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Wednesday, Mar. 05, 2003 / 1:24 p.m. ~The Training Continues~ First off, let me welcome the boys in uniform to my diary - Welcome! Bienvenue! Bienvenido! I have nothing against you guys who think you have no other way to finance college - but have you considered grants?? Really, I respect you, in a way. And if you were looking for cunnilingus and you ended up here, well, um, aren't you in the wrong place?, but hey, enjoy, whatever. Second, and the rest. She smells like scented maxi pads. It's a peculair odor, peculiar to the world of feminine hygiene, unmistakable, she's 'on the rag'. She's 40, but I would have guessed younger, and she has no children, she won't be having children, she knows her eggs are too old, just like me, like mine. She is from Chicago, I lived outside the city when I was a child. She is smart, she is tired, she is over it, it was not her choice, nor was it mine, but it turns out we have things in common. I don't care what color she is, and as far as I can tell she doesn't care what color I am. She laughs at all my jokes, even the ones I'm not aware I'm making. She finds me endlessly entertaining and that is fun, for me and for her. She laughed at the guy who says "skreet" and probably "skrimp" too. She laughed at the white Southern girl who said the company is racist and she hopes it burns down, and I asked her, seriously, if she thinks we should enter it in 'comments'. We're making the best of a really weird day, the best of a bad, bad situation, and I'm okay with that. I was okay with it as it was, but H., the Supervisor, is thrusting the other department at us, wants us all to be one big team, though our jobs couldn't be more different. Every single one of us is training someone else. Two people per cube, two headsets tuned in to every call. We're doubled up, we're shortstaffed, the two are off in New Orleans, and it's now Ash Wednesday, Mardi Gras is over, and I am no longer Catholic, I give up nothing. I'm thinking about New York, Andy, I'm going to write about my experiences there later, when I have more time, because I've been there. I have New York inside of me, I may even have left some of me there. I could get lost there, I could fold myself up in NYC, in Manhattan, even in Long Island, or Brooklyn, or Queens, and be cozy and comfortable. I'll write it when I have time. Right now feels rushed, everything today feels rushed. I started to listen to Moby's B Sides, but the phone started and it hasn't stopped. And now she and I sit and laugh, or I talk and she laughs. She's more tired than I, she's menstruating, and I know that well, too well, so I know, and I don't mind being myself if she finds me entertaining. Maybe we can make the best of a bad situtation. My peanut butter and apricot jam sandwich is inside me now. I'm filled with wheat and oat fiber. Last night I combined oat bran and raisin bran cereals. And microwave popcorn. I should be producing long logs of excrement. It wasn't purposeful, it was all I had to eat. I'm way beyond needing to shop for food. I only keep stock of water, milk, bread, cat food, juice. The rest is grabbing what I can find, stopping off here or there. I've got a long weekend coming up and if I don't stock my fridge with actual food I'm a huge fool. Or supremely lazy. Or both. In between phone calls and on the way to the bathroom I think, "What am I going to have for dinner?", and I always feel like the woman on the WE (Women's Entertainment) network who reminds herself to buy diapers, to pick up the drycleaning and to shave her legs, whilst stretching in her yoga class. She's beautiful too, dark, exotic looking, and so flexible. I wish my leg would bend so I could be flexible too. I wish I was in a yoga class again. I wish a lot of things. My horoscope says I may not be able to keep my head screwed on today because I'll be so busy daydreaming. I'm getting started on that now, not the screwing of my head, but the daydreaming. I'm dreaming of yoga, of sandy Caribbean beaches, white sand (not that I'm a sand-ist), and all the things I wish I was doing instead of getting ready to log off, get back in my car and drive back to work to sit with the 40 year old who smells like scented maxi pads, so we can take phone calls and try to process the pile of paperwork on my desk whilst the other one does my FAXing and filing and copying because H. thinks it's for the best. AAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH. Cost of the War in Iraq
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