And here is the thing I said I was “quite fond of” and would be posting later, about my dick of an ex-eye doctor. It’s from March of 2008, in case you need to know for your Erin scrapbook.

**********

“Your prescription hasn’t changed,” my eye doctor said, pushing the butterfly-shaped apparatus away from my face. I started to relax in the orange leather seat, thinking that I would get to leave sooner than I imagined.

He pulled out a pen light and some sort of magnifying glass and after blinding me while forcing me to stare at his ear, he started pressing down on my closed lids.

“Have you been in a car accident recently?” The question made me pause; I answered no.

“Any sort of trauma? Been hit with a basketball?” he suggested. I said no to both, but started wondering what Henry does to me in my sleep that would change the shape of my eye balls. Am I going to lose them now?

Then my doctor dropped the false concern from his voice, adopting instead a tone of mild irritation. “Oh never mind, it’s because you wear your contacts too much.” He wheeled his seat back behind his desk and began scribbling in my chart, shaking his head at my irresponsibility. He told me that my over-used contacts have caused an allergic reaction to my upper eye ball area in both eyes. The name he gave it sounds like an STD gone optical. The good news is that my medical insurance will cover it, because what was originally just a routine exam (back when the sun still shone and birds chirped my name) was now an appointment to treat a medical condition.

“I’m going to prescribe you some eye drops. Use it for ten days, then I’ll see you again to check the progress. Don’t wear any contacts for the next ten days! I’m serious. I’ll know if you’ve been wearing them.”

I’m certain this was the point during the exam where I gulped. I’d have rather been getting a pap smear right then.

The conflict lies in the fact that I don’t have any glasses. I broke my last pair in an Incredible Hulkulean fit of rage, instigated by my extreme agitation of viewing the world through lenses. But I couldn’t tell my doctor this because five breaths ago I was swearing that I alternate wearing contacts with wearing my glasses.

I’m sure he could smell the stench of bullshit seeping through my cheese-clothed lie. He’s an eye doctor, for Christ’s sake. But I’m stubborn, so I left his office armed with a prescription and no eye sight. I tripped a few times on my walk home, flopped down on the couch and proceeded to panic.

How would I drive to work? How would I see who’s walking past my area? How would I spy on the creepy cleaning guy? Oh yeah, and how would I work?

I cried to Henry about it, but received no consoling. “That’s what you get. You idiot. Just go back and tell them you need to order a pair of glasses.”

“No, I don’t want to pay for them! I just spent $150 on a contact supply,” I whined.

I slapped my old contacts in right before I left for work, so that I could at least see while driving. Except that the lenses have grown ornery in their old, abused age, and refuse to stay suctioned to the curve of my eye. I blink and they ride up, like my eyes are trying to reject them. Even my EYES aren’t as retarded as me. I had to drive with my head tilted back, peering down my nose. Christina, trying to find the bright side, pointed out that at least I’ve had a lot of practice with looking down my nose.

Work was long and arduous. I had to pull my monitor as far out as possible, without knocking the keyboard off the edge. I  couldn’t slouch in my seat.

The worst part of the night was when I tried to pay my coffee bill. The lady in charge of the coffee club was gone for the day, so I was instructed to give it to her friend Sharon.
I’d never been to see Sharon before, but the coffee lady told me in an email that Sharon sits near her.

I did my best to walk over to their area of the building without reaching with my arms, an inherent reflex when vision becomes obstructed, or so I’m learning. Convinced that Sharon had an office, I began pressing my nose up to the first several closed doors I came upon, squinting to see the names. The third or fourth door (blindness renders me dyscalculate, apparently) was open. I know this because a bright haze emanated from within, like I had finally reached Heaven’s gates.

I could detect a blurry outline of a human situated behind what I assumed was a desk. “Sharon?” I called out hesitantly. I jumped a little at the sound of my voice, which I had raised the volume on to compensate for my lack of sight, I suppose.

“No, this isn’t Sharon’s office,” answered the voice of a man.

I squinted and brought my hand above my brow, like I was trying to see into the sun. This did nothing to sharpen the man’s outline. I know, I was surprised, too.

He tried to point me in the direction of Sharon. “No, the other way,” he said, as I turned to leave. I couldn’t see where he was pointing, so I was trying to fake it. He had to correct me THREE TIMES before I finally pivoted to the right and walked right into Sharon’s cube.
>
He probably thought I was autistic.

On my way back to my desk, I took comfort in the fact that I didn’t even know who I was acting like an asshole in front of, so when I get my sight back, I won’t even know to be embarrassed if I ever encounter him again.

Until I inadvertently found out from my friend Jenn, who works during the day, that this guy in her department just got his seat changed. His name is David and I had a brief crush on him during our Christmas party, wherein I spent a good twenty minutes taking clandestine pictures of him sitting alone and brooding. After she mentioned that, it occurred to me that the man in the office sounded like him. I tried to imagine David with a blurred face. Later, when all the dayshift people were gone, I groped my way back to that office, stood with my nose an inch from the door, and read a line of fuzzy letters that spelled out “David [Hopefully-Erin’s-Future-Surname-But-Certainly-Not-Now].”

Great.

Today, I had planned to go to Goodwill and see if maybe they have a box of unwanted eyeglasses that I can pick through, maybe find a nice old man pair or fabulously over-sized owl-frames, in the style of Brett Somers. But Henry argued that Goodwill doesn’t just collect a box of prescription glasses to re-sell. “They probably send them to old people homes,” he reasoned. But how will the poor people see?

“Here’s a thought,” Henry posed over the phone this morning. “Why don’t you just call your fucking eye doctor and tell them that you can’t fucking see?”

“Because I don’t want them to know I lied! Ooh, unless! What if I call them and say that I left my glasses on the bus yesterday and I need an emergency pair?”

“Or, why don’t you just tell them you’re a re-re who has never had glasses.” When he came home from work, I had the bean bag pulled two feet from the TV and I was lurched forward, squinting to make out the undulating forms of Danity Kane. “Is this where the blind people sit?” he asked, with a roll of his eyes.

Once I’ve woven a tangled web, the lies and deception just get deeper and deeper; there’s no turning back now. And it’s stupid things I lie about too. I mean look, I’ve been writing on the Internet since 2001. You would think that if I was so into knitting ridiculous afghans of aspersion with a distorted reality fringe, I would do a better job constructing a polished image of myself. Like, maybe I would lie and say that I went to an Ivy League, perhaps Oxford, Photoshop my pictures and pretend to be in porn. But no, instead I’m like, “Hey, I’m a fatso! And a high school drop out! I’m not even awesome enough to have a hot boyfriend!”

But glasses I’ll lie about.

Henry sad he might have his old glasses, a pair of 1980’s aviators. I really hope he finds them, because I bet they’d cover at least half of my face. Until then, Christina is sending me her glasses.

I’m starting to lose sight (ha-ha) of my initial point. Why am I doing this again? Oh right, because I’m an idiot.

To know me, to really know me, is to know that I am almost constantly having some sort of eyesight drama. I kind of feel that someone could easily write an entire sitcom around on it.

Now, I haven’t been to my eye doctor in two years, because he is MEAN TO ME. One time, he called me a crack head! Yeah, he did! Because I tried to tell him that I thought I had an astigmatism and God forbid I should be attune to my eyeballs, you know? He finally admitted that I had a slight astigmatism but that it wasn’t enough to prescribe me toric lenses. I had to FIGHT him on it because I had been reading up on the lenses and was pretty sure they would help me, considering I couldn’t see out of regular lenses without squinting, even when the prescription was brand new, and I had a hard time keeping the lenses from popping off.

“Fine, I’ll pacify your neuroses,” is what he actually said, I’m NOT LYING, as he went to find a sample pair of toric lenses.

They were amazing. They didn’t do gymnastics across the arc of eyeball like regular lenses did, and I felt my eye sight was more balanced. He didn’t seem to believe me when I went back a week later to tell him this, like it was all psychosomatic. Yes, we all know I’m a crazy-ass, thank you; maybe even a little bit of a hypochondriac. But when I say I can’t see, I REALLY FUCKING MEAN THAT I CAN’T SEE. He seemed to be smirking when he wrote down my order for a full supply of the toric lenses.

I’ve continued to order them on my own, and I’m proud to say I haven’t had any jumpers since switching to the toric lenses.

Unfortunately, I needed to order more contacts last week, but my doctor denied my 1-800-contacts order since my prescription is expired. Goddamn fucking LAWS.

“I am NOT going back to that guy,” I yelled to Henry. It seemed like every time I was there, I was finding myself caught in some stupid lie. And besides, the last time I was there, I apparently had some infection and was supposed to go back and see him after 10 days of not wearing contacts, but I wore my contacts that entire time and was too afraid to go back and suffer his wrath. (In fact, I will re-post that entry later because I’m actually quite fond of it.)

(I should be slapped for saying that I’m “quite fond” of something.)

This morning, I had an appointment with some broad at Pearle Vision. As soon as I entered, she exclaimed, “You must be Erin!” in a slight Southern drawl. “I already checked you out, you’re good,” she said cheerfully as she slid my insurance card back to me.

As I sat in a small room, removing my contacts, some older gentleman passed by and said, “Oh, that must be Erin!”

“Everyone’s excited to see you today,” the doctor laughed.

“I like it. Makes me feel like a celebrity,” I said as I plucked out my right lens with a nick on the edge.

In the exam room, she slid back from the eye machine and said, “Well, you have an astigmatism.

” As she scribbled on my chart, I told her about my war with the other doctor.

“That’s scary,” she said. “That you would know more about it than your doctor.” She looked appalled.

“Yeah, thank god for Google!” I laughed. But I was serious. Thank god for Google.

“I don’t know how you were able to see, wearing regular lenses.”

“That’s the thing! I thought I was getting more blind by the day. And my contacts were always popping off my eyes.”

She fit with me a pair of Acuvue toric lenses and they were ten times better than the off-brand ones the other guy prescribed to me. “I really think you’re going to like these ones so much more,” she said all nice and Southerny.

Everything was so crisp! It made me want to grab a parasol and start singing.

No one there pressured me into ordering a full box, or trying on glasses. They were vultures in the other office. It was a good start to the day.

Henry had dropped me off at the eye doctor,  because Chooch had a check-up at his pediatrician’s office down the street. To kill time, I walked down to McDonald’s to get an iced coffee, and then sat in front of Old Country Buffet right in time for all the old people to arrive in droves. What is it with geriatrics and buffets? Old people, when in swarms, walk remarkably like zombies. I was a little fearful, but the fact that I could SEE it was old people staggering up to me, and not mobile sacks of potatoes, negated my fear.

Finally Henry arrived. In the car, he noticed I was drinking directly from the plastic cup and asked, “They didn’t give you a lid?”

“No, they didn’t give me a STRAW, and when I couldn’t FIND a straw, I said, ‘Hey, can someone give me a STRAW?’ and no one answered so I was like FUCK YOU THEN, threw out the lid, and have been drinking it strawless ever since.”

“Wow. You sure showed them,” Henry muttered.

P7220101, originally uploaded by appledale.

Came across this picture tonight at work while I was going through my Flickr photostream, looking at old photos of various carnivals and fairs and getting super excited for the summer.

This is the perfect photographical metaphor for how I feel about parenting: the second you attempt to rest on your laurels is the second your kid is going to attempt to break his crown, splatter feces on the wall, cut the cat’s ear.

This photo still makes me laugh so hard.

My Brookline post from last week got me thinking about my neighbor Robin and how I don’t really see her and her crazy red mane too much anymore, and just like that she came out of her house while Chooch and I were cavorting around our front yard; she and I had a brief, chummy exchange before she got in someone’s car and took off.

And then earlier today, Chooch and I were sidewalk chalking while the Best of Bad Company wafted from Robin’s open front window. Crappy classic rock always perks me up. It was then that I vowed to find a way to ingratiate myself with Robin again this summer, because she is one hot character study. When Bill and Jessi were here over the weekend, I nearly had a stroke pointing out Robin’s son Brandon to them as we drove past her house. “LOOK THERE’S HER SON AT THE FRONT WINDOW, WEARING A RED SHIRT!” Who needs a tour of Pittsburgh’s historical landmarks when there’s so much to show visitors right here on my block?

A few years ago, my friend Sandra pledged a generous amount when I was doing Blogathon, under the stipulation that I would take a photo of Henry with Robin. He was less than enthused about this, but since it was for charity, he knew he’d be a big asshole if he refused. And this is how it went down:

July 31st, 2006

All afternoon, I kept a watchful eye out the front window, hoping to catch Robin outside of her drug den. I didn’t get to see her, but there was some young man crossing the street near our house who put on quite the show for Henry and me. Henry grabbed the camcorder and I squealed in delight as the man weebled and tottered around in his drunken stupor. And then he went to Robin’s house! I think maybe it was her son.

Later on, I decided maybe we should go and knock on Robin’s door, because I really wanted that picture. I asked Henry when he wanted to go to Robin’s, and from his Vigilant Neighbor post at the front door, he said, “Certainly not now. There’s a fire truck there.”

We thought maybe they were there because something happened to that weird guy, because it looked like one of the firefighters had a medical bag and gloves in his hands. But the ambulance never came and no one was brought out. And why was Robin running down the street?! Who was she flipping off?

After a certain point, my nosiness was killing me so I got in the car and drove around the block first before pulling into the parking lot across the street, so as not to arouse suspicion. Then I sat slumped down in the driver’s seat and felt like a sex predator. It was awesome.

The man standing on her porch near the end of the video is her equally-fucked up neighbor. He talked to us once about Riley and how precious babies are but I had a hard time hearing him because I was fixated on his gray teeth and trying not to get drunk off his whiskey breath.

So, after all that excitement, Henry put his foot down.

“I’m certainly not going over there now. Robin’s been wearing that same outfit since Friday. She’s clearly on a bender.” This could have very well been true, because the other day I saw Brandon leaving with whom I assumed was one of Robin’s older daughters. Screaming, “No, I don’t want to go!”

I reluctantly agreed that Henry was smart about not going to her house; I wasn’t trying to inhale any fumes either, so I agreed to wait until we see her outside again.

August 6th, 2006

Robin had become elusive ever since the debacle with the firemen last Sunday, so my efforts to arrange a photo-op with her and Henry were futile.

Henry’s son Blake was here this weekend, so feeling brave in his company, the two of us trampled over to her house last night. No one answered the door. I noticed that her son Brandon was sitting out back with our equally as crazy/drunk/high neighbor, Paul, who has turned stints in rehab into his own Olympic sport. Now that’s a great babysitter.

We couldn’t have been any more obvious last night, hanging around on the front porch and staring at Robin’s house with open mouths. There was the incessant whispering: Where is she? Is she home? What if she’s dead? which caused my neighbor Fish to spy on us from his front door. Then I would throw a ball over to her yard so Blake could go get it and casually peer into her front window at the same time. At one point, a woman came out of the house next to Robin’s and Blake screamed, “Is that her!?!?” He’s clearly a graduate of my school of subtlety.

It brought back delightful memories of when Henry’s kids and I played a fun game called Cable Guy Mania, which consisted of taking recon-style photos of the cable guys as they fixed our cable under Henry’s watchful eye. Basically, we stood on the steps and held out the camera. We’re slick like that. Every time they would go out to their van, we would run into my bedroom and snaps pictures from the window. Henry was supposed to put it all together with Ludacris’s “What’s Your Fantasy” playing over top, until he realized that we were turning it into a gay love story and he was the main character. Then it wasn’t all fun and games anymore. (This was back when he actually tried to set a good example for his kids. What?)

Today, Blake came back over and after feeling like I was going to dry heave with giddiness, I calmed down long enough to try again. This time, she answered. As soon as Blake caught sight of her face, he took a step back and mouthed, “Holy shit!” I hope Blake doesn’t tell his mother about the shit I make him do when he visits.

Robin’s t-shirt was rolled up under her boobs, spotlighting the outline of her rib cage. Sexy.

I told her that we were playing a photo scavenger hunt and Henry needed a picture with a red head; she was the only red head I knew. She misunderstood me at first, and began stumbling around her dining room, looking for a picture of herself.

“No, Robin. He needs to have the picture taken with you.”

She tried to deny having red hair. “Are you sure this will work? My hair isn’t really red, is it? Really, you think it is?” No, I think it’s orange.

I had to run back to the house to fetch Henry, who seemed highly dismayed that this was actually going to go down.

To add even more to Henry’s dismay, we had to enter Robin’s house to take the photo. I was sad to see that she had pulled her shirt down.

I think the Internet would have been impressed by her sunken abdomen.

Henry refused to put his arm around her, saying it was bad enough that he had to enter her den of ill repute. So this was the best I could do:

What I hadn’t anticipated was Robin’s mega interest in our “scavenger hunt” ruse. “What other kinds of things did you have to get?” she asked with hunger in her eyes.

I knew I should have made up that bunk list! On the spot, all I could do was stammer about clowns and then I turned to Henry and asked, “Gee whiz, what else did we need? I can’t remember!”

“I don’t know, but this is the only one I’m doing.” He glared all the way through to my soul. It kind of hurt.

As we left, Robin called out, “See ya, hon! Hope your team wins!”

(Tomorrow maybe I’ll post about the flashlight incident! OH BOY AREN’T YOU LUCKY?)

There’s this fun-lovin’ folk tale that people in my town like to tell. Something about when patients were discharged from Mayview, the local mental institution, they were put on a bus and the driver was only given enough fare to get them as far as my lovely little town.

Lately, I’ve been starting to think there’s less lore to that than I originally thought.

For years, there was a man who lived in the house where 1950’s Housewife lives now, next to our neighbor’s duplex. In the summer, he was constantly outside mowing the yard, where he could be seen with his straight white hair flopping atop his beet-red face, sheer celery-colored shirt half-buttoned, fist punching angrily at the air as he yelled, “You motherfucker! Fuck you, bastard!”

At nothing.

He’d march down the sidewalk, perma-scowl weighing down his jowls, pointing at all the houses he passed and cursing us all. I always wondered if he was seeing something else, in lieu of the brick houses lining my street. Like maybe  claymation figurines of all his ex-lovers, pointing and laughing at him while they fuck his dead father on all our rooftops.

There were times when I’d cross the street just so I wouldn’t have to pass him. But one time  (just the once), I was brave enough to say hello to him. Just typing that made my shoulders scrunch up in memory of the horror. My hello wasn’t reciprocated, but was devoured, I’m sure, by his roiling aura. Still, I like to think that my brief moment of reaching out might have saved a life that day. If not potentially endangered my own.

I took to calling him Tourette’s.

He moved a few years ago, but he’s still in the area. Almost every time I go to Tom’s Diner down the street, I see him eating alone. Last week, he was leaving CVS as I stood in line to pay. And sometimes I still catch him walking past my house, muttering and spitting in rage. With no one around.

There’s also this woman (maybe?) with whom Henry and I have been obsessed for the last eight years. Her skin is sun-damaged, has the texture of leathery tree bark; she’s always alone, always expressionless and staring straight ahead.  We see her walking everywhere and she’s almost always wearing a dirty parka, no matter the temperature. Up until a few weeks ago, she always wore purple sweatpants. Now she has white ones! After eight years! HUGE news day. I called Henry immediately and we then marveled over this together.

I don’t think they’re new pants though. They have that aged look to them, like Henry’s face.

One time, I was out walking around the neighborhood and saw her approaching from the opposite direction. I was so excited! As we were about to pass each other, I said hello to her.

She fucking growled at me.

Yesterday, less than 24-hours after the incident with my methodically paced neighbor, Chooch and I walked the few blocks up the street to CVS. I promised him sidewalk chalk because he’s been really good all week, almost like he knows about my “I hate being a mom” post and is trying to make me feel like shit.

After leaving CVS, we crossed through the parking lot and got on the sidewalk, where a woman in a red shirt was walking in front of us. I recognized her from inside CVS; she was standing next to the cooler as Chooch painstakingly tried to decide what kind of juice he wanted. I had that feeling we were in her way, and tried to get him to speed it up. I get nervous around people who don’t smile or acknowledge my kid in any way, because not to be all “I have the best kid ever,” but he really is infectious and almost everyone will at the very least throw him an amused smile. Even young guys! Just yesterday, a kid who couldn’t have been older than 20 was walking by our yard in a studded belt and a black workshirt covered with anarchy patches. He literally slowed down to watch Chooch’s front yard antics, smiled real big at him and called out, “Hey buddy!”

This actually sucks for me though because sometimes Chooch can be a small-talk catalyst and I don’t really like small talk. It’s awkward and I generally have nothing polite to say so I come off sounding robotic and perhaps slightly stunted.

So this red-shirted lady was now on the sidewalk in front of us. As we got closer, she stopped. Just stopped dead in her tracks and stood there, in the middle of the sidewalk, in this weird hip-jutted one-knee-bent pose that I haven’t seen since the last time I laughed at photos of Henry from the ’70s. Chooch and I skirted past her, leaving her in all of her Sha-Na-Na glory, and continued along the sidewalk.

That’s when she started shouting.

I quickly glanced back and she was moving again, gaining on us, shouting hysterically in a voice that was dragged down a few octaves by the weight of her testosterone reserves.

“ANGIE GODDAMN YOU! I’M SO FUCKING SICK OF THIS, ANGIE!” Her arms were taut at her sides, slightly flexed; her hands were squeezed into crazy fists.

She was not yelling into a phone like I had originally hoped. And there was no girl standing anywhere near where the woman’s eyes were focused.

I grabbed Chooch’s hand and picked up the pace, forcing him to keep up. She began moving again too, shouting out unintelligible slurs and maybe I’m paranoid, but I watch a lot of crime shit on TV and couldn’t stop envisioning her pulling a blade out of her big white purse and sticking it in my spine. Maybe it would be because Chooch and I hogged the CVS cooler for an entire thirty seconds. Maybe because I was wearing a green tank top. Maybe she’s barren and wants to kidnap my son.

YOU DON’T KNOW, OK?

“Chooch,” I whispered tersely. “Get ready to cross the street.”

“WHY, BECAUSE OF THAT WEIRD LADY!?” Chooch asked in his normal too-loud-for-public who-needs-a-bullhorn shout.

Of course we had to wait for eighteen cars and trucks to pass, because we live on a fucking busy asshole street. But once that busy asshole street was separating us from the schizophrenic, and I’m pretty sure she was a legitimate schizo, I felt safer. Until I started wondering if she had a gun in her purse. That was when Chooch and I started running.

The feeling in my stomach reminded me of when I was little, five or six, and used to play this game called the Villagers with my neighbor Adele. Essentially, we would run around her background, hiding around her above-ground pool from the invisible Villagers who were trying to kill us. My stomach would churn while we hid, the adrenaline making me nauseated.

Adele had pitbulls. I was more afraid of them than the Villagers.

But that’s how I felt yesterday, as Chooch and I ran down the sidewalk away from the crazy lady in the red shirt. Only it’s less fun when you’re running from something real.

Once we made it home, Chooch ripped open his package of sidewalk chalk and resumed being a kid, while I quickly called Henry to regale him with the story of how his girlfriend and son almost died.

“OH MY GOD, SHE’S COMING!” I screamed into the phone as I saw her in my peripheral. She must have crossed the street after Chooch and me, because she was thankfully on the sidewalk across the street from my house. That was still too close for comfort so I hissed, “Chooch, get in the house.”

“You’re going to scare him! Stop that!” I could hear Henry reasoning on the other end.

“I HAVE TO GO!” I yelled at him, ending the call before he could say anything.

Mostly it was because I wanted to go in the house and get the camera though.

Look at her hands!

After she walked past, she went to the end of the block, turned around, and came back. Before she made it across from my house again, she abruptly turned and began walking toward the church across the street. She then roamed aimlessly around the sidewalks over there for a few minutes, before coming back down to the street. Walking back down the block, I watched as she squatted in front of a Jesus shrine, rummaged through her purse, blew her nose, and then continued on her way.

Oh, Brookline. I can’t wait to leave you/don’t want to leave you. They should film anti-psychotic ads here.

A few weeks ago, Chooch and I were outside eating lunch when this strange man came out of one of the houses on my block and began methodically pacing back and forth along the sidewalk with his head down. Every time he’d get to my driveway, he’d pause, pivot, and begin walking back up the sidewalk.

This went on for several repetitions.

“What is that guy doing?” I asked Chooch in a hushed tone.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled around mouthfuls of waffle. “Walking?”

But it was suspicious to me, especially since I remember Henry mentioning that he thought the house next to Hot Naybor Chris’s had been converted into a halfway house.

“Maybe he’s on house arrest,” I suggested to Chooch, because all four-year-olds know about house arrest. “And he can’t go any further than our driveway before his ankle bracelet alerts the authorities.”

Chooch gave me a “yeah, whatev” shrug and went back to licking the syrup from his plate.

Paranoia got the best of me and I quickly ushered Chooch back in the house before the deranged pacer had a chance to brandish a bloody machete or a lethal pedometer.

“What the hell,” Chooch complained. “He’s just WALKING.”

I quickly called Henry at work and told him how Chooch and I were almost victims in a mass murder.

“I know who you’re talking about,” Henry said, ignoring my hysterical conclusion jumping. “I think he’s just a little slow or something.”

A few days later, we were coming home from somewhere, probably the crack house, just in time for our criminal neighbor’s daily leg stretch.

“Don’t get out of the car yet!” I yelled at Henry. “I don’t want him to get scared and leave before I can get a picture of him.”

“Do not —-” Henry began arguing, but it was too late. “Oh, he totally saw you. That wasn’t obvious at all,” Henry muttered as I slunk my entire torso back into the car.

***

Just a few minutes ago, Chooch and I were outside embroiled in a pathetic mess of Thingie Ball, when the criminal neighbor exited his front door and began his slow amble toward our house. It’s at least eighty degrees out and he was clad in the winter jacket he wore in his photo above.

I was hoping Chooch wouldn’t see him, but he threw a glance over his shoulder just as the criminal neighbor came to a stop in front of our yard.

“HEY,” Chooch exclaimed. “IT’S THE WAFFLE GUY!” Apparently Chooch now associates waffles with the freak up the street, awesome.

I quickly put my finger to my lips and tried to use the sheer power of my eyes to will Chooch to lower his voice. Instead, Chooch chose to drop his Thingie Ball paddle and stare as the criminal neighbor slowly tromped back up the sidewalk.

On his second lap, Chooch screamed to him, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, ANYWAY?” The criminal looked up at me and I had no choice but to smile and say hello. He half-raised his hand into a wave, hinged on his heels, and lumbered back up to his house, never saying a word.

If Chooch can’t find the answer, then it truly is a mystery.

I don’t really know why, but I have always had this weird neurosis about public and work rest rooms. Not really in that I love to unload in them, but it’s more of an observational hang-up I have, I guess. You can tell a lot about a place by the rest rooms. (Which is why Target > Walmart.)

I especially like truck stop rest rooms because you never know what kind of savory souls you’ll run into there. Plus, pratfalls abound.

At my last job, the inside of each stall had bright pink notices reminding every bleeding female to deposit their menstrual armor in the provided “recepticles.” Every night, I considered taking a Sharpie and correcting the spelling. Maybe dotting the “i” with an ovary.

None were worse than the company I worked from 2006-2008, though. Just, ew.

I went from this, to this:

I can like that.

Hello I got the job! They apparently are able to see past the fact that my incompetence shines when faced with the dubious task of opening doors and are willing to test the theory that I’m actually intelligent, as stated by my glowing references.

And it’s temp to perm, so no more getting bounced around like the forgotten child in a divorce.

After 3-6 months, I’ll be making more money than I was when I was working full-time; more money for less work? This really panders to my lady of leisure lifestyle.

I start on Monday. I’m so happy I can breathe again.

I left Chooch sitting in front of the Toys R Us website and told him to go wild. Just not too wild. Like, under $50 wild.

OMG now I can eat! And buy new jeans! TODAY I LOVE EVERYONE!

Dear people who read this:

First of all, thank you for reading this crap that spews from my head. I’ve been writing shit since I was a young kid and it is HARD to get people to read what I write, and even care about it, so I really am grateful for the people I’ve picked up along the way. I can’t even get my own boyfriend to read it.

But I was curious: What do you like best about this blog? What makes you come back and read more (assuming you do)?

I’ve been blogging since 2001, and you know how everyone always says, “Oh yeah, I write for myself, no one else”? Fuck those people, they’re lying. Yes, I partially write this shit for myself, for my own posterity, but I also write in the hopes that some random person might stumble upon this site and find something that resonates with them or makes them laugh.

I just don’t know what that might be, to be honest. I’m kind of all over the map with this and that’s sort of how I like it, because variety can be nice.

When I was on Live Journal, it was easier to gauge what people liked, mostly because LJ users were quicker to drop a comment.

So if you feel like it, leave a comment here, on this post***, and help me figure shit out. Tell me what you like, if there was a post that stood out to you, what you’d like to see more of. Please don’t be mean though. Not today, at least. My psyche is feeling kind of fragile this week. Ha-ha. (No, I’m serious. Lots of spontaneous crying-while-driving, lol.)

I’m not exactly fishing for compliments here; consider it research. Because I feel like I’ve lost my direction.

Naming fruit since 1996,

Erin.

(***For the people who comment on the LiveJournal feed, I don’t always get those comments. They’re not emailed to me since it’s a feed and not an LJ, so I have to physically go to the feed page and check. If you don’t always get replies from me, that’s why and I apologize. I’ve already lost a LiveJournal friend because she thought I was being rude/too good for LJ, when really, I wasn’t getting any of her comments, and that makes me sad. It’s always better to comment on the actual site to ensure that I see what you have to say, because it’s important to me! <3)

EDIT:  OK, LiveJournal people, I get it. Commenting over here is HARD and ANNOYING. You don’t ever have do it again.

A week and I still have a job. I won’t lie – I’m not happy about it. Being in an office again makes me feel angry and stifled, completely unhappy. But this was something I had to do, mostly because Henry is MEAN and made me, and I’m only working half days so I shouldn’t complain. I have no RIGHT to complain.

Prior to this, I had been looking for evening work, like my last two jobs. I’m not lucky enough to have anyone who will watch my son for me so I can get a full time daylight job and I refuse to put him in daycare because my luck, it will be one of those fly by night ones that wind up as a breaking report on the nightly news because the proprietors are using it as a drug front.

But things started to get tight around here and Henry was like, “Look, just get a job, any job. Don’t worry about the shift; I’ll figure it out.”

So when the temp agency offered this particular job to me, Henry said it was OK that I’d be working daylight, that he’d adjust his schedule at work so that he could just work around me.

He’s been leaving here around 2:30AM every morning, and coming home by 6:30AM so I can leave. Then when I come home, he goes back to work. Except that he sends me texts throughout the morning, saying things like, “[My boss] scheduled a truck for 1:30 this afternoon; when are you leaving?” So then I’m pressured, stressed and annoyed. Look, Moustache. Don’t ride my ass about getting a job, and then when I get one that SAME DAY because I’m hustla, don’t start sending me these namby pamby texts talking about “Wahhhh, I have to go back to work, when are you coming homeeeeee?”

Fuck you, you said it wouldn’t be a problem. I didn’t want to work, remember?! And now you’re making me rush through the shit I have to do and feel all panic-prone because I don’t know what time I’m going to be able to leave so that you can go back to your REAL job.

(Because my job is fake and meaningless.)

I don’t know, I just feel so disheartened. I like my supervisor all right, but he acts all surprised when I get my shit done faster than he anticipated and then gets all apologetic for not having anything else for me to do, but before he could run off to find busy work for me, I reminded him that I took this job mainly because most days I’d get to leave by noon.

I mainly sit by myself in a conference room, my makeshift office with lights that shut off if I’ve been sitting too still. I have to wave my arms like an idiot to get them to recognize that a human is in there. How appropos; I’m so temporary that the LIGHT doesn’t even recognize me.

Last Friday, I was sitting there, quietly sifting through information on a stack of invoices, when two older women came in. They introduced themselves as Cindy and Cindy. When I said my name, the rotund Cindy contorted her face in a look I’ve come to known as the standardized “Am I dealing with a retard?” expression.

I repeated my name twice before she comprehended. The last time I checked, I don’t have a speech impediment, speak too quietly, or communicate in aboriginal grunts and clucks. So Rotund Cindy must be the retard.

Even though we had just gone through a round of introductions, the Cindys proceeded to talk about me as though I weren’t there. Surveying the conference room, the taller, yuppier one remarked that it would make a good place to stow the auditors when they arrive.

“The temp can just move to Karen’s old office by the kitchen,” she suggested to the fat Cindy.

“But there’s no phone in Karen’s office,” the fat Cindy pointed out.

“The temp doesn’t really need a phone, though,” Yuppy Cindy countered.

You’re right, the temp doesn’t need a phone, but hello she’s SITTING RIGHT HERE LOOKING AT YOU.

Fuck.

And then the other day, there was an email sent out from one of the Cindys, reminding everyone in a very uptight and pretentious syntax that all unmarked leftovers in the fridge would be discarded on Wednesday. I’m not sure which Cindy e-penned that friendly reminder, but it made me hate them both even more.

I’ve really grown to like the woman I hastily wrote off as Tina-esque (some of you might remember Tina and her skin legions, mullet and One-Uppiness from two jobs ago). I guess she’s the office manager, but she greets me cooley every morning in a teasing tone. I like that, to be teased. It makes me feel little girlish, but not in the patronized kind of way.

Today, some strange man wandered into my conference room, muttering something about how he was used to the room being full of boxes but now they’re gone. I joked that now the room was just full of me, and it took him awhile but he eventually laughed as comprehension set in. I thought at first that he was special needs, but I think he was just tired.

I can’t remember his name, but he was nice enough and reminded me that lunches are catered on Thursdays. I haven’t been there long enough in a day to eat lunch with everyone, though. It’s just as well, as all that will do is open up the awkward can. It’s bad enough being the new person, but even worse being a temp. No one really cares about temps, because why bother expending energy getting to know someone who’s just there for a few weeks. And you know, that’s unlike me to have that sort of attitude. I have always been out going at my jobs, sometimes to a fault perhaps. But being friendly and having camaraderie with co-workers has always made going to work worth it for me. Just anymore, I don’t have the energy or the drive. I just want to get in there, get my shit done and be done with this assignment. That makes me feel horrible just typing it, but it’s the truth and I don’t know how to be anything but honest.

I just feel that every time I get an office job, it sets me back so far. I will literally stop doing everything that I enjoy because I just don’t have the time or the mental energy.

Maybe it’s selfish, but I would rather not have a ton of money than sacrifice doing the things that make me want me to get out of bed every day. I’m not sure that Henry understands that. Maybe he does, I don’t know. I spend so much time and energy working up to certain goals, like finally being able to take up that shop owner on her offer of a gallery showing, only to be yanked back into the bowels of another generic American office. And I can’t get ahead.

Today I came home and was able to watch a recording of the Russian Olympic hockey game, one of the few things making me happy this week, and then afterward I went to the local library and took a test to become a Census employee. My friend Stacey did it and suggested that I try it out too. It’s basically going to door-to-door to collect information from people who didn’t send in their Census.

There were eight of us in  stuffy meeting room in the library. The instructor was an old man wearing a cable knit sweater. He obsessively opened and rummaged through his briefcase every few minutes. I kept wondering if he had candy in there and then my mouth got all dry because I was thinking about candy in a briefcase. Goddammit why do I think about shit like that.

You would think that the actual test would take longer than filling out the application, but no. I sat there for FORTY MINUTES while these idiots stressed out over filling in a few fucking boxes in a three page application form.

It was standard shit! I can only imagine that two of them must have a lot of felonies to list because every time the instructor asked if they were finished, it was all, “No, I’m still working on this one page.”

Working on this one page? It’s a goddamn application to be a fucking Census worker, not a blueprint of the Sheik’s new skyscraping harem house.

I sat there, bounced in my seat, stared at my cuticles, and obsessively checked Words with Friends on my phone. At one point, I had a wicked flashback to the GED testing room and instantly required a bucket of cold water and a sharp slap to the face.

This seriously took forty minutes. I got there at 3:45, like the Dumbledore impressionist on the phone advised, and it was 4:25 by the time the instructor was finally able to pass out the tests and read the instructions. I laughed at how his voice went from deep and ambivalent to rehearsed and excited when he began going over the typical “Please don’t be a douchebag and cheat” spiel.

My favorite part was when he was like, “Don’t ask me any questions once testing begins. You have to figure it out by yourself” because I knew at least 3/4 of the room was silently thinking “FUCK” in their heads, and I wondered who the instructor pissed off to be punished by sitting in this  depressing room and monitoring a bunch of directionless people who have nothing less to aspire to so why not try out for the fucking Census.

The fucking CENSUS.

What has my life become?

We had thirty minutes to complete twenty eight 5th grade level questions. I zipped through all of them until I got to a multiplication problem that involved three digits and DECIMALS. I had to skip it because I kept wanting to shift the number with the decimal to the right, like in addition. When I came back to it later, I remembered the correct way but proceeded to spend the remaining minutes trying to remember what the fuck was nine times seven.

9 x 7.

Seriously.

I had to start with 9 x 5 and then add in increments of nine, what the HELL has happened to me. There was a time when I got As in Calculus and now multiplication tables make confused spittle form in the pockets of my lips.

Oh, I got it right in the end, don’t you fret. It just took half a piece of scratch paper.

Instead of starting my new job on Tuesday as planned, the snow had other ideas and so I remained cabin-bound until today.  I woke up to that sickening “first day of school” full-body anxiety, but instead of hitting snooze and dwelling, I jumped up and pretended I was instead getting ready for roller skating or a Chiodos show (pre-Craig Owens departure) or just a good old fashioned hoedown.

The drive wasn’t as bad as I anticipated, plus it gave me some time to listen to some new music I recently acquired and that was good. There’s nothing like a screamo/post-hardcore cover of Lady Gaga’s “Poker Face” to make me want to conquer a boardroom.

I was a few minutes early and the man who would become my supervisor wasn’t there yet so I was stowed in the small waiting area, where I immediately realized that I was way overdressed after noting that most of the women who bustled past wore mom-jeans and ugly shoes. A few more seconds of spying had me noting the bouncing parade of antique knit sweaters. One of the sweaters was a gaudy purple hue interwoven with some sort of obnoxious silver thread. I’m pretty sure my Mrs. B., my kindergarten teacher, sported that same sweater in 1985.

I was inspired to clandestinely tweet: “Hopefully I get the memo the next time it’s 80s Day at my new place of work.”

And then the most Tina-ish woman there found me, like they all do. She was brash and tall and, around 20+ years of cigarette drags, she croaked, “Erin? Come on, I’m going to give you a tour.” I looked down as I trailed behind her and noticed that she was wearing boots similar to the ones my mom wore. IN THE EIGHTIES.

When the fuck was I?!

The only thing I remember being shown on the impromptu tour was a large, clear glass bowl that sat atop a filing cabinet in the middle of the office space. And you know what was in that glass bowl? CANDY. I couldn’t wait to start stealing it!

“You’re welcome to help yourself to that candy whenever you want, as well as all the pop in the fridge….” Alternate Tina continued to point out the free perks and I felt shocked. I wouldn’t have to PILFER? I could just…have? Like, while people were watching, I could just…take?

This might take some getting used to. I’m not sure I know how to fetch candy in an office without utilizing my slinky ninja-gait.

Alternate Tina deposited me in my makeshift office, which is just a small conference room set up with a computer. Moments later, the HR woman who interviewed me last week stopped in with some papers to sign and told me that everyone was allowed to wear jeans this week as a perk for coming in due to this shitty weather. But she didn’t say anything about the 1980’s Golden Girls sweaters. I had to sign a paper swearing that I wouldn’t make unwanted sexual advances on any of my co-workers, which was painful, like signing away my first born. (Though there are times when that feels like a wonderful treat.)

Next, I got to meet my supervisor, who is a very pleasant man who likes to overdose on the word “literally” and swears without apologizing. We had a small training session with another woman who actually works there but will be doing of this fantastic data entry along with me, and then I was left to do the practice work myself.

It’s just transferring information from shipping invoices onto an Excel spreadsheet. (I just typed in Spreadshirt at first, which shows you what little time I spend in offices these days.) I know it sounds awful, but as far as careers go, I go out of my way to find low-key data entry/billing jobs. I don’t want stress. I want to go to work, plug and chug quietly, and then come home and have the mental energy left to do the things I like to do. Is that selfish? Maybe.

There were no real invoices for me to work on after that, so I got to leave by 1pm. And that’s the other beautiful thing about this job: there are days when I will only have to stay until noon. My supervisor, after explaining this to me, offered, “If you’d prefer to be here for a full day everyday, I could try to look for other things for you to do…” but I very zealously interrupted, “No! No, that’s OK. I was told during the interview about that, and I’m completely OK with it.” And I am, too. I don’t want a full time job! I don’t want a job AT ALL to be honest but HENRY made me get one.

And you better believe that from the moment I got home today until, well, currently, I haven’t let him forget about that.

“Make me lunch!” I yelled as I stormed through the door.

He stood there gaping at me.

“Go make me lunch! I had a long day…because of YOU!” I spat.

And he started laughing. As if my working is a JOKE to him, something that he derives pleasure from, like watching Kate Gosselin and her douche-curtains suffer in public.

And you know what else? On my way home, I got an email from my work-at-home HR broad informing me that there was work out if I was interested. So I had to come home and WORK some more instead of watching MTV; oh pity me, Internet!

I’m going to go and schedule a day at the spa now.

Tomorrow, I have to try and learn how to use the coffee maker. Fuck. At least I get to wear jeans and my best sweater from 5th grade.

[I hope you know that this is a joke and that I am grateful to be working. The End.]

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I got a job? Well, that was fun. I was trying to cram in as many hours (see also: minutes) as possible on the computer before Chooch discovered that I wasn’t paying attention to him. Yes, working at home sounded like a fine idea at the time. I wasn’t getting paid very much, but for as little work I was able to put in, my checks actually weren’t as dismal as I imagined. In fact, I was able to have my shoes cobbled, I was! With a little extra to spare for some luke warm porridge!

There was this one instance where Chooch came over and said, “Come play with me.” I go, “I can’t; I’m working right now.”

He disappeared for a brief moment, and when he returned, he was forcing a pile of dirty pennies into my palm. “Here, I paid you. Now come play.”

The sad thing is, he didn’t even realize how close he was to matching my pay rate.

So this job was supposed to last “a few months.” Try two weeks. Yes, the HR broad sent out an email thanking everyone for their hard work and that unbeknownst to anyone at the company, we had actually helped them meet their quota way faster than they imagined, and that we would be contacted in the future if there was more work.

I was back in the same boat, paddling toward the homeless shelter.

But then I remembered that my friend Sarah’s mom works at a staffing firm, and that she had given a valiant attempt at placing me somewhere safe and stable after I was laid off from FedEx last winter. I emailed her last Wednesday morning and by that afternoon, I had a new job.

I start tomorrow. It’s a temporary position, but at this point I’d shine shoes if I had to. Actually, I probably would be pretty good at that, among very little else.

And then today, the HR lady from the other place sent out an email saying there will be more work this week. I guess I have two jobs now. Or a job and a half, as it were.

Hopefully, there will be awesome people at this place tomorrow. I haven’t had a day job in so long, I hope the sun doesn’t blind me. But at least this means I won’t miss any hockey games or pout like the teenaged scene kid I truly am when a band plays on a weeknight and I can’t get off work.

I’m not looking forward to the commute though.

With Henry and Chooch off at the store, I thought that I could relax a little, get my nerves to stop buzzing.  After posting that last entry about the Valentines, I went upstairs to change into my exercise clothes.

Approximately 1.3 minutes later is when the knocking started.

I’m not talking about some demure rapping from an old lady looking for her lost cat. The knocking I’m talking about here was intense.

Urgent.

Motherfucking frightening.

Initial thoughts:

• It’s too late to be the gas man!
• Wait, we’re not behind on the gas bill.
• OMG it’s the CONSTABLE.
• Jehovah’s Witnesses?
• My blog has finally discovered by Robin and she has her meth herd out front with fiery torches and a battering ram!

I did what I always do in these harrowing cat and mouse situations: I hid on the bedroom floor. The knocking continued, in angry, I’ve-come-to-murder-you spurts. During the few moments of silence, I’d get courageous, pop up a bit and peek through the blinds. Across the street in the church parking lot sat a white Suburban, the headlights of which still shone. I became obsessed with the idea that my knocker’s accomplice was sitting quietly in the dark interior, shuffling a deck of cards and wearing brass knuckles while waiting for the knocker to return with my dead body.

It sounded like the knocker was trying to open my door. And my head was full of expletives as I tried to remember if the door was even locked or not. It was bad enough that EVERY light downstairs was on (green, what?), including the TV, so the knocker knew someone was home and seemed undeterred by the fact that I wasn’t speedily answering the door in a bathtowel.

After a few minutes of this (these situations feel longer when you’re in the thick of it; especially if you’re like me and pretend you’re a diamond thief hiding from the CIA), the knocking ceased and I stole a look just in time to see my neighbor James retreating.

James and his family moved in next door last May. They’re quiet all day long, but come 9pm, it’s like they’re throwing cinder blocks around over there, building something, I don’t know. Probably I’m better off not knowing. And there’s 4 young kids, too, who we rarely see. Alisha is convinced that they’re a family pop group, like The Jackson 5, and only come out when they can rely on the night shadows to cloak them. They have a brand new Mercedes, which they keep parked on the street, even during snow storms, and this ain’t no residential cul-de-sac on which we live. It’s a pretty rockin’ road, with buses and large trucks to boot. They also have a Lexus SVU which they seem to hide in the garage.

The block we live on is not exactly known for luxury vehicles. We’re talking Elantras and Focuses up in here, OK?

They have these flashy cars, yet no furniture on the entire first floor.

Henry, who swears he doesn’t spy on them, says they spend all their time upstairs. In fact, I think whoever is on the other side of our bedroom has been cooking in their room lately, and it stinks.

They’re a mystery.

Where was I? Oh, James! I had just spotted James and felt a mixture of relief and also apprehension, because why was James knocking so maniacally? Maybe he was locked out and needed to use my phone.  I was still standing at the window, wondering this, when I realized that he had stopped on the sidewalk in front of our house and was staring up into my window. I do love me some creepy.

Ducking, I grabbed my shoes, ran downstairs and out the front door to find James standing idly on his front porch.

“Hey, was that you knocking?” I asked innocently, shoes untied and knees knocking from the burst of cold.

“Yeah, can I borrow your shovel?” he asked, walking across the front yard toward me.

“My what now?” I was confused. I must have misheard him. Probably what he really said was, “Can I borrow your bone marrow?” because who knocks like THAT for a shovel?

“Your shovel.”

Seriously? Had he just murdered someone?

I gave him the shovel and he didn’t even use it right away!

So much for giving my nerves a chance to stop buzzing. Fuck.

Henry and I are just hanging out on the couch right now. Hi! And somehow the subject of me being a hussy came up, how some guy made me feel uncomfortable when he called me pretty.

“Uncomfortable?” Henry said with incredulity. “That’s funny.” Because I eat that shit up with a fancy grapefruit spoon, you see.

“Yeah, but right now I’m just not in the frame of mind,” I said, trying to reassure him that I won’t be out roaming the pastures.

Henry laughed again. Not a “I’m watching Chapelle’s Show” laugh, but more of a disgusted “You’re a cheatin’ whore” throat scrape. “But you can change like that,” he said, snapping his hard-working, blue-collared fingers.

Desperate to ease his paranoia, I pointed out that my annual spring fever will be coming up soon. “And maybe it’ll be for you!” I punched his stomach for punctuation.

“Oh please. When you have ever spring fevered me?”

“I did that one year!” I blurted out.

I think it would be fun if Henry guest-blogged on here. Maybe write about his favorite kitchen memories or tediously tap out tales from his days in THE SERVICE, which maybe could make people respect him! (Not me though; lost cause right here.

)

If there’s something you’d like Henry to write about, let me know right here! Misty suggested a day in the life, which I think would really be riveting. (I mean, as long as I know in advance the day he’s going to start writing, in order to create fires – metaphorical and literal – so he’ll have something other than work and sleep to tell the Internet.

)

In the past, when Henry has forwarded me Craigslist ads it’s been for such wholesome things like “BREASTFEEDING XXX VIDEOS! GET PAID FOR MEN TO JACK OFF TO UR SQUIRTING BREAST MILK!!!” and a myriad of other paid intimate encounters. Just let your imagination do the rest. So last Friday, when I saw that he had passed along another Craigslist ad, I was like, “Oh boy, what do we have now? Does he want me to pee in someone’s mouth for this month’s rent?” But it was a data entry job. Working from home.

Now, my red flag went up. It’s not often I’ve found a legit work-at-home gig, aside from medical transcriptioning. But I shrugged and replied. The only thing worse than being an artist is being a fake artist in a shitty economy which means I kind of need SOMETHING to happen financially.

An hour or so later, someone called me back. He sounded flustered, unprepared. He kept saying, “Hold on” while someone in what I hoped was an office and not a secret Chinatown warehouse with boarded windows and kidnapped women, could be hear speaking to him in muffled tones.

Five minutes and very little information later, I had found myself scheduled for a 1:00pm training session the next day.

The fact that this so-called company even has an office was enough to calm my paranoia.

The fact that it was in a respectable area made me feel even better. Almost confident. Almost.

The guy I spoke with, Ken, came down to let and another girl in. He immediately apologized for the way he was on the phone, explaining that his boss had come into his office, tossed a bunch of replies on his desk and said, “Here, start calling these people.” That made me relax a bit too, the fact that he was aware of how unpolished he sounded on the phone.

He led us to a conference room where there was already an older woman and a guy waiting. As I pulled out a chair next to the woman, I kind of caught a vibe. One of those “Sit anywhere here, preferably find an entire separate room to sit in” vibe. And as soon as I shrugged out of my jacket, she turned to me and proceeded to tell me that her first apartment post-college was right down the street from there.

And the dam was broken.

She. Never. Stopped.

Her name is Gwendolyn but she goes by Wendy. Her fiance was waiting for her in the van. He was working on Word documents while he waited. He’s from Holland and they’re waiting for his social security card to come so they can get married. This is very exciting to her. She used to work for the GOV’T and sometimes she would have to talk to FBI.

She’s 41!

She has 5 kids!

Her first son was baptized at Sacred Heart!

You know what she is? She’s a Tina-type. Anytime someone would say anything, she always found a way to piggy back the conversation. I could tell Ken was getting irritated, and we had a long wait ahead of us. Why can’t people just come on time? If you’re trying to get a job, COME ON TIME. Don’t make the rest of  us responsible people waste time out of our SATURDAY because you failed to utilize the entire day’s notice you had to find a way to be on time. FOR A JOB.

And I’m glad Redd Foxx decided to rise from the grave in order to attend this training session, where he would repeatedly call the computer “the machine” and ask to have every minute direction repeated.

It’s data entry. 10-key. Work that is so simple, they didn’t even require us to submit our resumes. Within 45 minutes, we were trained, not only in the job we’d be doing from home, but in the auto-biography of Wendy.

At one point, she leaned over me while I was trying to covertly text from my lap and yelled, “OH THAT’S A NICE PHONE! WHAT IS IT, VERIZON?” Um, no? It’s an iPhone? And did you know she’s looking for a new phone? That hers can’t even use Bluetooth?

I wanted to leave. I was so ready to get the fuck out of there and enjoy the rest of my day but NO. Wendy wouldn’t stop. I had to wait behind her while she turned in her payroll info to the office manager, and it wouldn’t be my turn until she was done talking about EVERY SINGLE JOB SHE’S EVER HELD and how she’s done 10-key so often that she’ll be able to do this while watching TV and she already knows exactly what hours she’ll be working and STFU IT’S MY TURN.

After I managed to sully every form with crossed-out words, scribbles, and signatures on the wrong lines (I’m semi-retarded at filling out forms, which I guess is why my only options in life are burger-flipper and data entry clerk; I’m not even sure I could handle working on a farm), I retreated back to the conference room to collect my jacket and purse. And oh yay, Wendy was still there, talking to Ken about how even if job ads say “no phone calls,” she’ll Google the company and put in a call straight to HR. I laughed nervously along with Ken and tried to skirt out the door, but he held up a hand and said, “Wait, I’ll walk you guys out.”

FUCK. Fuck fuck fuck.

So there I am, in an elevator with Ken and Wendy, sucking anxiously on my bottom lip, trying not to explode, when Ken asked what our plans for the night.

“I’m watching the hockey game,” I somehow managed to get out before Wendy had a chance to capture the conversation and rape it anally.

“Who are they playing?” Ken asked. And we began to talk about hockey but it was cut short by Wendy’s Tourettes-like eruption of, “I’M MAKING BRUSCHETTA TONIGHT I’M A REALLY GOOD COOK I LOVE TO COOK BECAUSE I KNOW EVERYTHING THERE IS TO KNOW ABOUT THE HISTORY OF COOKING AND I INVENTED FOOD NETWORK.”

This was blurted out while Ken was still talking to me. Not during a pause or a lull. Over top of a conversation.

I cannot tolerate that. I just can’t. Being interrupted is one of the most appalling things a person can do in presence besides shitting on my coffee table or slitting Henry’s throat (although……). It’s so rude. When people do that, I always wonder how they were able to get so far in life without learning about how rude that is. There was a girl I was friends with briefly last year who was the queen of hijacking conversations, until it got to the point where I just stopped trying to talk to her. And this is how Wendy is.

And I started imagining what it would be like to have to work with her every day but then remembered, “Oh yeah, I get to do this shit FROM HOME.” If I had to physically work with that lady, that might have been a deal breaker. I might have had to cut off a leg and apply for disability. Or cut off Henry’s leg and have him apply for disability.

Still, I came home and nursed a stress headache, then drank lots of wine.

So yes, I’m half-employed right now. And if I’m lucky, a week’s salary might get me some bread and milk from the corner store!