So I’ve got two jobs, blah blah blah. On Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays I work 8:30 a.m. to 10 p.m. I work the first job until 2 p.m. and then the other until 10. Great, glad we’re all together on this. That is a 13-and-a-half hour day, and usually I have no lunch break. Actually, I never do. So imagine my surprise today when I got out of the first job at 1:15. Somehow that 45-minute break seemed like a real siesta, so I decided to run over to Saks and look for a dress to wear to a wedding next Friday. No big deal.

It’s all kind of a blur now, but I think if you had seen me in there, it would have looked something like Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas when he hits up the liquor store. I was just grabbing things off racks in a mad dash to the dressing room. Dresses were flying off shelves. If it was under $200 it was in my hands. I know, there is approximately ONE dress at Saks that is under $200 and it’s a size 14 fuscia ruched tube dress. Whatever, minor detail. My two little eyes were just peering over a mountain of dresses that I had indiscriminately grabbed on the way to the fitting room.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s been about 100 degrees in New York this week, so by the time I actually got to the “trying the dresses on” portion of the show, I was sweating and pretty smelly. Oh, and by this point I had 10 minutes to get back to work. So I’m just throwing dresses over my head, nixing them, and throwing them on the floor. But finally, the last dress, when I was at my stickiest and ready to pass out. Oh, it was perfect. Black, strapless, simple, perfect fit. I did a twirl in the mirror to show my reflection how happy I was.

But of course, the inevitable…shamblesville. I hear this “zzzz” noise behind me, turn around, and realize that the dress’ zipper has busted and come undone from the bottom up. So the top of the zipper is still closed, but the rest of the back of the dress is a gaping hole. No worries, I thought. I’ll just take it off and fix it. But the zipper is stuck, and I can’t get it over my head. Let’s just say the next 5-to-10 minutes did nothing for my sweating situation. Finally, totally at a loss, I had to walk out into the store and ask a sales lady to rip it off me. There were several of them in a cluster and they just stared me down, Pretty Woman-style, saying, “You got yourself stuck.” Actually, bitches, your dress broke and trapped me in this sweaty designer chinese finger cuffs.

So the dress was totally ruined because she ripped the zipper right off when she tore it from my body in front of many well coiffed shoppers, and I had to walk away and leave it lying there, empty-handed, riddled with body odor, and about half an hour late for work. I’m going back tomorrow, though.

So in preparation for the big season o’weddings this summer, I plotted out a precise schedule for how I was going to get tan, get in shape and get sexy for the big events. Gottsto look good.

So here’s how my weekend broke down. Went all the way to Rochester to go out on the boat and work on that bronze sheen. Got all the way out to the middle of the lake before I realized one of my fingers had turned black and fallen off from frost bite. I don’t think I took my sweatshirt off once the whole day, except the time I had to jump in the water because I had to pee and I couldn’t hold it any longer. That only stopped my lungs from functioning for about 30 seconds, and then my body went into shock from the frigid waters and I couldn’t feel anything anymore. But Sunday was beautiful – when I was in the car driving back to New York! I’m bringing pastey back, that’s all there is to it.

Also, to keep up the spirit of my getting in shape and looking trim plan. I had turkey sausage, potato salad, a turkey hot dog and a veggie burger yesterday. And I nearly hyperventilated when I had to walk up the 4 steps to get to the car in the driveway.

Dude, I’m going to look so good.

“What’s more chickenshit than fucking with a man’s automobile? I mean, don’t fuck with another man’s vehicle. You don’t do it. It’s just against the rules.” Apparently that poor sap’s never been to New York.

So, if you really hate your car, I mean, really really wish it to die a slow and painful death at the hands of a series of unfortunate events, then this is the place for you!!

A long time ago when Justin and I were on our way to do laundry he drove a tad too close to the parked cars lining the street and sort of, kind of smashed somebody’s sideview mirror off. It was all drama and slo-mo, like, ”look out for that….Noooooo!…” loud crunching sound ensues. And when it happened I just thought, if someone ever did that to me and drove off I would be so sad. So we left the guy a note and ended up writing him a check for the damage. He also sent me a link to his band’s website after all was said and done. Gotta love the W-burg.

Well, I feel violated and abused by karma on this one. That scrappy little bitch decided to leave me high and dry. First there was the New Year’s Eve break-in. They smashed the back window, stole a piano keyboard out of the trunk and a bag of creamsavers out the glove compartment. And apparently sat in the car jamming on the piano eating candy, because creamsaver wrappers were strewn all about the place. Mingling nicely with the broken glass!

Then there was the big back windshield blow out of April ‘07. Getting that fixed at ‘Two Guys’ Autoplex – No I’m not kidding, that was the name of the shop — was on par with getting  your fingernails ripped off at a live Carrot Top show.

And then yesterday somebody hit my SIDE VIEW MIRROR while I was at work. The only note they left was probably the little giggle they whispered into the wind as they drove off, thinking, so long sucka. The mirror isn’t detached, but now it won’t stay still. It swings back and forth like a flag in the wind. Convenient, if I need to see what the car ahead of me is doing. Unfortunately, I use the eyes in the front of my head for that. The eyes in the back of my head will now constantly be on the lookout for anyone, anywhere, messing with someone’s car.

Because, “I’d have given anything to catch that asshole doing it. It’d been worth him doing it just so I could’ve caught him doing it.” Amen, Vincent.

Not just vulnerable.

I was talking to my sister today about how tired we were, and I got the feeling that while we were certainly talking about the physical, we might have been talking about quite a bit more as well. She described it as, “When the clerk at the store yells at me for being too quiet and not being able to hear me, rather than get angry, I want to cry.” I hear that, mama. A good cry can cure what ails ya, but you got to watch out for a bad cry. One where you kind of think, “I don’t want to be doing this right now,” but it’s just that sort of end-of-your-rope, broken and beaten down feeling where a little tear wells up and you get a slight lump in your throat, but it never materializes into a release of what’s pent up, and that little tear kind of dries up before it gets the chance to roll down your face.

I know I will get shit for not being more positive, but I’m tired. I need a change. I think mostly it’s career-related. But damn, maybe I need some drugs or something. Because deep down I know a lot of this shit is just depression, plain and simple. I’m a hard worker, so shouldn’t I be able to work hard at something that doesn’t make me feel kind of like I’ve given up every day. I’m ashamed of myself for what I do, because I haven’t accomplished what I want yet, and I’ll be damned if I have the foggiest of which way I’m supposed to go to get there.

I know my life is good, and that’s the part that pisses me off. Why can’t I figure out how to be happy about that? I want to be excited about each day, not just this feeling of, Oh, vacation is in a month, I’ll just look forward to that. Basically that means I’m just wasting all those days in between. If there was just a day when I wasn’t sitting at my computer in my office at 9:30 at night, wishing I could join the living. Maybe I’m just disappointed in myself because I know what I need to do, I just can’t man-up and do it. I keep looking at that bank statement and realizing that I’m sort of stuck here for the moment.

And what’s worse, why am I even putting this where people can read it? Ugh, pathetic. I gotta go, the phone’s ringing and the last of my one tear just dissipated. Crawl back in there feelings, I gotta go to work.

So summer in New York City is upon us again.  Does anyone else get weirded out in the summer when wet stuff just drips on you from the buildings above? And you keep telling yourself it’s air conditioner water. Just a little H20 from the AC unit overhead. It’s cool, you think. It’s cool. But what if it’s not? I mean, in this city, nine times out of 10 it probably isn’t. Shudder, moving on.

How about that garbage smell though, huh? Or the fact that I spontaneously start talking like a stand-up comedian? No, but for reals. Smell bad. However good summer in the city is for your tan, that’s how bad it is for your olfactory. Today I had a lovely close encounter of the stinky kind. I was stumbling to work with my shoes full of pebbles, because that is what happens when you wear cute little flats in New York in the summer. So just as one gets embedded in my right big toe, and I turn to hop down the stairs to the subway, I feel something cold and wet spray across my lower legs and ankles (I was wearing capris lucky me). Simultaneosly, a huge bag of garbage flies directly in front of my eyes and goes whizzing past on to the ground. I look down and see that my feet are covered in what seems to be old coffee and God only knows what else, which is spraying out of the airborn garbage bag. But before I can react two more huge bags of trash come shooting out of the subway stairwell, spraying their filth on unlucky passersby. Garbage was literally exploding out of the subway. When the garbage men were finally done throwing the trash up the stairs I was able to go on my merry way, even though one of my feet had rotted off from the sheer toxins found in garbage juice. EW! Now I’m an amputee goddam you. “Oh her,” people will say. “That’s just stumpy, the garbage juice lady. She got hit bad.”

Have you ever seen that episode of 30 Rock where Liz Lemon is considering moving to Cleveland, and the deciding factor for her is when a bum spits into her mouth. This was kind of one of those moments for me. I want to move to Cleveland, where people throw their trash away, rather than their trash being thrown at them.

In other, less disgusting news, there’s some new pix up at Flickr if you want to see the results of the new camera I got Justin for his birthday. He says I really bought it for myself. I say, no comment.

Well, they really did it. They made the caveman show. Proof of the pilot’s existence here. Apparently it “actually has something to say about race relations in Amerca.” Thanks, but I think I’ll just watch X-Men for that. I am going to jump in my car, bust my feet through the floor, and flinstone my ass far, far away if I ever catch this thing on TV. Does ABC now stand for Absolutely Batshit Crazy? zing.

Overheard today…

(Girl) “MySpace is soo lame. I think it’s for losers…” (Gets distracted by TV) “Ooh look! I haven’t seen that book jacket design yet for the new Harry Potter book. That one must be the special publishers’ adult edition.”

Ah yes, definitely the reigning authority on what is, and what is not cool.

Seemed to be the advice of the day at my future sister-in-law’s bridal shower this weekend. My sister and I astutely pointed out, albeit under our breath, that going to bed angry can sometimes be your best option, because in the morning…he will be sober!! How about let’s work it out then?

The second most popular bit of advice seemed to be something along the lines of, always pay lots of attention to your hubbs, spend a lot of time together and have weekly date nights. Not surprising then, that my make sure you take plenty of time for yourself advice didn’t go over so well. Not that kind of crowd. OK. I guess considering myself lucky to have a man to love me isn’t my life goal. But after the shower, I realized that I’m not really into that whole bag. Gift bag that is.

Did you know that a bridal shower is a bunch of women sitting around a room watching another woman open presents? That’s it. Really, that’s all there is. Oh yeah, and finger sandwiches. At one point I leaned to my sister and whispered, “Why can’t we be guys?” I mean, I want a six-inch hoagie, strippers and a sporting event outside. Well, maybe that’s not exactly what I want, but I would definitely pick that one given the two apparent pre-wedding party options. I always want a six-inch hoagie though. Always.

Also, Justin’s birthday was yesterday. We went to see the Daily Show. It was fun. I paid him lots of attention, we went on a date, I didn’t go to bed angry and I baked. Man I would make a good wife.