(no subject)
I had some sort of nightmarishesque dream early this morning about the horrible woman who fired me at Lawland and I couldn’t go back to sleep. I find it bothersome that I’m still apparently conflicted about this. I’m well rid of her and them, but my psyche begs to differ. I can’t remember any details about the dream-thank Margaret-but it annoys me anew not only did she kill my job, now she’s killing my sleep. Not cool, Harranguing Bitch Monster, not cool.
So I got up. I didn’t want to get up, but after rolling around in the Uberbed for 45 minutes, I figured I didn’t have anything to lose. I flipped on the television and settled in with Pat Keirnan, the NY1 morning newscaster and got the scoop on what happened overnight. My favorite part of NY1 morning news is when he goes through the local papers and hits the highlights of each issue-or at least those articles he finds interesting and/or relevant. For some reason, I couldn’t catch him doing that today, so I pulled on a sweatshirt and some shorts and headed out to the bodega where I got some smokes, a breakfast sandwich and some hot tea.
Shortly after I’d consumed all three of my breakfast treats, the sleep I’d missed starting around 5AM came looking for me-and it would not be allayed. I ended up convincing myself to just lay down for a little bit, but an hour later, I’m running around the Palatial Estate like I was being chased by an axe murderer trying to get dressed and out the door so I wouldn’t be late.
Wasn’t late, but got chided for not sending an email to the Secretarial Services Manager telling her I was here. Which, for the record, I think is stupid beaurocracy. There’s something not quite right about organizations requiring you confirm what is normally standard operating procedure. And I also hate those people who are unapologetic about being dicks. The conversation I had with this woman was completely pointless. She started with, “Oh, you’re here.” Doesn’t that effectively negate the need to discuss this issue any further? Once she knows I’m here, why do we need to discuss the fact I’m here? The computer sign-on records will prove I signed in at 9:20AM, but she was being officious and annoying so we had a three minute conversation about how difficult her life is when I don’t tell her I’m here (Never have before, by the way), and how, now that she’s tracked me down, she can send out her daily attendance report, and then we enjoyed a quick review of job expectations and the start/end times. Really?
It’s becoming increasingly obvious I was not meant to be a team player. Teams annoy me. They require patience and understanding and teamwork and selflessness that I obviously don’t possess. I’ve seen the statistics that tout good early team players becoming more successful adults both in business and marriage, but there again, obviously, I’m not much of a team player. I’ve never had anything close to a longterm intimate relationship and while I’m better at business than I am at pleasure, Warren Buffet has nothing to worry about… I don’t do too badly when I’m captain of the ship, but I really suck as Sailor #4. And not in that good way.
So I invited Ryan over on Sunday to eat my pie. He mentioned the last (and only) time he was over that while he thought my apple pie was very good, he was an old blueberry pie guy from way back, and that’s how I could really impress him: bake a good blueberry pie.
It’s taken weeks for blueberries to finally come into season-and they’re still expensive (enough blueberries for two pies at Trader Joe’s cost me nearly $20)-but on Saturday, I intend to concoct two of the most luscious, aphrodiasical and sensuous blueberry pies ever to pop out of an oven. I will serve it to him with a choice of hand whipped heavy cream or premium vanilla ice cream, and afterwards, I intend to ravish him to within an inch of his life. I hope it’s not difficult to get blueberry off of walls and bedspreads.
It’s nice to feel that old familiar tug of physical longing again. I’d not felt if for a long time, but lately, that sort of nutty, salty taste has filled the top of my mouth and certain slow cells have started sliding towards more northward environs… It’s nice to know there’s someone who, at least to this point, is as excited to see me naked as I am, them. And trust me kids: that takes some doing with this body. I’m trusting these are some magical fucking blueberries. Cuz I’m really in the mood for some magical fucking. I’m sure I’ll keep you all informed.
One of the two attorneys for whom I’m working today has, for the last 75 minutes, been sitting in his office chair, rocking rather animatedly back and forth while reading the New York Times. Hasn’t made a peep, but hasn’t stopped, either. It’s a little strange. But as long as he’s not asking me to work too hard, I’m fine with it. Or at least I am publically.
Question of the Day: What’s your favorite pie and what are you willing to do for it?