Archive for January, 2007


I’ve dreamed about work every night this week. Every. night.


Like School on a Sunday. . .

Yesterday, on the highway, Melanie and I passed a car with the back windshield entirely taken up with this message:

If Your Rich

I’m Your Bitch.

It hurt my heart a little bit. For oh-so-many reasons.

A post in which I tiptoe, tread lightly, and otherwise try not to get dooced.

I had singularly bad day at work yesterday. Bad. Like I-briefly-thought-I-might-get-fired bad. Granted, I was never going to get fired out of a situation like that, and on any other day I might have been able to brush said happening off with a laugh, but at the time. . .yeah, yesterday I really thought I might get fired.

At first when I was too panicked to talk to anyone I sat and stared red-eyed at the fateful email. The tears. I felt them starting, I did. But, I have a rule. Never cry at work. So I waited.

And you know, I realized yesterday that I’ve got good work people. People who respect me and will go to bat for me, and will not let me take the fall for a mistake that wasn’t mine—a thing I took for granted until that moment. Because to be completely honest, I had begun to think in panic mode: how can I cover my ass? I don’t care who I have to take down with me. While I don’t think I would have done that, I thought about it.

In the end, it ended up being little to nothing. But I ended up being almost glad that it happened. Because now I know.

Sultan, Fine Indian Cusine, Mediocre Conversationalist

*Ring Ring*

Sultan: Allo?

Me: Yes, I dined there last night and I think I left my phone headset there.

Sultan: Yes.

Me: Oh great! Did you find it?

Sultan: What?

Me: My phone headset. It’s pink, I left it there last night, Have you found it?

Sultan: Yes. What?

Me: My headset? You found it then?

Sultan: What is your name?

Me: Lori L-o-r-i But did you find my headset?

Sultan: Your number?

Me: [my number] So you found my headset?

Sultan: You call back at 5

Me: Ok, so then I can come get my headset?

Sultan: You call back at 5.15

Me: …

It has finally come to this

Last night I had dinner with three of my best girls. One of whom, for no other reason than that I’m a horrible friend who has a bad time with the phone, I haven’t seen since last November. All but one of us have recently turned 30 (it’s coming Meg, 2 months isn’t really that far away–and February is short). None of us are married, though not all are single–the distinctions involved in singlehood are important, but too complicated, that’s a whole ‘nother blog post. And none of us have kids that we know about.

We had a really great time. Or, at least, I did. It was fun catching up and there were only a few awkward silences.

Jen, a new aunt, whipped out a picture of her little nephew and we oohed and awwed as is proper in our stage of womanhood. Hey, even I can admit the cuteness of a perfectly still, silent baby. But get this. You’re so not going to believe this if you know me at all. Me! The one who asks the waitress to seat me in the no-children section of any restaurant. Me! I participated in the passing around of baby pictures.

As I had just recently seen my friend Cara and her new little one,* I pulled out my camera and passed around the picture I had taken, accepting the oohs and awws almost as if they were my due. What does this mean my friends? Could I possibly have some vestige of maternal instinct? Maybe I’m just a follower, one who can’t be left out of any activity, including the passing of babies? God I hope I don’t mean the passing of an actual baby through my body–please don’t let me mean that. I’m stopping now.

Errrr…also, I’m not sure where my header went? I can see it when I look at my template stuff. Maybe it’s just gone for a bit of a lark and will be back soon. Let’s hope so.

*Well not so new anymore, I’m afraid, as she’s six months old. But like I said, I’m a horrible friend.

The Vortex

What if you knew someone who had two close calls? And finally she said “no more, I quit.” No more___. Whatever.

“That’s it, I’m done smoking” she might say. And at first she does OK. She looks really strong. You think she is going to make it. Soon, though, you catch her with a cigarette between her lips. “But I don’t light it,” she justifies, “I just need to know it’s there.”

What would you tell her then? Would you wonder why she was tempting herself?

“That’s it, no more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” he could say. “They’re much too fattening, and I’ve eaten my last one. ” And while you knew how hard this would be for him, because he ate one every day that you had known him, you cheered him on. “Be strong!” You gave more good advice; you told him how strong you knew he was. How much better his life would be if he could just get past his need for the PB&J. How he could make it this time because he finally saw that the sandwich was not getting him where he wanted to be. But then, when you asked him how things were going he said something like “oh, it’s great. I haven’t had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in months!” And when you congratulated him, you asked him what he had found to eat and he said, “I have peanut butter on bread in the morning and some bread with jelly on it at night.”

What would you find to say then? Would you wonder if he were fooling even himself?

Would you think they never meant anything that they said at all? Would you wonder why they had bothered trying in the first place?

Why I’m a Bad Citizen

I’m no good at politics. Seriously, I have no idea what’s going on. I’m not bragging about this, I’m being honest about my ignorance. I think I might have Congresenpresimayoralphobia. (I’m sure there is a real name for a phobia of politics, but Google failed me.) And I watch the news, and read newspapers, but something in my head tells me we are never, ever getting the full story–that no one is telling the truth or telling the whole truth, which makes the whole exercise pointless. And I mean the whole thing, even voting. There, now you’ll see I’m not only ignorant, I’m jaded: a lethal combination. Oh, don’t come at me with the whole “if every one in America had that attitude” bit, either.

There’s another facet to my bad citizenship. I was raised with with an inherent respect, fear, and even awe of all authority figures. My heart still pounds each time I walk by a police officer. I’ve never cursed at my mother (I’ve never even said the word “fart” around her.) And deep down, what I really really want is to be able to trust that the people elected to office want to do the right thing, and not only that they want to, but that they are doing it, and will continue to do it. That if they look like they’re doing something bad, it’s only because I don’t fully understand the situation.

So when I’m eating in our little lunch room with the other office monkeys, and Brian starts to hem and haw about the President’s speech, or read an especially scathing newpaper editoral aloud–well that’s when I curl up into a small ball on the cold tile floor and wrap my arms around my head, making sure they cover my ears. It’s not because I think he’s wrong. It’s not because I think he’s pompous. It might be a little bit because he says the same things over and over and over again. But mostly it’s because I feel an overwhelming sense of futility.


A blog about my life and other stuff.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.

Dorothy Parker, Not So Deep as a Well (1937)