TITLE: Roller Coaster of Neuroses
DATE: 2/03/2005 06:42:00 PM
We've all been there...
Presented, a pu-pu platter of my inner mind.
I succumbed to the Chicken Parm once again. Although it seems as though Friendly's has been hearing my complaints, because it looks like they hired a new manager over there. Today a very gracious man actually answered the phone over there with a businesslike greeting, took my order, and when I went over to pick it up...there it was! Piping hot in its little plastic take-out dish. What's more, the same man actually asked me if I wanted ketchup, instead of me having to haggle with him for some, and then didn't hand out the ketchup packets as if they contained the blood of his first born. Major points for that, although I may have lost an important blogging topic.
He forgot to give me a straw for my Coke, though. Bastard.
This is no fault of Friendly's, but getting there and back today was an adventure. Which is pretty ridiculous if you consider it's about a mile away, tops, from work. On the way there, the street was blocked off at not one, not two, but three construction sites, each with a little obstacle course of cones set up that gave an approximate fifty-foot stretch of side street three new S curves, and smooshed two marginal lanes down into one really marginal one. There was a cop, presumably there to direct traffic, but he just sort of stood there. Bastard.
Before procuring my chicken parm, acquiring fundage was necessary. There's a BOA ATM across the street from Friendly's, but of course, this is not so simple. Essentially, turning left into the parking lot in front of the ATM from the lane I was in on Montvale Ave requires cunning, trickery and sheer fearlessness. Today it required cunning, trickery, sheer fearlessness and not a little bit of stupidity on my part, because there was an accident scene complete with every type of emergency vehicle and a flatbed tow truck right in front of it. Still, I snuck my way in there, because I am teh intrepid driver. I went to the ATM while worrying (because I am defined by worry) that someone was going to come along right behind me and steal my car, which I had left running.
Bitch please. Ain't nobody gonna steal a salt-encrusted, hubcapless, 1999 Toyota Corolla CE with 157,000-plus miles on it. But don't try to tell me that. No, sir.
After procuring monies, I jumped back in my car and headed out of the parking lot. The parking lot in question is a horseshoe type affair set up around the building that houses the ATM and what used to be an Einstein Bagels, but which is now an empty space with a FOR LEASE sign and a sad little mop perched in the window. Where I had snuck in around the police cruiser was the ENTER ONLY, and you have to go around behind the building and out of the EXIT ONLY to get out.
Except the flatbed tow truck was parked directly across the EXIT ONLY.
The cops, paramedics, firefighters and last but not least, the tow truck driver, watched me approach and each of them gave me a look like, "Idiot."
So I went around the wrong way, and managed to sneak around the police cruiser again, against traffic. Because I am teh moron intrepid driver.
Then I parked at Friendly's, ran inside, and procured my chicken parm. When I came back out again I realized I had parked horizontally across not one, not two, but three handicapped parking spaces in my rush.
Which is worse: that I did this, or that I did it because I thought it was the fire lane?
Within plain sight of a fire truck and police cruiser?
I got my punishment, though, because on the way back down the S-curve construction road, this time I was met with a detour. That sent me down the twistiest, potholiest (?) road in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. By the time I got back with the chicken parm, the Allotted Feeding Time had passed and I had to come in and eat at my desk.
Ever see another girl, and say to yourself, "Well...at least I'm not as fat as that."
I cannot tell a lie. I did that today.
Except, yeah, I am.
Because of eating at my desk, I had to answer phones for the receptionist who left for her lunch as soon as I got back while eating the Chicken Parm.
Of course the phone rang just as I took a large and glorious bite of it. Bastard.
Ever been afraid you're going to belch over a PA system? That's a good time, I tell ya.
Yesterday I went to Burger King, because I have the worst eating habits in the entire known universe. Seriously. My stream of consciousness on the way there was something I contemplated trying to relate to you, but decided not to, because it would probably crash the entire Internet and send Earth hurtling off into space untethered by gravity. Suffice to say, it was neurotic. Neurotic enough for even me to stand back, look at myself, and want to give myself a hearty bitch-slap.
It basically consisted of a festering concoction of guilt, rationalization and frustration over the fact that at my size I was deliberately travelling to a fast-food joint to get a burger. Even though I have to be in a wedding in two months, and that diet I've been planning on for about, oh, a year, should possibly start sometime soon. I folded myself into all kinds of fun origami shapes agonizing over what to order, even though I knew that by the time I got to the drive-thru window I'd just panic and order the same godddamn thing, and then I'd eat it in my car while reading, because that's my habit, and then I would smoke to put a nice layer of tar over the whole thing, and I would think to myself that my insides must look like the grease trap at a Cajun restaurant, but I was powerless to stop this scenario.
I was a cauldron of self-loathing by the time I pulled around to the first window and handed the slightly "off" guy who's always there my $5.55. Which is when I noticed that both he and his heavy-accented counterpart at the food window were wearing the absolute goofiest of stereotypical Western ensembles, including plaid flannel fringed shirts, huge ten gallon hats with chinstraps and bolo ties. Yes, bolo ties.
Hey, life could be worse.
Diseases / conditions I have thought I had or theorized about my chances of acquiring in the past month or so:
irritable bowel syndrome
borderline personality disorder
Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
and I'm sure I've forgotten some...
So apparently Punxsatawney (sp?) Phil saw his shadow yesterday. What are you gonna do. I was ruminating on this, though, and I think it might be more fun if we replaced the groundhog with Doctor Phil, like every Feb. 2 we pry Dr. Phil out of a sound sleep at dawn and throw him out onto his front porch. And if he sees his shadow, it means the Apocalypse is upon us.
Just something I was thinking about.