Godammit shit farts.  You will all have to take my word on the fact that I had written a long and interesting entry about our trip to Yahohan Plaza, and then to NY afterwards, and how i feel when Im in New York, and about how I came to be working out at Bally's and the story of me leaving the Y. It was all very witty and well written (of course) and then *I* being the superfreaking genius that I am, KICKED MY MACHINE OFF. Did I *save* what I wrote?  Nope. Can I get it back?  uh-uh.  So, use your vivid imaginations and psychic powers about the time I had and what I've been doing, and while you're at it, imagine yourselves an apology from me about bobofett being down as of the identical moment i was listed in Open Pages.  If you've come through open pages, thank you.  Im usually not such an idiot, and typically live by the rule of always saving my work as I go along.  Not this time, though, so I'll recreate the magic as best as I can.
 

The City:

There is something about walking in Soho that makes me acutely aware of how I no longer fit there.  I used to own NY.  My nights were filled with drinking and dancing and friends and meeting people and going out and waking up the next morning terribly hung over, going to work and repeating the whole process over again.  I walk through the models whispering into cell phones,  tourist girls from long island with their freshly manic-panic'd hair, (especially done that morning, to be cool, and their poppy red necks, hands, foreheads that go hand in hand with a bad, brand new dye job), spooky kids, goth girls, punks, rich women from manhassett clutching teeny bags from salons and stores no ordinary working slob can afford to even breath the air inside in one hand and an even teenier rheumy eyed, arthritic Bichon Frise in the other.  I am aware of my outsider status every moment.  I am self conscious of my very normal hair, my blue jeans, my back pack. That I have no intention of ever shaving my hair again, or dying or doing anything out of the ordinary with, ever again reminds me that I, somewhere along the line, stopped knowing what cool is. I have no plans to wear granny glasses, or to pierce anything or to brand my body or tattoo myself.  I feel in the pit of my stomach a strange uneasiness to be walking down West Broadway.  I am disappointed that I no longer have it in me to be interested in wearing rubber pants.  I do not remember becoming square, but somewhere along the line, it happened. Connecticut caught up with me, my life now separated me from who I once was and what was important to me.  I am not explaining myself clearly, not getting to the emotion of NY:  For me, NY stopped when I left in 1995.  When i return, it is still 1995, regardless of what has changed around me.  The streets are as they were 4 years ago, and when I am there now, it conjures the same emotion, the same restless longing I used to carry constantly.  I regress to to something I haven't been in years.  It takes me days to still the flurry of traffic and throngs of people, the noise, the smell, the total, complete sensory overload,whirling around in my heart.  Simply writing brings it back.  That's why I long for new york every once in a while.  It's the best reminder i have to show how far I've come.
 

Evil Fuckbag BS:

So, upon hearing from a friend that BS wanted to keep it a huge fucking secret that she's coming back (read: she would arrive one morning at 8:30, sit down at the desk, and just WAIT for me to come in, so she could make it a big dramatic fucking deal of how she didn't think it was APPROPRIATE to tell anyone..)  I had to let her know that I knew. I certainly wasn't going to call her, so it's a damn good thing she called to whisper to Dr. X, who wasn't in:

Me:  Ooh...BS...there are RUMORS...
BS:  What?  About what??
Me:  Oh...about YOU..
BS:  WHAT?? WHAT KIND OF RUMORS?
Me:  That you're coming back.
BS:  Who did you hear that from???
Me:  Dr. X told me...(pausing for drama's sake) TWO WEEKS AGO.
BS:  Well, yes, it's true.  BUT IT'S NOT KNOWN...
Me:  Oh, don't worry, I would never tell anyone!
BS:  Going in to a long, drawn out story about how evil and hideous the admin for the department is, and how she freaked when she found out that this ADMIN was her boss, not the doctor.  And how she couldn't stand working near this woman because she was so insane and mean and whatnot.  Etc.
Me:  Welll.. (making some non-comment)
BS:  So, it'll be like old times, you and I working side by side again.  Just like Annette said when she sees me there "This is how it should be".
Me:  yah.  cant wait.

About 2 hours later, my phone rings. I answer and hear:

BS:  Did you get your promotion yet?????? (no HELLO, of course)
Me:  Not yet, but Dr. B is meeting with Personnel this thursday, so it's as good as done.  It's a formality now.
BS:  Ohh....well, good luck with that.
Me:  really, i don't need luck, it's going to happen.  It's just a matter of time.  I'd say before the end of september, it'll be done.
BS:  Well, that's good because you know, you have to push for it, you have to watch out for yourself, because no one else will.
Me:  That's not exactly true in this case, because the promotion was Dr. B's idea, not mine.
BS:  Oh, well.  Talk to you soon.
 

Okay.  If all of my other little stories about her didn't illustrate that she is without a doubt, the most miserable person on earth, I think that that last little bit of info will.  What she's doing is finding out whether or not she and I will be equals when she comes back.  If I don't get this promotion (which is unacceptable to me at this point, I *will* quit if that happens) she is under the impression that she can come bossing right back in here and telling me what to do and making up rules and shit like that.  Hah.  Firstly, little does she know what's in store.  Mwhahah.  Just WAIT until she sees how much I've changed policy and thrown away stuff.  She'll have a breakdown, and I can not wait.
 

The Temp:

Friday was her last day.  I think I was aware of that, but just didn't care, so ignored it until she was starting to make sounds like she was getting ready to leave.  "So, I start in pediatrics next week...Ill definitely give you a call & see how you're doing".  On the surface that sounds terribly friendly, doesn't it?  The issue i have there is that it also sounds like she and I were PALS, that we spent the week GABBING and going for long walks and that I confessed my feelings of on the job inadequacy to her.  To see how Im doing?  Im doing the same every day, pretty much.  Her leaving didn't dissolve me into a puddle of tears.  Quite the opposite, Im pretty damn happy for the peace and quiet. The other thing that statement made me think was that she had plans of calling me to go out to lunch or something, so that she could ask me very very basic questions about computers, then to ignore whatever advice I happened to give her.  Or, she'd call me and ask "How do I get to SHM?" and I'd give her great directions, and she'd say something like "noo...that's not how you get there."  She also told me "you are great to work with".  That makes about as much sense as us going to lunch. I mean, *I* know Im great to work with, that Im extremely competent, super funny and an all around good time behind a computer (oh, and foxy as hell to boot), but how on earth would she know that?  I only spoke to her when she spoke to me first, and she only spoke to me when she needed to argue about a question I'd answered for her.  I know better than to make friends with temps.  No offense to anyone who's temping out there, but most people (this doesn't include you, oh temping reader) are temps for a REASON.  Like, they're not exactly the brightest stars in the sky.  Or, they're emotionally unable to deal with a job where anyone requests anything of them at all.  Or, oh, I don't know, perhaps THEY DRINK ALL DAY LONG?  Any of these reasons, and more might be little tell-tale signs of the permanent temp status.

I remember going to temp agencies for jobs.  It sucked.  The jobs they could give all sucked.  i had to take typing tests on broken typewriters, which sucked.  I was interviewed by people who were so miserable and miserly and unwilling to open their tiny pockets of power to help out a fellow human being. The waiting rooms were jammed with people more stupid and sad and temporary than me, and in the long run, that quality in all of these other people shone through, winning them the assignment and me another week of rationing money ('if i eat bagels for lunch and dinner every night this week, ill have enough money to buy cigarettes, and go out drinking') and walking everywhere.  In case I haven't made it clear:  It SUCKED.  The only way I would take a temp job at this station in my life is for hella money.  It's simply not worth the hassle.  Again, this is not to say that I don't think there are plenty of temp workers out there who do a bang up job, and who aren't totally insane.  I've just yet to meet one.  If that's you, please email me.  Prove me wrong.

ALSO:

This weekend I didnt make it to the gym once. Aside from Saturday, there was no time where I was SO VERY BUSY I couldnt have gotten away for an hour and a half to get on the treadmill.  I know that laziness drives me mad, and sometimes I'm the absolute worst about being lazy.  Seriously.  I had actually planned to get up early Saturday morning and walk a few miles or bike a few miles before we left. I got up early, and what did I do?  Worked on my cast page.  Cleaned up (a few) spelling errors.  Drank coffee.  The rest of the weekend, I have even less of an excuse.  I was shopping.  Or eating.  Or sleeping.  That's it.  You'd think I could haul my ass to the gym.  Not.  Oh, well.  Ill go tonight, break in my new sneakers.

Cameltoes, etc:

I was looking through newsgroups a few weeks back and came across alt.lycra. Woah, thought I, a whole newsgroup about stuff people work out in!! Excellent! When I began to read said group, it quickly became evident that this was not at all about what I thought it was about. Then came the word "cameltoe". Hrm. Interesting. Them talking about cameltoes in a newsgroup about lycra. Descriptions of web sites came next: "Welcome to visit my new site with the subjects: Cameltoes Pantyhose Nylon and Lycra ect." (that's an exact quote. I kid not). I still didnt get it, so I turned to Rob, who knows about these things. Rob, I said, what the heck is a cameltoe? I dont recall if he actually answered me or not, because by the time he got around to saying "what are you, stupid?", I found out what one was. One was pointed out to me on Saturday, just a moment too late, since it's not like I walk around looking at women's crotches. This evening at the gym, I noticed for the first time: I am surrounded by cameltoe. I am next to cameltoe on the treadmill! I wait to get a drink of water behind cameltoe! Cameltoe is down on the floor using the butt blaster! I check myself in the mirror constantly. So far, no cameltoe. I think it's a matter of purchasing shorts, etc in a size large enough to not cut up one's crack. Let my ignorance serve as a public service announcement to all of you women in lycra out there: someone is checking out your privates. Someone may even be taking photos of your privates. Dont be a victim. Purchase your lycra in the correct size.

You're welcome.

PS: the answer to my previous poll was 26%. Thanks to everyone who answered, and ill-fitting lycra wishes to those who did not.

please take me to yesterday, when you werent talking about cameltoes. or, howzabout we saunter home and then, if you're really really really really dying to do it, because i know you are, take the new and exciting poll! and lastly, would it really kill you to send me a piece of email? I understand you're all busy people, but just one puny piece? geez. or lastly, you might want to press onward