formerly a fearless temp

So my current job consists of sitting at a table in a conference room by myself arranging files about state assemblymembers into subfolders. It's about as fun, exciting, and stimulating as it sounds, and the main problems I've run into with it are:

1 -- I have nothing to talk about because all I do is FILE.

2 -- But because I sit there all day by myself, not saying a word to anyone, when I leave there all I want to do is talk, and so I spew verbally at anyone within range via phone or in person about the riveting details of Assemblyperson X's involvement in the attempted coup on Sheldon Silver, or other random stuff.

3 -- Also, the files are dusty and so I sneeze constantly.

4 -- We interrupt this grumpy list with a bit of good news: They let me bring in my CD discman, so I got to listen to the best CD ever, aka JC Chasez's new CD, for most of the day, which was very nice, except for the part where passing coworkers would say "God bless you" to one of my sneezes and I would respond "THANK YOU!" in a grossly overloud voice, as one does when one has headphones on. And that was kind of embarrassing.

5 -- I have other complaints (don't I always?) but I have to go to bed and I wanted to say something about Angel before I did that.

( last night's angel )

Which is to say: My last day at the soul-sucking job at Acronym Company was Friday and ever since my soul (if not my hips) has felt twenty pounds lighter. I walked out of there Friday night over an hour late, but I had finished up all of the things I felt needed finishing, and had effecively cleaned up or hidden all the messes I'd created, so when I stepped into the wind-tunnel that was the company parking lot at that hour, I practically skipped and yelled for joy. And then I called Annie on my cell phone and bellowed into her ear for a few minutes, in a conversation that consisted mostly of the following:

Me: Annie!

Annie: Hello! What?

Me: It's Jess! I'm done with the evil job!

Annie: WHAT?? I CAN'T HEAR YOU!!

Me: I'M DONE WITH ACRONYM COMPANY!

Annie: WHAT?? WHERE IN GOD'S NAME ARE YOU CALLING FROM, A TURBINE?

Anyway, the important thing is, I'M DONE, and my poor successor will have to deal with the six customer service positions advertised in the newspaper this weekend. OMG, applications will be coming in through the WINDOWS and I will not have to sort/log/test/do ANYTHING with regard to them. This is so awesome.

On my last day they had a little luncheon in my honor, where they thanked me for my help, and asked me about my plans, and generally made me feel uncomfortable because (a) I hate being the center of attention, and (b) I hate being asked about my plans (mostly because I have none). It was nice but I generally like to slink out of office situations unnoticed. But S. my cubicle neighbor gave me a going-away gift of M&Ms and Candy Canes (she knows me SO WELL!), and she was a cool person I may keep in touch with, so, you know, happy ending there.

Also, I'M DONE!!! NO MORE PACKING UP FIRED EMPLOYEES' BELONGINGS! WHOOT WHOOT!

Now I just have to deal with the lack of cashflow. Whatev. I have no life, ergo, few expenses.

**This LJ entry is interrupted for the following news break**

It has just been brought to my attention that Justin Timberlake and Lionel Richie will be co-hosting 'Motown 45' - some kind of music clips show. Dude. LIONEL RICHIE AND JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE! This is CLEARLY a sign that one or both of them are trying to get my attention because, seriously? LIONEL RICHIE AND JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE! Of all of the music celebrities of past and present, Justin is going to co-host with the ONE MUSIC PERSONALITY OTHER THAN JC CHASEZ I HAVE AS AN LJ ICON!! Clearly this is a subtle signal to me, one that says, "Jessica, my darling, our time is almost here. Be prepared to move at a moment's notice. Cameron can be sent packing within the hour once I give my signal. The dog barks at midnight. And every time I sign Senorita, I *am* singing to you, my little Black Irish Temptress*."

*Hey, we Black Irish *are* theoretically of Spanish descent. Justin is merely reaching out to me in the language of my (possible) distant ancestors!

Or, you know, maybe their agents just got together and decided it would be a good way to cross generational boundaries or something.

**This concludes the news (and disturbing window into Jess's psyche) bulletin**

My brother went back to school today, and my father had to go down to the City for an arbitration, so he decided to just drop Jimmy back at college on the way. Which is, you know, a sensible plan, if you're not aware of the players involved. We have:

JIMMY JOE: Patriarch, fearless leader, wearer of boleros and velcro Wal-Mart sneakers.

JIMMY CY: Son, brewer, boy who still forgets to brush his teeth on occasion.

PEG: Long-suffering wife and mother.

JESS: Daughter, sister, innocent bystander.

Anyway! Because my mother thinks my brother and father (and, well, me, on occasion) have the observational and planning skills of a well-trained monkey, she spent the bulk of the day shouting, about how my father's stuff should be in the backseat and my brother's stuff in the trunk. Oh, and also telling us that my brother's stuff should be in the trunk and my father's stuff in the backseat. Oh, and my father's stuff? In the backseat, so that my brother's could be in the trunk.

Naturally, the two boys put one of my father's bags in the trunk, so that my brother, while unpacking the trunk, left it next to the car in the parking lot of his college, thinking that my father would see it before leaving for the city. Of course, he didn't. Neither did anyone else, save campus security two hours later, who arrived knocking on my brother's dorm room door with the bag in hand, after tracing it back to my brother due to the small nametag attached to it (by, of course, my mother).

My brother, naturally, called my mother and since my father recently narrowly cheated death after a brutal car accident, he began the conversation with, "Mom, I have some really bad news."

My mother, after recovering from the near-coronary, promptly flipped out at my brother for both the news he brought and the way he relayed it. Then followed about three hours of my mother desperately trying to get a hold of my father at his hotel, and planning some way for my father to get the bag before the next day because, this wasn't just any ole bag. This was the bag with my father's shoes, and ties, and underwear, and, oh yeah, MY LAPTOP which he had borrowed for the week.

I got on the phone with my brother when I arrived home to find my mother mid-freakout re: the whole situation, and thanked him for taking such care of my one worldly possession. Left it in a parking lot! For hours! My little laptop!

Anyway. We finally got a hold of my father at his hotel after about an hour and a half of trying, and getting to know the lady manning the phones at his hotel very well, only to have the following conversation:

Dad: (in his Most Annoyed Voice) HELLO!

Me: Dad, listen, Jimmy has –

Dad: I HAVE TO GO! I'LL CALL YOU BACK!

Me: Wait, it's about –

Dad: (click)

I hung up and stared at my mother, both of us realizing that at this point, (a) my father has realized the bag is lost, and (b) is angry about it, but (c) has not realized that he left it at my brother's. So I frantically called back, only to get no answer. I pictured my father tearing through the trunk and backseat of his car, frantic, only to realize I had seriously undersold my father's craziness, for when my mother finally got on the phone with him ten minutes later and told him my brother had the bag, there was this awful five-second pause before my father said, "Oh my God, I have to go, I accused the bellhop guy of losing it and I've got the entire hotel staff LOOKING FOR THIS BAG! I was about to THREATEN TO SUE! Call you back."

And then he disappeared again.

Anyway, my father smoothed over the ruffled feathers with the hotel staff, and after a few frantic phone calls it was arranged that my brother will go down to deliver the bag after his class tomorrow (my father will have to shop for underwear/razor/other assorted goodies in the hotel gift shop for tomorrow), and then the fearless Jim Squared Duo will go out to dinner. "To celebrate our stupidity," my father said. In our family, everything gets celebrated with a dinner out, from birthdays to surviving the workweek to forgetting important pieces of luggage. A nice tradition, I think.

You know what I'm doing right now? I'm not thinking about all the stuff I messed up/didn't finish on Friday afternoon that will be facing me on Monday morning. This is me, not thinking about it! Not at all!

Okay, maybe a little bit.

Imagine I wrote a big paragraph here about how I'm overwhelmed at work and how it's annoying because it's just a TEMP JOB and the problem is that I invest too much in it. The key is not caring. That is the temp mantra. Must remember it.

Anyway! Tonight I watched ( the Hallmark Hall of Fame movie )

In other TV news:

( OC )

( Joan of Arcadia )

Actually, speaking of effort, I'm supposed to make one to get up tomorrow morning early enough to exercise because I feel like a big lump lately. And so I must be off.

Status report: They've decided to hire someone else for the job I've been doing for the past two months, I got a B on the first paper for my class, and I'm wearing an unsightly posture-correcting deal over my red pajamas. I don't understand how potential employers/suitors are not beating down my door!

Seriously, though? This posture-correcting thing? Looks almost exactly like one of those harnesses people put on their kids in malls. Or, you know, dogs in general. It's an awesome look. I got the super-cool harness at the As Seen On TV store in the mall, in case anyone else out there would like to correct their posture (something I really should work on) and look kind of mentally challenged while doing so.

I kind of actively don't want to be at work right now. Well, obviously, since it's midnight. But during the day -- most of the time, I'd gotten to the point of benign annoyance, but now I'm bitter about having to go and cannot get myself to do anything while I'm there. This may be because they totally dissed me and hired someone else to do my job after semi-offering it to me. Whatev! I don't want it anyway.

Today I had to go in to discuss said dissage with one of my bosses (further proof of Office Space's scarily accurate brilliance: At Acronym Company, I report to four bosses), who went into a long, "Really, you'd be bored here" discussion about why they weren't going to hire me. It was totally an It's Not You, It's Me breakup discussion modified for the workplace. Good times! Good times.

It really wasn't so bad.

Anyway, other stuff: The goal for this week is to NOT FORGET MY HAIR APPOINTMENT ON SATURDAY. I write it in caps so that I DON'T FORGET. I'm beyond overdue for a cut and am developing disturbingly frizzy triangle head because of growing-out layers.

Also, I forgot to do laundry! But I have a clean bra and underwear and everything else can be improvised, really.

Am I the only one kind of sucked into the One Minute Soaps on Soapnet? I was totally into the last one, but I've missed GH a lot the last couple of weeks and so I'm kind of confused about the background of the Current Cafe Couple. Oh God, how sad is it that I (a) think about this and (b) share the fact that I think about it with others? I did catch GH today, and am I the only one who's pulled out of the whole GH story by Nikolas's tattoos? I mean, I can watch things with amnesia and lookalikes and deaths that are never permanent, but for some reason my willing suspension of disbelief starts to become grudging when it involves body art for Nikolas Cassadine. It just doesn't seem right, you know!

And ooh! Ooh ooh! Incredible OC fic! Incredible OC fic everyone should read!

Summer

It's so fantastic.

I should have known today would be a wash when I woke up this morning and couldn't find my short slip. Because of my utter laziness when it comes to laundry, I'd reached the stage where picking an outfit was no longer a casual, "Ah, I feel like this today" but instead a manner of searching high and low through drawers and my closet to assemble a clean, somewhat-matching outfit. A clean, somewhat-matching outfit with a knee-length skirt which I usually wear with my short slip and I couldn't find it ANYWHERE. Still can't find it. Naturally, I blame the cats. Why? Because I can.

The Case of the Missing Slip wouldn't be so big a deal if I didn't always, without fail, oversleep by at least fifteen minutes. This means that my mornings are spent with my brain on a constant loop of "Oh my God! What time is it? Why didn't I get up earlier? Why? WHY? Oh my God! What time is it?" and the slightest foul-up in the morning routine messes everything up.

Like today, I only got to eat half of my oatmeal because I was running late! Isn't that a tragedy?

Arrived at work to find more stupid things I'd messed up, and spent the morning alternately loathing myself for said screw-ups and obsessing over my dental appointment later that morning (I hate hate HATE the dentist). During a particularly intense Loathe Patch, I heard my name called and turned to see three of my bosses and a strange woman descending upon me from down the hallway in a manner not unlike the power shots at the end of the Buffy/Angel credits.

First thought: Oh my God! I'm so fired. Strange Woman is totally here to escort me from the building!

Second thought: Oh my God, did she say she was from my temp agency? She can't be --

Third thought: Please let the earth open up and swallow me whole.

Yes, yes indeedy. They sent someone over to Acronym Company, to my department, and had them make a spectacle of the Temp of the Month accolades. Wanted. to. DIE. I hate hate HATE being the center of attention (almost as much as I hate the dentist) and to have everyone in the department stop what they were doing to see me pull out my new Temp Agency Lunch Satchel and Temp of the Month Certificate (ready for framing) -- well, it's in spitting distance of my worst nightmare.

Luckily, after that Embarrassment Explosion, I had the fun of my dental appointment to look forward to on my lunch hour. I'd planned just to get this random, occasional twinge in one of my teeth looked at, and once Dr. Pain had looked at it, he quickly decided part of my filling in one tooth had fallen out. And then he fixed it right there! I had totally planned to have another visit to deal with the drilling and all that, but no! Right there! Today!

Naturally, the first shot of novocaine didn't completely work, so after the Traditional Swat of Hey! Ow! he shot me up a few times more (to the proper dosage for a bull, I believe) and it worked, I got the new filling. The only problem was that because of the massive influx of novocaine, the entire left side of my mouth/cheek and lower lip were completely numb. COMPLETELY. To the point that when I got back to work, I sounded seriously drunk because every sentence and word took so. much. effort. to say properly. Not to mention the fact that every time I took a sip from my can of Diet Coke, I had to put a finger under my lower lip to make sure it didn't slip off and cause me to spill soda all over myself. Talk about presenting a positive image of the company! They should put me on the website, complete with too-long slip showing beneath the hem of my skirt! (Note: I did roll up the top of said slip so that to my knowledge, the slip did not show all day. But still. There's the possibility of unknown slipping of slip. Always dangerous.)

I'm now suffering from Post Traumatic Drilling Disorder, where I keep flashing back to the sensation of the second drill they use -- you know, the big one that sounds like they're just spinning a boulder they picked up off the ground around in your tooth or something? Hate that! Hate that so much! Gives me the heebie jeebies hours later!

Anyway, my jaw isn't as ouchy now as it was before, and look! it's my designated bedtime. With that, I'm off.

Guess who's Temp of the Month?

Yeah! That's right! ME!

I got the call at work this morning and when I called my mother to tell her, neither of us could stop laughing. See, ever since I started temping, I joked that Temp of the Month was my career goal. "I'm just in it for the teal-accented 80s Gym Bag," I'd say, referring to just one of the fabulous Temp of the Month perks -- perks I knew about because my friend and fellow directionless temping twenty-something, Annie, had held this honor before. I e-mailed her earlier with the following message:

Subj: forgot to ask
Date: 9/23/2003 1:27:20 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Jess
To: Annie


A,

As someone who's experienced the fame and glory of being Temp of the Month, would you have any words of wisdom to impart upon me? How did you handle the fame, the sudden riches of the mall gift certificate, the rapid elevation of social status? Any advice would be greatly appreciated.

Temporarily yours,

J

She replied:

Subj: RE: forgot to ask
Date: 9/23/2003 1:54:24 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: Annie
To: Jess

J,

Although it was not of your decision to be thrust into the public eye as such, it is your civic duty to maintain a constant and positive image. A role model for American Youth. While the increase in pressure to uphold the standards of Temp of the Month (low quality of work, bad attitude and general hatred for anyone requiring ones attention) is from the public or an internal drive remains to be seen. As for the monetary windfall, I would suggest taking careful measure of what you need, and then spending it all in one place on something you want. The elevated social status begins to sour and completely disappears at the end of your designated month at which point you are filed away into the bowels of Temp of the Month Archives. So enjoy it while it lasts and then join our ranks as the Temp formally know as of the Month.

A

It's good to note that both of these were composed and sent while the missive authors were acting temps, demonstrating the drive, determination, and frequent e-mail checks that are necessary to successful temping.

The best part of the whole thing is that they want to type up and send out a press release. A PRESS RELEASE. I mean, okay, it's going to get buried on the back pages of our local low-circulation papers, but still! Weird! And a little embarrassing! I don't like to advertise my directionlessness (that much)! They even asked me to think about a few of the positive aspects of temping and call them back in the afternoon with the blurb.

When I called and asked for the two people I was instructed to ask for, I had the following conversation:

Chris: Hello Jessica! How are you?

Fearless Temp: Hi Chris! I'm good, thanks, how are you?

C: I'm good. So what's up?

FT: Uh...K called me before and asked me to call you?

C: She did?

FT: Yeah, she said I was Temp of the Mont?

C: She did? You're sure?

FT: I mean, I think she did.

C: Hm.

FT: (Wondering: Was this all an elaborate fantasy borne of caffeine deprivation?) Maybe I was wrong?

C: Hold on, let me talk to K.

[Incredibly long hold, during which FT is forced to listen to the inane hold infoloop and eventually becomes convinced she is crazy. And also, not only is she crazy, but she is pathetically crazy, inventing an exciting identity that is not very exciting at all -- if one were to get delusional, after all, why would one go for a lame, powerless title like that one instead of something like being George Clooney's fiancee?]

C: You're right! Congratulations.

FT: Ha! Told you! I mean, thanks!

I can't believe they selected me even though the two times they called my office and asked for my supervisor, I inadvertently disconnected them instead of putting them into the supervisor's voicemail. They are forgiving souls. Forgiving souls who make loads of money off of my hard work, that is. Which brings me to my Commuting Revelation O' The Day: Temping isn't so different from being a prostitute, with the temp agency as your pimp. Don't you think? I mean, think of the conversations:

Temporary Agency/Pimp (Timp): I've got a potential opportunity for you.

Ho/Temp (Homp): Yeah? What kind of money are we talking?

T: $12 an hour. $15 if you're into something kinky, like database creation.

H: Hmm. I could do Access for an extra $3 an hour. But no Powerpoint.

T: Understood. I'll make the call.

It's way past my bedtime.

Joke of jokes: I'm training the girl who's taking over this job when I leave at the end of July. I know! It's only June 10! I can only deduce that they brought her on this early due to my blazing incompetence and desire to get someone more capable into the role. I cannot blame them.

Sample conversation between New Hire and Fearless Temp (aka yours truly):

New Hire: Hey Jess. I was just wondering what your system was for organizing supplies?

Fearless Temp: Um...I don't have one?

New Hire: Oh! That's...interesting.

FT: I kind of just put them in this bulky pile of random labels in a half-assed attempt at organization. (reaches down and pulls out huge pile of random labels)

NH: Interesting choice.

FT: Yes. Half-assed is my middle name. It refers to my mindset, of course, and not any physical attribute. Which should be obvious, since I clearly possess a full ass, if not more. Anything else?

NH: What about footers on letters?

FT: Hmm..footers...

NH: Do Mr. Nice Boss and Mr. OCD Boss like them? What's the system for that?

FT: To be honest, NH, I don't really have what you would call a "sytem" for that. Or, well. Anything.

NH: Oh.

FT: Okay! I'm a tard! I don't know anything! I'm disorganized and I forget things and I only just now realized that I've actually got five things to do instead of two and so I shouldn't be writing this LJ entry! Stop staring down at me in judgment from your high horse of snappy professional appearance and well-coiffed hair! Stop staring at my hastily and unevenly applied undereye concealer and chipped toenails! STOP JUDGING ME!

NH: Are you on something?

FT: I'm bitter that the teen scene hasn't been on GH in days. It gets to me.

NH: Ah. Okay. I'm going to go sit at this desk five feet away from you and pretend you don't exist.

FT: Good plan.

Back to work...

I totally fought with the Post Office today. It was wild!

What happened was, after a long afternoon of boring yet hectic and stressful work activities, I ended up racing over to the post office a few minutes before the doors were supposed to lock at 5:30. I got there before 5:30. I KNOW I did. I know because my watch said so! As did the watches of people around me, who were also standing by the door all dismayed and confused, muttering, "But I have two minutes!"

But it was locked! Because they had CLOSED EARLY! How dare they?? I mean, I'm all for people ducking out early (I would do so myself more often if I could get away with it), but! You're the post office! You have a sacred duty! Or, you know, federally mandated hours! How dare you not honor that?

I stood there all pathetic and sad, clutching my three huge envelopes that needed only a certified stamp on their receipts, waiting for someone to leave the post office (because I could see people inside, filling out envelopes and the like, which was frustrating because they were taking SO LONG and my thing would only take, literally, three seconds!) so I could sneak in when they opened the door. And then they tried to leave and they couldn't, because it was locked from the inside too, and they had to be let out by the postman.

I practically tackled him when he opened the door. "Canyoupleasecertifythese?" I said, shoving the envelopes at him, my expression of frantic desperation 100% genuine.

"Nope," he said.

"No?" I exclaimed. And I did exclaim it because! Dude! It's a STAMP. He doesn't have to weigh, post, calculate, exchange money, nothing! Just stamp!

"Nope," he said again, and tried to close the door on me.

And here's where I normally would give up. But I was possessed by some otherwordly force and found myself blurting out, "But it's not 5:30! I need these certified!"

And then the guy shoved his watch in my face, which said it was almost 5:35 (SO inaccurate, dude. My watch is traditionally set fast and it was just 5:30 by mine), and so I said, "Well, okay, but I've been here for almost five minutes. I got here before 5:30 and I need these certified!"

Stony glare.

I took stock of my remaining weapons and decided that it was time to cast aside that heavy burden that was holding me down: self-respect. I begged. I was pathetic. And I probably didn't really NEED them certified today, but DAMMIT! He was WRONG! He CLOSED EARLY! And I was not going to let him GET AWAY WITH IT!

And so finally he let me in and gave me dirty looks and made mean comments. He was all, "You really should get here earlier," and I was all, "Well, you really shouldn't close early." Okay. So I didn't say that. Because then he certainly wouldn't have certified my mail, and likely would have tossed it in the garbage instead of the post box. Instead I was all, "It's not my fault!" and he was all, "Well, it's SOMEBODY'S fault" and I felt like geez, I'm not asking you to cut your arm off or something, just to stamp three tiny sheets of paper! Chill, buddy! Help a girl out!

Grr!

Anyway. I emerged triumphant with my little receipts in hand and they better GD appreciate it tomorrow.

And now, we sleep.

My winter wardrobe is almost entirely black and grey. Like, the clothes most often in my rotation were, as follows: black pants, grey pants, long black skirt, grey skirt that hit around the knee, grey and black vertically striped skirt, and black corduroy skirt that hit around the knee, with a variety of shirts and sweaters on top. I came to work every day looking like I was on my way to/from a wake.

Now I'm segueing into springier clothes and have discovered that I'm buying tons of brown. And own tons of brown. Could I be more boring? The problem is (and I know this is riveting, really), I'm not sure all my browns match. Today I mixed and matched this brown sleeveless shirt with a tan button down over it which I usually wear with this long brown skirt I got with it, but today I'm wearing it with these newly-purchased brown pants. And I'm not sure the browns match perfectly. My mother says it's no big deal but I'm obsessing. Anytime anyone looks at me I'm tempted to screech, "I know! I don't match! STOP STARING AT ME!!!!"

Now, I just don't get why my mother thinks I'm neurotic and obsess over stupid things. Silly mothers.

Anyhoo. Obligatory Embarrassing Lunch Episode of the Week: Today I went to my regular lunch place, where I have become a regular and thusly have a "usual" which is really kind of thrilling. I feel like a recurring character in some show about a deli. Oh God, how lame am I. Must get out more and stop equating everything to TV shows. Anyhoo! I go there every day and today it was raining and, naturally, I had left my umbrella in the most convenient place possible (in the backseat of my car on the fourth level of the parking garage located in the opposite direction from my office of the lunch place), and so I'd resigned myself to being Drowned Rat Temp for the rest of the day when I was saved! By the office accountant, who lent me her umbrella for the lunch hour. Some gentle ribbing ensued from other office staff, all "don't lose it!" I hadn't realized that the office is already so completely aware of my flakiness.

After assuring everyone I would not lose the umbrella, I dashed off to lunch with this massive umbrella that could shield the Jets' offensive line from the elements, happy and dry, if feeling a smidge of muscle strain from keeping the wind from whipping the umbrella off to the heavens. And then I got to lunch, ordered, and when I had to pay, placed the umbrella down on the counter next to the cash register and thought to myself, "Now Jess. Don't forget you put that there! You can't lose someone else's umbrella!"

Lalala, fast forward through delicious lunch (seriously, this place has the BEST SALAD EVER -- lettuce, dried cranberries, almonds, shredded carrots, tomato, pear slices, and almonds with orange-cranberry vinagrette) spent reading Dostoevsky (ok, ok, a young adult novel). I got up to leave at the end and -- horror of horrors -- THE UMBRELLA WAS NOT WITH ME! Proceeded to have traumatic wavy-lined flashback to placing the umbrella next to the cash register, and whipped my head around to look at the counter and saw how totally not there it was. !!! Did someone steal it? I was dying.

Before I made it to the register, I spotted it out of the corner of my eye leaned up against the wall and raced over to grab it, all "Oh my goodness! Is this anyone's? I think this is mine!" The kindly deli staff were all, "It's YOURS?!" with an amount of surprise in their voice that kind of threw me off because, hello, yes, I'm a customer, is it really that unlikely that it would be mine?

And THEN the deli owner says, "I sent my son running out of here after people when we noticed it lying here! We thought someone had left it behind and when no one here said it was theirs, he ran around the block trying to find these two men who had just left! It was yours?"

And then I died. Seriously. Died of embarrassment. I'm posting from beyond the grave here (little did you know there was an LJ kiosk by the pearly gates).

How did I not hear this? Or notice this was going on? I mean, okay, I wasn't sitting right next to the door. I was sitting a FULL THREE FEET AWAY. There was one (1) small table for two between me and the door and I didn't SEE the guy race out there with MY BORROWED UMBRELLA?! I should be placed in a special school, with courses like "Common Sense 101: From Clothes Coordination to Simple Social Graces" and "Paying Attention for Dummies".

It's a family trait, though, so it's not completely my fault. My aunt went on vacation with my family once and was blown away by how much we talk without hearing each other. We're all very good at tuning the world out, to the point that it takes three to five minutes to get any conversation started (I don't think I've ever had a conversation with my father that did not involve calling his name seven times).

Anyway. I felt so bad! He ran out in the rain! And I totally missed it! It was so embarrassing. Not embarrassing enough to keep me from going back, though. I enjoy the yummy salad far too much.

In other news: Tonight I go out with the Nana, who wants to go see Bringing Down the House because she's a big fan of Queen Latifah. My Nana's the best.


( and an interesting lotr/virtue quiz behind the cut tag )

i:

No one calls me at work. Correction: No one I know or would want to speak to calls me at work. A lot of obnoxious people call me at work, trying to reach attorneys who will never take their calls, but I get almost no personal calls. This is because I'm a loser.

Anyway! Today the phone rings, the other secretary grabs it, and says, "It's your mother." I turned to said secretary and said, "I bet you she's calling to tell me not to walk to lunch because it's snowy out and I'll fall and kill myself in these shoes." And, sure enough, it was. I felt so cool.

ii:

Because of said snowy weather and the mom phone call (see, the phone call ruined everything because even if I did disregard what she said, if I ever *did* fall and hurt myself after she told me not to go? I'd never hear the end of it. And I was not willing to risk it.), I ended up eating lunch at this coffee place in my building. Lesson of the Day: Do not get lunch from coffee place that only lists its lunch options on an off-to-the-side piece of chalkboard the size of a legal pad. The lack of interest in the menu options will be reflected in the quality of food.

Anyway! Got soup and half a sandwich and ate my little lunch, la di dah. I finished eating a while before my lunch break was over, and was faced with the Dishes Dilemma: Was this an informal, bring the plates up yourself establishment? Or was it a bit tonier, one where you merely left them to be looked after by employees? Quandary!

Because the cashier lady had knocked a dollar off the cost of my lunch because she thought it unfair that the pea soup cost a dollar more than all other soups, I decided to save her some labor and bring the dishes up myself. Got up, went to the flappy-mouthed garbage can, began scraping out my soup bowl, which was complicated work what with maneuvering to keep the flap door open while scraping, etc. Complicated work I am not capable of carrying out because! Of course! The bowl slipped right out of my hands into bowels the garbage can!

I stared after it in horror and looked around to see if anyone had seen my tardalicious move. No apparent witnesses and I decided to just take off without telling people, even though my mind immediately called up elaborate, dramatic confrontations at the end of the day when the Mean, Domineering Manager counted the bowls and started ripping into the Kindhearted Cashier who had given me a discount. So The Guilt was already warming up when it was kicked into high gear by the guy at the counter looking at me warmly and saying, "Oh, thank you *so much* for bringing these up yourself."

I looked at him, the door mere feet to my left. I could taste freedom! But I gave in because The Guilt always wins.

"I lost your bowl," I said. "I was trying to clean it and the napkins got stuck and so I was trying to scrape them into the garbage can and. It fell. The bowl is in the garbage can. That one," I said, pointing.

The guy looked like he would have rather had me stay quiet so he wouldn't be obligated to do what he ended up doing, which was walking over to the garbage can immediately, me hot on his heels, and sticking his hand into the bowels of the can.

"I'm so sorry," I said, multiple times. "Do you want me to reach in there? I can do it! As long as you have a sink I could use after? I'm so sorry! It's a little to the left, I think. Towards the front."

He ended up having to take off the protective shiny black casing of the can and reach in up to the shoulder to get the bowl. And then he did, and I apologized again and ran out of there even though I still had like fifteen minutes on my lunch break. Even after going down to the basement and buying a Diet Pepsi, I still had ten minutes left but nothing to do so I went back to work. I suppose the shortened lunch break was my penance for making Coffee Place Guy rifle through the garbage.

iii.

Tonight I got home and noticed that my car was parked in an odd spot -- we have a two-car garage and my parents' cars stay in the garage, mine at the end of the driveway so they can pull out of the garage and around my car if they have to leave before me. Tonight it looked like my car was almost in the street, and I just chalked it up to That Ole Ditzy Jess Behavior, and didn't think twice about it.

And then! Then my father calls from work and announces that, oh yeah, it wasn't my fault because he FORGOT that my mother and I carpooled into work this morning and, therefore, when leaving, hadn't looked behind him and PLOWED RIGHT INTO MY CAR! Put a huge dent in the front bumper! I swear, my car grows more ghetto by the second.

Anyway. Supposedly, it should run fine. We'll find out tomorrow when I either make it to work or end up being one of those annoying roadside disabled vehicles I mutter obscenities about every morning for slowing down my commute. Ah, I am such a sunshiny person early in the morning.

And that is all for now.