Hello, Dali

“Are we selling face cream or staging a coup?”

I went to a women-in-business networking meeting. Arrived fashionably late and walked into a sit-down breakfast instead of the coffeklatsch I was expecting. The main ingredient in the breakfast was salt. The quiche? Apparently sponsored by Morton’s. But I ate some breakfast (the fruit was passable), drank some coffee, and introduced myself to the group. The host put me on the spot to talk about my goals for the year and all I could remember from the list I’ve posted here was “get laid” and “buy some lamps.” I played it off the best that I could and made up some bullshit about treating my job more like a career. Okay, it wasn’t entirely bullshit, but I should definitely get a crown and some flowers for my Miss America contestant impersonation.

A licensed esthetician spoke to the group after breakfast. Had we been employees of the skin care industry, the chosen speaker would have made a lot of sense. However, our ranks included freelance writers, community representatives, and lawyers. So I sat through a 40-minute Cosmopolitan-esque talk about my “skin care regime” and heard the phrase “free radicals” at least once, which made me remember Janeane Garofalo as Abby in The Truth About Cats and Dogs. Suffice it to say, I nearly broke through the door getting out of the building after the speech was over. Despite the crappy breakfast and odd choice of speaker, I got paid to do pretty much nothing for two hours, so I'll probably go to next month's session. I know. I'm a whore.

She spits, she snarls, she cries crocodile tears

About two hours later at work, possibly fueled by a shitty mood and the surreal events of the morning, I got into an ugly fight with King V. I was yelling, I was crying, I was pointing my finger at him, and I told him I hated having him as my boss. I had no idea I had quite so much tension built up inside me, but when he once again criticized me for not being proactive enough (something I thought I’d done a better job at being lately), something inside me just went snap and the torrential flood gates broke. We have since talked, but I am definitely tense. And I’ve got a headache. And I have to go to this stupid digital photography class tonight when all I want to do is go home and sit in front of my computer and organize poems and draw and write while watching reruns of Scrubs.

The good stuff

I might have found a house to buy. Three bedrooms, one of which will be a bitchin’ master mistress suite. Beautiful green tile around the fireplace. A large and sturdy mantel where my altar can go. A nice-sized basement, some stuff redone like kitchen cabinets and counters. Space for a dishwasher. 1.5 baths. A human-sized tub (over which I silently drooled as I currently have a shower stall I have to stand up to bathe waaaah). Best of all, an honest realtor who pointed out water damage (minimal) and didn't hesitate to tell me the truth about her concern that the house is being sold as-is. It doesn’t seem to have any major problems, but an inspection will reveal all. So now I need to give a stranger at a mortgage company all of my pertinent financial information and hope she doesn’t fall down laughing when I say things like “Nope, I have no money down” and “Why yes, I owe Sallie Mae more than the sale of all my internal organs would net." Also, the mortgage person I called about getting pre-approved sent me the necessary paperwork right away, so *doink* the ball is back in my court to get things moving.

To my surprise, I left my warm house yesterday and braved the snow (all slushy mushy wet one inch of it) to see the house. While I was out, I also went to the grocery store, got everything I needed, and didn't spend all the money I'd budgeted for ice cream and ravioli fruit and vegetables. Which is very, very important. Especially since I realized today I owe King V $40. Blargh.

I knew what I was going to wear to work before I went to bed last night, which always makes my mornings go smoother, especially since I get up at the last possible minute and then run through the house, dodging the cats as I get ready for work.

I bought a really nice body wash that was cheap and leaves me feeling all pink and scrumpdillyutious. It's a whole lot better than some soap I picked up at the dollar store once, completely swayed by the soap’s smell, only to find out that soap that costs $1 doesn’t necessarily lather. Hey, we've already established I'm a whore.