that did not cover my belly. The high heels vs. no stockings or little footie things. The two white shirts vs. two black bras.

And I was in constant battle with the weather. Wool slacks and blazer when it was 80 degrees, capris and tank top when it plummeted down to 50 at night. This culminated in an unfortunate incident when our host decided to show us the Pensacola beach yesterday so I was wandering around the beach with Spring Breakers in the same wool pants as the day before and a dorky sweater set. I have never felt like such a tool in my life.

But whatever. It was a short trip and I was comforted by the fact that I would soon be home with my full and glorious closet in no time.

Right.

My plane was supposed to leave at 6:20 last night and connect in Atlanta. Due to weather in Atlanta (which, as far as I could tell? Was some freaking drizzle), the flight was delayed until 7:30. I wasn't worried. It's only an hour flight and my connection wasn't until 9:30.

Then I was gently reminded of the one-hour time difference.

I was totally screwed. There weren't any later flights from Atlanta to National Airport. The best they could do was put me on a 9:45 flight to Dulles in Virginia. It would be super close, but I could probably make it. If I missed that I'd have to wait until 6:50 am the next morning.

VP Mike and I handled the whole situation with grace and aplomb though, we went straight to the bar and got hammered. It would all be ok! Who cares!

Then they closed the bar at 7 pm, which angered me greatly. But we were boarding! Whee!

(Side note: Delta is Coca-Cola's bitch. On every flight? When they talk about the beverage selection? One of which is water? It seems to be an FAA regulation that they must refer to the water as Dasani Water at all times. It's not just water, it's Dasani Water! We're proud to serve Dasani Water! Blah blah blah. We also found it hilarious when the flight attendents gave everyone an extra bottle of Dasani Water because of the delay and VP Mike asked the attendent, "Is this DASANI WATER?" and she stared at him for a minute and then told him to "Stop being smart" like your mom would. If you had been there you totally would have laughed. Especially if you had been there and had three drinks on an empty stomach.)

ANYWAY.

We landed in Atlanta at 9:30 sharp. VP Mike's flight was delayed enough that he could make it. My flight wasn't delayed but the boards said it was still at the gate. We landed at gate A06. My flight was at gate D32, which could not have been further away and still been in the same airport. I was faced with a dilemma. Did I make a crazy dash in hopes that they were holding the flight for all the delayed connections? Or did I give up and go for the Dulles flight at gate A02 which was delayed 18 minutes?

Fueled by alcohol and DASANI WATER, I felt brave. I'd run for it. Or rather, I'd run, hop on the tram thing between concourses and hop impatiently while it carried me past concourses B, C and then D. Then I'd run again. So I did. There were escalators to deal with. I sprinted. I stopped and gasped for breath and then ran again. The boards still said the flight was at the gate. I was still in heels with no stockings, wool pants and the dorky sweater set. I got to the gate. The flight was long gone. The boards just hadn't updated.

And like a little girl I sat down on my luggage and tried not to cry. Because I didn't have time to sit and cry. I had to sprint back to the A concourse and catch my last hope of getting home in less than 15 minutes. It had taken me almost 20 minutes to get this far.

So I ran again. I missed the entrance to the tram and had to turn around and go back. I ran the entire way and was a sweaty, red and flustered mess by the time I got to the gate. I was the last person to get on. All the running and the no food and the beer upset my stomach and for the first time in my life I was relieved that planes do indeed carry air-sickness bags in the seat pockets. I didn't need it, but lord, I was glad it was there. (I opted for ginger ale instead of DASANI WATER this time which helped.)

And because I'm a brat? I made Jason drive to Virginia and pick me up at 12:30 am. I was afraid of puking in a cab or something.

That was my trip. It was lovely.

Haiku Smackdown V: Smack & Smackier

Haiku Smackdown Five!
How much more 'ku can you do?
Are you bored to tears?

Does the thought of one
more five-seven-five fill you
with dread? Have no fear!

I've changed the rules, yo.
Be sure to read them before
you 'ku. Check it, dawg.

Pop culture is the
game this week. Keep it funny,
real snarky, real cool.

And the 'ku-er with
the maddest mad skillz we'll crown
Grand Haiku Master.

(Lord. New rules? So soon?
Cousin Oliver is here.
The Shark, it is jumped.)