Friday, Feb. 22, 2002 / 7:17 p.m.

~Cranky and Dreaming of the Mediterranean Sea~

After lunch I'm sleepy, I'm cranky, I want to take a nap, lie down at least. I hate my shirt, it's too much cloth, I want to put on a tshirt, some comfy lounging pants, my flannels, take off my shoes, these jeans, I feel so constricted, so intensely uncomfortable, stuck here in this chair, this phone ringing incessantly, everyone else goofing off, turning their phones off, conducting personal business on their phones, Lulu going on and on and on and on, and fucking on some more about her fucking hair. Jesus Christ, woman, your fascination with your hair indicates something clearly missing from your life. The fact that you can never be satisfied with your hair means that you are not satisfied with yourself. And rightly so.

Yesterday you were trying to decide if you should spend your money on new eyeglasses so you can see�or on your fucking hair.

Cranky.

I need to amend my previous entry, I need to say that I was really, no, REALLY happy that Sarah Hughes won the Gold in Women's Figure Skating, it was a wonderful moment, I was all teary and everything, but I hated, no, HATED that Michelle Kwan was so focused on winning the GOLD that she couldn't enjoy the fact that she was there, couldn't enjoy skating, the experience. Gold or nothing, and that's the wrong attitude. Sarah just wanted to skate, sure, she wanted the Gold too, but she just wanted to skate the best she could, and she did.

Here's how I think it should've ended up: Sarah Hughes wins Gold, Sasha Cohen wins Silver, and Michelle Kwan wins Bronze.

My phone is ringing, but I'm not answering it. I am so sick of these idiots who call here. They make me want to scream, every day. No exaggeration, every single day. It doesn't help that my belly is full from lunch, I am extremely uncomfortable in my Friday Casual clothes, because they're not quite casual enough for me, and though I am well aware it's Friday, and I will have two days away from here, I know it's only two days and I will have to come right back.

I have an intense desire to change my clothes. Reminds me of a day or two one Summer, last, maybe the year before, where I went home at lunch and did change clothes. Actually, I've done that a few times, and no one's ever noticed. They don't see me. I'm invisible. Whatever.

Won't be long now. Three hours, three hours from now I'll leave here, leave these women and their hair talk, their Bernie Mac talk, their sensationalist gossip talk, all of it behind me and bask in the glory of ME and my girls for two whole days, three nights�but see, then I have to do this again, and it's killing me! If I thought I could just walk out of here and never come back, don't you think I would? I can't. There are no parents waiting to bail me out, no husband or lover with the funds to take over my financial life, no savings, no stocks or bonds, no nothing, just this paycheck. I quit and then what? Sell everything I own, live on the street?

Another job, you say? Don't you think I'm trying? I can only move laterally, and laterally sucks.

This is unpleasant, and strangely, it's not even affecting me, writing it. I feel fine, but I do want to get out of these jeans, put on my flannel pants, the pair that's lavender with the yellow chicks hatching out of eggs all over. My flannels from Tarzhay. Maybe if I just go take off my underwear�sorry, more than you need to know, I'm just so uncomfortable in all these clothes. When I'm home I wear hardly anything. Tshirt, or thermal, depending on weather, flannels or shorts, depending on weather, no underwear, of course, no jewelry, hair pulled back, no shoes, ever, maybe socks if it's cold. Mmmmm�I hate wearing the socks and shoes, the shirt that's anything but a tshirt, the jeans on Friday or khakis or otherwise the rest of the week. Blech.

And Lulu is loud today, downright obnoxious. She's either yakking on the phone or yakking to whoever will listen to her here. She - can't - stop - talking.

Cranky. Intense Need to Be Alone. Intense.

Hey, this tops it all, really, I just spoke to "Twnickia", no shit, that's her name, and she wanted her W-2 (someone called yesterday wanting her "2W Form"), but when I asked what year she needed she started to yell at me, "I don't know what year, I don't know, I have amnesia!", so I say, "You have amnesia?" and she says, "Yeah, I don't know what year I need, '98, '96, '97, I don't know, let me speak to someone else!!", but I wasn't going to pass her on. We keep records of everything, every phone call, so I look her up, she did call, once, to change her address, but we didn't do a reissue on any W-2, ANY W-2, amnesia or not. She insists she spoke to someone, a man, and he was going to mail it, INSISTS, starts yelling, yelling, not yelling, yelling, not yelling, and I'm looking at the record, no, it was a woman, I've got it right here, she's wigging out, really, and it turns out she wants a W-2 from 4 years ago. She wants a W-2 for '98 and we don't have those, so no doubt she did speak to a man, at Payroll, and when I tell her this she apologizes, "I'm sorry, oh, I apologize, alright?", yeah, sure, chew me a new asshole because you're a fucking idiot with "amnesia". Too fucking funny.

I had to tell everyone, they heard me laughing, I stood up and told them. My call of the day. Amnesia. Now I've heard it all.

Here's something else, Bell should never have agreed to de-regulation, or did they "agree"? Remember the days when you signed up for telephone service, and they brought you a phone, you rented it? From them? All phones were owned and serviced by Bell. Then, around 1980something they changed all that. You could buy your own phone, actually OWN your own phone, choose it yourself, spend a lot, or get some cheap piece of shit. Then cordless phones came along, and now those helpful, but utterly ridiculous cellular phones! As someone who receives phone calls 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, let me just say, BRING BACK THE BELL!

Every other caller is on some cheap piece of shit phone, I can't hear them, I have to crank the volume WAY up, or they're too loud, or they're on a cell, they sound like they're underwater, or every other syllable is chopped off and when I ask them to repeat themselves they start screaming like I'm stupid, but really it's their fucking phones!

Yeah, I hate this job! Too funny.

Yes, today it's funny. Even my crankiness is funny. Really, I'm not upset at all. I will go home and change clothes and I will feel much better. Maybe I'll drink a beer, or some wine. Or not.

It's my 15 minute break now, someone is using the ONE Internet accessible PC, so I remain in the cube, Walkman on, listening to Timbuk 3, "Eden Alley", "Too much sex�not enough affection". This is a great album. The other side of this tape is the Rolling Stones, "Sticky Fingers". Music always alters things, doesn't it? If it doesn't, you're not paying attention.

The wallpaper on my PC is Webshots, today a photo of waves crashing at sunset along the Oregon Coast. Lovely.

I went to bed last night wondering what I'd be eating tonight for dinner. I think I'm experiencing an increase in appetite lately. Not that I mind. Eating is good. But I want more than microwave popcorn and a Banquet frozen dinner. Have you seen that commercial with the women in the sauna talking about what they had the night before for dinner? One says, "I ate an entire bag of Gummy Worms". I can totally relate, not to the Gummy Worms, but to eating weird crap, popcorn and funky TV dinners. The one ate some Lean Cuisine meal, and it wasn't just Lean, it was "Cuisine", so she is the envy of the others.

I want pasta, I want to eat it on a terrace overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I want to smell olives and lemons and fish everywhere, drink wine until everything is soft and muted, eat until I can't eat anymore.

*Since I wrote the above�I waded through the final 3 hours at work, left work, went to Publix for milk, and ended up buying frozen egg rolls, a California Pizza Kitchen frozen garlic chicken pizza, lavender soap, tiramisu (on sale!) from the bakery, a couple of Lean Cuisines, coffee beans (hazelnut), bagels for the cream cheese I bought at Wal Mart, and Tic Tacs for my purse, to supplement the Altoids. Remember, I went in there for milk. I also, before that, went to the Hallmark shop to look for a replacement "Bunny" for Norma. She's had hers since she was a kitten, one she stole from me actually, and it's in tatters. I once sewed a canvas bodysuit for him, "Mr. Bunny", but she wouldn't go near him like that. I won't settle for anything besides a near exact replica, and I doubt she will either. No luck.

I also got hit on in the frozen foods aisle, by a lonely old man. Why is it the lonely old men find me so damned appealing? It's never someone young and good looking. This guy is eyeing me, walking around me, looking at the Stouffer's stuff, finally grabs a Stouffer's lasagna, asks if he can ask me something, wants to know which is better, the oven�or the microwave�after telling me that this was his attempt at cooking himself a "gourmet meal"�I say it doesn't really matter, I use the microwave, it takes a lot less time�and he offers to cook one for me�uh, No Thanks.

Poor guy. He must have been 70, maybe 68, weathered skin, missing some side teeth, a bit shrunken looking, poor posture, gray hair, kind of a wiry guy. What?! Should I have let him cook me up a Stouffer's Lasagna?

In the car on the way home I imagined some twentysomething thinking that I'm some old woman�but I'm not. I swear. Whatever. Moving right along, in my jammies, feeling sooooo much better. Life begins now.

Yeah, this is long, no one's reading this at this point, so I'll add here that I should say another of my favorite "Fuck me to tears!" exclamations, due to the fact that I just had to tell S., in an email note, the reason I want him to delete the joleen email address from his Hotmail account. What would you do if someone told you you had her diary address in hand, but don't read it, delete the info? Why, you'd fucking read it! Right? I asked him, begged him, not to, but I think he'll read it anyway, after telling me, assuring me, he won't. Yeah, Fuck Me To Tears!

Cost of the War in Iraq
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