Awkwardly Social

Have I mentioned before that I have to take medication for a slightly elevated thyroid level that may or may not be related to my issue to conceive? Well, I do and now I have.  Mentioned it that is.

This morning I had to pick up my medication from CVS, the pharmacy that I hate because I always (no matter if I’ve called 3 days in advance or 2 hours, or my doctor called, or it’s for something important) wait.  I wait while the chatty pharmacists chat it up with old people and don’t fill my prescription.  I wait while the pharmacist looks things up on the computer (her e-mail? the codes to get the good medicine out?).  I wait while the assistant tries to remember the spelling of my last name. My last name is 6 letters long.

So today, when I was forced to wait for a prescription that should have been ready yesterday, I hissed under my breath at the pharmacy assistant, “You people need to get your fucking act together.” And then watched as they yukked it up behind the counter talking about their maternity leave and how much weight they lost.

Finally, after 10 minutes had passed, I stormed back up to the counter and went a little Shirley MacClaine on the poor woman. Except instead of my daughter needed medication, it was me. It… was embarrassing.

By the time I got to my car I was shaking and in tears.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m prone to rage against bad customer service, but cry about it? And shaking?  This is not me.  I generally get mad, tell them to shape up, roll my eyes at their lame apologies and go about my day.

I’m guessing it was the hormones talking?

Please tell me it was the hormones talking.  Or maybe the lack of sleep? Or could it be that I’ve marked a week away from home in a house that is kind of like something out of Sunset Blvd. without monkey butlers but with poodles.

You guys, I never thought I’d say this, but I am SO looking forward to acupuncture this week.

I am in the seventh circle of hell.  The normal thing that happens with jury duty is you get called, you sit in a room, you get sent to a panel, they either pick you or they don’t and you get sent home.  The thing that happened with me is, I sat in a room for half a day, got called, told the judge if I had to be on a case of that length I would lose my job, and then sat in a courtroom listening to a lawyer awkwardly flirt with potential jurors.  Then the judge said, this will be continued tomorrow.  SO, I get to go back tomorrow and sit and listen to a lawyer awkwardly flirt with potential jurors.

I almost peed my pants while waiting for the afternoon recess.  If I hadn’t been filled with rage at the time I would have seen the humor…  How many times as a kid did I almost pee my pants waiting for afternoon recess?  MANY.  How many times as an adult did I say to myself, fuck, I’m glad I can just get my ass up and go take a piss when I want to?  NEVER.  Because I DIDN’T KNOW ONE DAY THIS WOULD BE AN ISSUE.  AGAIN.

Fuck civic duty.  I want to be excused.

Vagina gore, causing an emergency meeting with a speculum, and a rubber gloved lady.  I peed on my hand getting a urine specimen and no one could agree on the panties on/panties off situation.  Verdict: Panties off, I’m not pregnant, and it wasn’t my ovary or a dead baby that was oozing down my leg.

Giant rat vs. smallish dog battle continues apace in my kitchen.  Dog seems to be of the opinion that the rat is no longer in the house.  My heeb-jeeb o’meter disagrees.

I have had it up to here with the jokey misrepresentation of how television gets made by people who have no idea how television gets made.  I would like to tell people who think it’s funny to yuck it up about the crap we put on the networks to shove it up their self-righteous asses.  And also, remind them that they are lazy fuckers who’ve never tried to make anything in their lives except an easier path for the food to get to their stupid mouths.

Apparently, I’ve gotten a little bitter about middle America.  This is what happens when you work in television.  This is also a sure sign that one should probably stop working in television.

I’m going to be working in television for the foreseeable future.

I feel a little better after my run, but my stress level is high at the moment. There’s some stuff going on in the periphery of my friend group that could kindly be called back-stabbery and unkindly be called being a two-faced bitchy fuckstick. I can’t go into details and I probably shouldn’t even dignify what happened by writing about it on the internet, but why is it that just when you’re thinking you like the strong, independent awesome women around you, you find out that one of them has been saying shit behind your back? And the shit they’ve been saying isn’t, “God, she’s so awesome and so smart and I think she’s a real talent.” Oooh no.

Hopefully in a few months time I won’t even remember who I am even talking about because she’ll be so far off my radar, but right now, it totally stings.

Anyway, I’m off to hang out with one of my real friends. One who says shit to my face.

For reasons I do not understand, there are three people in my neighborhood who choose to walk their dogs off leash. Only one of those people leashes her dog when she is around other dogs.  That one woman restores my faith in leash free dog owners.  The other two turn me into a cranky old lady that harumphs and scowls.

I understand people who want to let their dog run free from the chains of human society. That is why there are things called dog parks. There your dog can get all up in another dog’s grill and butt area without my withering gaze. My dog doesn’t like to be assaulted before her morning pee, and reacts poorly to rambunctious off leash greetings while she is trying to find the perfect place to lay down some poo.

One of the off-leash dogs is owned by someone I vaguely knew in film school. It’s a nice enough dog, and it sometimes listens, but Lula gets freaked out when it comes bounding towards her and sometimes she starts to bark, and then that dog gets all in a fuss and the owner looks at me like it’s my fault. I’m sorry? I’m the one in control of my dog, your dog is the one running around in a lawless state with no repercussions. Gah.

The worst of the two offenders is the overly friendly guy with the 100 pound ancient lab who doesn’t listen. The first time I met him, Lula was new to us and so extremely shy she hardly left my side the entire walk. I was walking down our street when the douche bag with the 100 pound ancient lab who doesn’t listen approached me from about a half block away. I moved over to the side and called out to him, “Is he ok?”

The guy responded, “Oh yeah, she’s totally friendly. I wouldn’t let her off leash if she wasn’t. Totally, totally friendly.” The ancient, humongous, kind of smelly and dirty lab geriatrically rushed towards us. I greeted the lab with a friendly pat and had Lula close on the leash. The lab started to aggressively sniff Lula and Lula backed away as far as she could, tail between her legs, clearly unhappy with the situation. She might have even given a warning growl, I couldn’t hear it, but I have human ears, not dog ears.

Guess what ol’ “Totally Totally Friendly” did then. That’s right, snarled and snapped and attacked Lula. So of course, Lula defended herself. Since douche bag who doesn’t believe in leashes was yammering about how awesome his dog was and not paying attention to his dog, I think he assumed Lula was the aggressor. I made it clear to him that “Totally Totally Friendly” was the problem. And briskly walked the other way, while he grabbed his dog’s collar and walked away looking back at me, like I had somehow wounded him. He said something to the effect of, “She’s never done that before, I don’t know what happened.” Yeah, your dog was off leash and not “Totally Totally Harmless.” That’s what happened.

Since then the douche bag who has a selective memory about his ugly-ass aggressive 100 pound lab and I have run into each other a few times, and now it seems we’re on the same morning schedule. Every morning his stupid dog that never listens to his verbal commands comes rushing towards Lula and every morning I have to remind him that his dog and mine don’t get along. How fucking retarded do you have to be?

This guy is the bane of my morning walk. I hate his dog, but it’s really not his dog’s fault. It’s his fault. His dog doesn’t listen to him, and she should put it on a leash. Case closed.

I have no solution to this problem, and we’re working with Lula to make sure doesn’t develop any leash aggression. She’s certainly not perfect, but guess what?  I have her on a leash, so it isn’t a problem.

I don’t know why I get so worked up about this.  It’s like getting mad at the teenager who only moves his tiny little bag from the only empty bus seat when you pointedly raise your voice and ask him if it’s his.  He’s inconsiderate.  He doesn’t understand.  He sucks.

Case closed.

The honeymoon with the bus is most definitely over. It’s probably too soon to complain, but I’m early to everything else, so why not!

Last night it took me one hour and fifty minutes to get home. There was a premiere at Mann’s Chinese, which forced my bus to take a detour. On that detour the bus smashed up a car. It was kind of awesome and hilarious, but also really maddening. Everyone on the back of the bus kind of looked at each other and shook their heads in disbelief. I love that part of the bus riding, the instant familiarity with the strangers around you. The brief moment of comraderie when you’re all in it together. Then the super fat guy on the Toshiba laptop started yapping on his phone about how the stars were ruining everything. He was so mad at the celebrities for caring only about themselves and ruining his commute home. It was hilarious and weird. But also annoying. Not as annoying at the teen couple who plopped down next to me. The boy I couldn’t hear because he had that teenage boy mumble, but the girl with her shrill whine pierced right through my semi-concious book reading haze. I could hear every stupid teenagery thing she was saying. She was complaining about the ‘favors’ she did for her boyfriend, like buying him a phone and a video game and giving him 100 dollars. She brought everything I hate about riding the bus into clear focus.

I hate that there are people sitting next to you. These people talk. They smell. They infect you with their colds. They leer at your chest. Their thighs touch your thighs. They drink beer at 8am. They slide into you when the bus stops fast. Their backpacks bump your face when you’re trying to get off. Their personal space bubble intersects with your personal space bubble. They are all around you and there is no way to avoid them.

I am so over riding the bus.

These are the times when I wish I was anonymous. I wish I could spew out the verbal venom that I’m holding back like so much bile after a cheap shot of tequila. But I’m not anonymous, so I have to go on and while I wait to regain control of my stupid temper I am trying to come up with a list of things I do like and I am looking forward to.

1. Posting my first film on the internet. Sometime next week, I hope. It’s a crazy little movie that when I re-watched last month I had a nice little chuckle about it. I’m sure it made sense to me back then, but now I look at it and wonder who that little film student was and what she was thinking.

2. Anxiously awaiting my early Christmas present to myself. It’s just a little zoom lens, but I’m excited to shoot some pictures with it.

3. Cream cheese brownie bites from Trader Joe’s. Oh my, they are delicious.

4. The curious decrease in the numbers on the scale, despite the fact that three days running I have had number 3 for dinner. It makes no sense, and I am ok with that.

5. The LSAT prep book that I’m going to buy in the next three days. I might be going back to school, and that fills me with endless joy.

6. The pumpkin pie I’m going to make for my boyfriend. He loves pumpkin pie and I love him.

7. How excited my little dog is going to be when I get home. She will always be happy to see me and never hold stupid shit against me. I love dogs.

8. Pilot G-2 .05 pens. Joy in the shape of a pen.

9. Figuring out a proposal for something quite awesome. At least, I think it will be awesome.

10. Louie’s face when I remind him about the whipped cream for the pumpkin pie.

I feel better already.

I never knew Valentine’s Day was such a big deal in Los Angeles until tonight.  I just spen

I can’t even get bitchy about poor customer service without feeling guilty anymore.  What the fuck is wrong with me?

First of all, there is an Office Depot that I hate, but that I go to for convenience.  Except for the fact that every time I step foot in there I am inconvenieced.  It’s got the worst work flow for customer service that I have ever seen.  There are three randomly place registers that are manned by floor staff, and if there is anything I’ve learned in my decade of customer service, it is you cannot have floor staff also responsible for a register in a store that has more than two customers at a time.  It is a bad business model and always leaves someone waiting.  To make matters worse, it’s one of those stores that makes efficiency even farther from the realm of possibility by locking up their ink cartridges.  So, while the one floor person who is simultaneously in charge of the register is getting an ink cartridge for you, ten people are milling about trying to figure out where they should stand so as to form some kind of line.  The designers of this store seem to go by the Montessori method, no chairs in rows, no aisles with things that go together and no idea where to stand in line.  I was Montessori schooled at an early age, and in that brief time there I learned that some children learn best in an open environment and others are standing around trying to figure out why their chairs aren’t all in a row (as they pick their noses and bite their neighbors).  It’s not a good way to run an office supply store is all I’m saying.  People buying office supplies are generally anal retentive chairs in a row people, not hippy dippy stand in a drum circle and dream up the location of the damned lined paper people.

So, I yelled at the lady at the counter.  Who happened to be helping some of the minglers who had figured out a way to make a line that snaked by a candy display that shared an aisle with a stapler display and then I asked for a manager in a loud voice which made everyone uncomfortable.  The manager had to rush away from the register she was manning to deal with me.  I started getting the kicked dog treatment, shortly there after, where the staff kind of slinks around, not making eye contact, hoping you aren’t going to kick them again, especially since every receipt has a survey form on the bottom.  I felt a little silly once I made my way through some Montessori nose pickers and huffed up to the register, only to realize that the girl I yelled at was a trainee.  Poor kid.  Poor stupid untrained and never going to figure out why people are yelling at her because her management is retarded kid.

I walked out to my car and a guy caught my eye, “This too shall pass.”  I slinked away cursing under my breath.  Fucking hippies.

Every year I promise myself that this will be the year that at Thanksgiving I’ll be able to bask in the huge writing accomplishment that I’ve tidily finished just in time for it to be well received and purchased so that at Christmas I’ll be whisking myself away to a vacation in someplace like Hawaii.  I’m sure you know that this year that scenario is not exactly what will be happening.

eh.  oh well.

At least I have a steady supply of super sharp Sharpies.  There’s nothing more disappointing than opening a Sharpie and finding it dulled down to a sad nubbin.  These days, I am responsible for the Sharpies, and I’ll have you know that they are positively flourishing under my care.  When people ask for a Sharpie I judge the situation and circumstances that they’ll be using my precious under and then either give them an already ruined one, hording the good ones for myself, or if I deem them responsible I’ll give them one that still holds a point.  I know what you’re thinking.  And the answer is yes, I am working my dream job.

Another thing I promise myself every year is to  not have to rush to the store on Thanksgiving eve to buy something.  Every year I marvel at all the people in the grocery store.  I wonder if they’re procrastinating forgetters like me.  I wonder if they are making Thanksgiving all on their own for the first time.  I wonder where they are the rest of the year.  I am thankful they are not in the store the rest of the year, because if they were, I would become a shut-in and order my groceries from my life partner, the internet.

The vitamin’s effect was questionable today, because while I didn’t actually punch anyone,  I did kind of loudly say out my open window, “Walk a little slower, fatass.”  The dude wasn’t even fat.  I just didn’t like the nonchalant mosey he was taking across a pain in the ass intersection.  He looked like a smarmy douchebag.  I’d like to think that after my scathing review of his physique he went home and purged his pumpkin spice latte and vowed to hit the treadmill.  But I have this feeling he didn’t even hear me.  The fact that I wish he did might mean I need to up my vitamin dosage.

I have a fair amount of drinking to do tomorrow, so you’ll either get an awesome drunken post about how much I love you guys and want you to take off your shirts so I can see your tits, or I’ll just tell my friends’ parents the exact same thing.  Have a lovely Thanksgiving, Americans, and foreigners, have a good Thursday.