EEEEEEE

The next time you hear from me, I'm going to be in NY! Unless, you know, I decide to write a post in the next hour, but I wouldn't hold my breath. Or would I... Anyhoo, I'm super-duper excited, I got a job I was going for, I stole an air mattress from Grandparents, I stole from Mother many shirts that look better on me (obviously) and a digital camera, and I'm eating upstairs because my parents are in California and therefore can't yell at me. For this, at least. There's been some scares about the apartment, and I swear I will cut off the head of either Mother or Sister the next time one of them suggests-AFTER I've sent in the lease and checks-that I move in with Sister instead, but it's actually happening. (Tex, that means tonight is the time to start living vicariously through me.)

I have many super-awesome plans for my first night in The City, i.e., Cripple is going to come over and bake brownies with me. (Um, yeah, maybe start tomorrow instead, Tex.) If she doesn't, I am going to be very very Sad (:() (heh, that kinda looks like a duck) (it's really a frowny face in parantheses-cute!) (but seriously, you better freaking make it).

Those are my excuses for not writing, since thousands of people must be going through withdrawal, and I don't want to have that on my conscience.

Oh, and I bought this fuzzy neck massager thing which I am probably going to marry after flying with it, because it is going to both save my life (neck) and piss off the people sitting next to me. It's a win-win situation!

Moving Woes

It's time to send in the check to get the NY apartment, and all of a sudden the rental agent told us that instead of needing one month's security, they need 3 months' security. Clearly this is a huge dick move, and nobody can understand why they're doing this, besides the fact that they've been changing everything and stringing us along for weeks and didn't feel like changing.

Does anyone know if it's usually hard to get the security deposit back when you leave an apartment? Seriously, this is a lot of money that I'm going to be putting up, especially since I'm covering part of someone else's security, and if they've been this dickish before we've even moved in, I want to make sure that I can get my money back later. I don't need the money right now, I really freaking want to get out of this house, and I would feel like a huge bitch if I backed out at this point, but what if I end up losing thousands of dollars because of this? Shit.

The Mastee Becomes the Master

Far be it for to brag, but I am surpassing a Renaissance master. Michelangelo's David? Even my crippled friend believes that what I'm boldly attempting to create makes "David" look more like Debbie doing Dallas, if you know what I'm saying. The going is slow and tedious, but it shall be worth it in the end, with the culmination of years of existing and days of painstaking application of toxic materials.

I may not have any artistic skill, and I may not have any ambition, but I'm sure as hell going to make the best and biggest Wite-Out sculpture the world has ever seen!

VICTORY IS MINE!

As some of you might have gleaned from my sub-tel hints (ex: "EEEEE I'M PROBABLY MOVING TO NY!"), I have been trying to move to NY for a while. I joined a few sites that set you up with roommates, and then I decided to spend every waking hour looking at craigslist, and blah blah blah stupid fucking brokers stringing us along for weeks blah blah I GOT APPROVED! (As you might have gleaned from my sub-tel title.) I'm moving! Yessssssssssssssssssssss! I'm gonna go drive somewhere I can dance without getting fired.

Not Again

You might think I learned from my mistake, but if you do, you've been reading a completely different blog. The lesson not learned? Don't go to the Cafeteria of Doom. I was kind of hungry, though, and nobody can deny that powerful an urge.

I went down there and paid with my credit card, since I figured the harm was already done from last time. But no. Again he held onto it, stared intently, then said, "Thanks, Dropout."

Fuck. I can't believe I was free and clear and then reminded him that I had a name. And how dahhhre he forget my name in the first place. I am a Very Important Person. I'm the one who does the forgetting of people's names around here!

Anyways, the low-talking didn't stop there. He started asking me about myself, what did I do there, where was I from, what was my favorite sexual position, etc.

Dude. Look. All I want is some freaking mediocre turkey with limp lettuce on a smushy roll. Yes, I'm friendly and polite, but I'm like that with everyone I don't know well. This may be shocking, but I'm really not interested in going on a date where every other sentence out of my mouth would be "I'm sorry, what did you say?" And can you imagine how our dirty talk would go? I can, and it's not arousing in the least. So stop staring at my tits (yes, I've noticed) and give me back my freaking credit card.

Speaking of things that aren't arousing... I stopped at a Dunkin Donuts to get a yummy-yummy-in-my-tummy donut. As I was walking to my car, a gentle breeze started up, my skirt gently fluttered around my knees, and I luxuriated in the welcome break from what I will call the suffocating heat. (It's a tough burden to be in mildly hot weather for the 2 minutes between air-conditioned donut store and air-conditioned car.)

I did not appreciate when the breeze started to get fresh with me, though. It started to blow my skirt up, and with my cat-like reflexes I caught it just in time to keep my hoo-ha covered. I gave a sheepish smile to the woman walking towards me, and in return she ignored me with a disdainful expression contorting her features. I live in a rather snooty area, so that probably would've happened no matter what.

All of this was fine. It actually happens quite frequently when I wear that particular skirt, which is why I usually walk around with one side bunched up in one hand to keep it down. Today my hands were too busy with my yummy donut and, as I got closer to my parking sport, my car keys , so the next time the breeze lifted up my skirt and spanked my ass, I couldn't do anything to prevent it.

I heard a'hootin' and a'hollerin', and I turned to the busy road next to me to see some dirty men hanging out of a truck and no doubt thanking god they live in a place where they can get upskirts all year-round. And that truly is the beauty of Florida. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

Magnets and Shirts

I have turned into a magnet. A SEX magnet. At least when I'm around technological thingies and the people who love them.

At work yesterday, the relatively old computer guy (who of course I have a crush on, seeing as how I've been falling in heart with everyone since coming back home) gave me his cell # and told me to stop by his house that evening to set up a VPN on my laptop. That was new-go to his house? I've never before seen him do this sort of reverse house call, but otherwise it's not unusual-we do live one minute away from each other.

But then. When I told my dad about it, he looked shocked: "He's supposed to be coming to our house tomorrow to do something with our computers, though. Why couldn't he do it then?"

Indeed. I was kind of curious to see what his house looked like, especially the bedroom (GET IT???) (just kidding!), but I never got to find out if he was planning on seducing me. This bitch coworker overheard our conversation and gave me a packet on how to set it up myself. How inconsiderate.

After work I went to Verizon to get my cell fixed-it wouldn't freaking turn on, even though I had just charged it. I had seriously pressed almost every button I could see, and nothing. So I was waiting in line when my name got called, which happens sometimes when you're waiting in line. As I walked up to the customer service desk, I heard a guy nearby approvingly repeat my name, "Dropouuuut." (If anyone else is a Seinfeld addict, it reminded me of Newman's lust-filled "jambalaaaya" in the Soup Nazi episode.) Um, yeah, whatever, I just wanted my phone fixed.

I told the help guy my problem and he took down my number, then flipped open the phone and held down the power button. The red button. The one button I had specifically avoided pressing, because that was what I pressed to turn it OFF, and clearly the same button wouldn't turn something on AND off. (Shut up.)

I was smart enough to keep that realization to myself and laughed: "Well, now I feel stupid." He tested it a few times, took the battery off, retried it, the whole shibbiddybangbang. Clearly it continued to work fine, which he jokingly proclaimed "magic." I smiled and thanked him, but walked away feeling additionally stupid for even bothering to smile, because when I looked up from my magically repaired phone, he wasn't paying too much attention to my face (i.e., gazing at my tatas). I would be more used to that if I hadn't spent years wearing baggy shirts and avoiding the gaze of every male on the planet. But that's completely irrelevant and I totally didn't need to tell you, but I suppose that fits in with this blog's theme of "I am a Tard."

A couple hours later, I got a call from a local number that I didn't recognize. "This is ***, from Verizon. I wanted to check that your phone is still working."
"Yeah, it's working, thanks." [Embarrassed laughter]
"You shouldn't feel stupid, that happens sometimes. I shouldn't be... Well, when you came in, you seemed like you had a good personality, do you want to hang out sometime?"
[HAH. "Personality"?] "I'm actually moving to NY in a week."*
"Oh well, I guess it's really bad timing."

What the hell? This kind of stuff doesn't happen to me. Was I wearing my "I put out for tech nerds" shirt without realizing it? Because I could've sworn it was in the wash.

*EEEEEEEEE I REALLY PROBABLY AM!

Why Don't I Ever Know These Things?

Did anyone know that Daylight Savings Time was this weekend? Because that sure went right over my head. I was even up all night Saturday blocking out where my as-yet-unbought furniture would go in my as-yet-unleased apartment, and I didn't notice the clocks changing. Or was it Friday night/Saturday morning that it happened? That would be cool, because then I would have an excuse for why I overslept a little and arrived late at my 11:00 dance class Saturday. (I apparently have a "god-given gift" to spin in circles across a room while making myself so dizzy I need to lean against a wall. That could come in handy when I need to get away from a mugger in a jazzy West Side Story-type way.)

Meanwhile, as I sit here at my desk, with NiceBoss gone for lunch, CuteBoss gone for the day, car keys in my bag, and nobody to notice that I'm not here, I'm contemplating taking my dad's car out for lunch. Yes, I know, a box of whole wheat crackers should be a good enough lunch for me, but I demand more! Man cannot live on crackers and water alone! Plus, if I get food from the building, I'll have to see FoodGuy, who, by the way, I think is both ashamed of and cheating on me. Relationships are so complicated.

The answer to the food question would be quite simple, if not for the fact that my dad's car is quite expensive, and I am quite afraid of wrapping his shiny Jag around a not-so-shiny tree. (The two blocks to Subway double as a high-speed drag course. Which is completely normal. And true.)

WHAT SHALL OUR HEROINE DECIDE? STICK AROUND FOR THE EXCITING CONCLUSION OF THE DROPOUT SAGAS: TO EAT (downstairs), OR NOT TO EAT (downstairs, but down the street)!

For I am Costanza: Lord of the Idiots (and Hyperbole)

On Wednesday I forgot to both bring lunch to work and go out with NiceBoss. I had two other options for sustenance: eat an enormous bag of Raisinets, or go downstairs and brave FoodGuy's awkward low-talking. I decided I needed a break after eating half of the Raisinets, so I took the Elevator of Doom down to the First Floor of Doom and walked through the Corridor of Doom to the Cafeteria of Doom. The Cafeteria of Doom was filled with emptiness and silence. The Emptiness and Silence of DOOM.

I skipped up to the counter and said hi, we exchanged our usual low-talk and trying-not-to-seem-confused-laughter, and everything was peachy keen, until we got to the register and I paid with a credit card. Apparently this was the first time I hadn't used cash, because he seemed quite interested in it.

Before handing it back to its rightful owner (me), he held it for a few seconds and stared intently. That's not too unusual, since I have my picture on it. I'm told that some people find that strangely alluring. Almost erotic, even. Maye it has something to do with it being a nude shot. But then, as I waited for my receipt, he held onto that too. Now, receipts don't have naked pictures, so that's just creepy. As he handed it back, he smiled and low-talked, "Have a nice day, Dropout."

Argh! Now he knows my name! And he strangely knew my online blog nickname (of DOOM)! How odd.

The Last King of YOUR SEAT

I have a cool aunt who used to do PR for a movie studio, and so besides chauffeuring spoiled stars around town, she could get free tickets to new movies. She conveniently forgot to tell the movie theaters that she doesn't have that job anymore, so today we went to a free afternoon showing of The Last King of Scotland.

She was all rushy-rushy because I was a little late and she thought the theater was going to be full of all the old people that infest my city. When we walked in, though, there were maybe 20 people in the audience, tops, so we got an entire row to ourselves. After one preview, two old women walked into OUR row. I decided to allow it, since we had the good middle seats and a decent buffer zone, but then the slightly younger lady stood in front of the chair holding Cool Aunt's bag and asked her to move it.

Now, when you are in a mostly empty theater, you are not supposed to invade someone else's personal space so you can sit RIGHT NEXT TO THEM. I guess Cool Aunt didn't want to get into one of those fabled Old Lady Purse Fights (which occurs quite frequently around here, owing to the overwhelming population of grannies seeking warmer climes), so I put her bag next to me. Cool Aunt couldn't deal with the strangeness of the Close Sitter, though, so she moved to the other side of me. Close Sitter promptly moved her bag and jacket to the vacated seat. Which... fine. Whatever. You got your wish, lady, however inexplicable it may be, and you can do what you wish with that seat.

The bottle holder in my arm rest? That's another story. Halfway through the (awesome) movie, Close Sitter had apparently had enough of her candy and so reached over her discarded belongings to cram the box into my - MY! - bottle holder. Granted, it wasn't being utilized, but who does that?

What did I do about it? I shot her a look. Oh yes, you heard that right. I so went there.

"Female Things"

I know what you're thinking. Before you comment on how I've been slacking off, let me tell you about a few things I've been busy with: trying to find an apartment in NY without actually being anywhere near NY (thanks, Cripple); getting locked out of my house without my cell phone for hours and believing that my parents had gone to Miami, thereby leaving me to spend the night on a lawn chair in the backyard; formally dissolving my relationship with my mother while still living in her house (awkward!); and working. And by working I of course mean playing Stealth Solitaire TM. God I love that game. Now, on to the stories!

I walked into the break room last week and let out a squeal of joy when I saw a glorious spread of bagels and cream cheese (people are just giving away food! it's crazy!). The chocolate lady and the oldest boss of the company, someone I'm kind of intimidated by, were there, and OldestBoss asked me if I felt better from the day before, when I went home early.

Dropout: Yeah, I am, thanks.
OldestBoss: Good, I didn't want to stand next to you if you weren't.
Chocolate Lady: Don't worry, she's not contagious.
OldestBoss: What was it, your stomach?
Dropout: Yeah, sort of.
OldestBoss, laughing: You probably got it from your [sick] sister over the phone.
Dropout: Yeah, haha...
Chocolate Lady, winking at me: She got it from her mother.
OldestBoss: Oh, your mother's sick too?
Dropout: Yeah, sort of.
OldestBoss: Really?
Chocolate Lady: Well, it's sort of a female thing.
OldestBoss, walking out of the room: Ok, enough said. My sister has five daughters, I get it.

My dad's the same way. He's a doctor with two daughters, but one day I explained my pained expressions by telling him I had just gotten my period, and he backed away from me, waved his hands, and said, "Ok, Ok, you don't need to tell me that, just say 'female problems.'" Of course, he also calls the ass "tushie," so I don't know what med school did to his mind/vocabulary.

It's funny how all these doctors aren't fazed in the least when talking about tremendously disgusting things like infected gall bladders, stool, feet, etc., but bring up your period and they turn into 8-year-old boys, all "Eeew, gross, cooties." Admittedly, I'm no more mature than they are (during a class presentation last semester on alternatives to tampons, I was the only person continuously giggling), but I don't have a medical degree. So there.