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December 25
Mom is watching me, so I'm writing in this. I wanted a diary when I was twelve, but would she give me one? Nooooo. "Little girls don't need to keep secrets from their mamas." And she says that anyway, this isn't a diary, it's a journal. Big woo. But then again, it is nice. Real leather, lots of pages, and not with each one divided up into sections about two inches wide so that you have to sprawl over a week if you want to write anything more than, say, what you had to eat.
I suspect that she hopes that I'll write my deepest, darkest, most incriminating secrets in here, and then she can sneak and read it when she comes over to visit. That's probably why there's no lock on it. Wow, she might find out that I've decided to keep that library book that's three months overdue, cause the fine is more than what the book's worth, and I can't find it in the bookstores anyway. Or that I secretly lust after the pizza delivery boy. God, I'm pathetic...
January 1, 2003
Ooooh, man. What in God's name possessed me to drink all that damn tequila last night--especially since it was at the office party? I embarrassed the hell out of myself on the karaoke machine. Actually I'm embarrassed now. I had a fine old time then. And I sing better when I'm drunk. At least I think I do. Somebody must've thought I sang all right, because I seem to remember someone complimenting the hell out of me, and giving me more tequila. And then asking me something, and I said yes-- Wait a minute.
Okay, I'm back. I checked my panties, and they were here and in good condition, so apparently if anyone talked me into an empty office or the supply closet nothing major happend. I hope. Hell, I can't be sure, except that I don't feel weird, aside from the nausea and headache, and since I haven't actually had sex yet there should be SOME physical fallout, shouldn't there? Or is that only if you're a fresh young thang? Nah, I'm pretty sure a busted hymen feels the same whether you're seventeen or seventy. Why am I worrying about this? I might have been drunk enough to forget conversations, but I would have remembered that. Especially since I've decided that since I've waited this long I might as well save my virtue for someone spectacular. What the hell, God meant for there to be old maids, too. How depressing. Maybe I ought to get laid. "Hi there, I'm a thirty-five year old virgin. It isn't that I haven't been asked, but they were all either drunk, married, or slimey, and yes, I am that choosy."
It just occurred to me. Just because my panties are still pristine, it doesn't mean I didn't do something major league funky with someone. I may not be experienced, but I'm well read, and I know there are a lot of activities besides straight intercourse.
Damn, I wish I could remember what I said yes to.
January 2, 2003
Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice as she fell down the rabbit hole. Not just curious, fucking weird. It's now 10:30 on a Thursday morning, and I'm not at my desk at Seguro Shelters. I'm sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee-milk and chasing toast crumbs (unbuttered, bleh!) around a saucer. What has brought about this odd situation? Damned if I know. Tabitha (otherwise known as the Satanic Supervisor) called early (too DAMN early, a half hour before I had to get up) and told me to take the rest of the week off so I could come in fresh on Monday.
Huh? This is the woman who was asking one of the other girls if she really needed a whole week off after having her C-section. She said that I hadn't been looking my best after the party, and she wanted me to stay healthy and vigorous, then hung up before I could ask more questions.
Well, I'm always in favor of a paid holiday, but now I'm really, really worried about what happend at that party.
January 3, 2003
Daily beverages--diet soda, unsweetened tea. Breakfast--Bran muffin and skim milk. Lunch--Tuna with lemon, carrot sticks, apple. Snack--hard-boiled egg. Supper--skinless broiled chicken breast (dry), steamed brocolli (no butter or cheese), green beans (no seasoning bacon, cooked till just crisp-tender to preserve nutrients. Bleh!). Snack--skim milk and one (non-chocolate covered) graham cracker. Self restraint sucks.
January 4, 2003
Daily beverages--diet soda, unsweetened tea. Breakfast--poached egg on dry toast, grapefruit juice. Lunch--beef broth, small salad (lemon juice dressing), 2 slices turkey breast. Snack--ten grapes. Supper--broiled fish, brussel sprouts, steamed cauliflower (no butter or cheese) Snack--skim milk and two vanilla wafers.
Spent evening watching the Food Channel, lusting after Jamie Oliver, cute Brit chef. He made big dinner with hearty beef, rich Yorkshire pudding with gravy, and trifle. Fantasized about him making good on his show title of The Naked Chef and feeding me the goodies in bed. Maybe Mom's right--maybe I do need to get a boyfriend.
Self-restraint sucks big time.
January 5, 2003
2 a.m. four slices of broiled cinnamon-sugar toast and large bottle of regular Coke. Fuck New Years resolutions.
Listening to news radio while eating. Things are hot in the middle-east, so what else is new? Border dispute with India and Pakistan is still nasty. How can either of them afford to build bombs? Note to self--don't ever let Mom see this or she'll cream me for random non-PC thought. Uncomfirmed rumors that plutonium is missing in Britain, and the IRA might be responsible. Damn. Seems like the nuclear material is to global governments what socks are to normal people--some are always disappearing.
Now Russia is pissed off again. Great New Years for the world so far, but at least mine hasn't been too bad. Unexpected holiday to laze around, yay! I just wish I didn't have this dread of going to work tomorrow. Wish I believed in precognition. I'd be willing to shed a few bucks to the Psychic Friends Hotline to know what I'd be walking into.
Gotta go to bed. Sunday school at 9:00. Still freaks Mom that I'm a Southern Baptist. Hope that part of the reason I am isn't just to rebel against ex-flower child parents. Possibly revenge for my name?
1 p.m.
Mom and Dad just left after brunch. Mom said who serves take out pizza for lunch? I said single people who didn't know they were having guests, and it was sausage pizza, so it counted as breakfast food.
Heard her in bathroom checking medicine cabinet to see if I was on birth control or had prophylactics. She doesn't know whether to worry I might get sick or worry that I'm not getting any.
I was right--she tried to find my journal. Caught her in my room, rummaging around. Claimed she was looking for safety pin. I said in my panty drawer? She said from the state of some of my underwear, she wouldn't be surprised. I said fine talk from a woman who didn't wear panties till the Clinton administration. She'll never find the journal. It's wrapped in a Rush Limbaugh dust jacket. :)
Dad seems worried lately. Talked about going to Washington with some of his old college buddies to demand action about escalating nuclear tensions. Love Dad to death, but he's kinda vague about what kind of actions he wants taken.
Watched new Dead Zone series on USA. Pretty good. Anthony Michael Hall grew up nice! Inspires random Dirty Old Broad thoughts. Wonder how far this is going to go with the original material? Wasn't Johnny Smith trying to stop a presidential candidate who was going to start WWIII?
Work tomorrow. Still haven't remembered what I agreed to. Hope I didn't set up date with that creepy guy in telemarketing.
January 6, 2003
SHITSHITSHITSHITSHITSHTISHITSHITSHIT! Well, I now know what it was I so blythly agreed to at the New Years Eve party. I know why Tabitha applauded my rendition of 'Sisters Are Doin' It For Themselves' so strongly and told me it was just so true. I know why my glass of Tequila Sunrise never seemed to get any lower.
THE BITCH SUCKERED ME! Oh, God. One single 'got so damn drunk that I can't remember what I said' incident and I'm ready to join a fucking twelve step program because alcohol has sure as hell made my life more difficult.
Okay, deep breath.
I am now in charge of the Callahan account. The Callahan account! The account that has become legendary at Seguro Shelters. The account that drove one of us to therapy and the other to medical leave. Yeah, yeah, sure, they say both of those were coming on for a long time, but Carl swore to me that after working the account for three months his bloodpressure would jump fifty points every time he heard Callahan's voice, and all I know is that Bob started on Prozac less than a month after he had it.
Big prestige job for Arthur Callahan, right? Yeah, the Arthur Callahan. Testimony, Goddess Grant, The Celestial Syndrome, Pavement Patrol... Shit. He's in the Guinness Book of World Records under Highest Earning Producer, Highest Earning Director, Most Acadamy Awards... Sort of like Lucas/Scorcesi/Spielberg/Kubrik combined.
The brass at the office was shitting bricks when we heard that Callahan was going to put in a luxury shelter on one of his pieces of property--either in California, or here in Texas. Everyone figured California, cause that was his main residence. Then he decides he wants to have a safe place first at his vacation spot away from 'the biz'.
Terrific, right? Our office gets the contract. It's going to pump over three mill into the company coffers in about a year's time, and the chance to point to Callahan as a client, well, hello? Can you say free publicity? We're all dreaming of bonuses.
Then he rejects outright our first six suggestions of architects. He has one he wants to use, a friend who built his beach house in Malibu. Takes a month to get it through to him that building a bungalow and building a bomb shelter that will withstand a nuclear blast are two very different things. He finally agreed to use one of our architects, but wanted a list of prospective interior designers. This is me, rolling my eyes.
That was the start. They quickly made the Callahan account a full time job, pulling whoever had it off any other assignments. I'm glad I didn't have to pay Callahan's long distance bill, considering the time he spent on the wire from Los Angelas to here in east Texas. It would probably have paid tuition at a decent college.
Anyway, a week before Christmas Carl went on medical leave, making threats about filing a civil suit for a hazardous workplace environment, and Tabitha had to take over the Callahan thing herself. Ooo. You know, I didn't think it was possible for the woman to get more pissy, but she managed it. One day on the job and she started trying to farm it out to someone else. But with the way the company is set up, she couldn't order anyone to take it. We all had a few good snickers over that, let me tell you. I guess I laughed too soon.
Apparently somewhere along my sixth refill and my tenth song (I think it was Welcome to the Jungle), she started chatting me up, telling me how under appreciated I'd been at work, that she'd been keeping her eye on me, that she wanted me to realize my potential, how far one good job would go in furthering my career... Somewhere along the line I agreed to take over the Callahan account. It is now official: ALCOHOL KILLS BRAIN CELLS!
Piss, piss, piss. I wasn't at work two hours when I got my first phone call from Callahan, asking why his account had been delegated to someone else without his express permission. Tabitha was 'unavailable'. I couldn't very well tell him, "No one wanted to deal with you after you ruined the health of your last two liasons, so they got me drunk and more or less shanghaid me." Luckily I learned how to say a lot without saying anything in particular when I was in college (debate actually DID come in useful). I managed to escape after only 45 minutes, and with only the beginnings of a headache.
It's now 9 pm and I'm sitting at home, staring at a stack of folders and papers at least 16 inches high. I'm supposed to 'familiarize myself' with it--by yesterday.
That half a Sara Lee Cheesecake in the fridge is doomed.
