Jesus Effin' Christ, people

Thursday, you need to die. Now. In my best impression of Eugene Levy as Dr. Walter Kornbluth in Splash, may I now just say, "What a DAY I'm having!" (I know, I know, he says "week" and not "day." Shut. It.)

Let's see.

I overslept. I got up 30 minutes before I was supposed to be at work. Swearing, swearing...

I left half my work clothes in a location other than where I was dressing. Convenient.

I discovered a hole chewed in my favorite black skirt.

My cell phone was on about one percent power, but luckily worked long enough for me to call King V and let him know I was on the way to the office. I tried using my friends' phone in their kitchen, but it was inexplicably out of order. Being paranoid, I suddenly feared a psycho killer had cut the lines during the night and I was about to die. Thankfully, it appeared I just hadn't gotten the phone all the way back in the cradle to recharge, so whew, no psycho killers.

Since I was late anyway, I stopped at Starbucks for breakfast.

The drive-through person didn't hear me say "...and a breakfast sandwich" when I ordered, so I settled for just my chai that came with a healthy topping of extra, unwanted foam. B-L-E-A-H! I kind of always made fun of the yuppies from hell who ordered half-caf, no foam, double shot, one Splenda, fat-free creamer with a splash of Vitamin D milk, mocha breve latte cappuccinos with just a HINT of nutmeg, but I'm beginning to understand. Foam is NASTY and it takes up valuable liquid room.

I got to work. My shirt was barely covering the hole in my skirt. My hair looked like scrambled hell. It's steamy outside, so my outfit was unpleasantly stuck to my person. Did I mention I'd accidentally dumped the contents of my oh-so-sexy tote bag out on the seat, thinking I was picking it up by the handles? Did I also mention I left the windows and sunroof open last night and had to run outside in the rain to close up the car and that some of the things I picked up to put back in my tote bag were still damp? No? Okay. Remind me to mention those later.

Less than 30 minutes after arriving at work, I was following King V to The Scariest Auto Body Shop on the Planet. Seriously. On the wall? A sign that said, "We reserve the right to refuse serviec to anyone." Next to a sign about employees needing to "acommpanly" visitors in staff-only areas. Jesus Christ. It's the Deliverance Auto Repair Shop. By the way, we were there because King V drove into a bus last week. Well, he drove in front of the bus and the bus, rightfully but accidentally, crunched into his passenger side door, which dented the shit out of the door and shattered the window. THAT must have been amusing for Queen S, who was King V's passenger. Luckily, no one was hurt and King V got a replacement door for his car for less than $200.

We thought we were picking up the door, so I was driving my parents' van that smells like old people and despair. Queen S bought it off some old couple because she wanted to go RVing around the country after she retires. Problem is, every time she and King V leave on a trip, the van starts having brake problems an hour into the trip. I've consulted knowledgeable friends and mentioned THREE times that the calipers might be sticking. I've heard of calipers, but couldn't have diagnosed that problem because, well, I'm just glad the car stops without me having to drag my feet along the ground, Flintstone style. Read: brakes, just like electricity, equal magic. I majored in English for a reason, people.

I was at the office for roughly an hour before we left for an employee birthday lunch (which included squeezing into the booth, struggling a bit to get out, and crossing myself when I realized our accident-prone driver never checks his blind spots) and back in the van shortly after to pick up King V at a different auto body place. I am now so fried from my late start, pro-foam, smelly van, torn skirt, jacked-up hair day that I've basically just been sitting here, waiting for the day to end. I want, in no particular order, peace and quiet that lasts more than a few minutes; a shower; some chill time in the A.C. , non-hell hair and a Valium smoothie.

* * * * * * * * * *

I need to stop having dreams about my ex because they're pissing me off. I woke up mad from a nap yesterday because I thought we'd actually hung out. This girl, she's like a rash that ointment can't kill soothe. In the same dream, King V had pierced his nose and dyed his hair, beard, and mustache some godawful shade of brown that must have sprung forth from the bowels of Spray-On Hair Land. He hasn't had a beard for about 20 years and would never pierce his person. At least his presence told my subconscious that I was dreaming, but still. The ex? Yech. Waste of blood.

Oh. And mean people? Yeah. I went to a pool party the other night and a bunch of us were hanging out in the pool chatting and we called out to a guy who was fully dressed. We teased him about pulling him into the pool and just a bit sharply, he called out, "I'd like to see you try!" and then looked dead at me and said, "Except for you, Max." It hurt my feelings because, well, I'm HUMAN and because he knows I'm sensitive about my size. But I played it off and flexed for the crowd. Mmmm. Me strong. Me drag people into pool against their will. Me a beast to be tamed. Me not human. My grrrr was definitely halfhearted at best. Asshole.

Also, some whore in denim hot pants one of the clerks at the Deliverance Auto Shop called me sir. She followed it up quickly with ma'am and yes, I was standing next to a guy she'd just been helping, but excuse me for just a second while I slip this cyanide into my Diet Coke.

UPDATE: My evening was far more pleasant. I stopped by my house and picked up a few things, petted the cats, and then hung out at Sterling and Steele's all evening, finishing one of the books I plucked from their shelf (One for the Money by Janet Evanovich). It was entertaining enough, but wow, she could really learn to write better. She includes a lot of unnecessary details ("I got home from the stakeout, took a long shower, put on a flannel nightgown, walked into the living room, turned on the TV, looked at the wall, sat down on the couch, moved to the center cushion, crossed my legs, uncrossed my legs, changed the channel, read my mail, stabbed Maxine through the forehead with a spork...") and yet the book was entertaining enough to finish. Probably because the protagonist, Stephanie Plum, goes from working in retail to being a bounty hunter and WOW does she suck at it. It's probably my Scorpio revenge fantasies and thinly-veiled psychotic personality that put me in the book, armed and (Maxine) dangerous, looking for bad guys. Kind of like Dog the Bounty Hunter with a lot less white trash.

Miss Plum (Ha! Clue moment!) carried her gun in her purse and didn't use her killer death Mace-type spray nearly often enough, if you ask me. And seriously, a purse? COME ON. The book must've been written in the 80s because Evanovich dresses Plum in spandex shorts a lot and has her apply "a thick line of turquoise (!) eyeliner" more than once. I wear makeup about twice a year but when I read that in the book, I cried out, "WHY??" And everyone has a CAR PHONE. Of course, the book was published in the mid 90s and technology hadn't yet reached the DVR, TiVo, iPod/Phone, Blackberry, Bluetooth phase but it was still humorous. A car phone?? Might as well just say the characters had to jump out of their cars at stoplights and crank up the motor rill gud.

Despite my reservations, I picked up the second Evanovich title, Two for the Dough. I don't know if I'll continue reading past the first chapter or so because the writing is just the same. Plum is finally wearing sneakers on stakeouts instead of heels, but her gun is still in her purse.

I finished the book, did some laundry, hit the shower, quickly learned not to wash my nether regions with any kind of soap containing menthol (WOO HOO HOO!), witnessed a thankfully brief cat fight that erupted (a) next to my head and (b) in the dark in an unfamiliar room, and, as my head touched the pillow, remembered I'd dreamed the night before that I, dressed in a long white A-line skirt, white heels, and a pristine white cowboy hat, had married The Date and that Serena had skipped the ceremony.

 God. No wonder Thursday was so fucked.