Besieged

I went to the pharmacy to pick up a couple of prescriptions this evening and the clerk asked me my name and my address.

370 West Bedbug Central, I wanted to say.

I only said it in my head, though, as the mere thought of bedbugs will throw anyone residing in the city of New York into a frenzy. And I live right in the part of town that has had the worst bedbug problem. And...I think...they are in... my bed.

I know a couple of people who have dealt with this, now my trusted advisors, who -

We interrupt this blog entry to note how dreamy Desmond on Lost is. Oh, I am so taken with him! We now return to your regularly scheduled blogging.

- to know if you have them for sure, so there's still a possibility that it's something else, but what else would have exactly the same -

Really, he has such a nice face. So attractive, even with that crooked nose. And there's this air of innocence about him; a purity, if you will.

- just itchy everywhere, and I know that it is probably mostly psychosomatic, but -

He's just got this kind of calm confidence that is such a draw. And his voice. I just love his accent. That gorgeous accent coming out of that gorgeous face!

- and I haven't been traveling, so I don't know how they got -

And the way he calls everybody "brutha..." Mmmmmmm.

- crap, is that...?! Oh, never mind. It's just a fleck of black pepper.

A return, finally

I got my sister a giant royal blue Pez dispenser as a gift. A battery operated one. It played songs and made noise and generally entertained. But then it started beeping. I turned it off, but it kept going. I took off the back of it and pulled a battery out. It kept beeping. I took the other battery out, but still, it kept beeping.

"I can't make it stop," I said aloud, and woke myself doing so.

It was my alarm, which apparently had been going off for forty-seven minutes this morning.

Forty-seven minutes.

It's been a tough week. Work has been incredibly busy. I've worked forty hours already this week and it is only Thursday. I'm so busy we've had to send someone else to court.

So it was a challenge to wake up this morning. And when I finally did, I was forty-seven minutes behind schedule. In order to get to work on time, I decided to get a cab. I didn't want to - well, I did want to - I want to take a cab every day, but I don't let myself. I didn't really have a choice this morning, because I simply can't be late to work.

The weather here has been relatively warm and spring-like, and you know what that means - it's time to bring back the green overcoat. I've been wearing it all week with little to no weird attention, which is a good thing, as I don't really have the energy for it right now.

Several cabs passed me this morning as I was trying to hail one, and I was starting to get really frustrated. But one finally stopped. When I got in, he was laughing. "I stopped for you," he said.

"Yes," I said. "Several other cabs didn't."

"They must be blind not to see you. But I see ok. I see your green coat. Can't miss that green coat!"

At last, that damn green coat got me the kind of attention I wanted.

Magnetic

It was a fairly bleak day in New York today. Sleet and snow that didn't stick, so, no fluffy white, just grey grossness outside. Naturally, I had to go to court.

I had to go to not one, but two courts today, Civil and Criminal. Fabulous. I went to Civil first, to hand deliver some courtesy copies of documents that had previously been filed. When I got where I was going, they told me to go to another room to hand in the papers. When I got there, they told me they couldn't accept them.

Some guy: "Judge X won't accept any papers until five days before they are due. This isn't due until April first. Boy, you are WAAAYYYY too early!"

Me: "What?"

Some guy: "Judge X won't accept any papers until five days before they are due. You'll have to come back then."

Me: "Is this just for Judge X or for all the judges?"

Some guy: *Stares*

Seriously, he just stared at me. So I went back to the place where I started and asked the slightly crusty guy at the desk what was going on. He went to speak with a portly gentleman further back in the room. I couldn't really hear what they were saying, but their conversation was pretty animated, and the slightly crusty guy seemed to dislike the information he was getting. He returned to me, rolling his eyes, and apologized. He explained to me that this was a new rule in effect since Friday. Friday? The courts were closed on Friday. And Monday. So it really went into effect today, and there was no way we could've known anyway. Slightly crusty guy was so apologetic that I couldn't be upset anymore. I thanked him and headed out for Criminal Court.

Now, I HATE Criminal Court - here's why: they treat you like a criminal when you go there. They are impolite and disrespectful. Now, I understand that Criminal Court is probably a hard place to work, you know, 'cause of the criminals and all. And I know that these guys don't have any idea who I am when I walk through the door. For all they know, I've got a knife or gun or prison shank on me. But what they don't realize is that I would NEVER bring a knife or gun or prison shank to Criminal Court. I mean, it just isn't done. No, I leave my prison shank where it belongs, in my silverware drawer in case I need to slice a grapefruit or stab Big Sal when he tries to attack me in the shower.

Of course today I wore bracelets and they set off the metal detector as I went through. Twice. So, guess who got wanded? Yep, me. Front, then back. The wand beeped as it came across my bracelets, and then again across my behind. And then again across my behind. Then again.

"You have something in back?" he asked.

I lifted up my coat. "No. Just a big butt," I explained.

I went on my way to the Summons office to see if I could get more information on a ticket one of our clients received.

"Can you tell me if you have the paperwork on this yet?" I asked.

"No, we don't have anything on this," the clerk answered.

"Well, can you at least tell me what the violation is?"

"No. It'll say that on the paperwork."

Helpful. So I was unsuccessful in both courts today. One long, cold, wet, nasty trip and what do I have to show for it?

A big, magnetic butt.

Snippets

I find it ironic that I am eating a pie while watching The Biggest Loser. So I'm changing the channel to The Office.

***

I apologize for not posting in so long. I was too stressed out and tired to post anything, and I fear that my posts would have been something like this:

ROAR! RwaroarawOAR! ROOOOOOAOOOOAOOOOAAARRRR!!!!

But I've had a vacation, so I am better now. See?

mew.

***

New York City is bitterly cold this evening. I thought it was supposed to be warmer (relatively) tonight, but I guess I didn't figure in the wind chill. I have, of course, retired my green overcoat until warmer days (somewhere in the future, probably about 9 million months from now. Maybe.) and have been wearing my white coat. It is a little too big, but that's good, because I can layer up underneath. The only problem is that instead of having four good, solid buttons, it has three buttons and...a snap. A snap? Really? On a winter coat? The snap is just below my waist, so naturally if the wind is blowing, it magically unfastens that snap and blows the bottom of my coat up in the air.

It occurs to me now how ridiculous my coat situation is. My green coat attracts wackadoos, my brown coat is too small to wear sweaters underneath (and even smaller than that, after all the celebratory Christmas eating), and my white coat flies up like The Flying Nun's wimple.

***

Do you suppose I could somehow parlay this blog into several new coats?

***

So I was out shopping with my friend on Sunday, and she had to go to her office afterward. I went up in the elevator with her so that I could use the restroom, and then she offered me a cup of tea to take with me on my way home. I accepted her offer and made myself half a cup of tea, put the lid on and made my way out and to the subway. I had to wait for a little bit, but the train came and I was able to get a seat next to this woman. A woman who was wearing a big, fat fur coat. She completely freaked out when she saw me sit next to her. "Watch your coffee!" she instructed me, nastily. I ignored her. But the longer I sat there, the more my impish side took over, and I moved the (almost empty) cup of tea closer and closer to her fur coat. She was sighing and murmuring and huffing and puffing in her seat, but I just continued to pretend to ignore her while my cup hovered dangerously (not) over her sable. Luckily for her, I got off at the next stop. But that short ride sure was fun for me. Hee hee!

In which I think I'm going to have to get a new overcoat

I worked today. I don't love working on Saturday, but it's ok for two reasons:

1) Overtime pay; and

2) Nobody bothers me and I can actually get things done.

But it is still work and after eight straight hours I was ready to go home. When I left the office it was drizzling a bit and I had left my umbrella at home but I thought I would be ok because I was wearing my green raincoat. Just when I'd almost forgotten the adventures I've had in that thing...

I was a few blocks out when I realized that I was supposed to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy by the office today, so I turned around and went back. It began to pour and I got drenched pretty quickly. I mean drenched. Soaked. Sopping wet. Rain dripping off my hair. I think it even rained into my purse. So I was happy to get my prescription and get to the subway.

I waited briefly for the 7 train and took it across to Times Square, where I waited for the uptown 1. Luckily the platform was pretty clear and I could sit down on one of the benches. I was still dripping wet from head to toe and desperate to get home. But no sooner had I sat down then I gentleman approached me. And when I say gentleman, I mean a weird looking guy wearing ...some sort of goggles. Sort of like a scuba mask, but maybe they were really racquetball or squash goggles. Remember how adorable Hugh Grant looked in Notting Hill when he wore his scuba mask to the movies?

Yeah, it was nothing like that.

He (the weird guy, not Hugh Grant) said "Do you want to come back to my place and party with me?"

"No, thank you," I replied

"Come on, come back to my place and we'll party."

"I don't think so."

"Just come to my place with me," he insisted.

"No, thank you," I said, firmly.

"My roommate's a faggot." I suppose that was intended to make me feel comfortable about going home with some random guy I met on a subway platform who was WEARING GOGGLES. It didn't work. I just got up and walked away from him and he went on to torment someone else, I suppose. By that time I had lost my seat on the bench, so I was waiting by a pillar.

Oh, but wait! He came back.

"I didn't mean to bother you, I just wanted to-" I walked over towards a group of men who were NOT wearing any sort of eyewear. He went away for good this time.

The train finally came and I got home fine. I just wonder what it is about me that attracts the wackos. I think it might have something to do with that damn green coat.

Dear ET*:

Thank you for your order for a new blog entry. We would like to inform you that your request is currently being processed, and we will notify you as soon as said blog entry is available.

We here at Rich and Fancy welcome the opportunity to serve you. We also would like to remind you that we strive to provide you with quality blog entries (see: toilet paper; hemhorroids), which sometimes take a little longer than normal to develop, and we therefore appreciate your patience.

We realize that you have a choice of blogs and we thank you for choosing Rich and Fancy.

Sincerely,

Fancy Pants

RichandFancy.blogspot.com

*ET is my sister. I have not lost my mind and begun writing blog entries to martians.

In which I throw you a rambling, senseless bone

I am in a pickle. I love that saying "in a pickle," because it makes absolutely no sense. How can you be in a pickle? You'd have to get all meta-physical and start talking about how our atoms really exist in multiple places at once and then we'd have to talk about parallel universes again, and before you know it, you're scraping your brains off the wall.

Anyways, in a pickle I am. Because I have run out of toilet paper. I don't really know how it happened, but I came home this evening and went to the bathroom and used the last of it. The very last of it. No tissues or paper towels. Not even any coffee filters. Suddenly I am living like a GUY. (Once my friend A and I went over to these guys' house. They had two bathrooms. And no toilet paper in either one. No tissues. No paper towels. NO APOLOGIES. Gross.)

This did not happen because I can't afford to buy toilet paper (although that might have been a possibility a few weeks ago). I actually forgot to get some on the way home from work is all. Oooh, I need toothpaste, too.

I realize that I am just being stubborn by not going out to get any tonight, but I won't, because of those five flights of stairs I have to walk up. FIVE. I already walked up them once today. I'm not doing it again. Listen, if you had to walk up all those effing stairs, you would weigh your options, too. When I run errands on the weekends, I try to do everything that needs to be done before going back home, usually laden with grocery and drugstore bags. By the time I get to my door, I'm sweating and panting, but at least I got it all up to the top.

My one big treat that I occasionally indulge in is having my laundry picked up and dropped off. Man, I love that! They come up and get it, then they bring it all back, up all those stairs, and it is CLEAN and FOLDED. Keep your speed boats and Cristal. That, my friends, is the definition of luxury.

Ok, I just located a paper napkin and am checking my purse for kleenex. I'll let you know how it goes.

Keeping my fingers crossed to make it till morning!

In which I get a whole compliment

My mother called me this morning while I was at work. It always freaks me out when my parents call me during the weekday. I usually assume someone is either in the hospital or dead, so I get really nervous when I see the phone number. I missed the call and it went to voicemail, so I called right back. My mom answered.

"Did you call me?" I asked

"Yes, I did," she replied. "I left a voicemail."

"Well, what did you say?"

"Just listen to the voicemail."

And we hung up.

Uh, ok. Weird. So I waited for the voicemail to pop up on my phone. And waited. And waited and waited and waited. Just when I was about to call her back and make her tell me what she said, the voicemail showed up on my iPhone (greatest invention EVER, with fire coming in a distant second).

My mom greets me and then identifies herself by saying: "this is your mother." Yeah, thanks Mom. Because I had no idea it was you, seeing as how I haven't heard that voice at least once a week for the last, well, let's just say over thirty years. I'll bet the entire internet two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that my mom just replied "yeah, WAAAYYY over." She's a charmer, that one.

Really, both my parents a pretty quirky. For instance, they always split things at meals. Like the world might end if one of them ate an ENTIRE piece of fruit or drank a whole soda at lunch.

"Honey, do you want to split this Dr. Pepper?" my dad will ask.

"Sure. Do you want to split an apple with me or an orange?" my mother will answer. Then later, before dinner she'll ask my dad: "Honey, do you want half of this beer?"

"Yeah, I'll take half that, sure," he'll respond.

Then, after dinner, they'll fight about who will clean up. And I don't mean they throw down and argue, accusing the other of never doing things around the house, I mean, they fight because they each WANT to clean up.

"No, Bob. You sit down and read your paper."

"No, I'm happy to clean up."

"I can do it. It's fine."

"Joyce, sit down and relax. I'll clean up."

"No no, honey. Don't you want to watch your news shows?"

It's seriously twisted.

But getting back to my mom's message. I guess she had just read my last blog entry, because she said,

"This is your mother. And I think you're incredible, too."

Thanks, Mama. I love you, too.

In which I pull yet another crackbrained move...incredibly

Cognitive therapy is all about changing the way you think and is especially helpful if you have a lot of negative thoughts. You know, like when you make a mistake and all you focus on is how stupid you were and what a boneheaded move it was and now, well, your life is over and you should just die. If you have a flair for the dramatic. Like me.

But please. Let me illustrate for you the result of two years of cognitive therapy.

So, we all knew it was going to happen: I did something wrong in my new job and I got yelled at. I deserved it really, because what I did was pretty stupid, and I knew it was the wrong thing when I did it. Hey, cognitive therapy helps change your thinking, it doesn't keep you from making idiotic snap decisions.

I'd love to tell you what I did, because it's pretty laughable, but work blah blah blahbitty blah you know I can't. So we have to leave it at I did something dumb and knew it was a mistake WHILE I WAS DOING IT. Anyway, I went to my boss to confess it, because I cannot stand knowing that I did something wrong and just waiting for the ax to fall.

"I think I just made a mistake," I said.

"What did you do? What happened?" he asked.

I told him. It was clear he wasn't happy, and he expressed it in his classic lack-of-a-finished-sentence style. I stood there, feeling like the bottom was dropping out.

"No. You can't do that. You can't just do that kind of...this is a very sensitive...you can't do that. Don't ever do...don't ever do that again. You can't...how can you? Why would...look, I know that...initiative. And you're incredible. But you can't do that kind of thing. Don't ever do that...don't do that again. You can't...can you undo it? Can you stop...?"

"Yes. I think I can. I'll try. I'm sorry. I won't do it again." I replied. I ran back to my desk to fix the situation as best I could. Then, as usual, I did an instant replay of what my boss had said to me, and the one thing I focussed on?

Incredible. He said I am incredible.

And I focussed on the positive.

I'm positively incredible! Hee hee!

New York-y

Only in New York will you see a Mini Cooper limo. A PINK Mini Cooper limo.

And we've all lost socks in the dryer, but who has ever seen a flyer for one?

Only in NYC.

(Ok, it is ultimately an ad for a new store, but pretty clever, no?)

********

Lately I've had my air conditioner (a window unit that was a housewarming gift from my friend S) on all the time and the windows closed to shut out the heat and humidity. It sort of makes me feel isolated, because I can't hear the city. No voices or music or laughter. But the weather has cooled down considerably, at least for now, and it is feeling very fall-like. So I turned off the AC and the fans and opened all the windows last night. And I remembered what I've been missing: the drunken yelling, the honking, the sirens.

Ah, New York.

In which (insert something witty about decorating here)

BEFORE:

Ugh. That was pretty sad. And uncomfortable. But, we do what we have to until we can do better, right?

DURING:

Definitely better, especially the bed. But it's not done yet. This photo is my inspiration:

And it also happens to be the view outside my window.

I was thinking maybe a couple of these on the walls. Would zebra print throw pillows be too much? What should I do about lamps?

Any other ideas on how to bring the outside in?

...and STAY out!

I've mentioned that I have a new position at my job. The first week was pretty dramatic - lots of rushing around, staying really late and running (literally running) to court to file stuff. You understand, as I have explained before, I won't really talk about work, as I would prefer to keep my job at this time. So you'll have to be content to know that I deal with things, stuff, items, papers, pleadings, and any other synonyms I can come up with.

Ok, so, I had to go pick up this order that was supposed to be signed when I got there, only it wasn't. I had to walk it to the courtroom and ask the judge to sign it. I freaked out a bit and called the attorney for whom I was working. I had to talk quietly, as I was in the echoing marble hallways of the courthouse.

"I have to take it to the judge," I hissed. "What do I do if he asks me questions?"

"Ok, here's the deal," she began, and proceeded to detail the case to me in case I got questioned about it.

I went over it in my mind, and by the time I got done, I was pounding a lectern like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Meanwhile, in real life, I dropped off the order with the clerk and was told to come back to pick it up. "The judge has a jury trial," she said, "so come back in about thirty minutes and we'll have it ready for you."

Hmpf. No grandstanding for me. No applause. Just waiting on a bench for a signature. Waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. And waiting. For hours, literally, for the lawyers to stop talking so I could get in there and get my signed order.

Finally, I went into the courtroom to wait, thinking that maybe my presence would speed things along. So I sat inside and waited. And waited and waited and waited oh my god with the waiting. The bailiff presented the judge, who looked like he was about 178 years old, with my order and he shrugged it off. He announced he didn't have time to read it as he had plans to go out of town. Out of town! Without signing my order? Nuh-uh.

The bailiff brought the order over to me. "He can't sign it tonight. Sorry. Come back Monday."

"Monday? I can't wait till Monday," I replied. "We requested this be expedited. It really needs to be signed today."

"Sorry."

"Listen, I understand the Judge has to go now, but, please, if there is any way he can sign this tonight, I'd really appreciate it. You see, our client-"

"Sorry. The Judge is leaving. You'll have to come back Monday."

"Please. Please. Can you please just ask him if he can just take a few minutes to look it over?" I begged.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He wouldn't budge.

"But we need to get this signed right away. Our client is trying to -"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The judge is a busy man, he doesn't have time to read your order. I told you to come back Monday. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the courtroom. Now."

It's not like I got escorted out by my elbows, but there it is. I got thrown out of court.

I'd like to say I left there with a signed order, but I didn't. That stuff only happens on television. We didn't have to wait until Monday, though. I went the next day with some backup (0ne of my bosses) and we got the order signed by another judge. It took a couple of hours and there was some hoop-jumping, but we ultimately got what we needed.

And I got to flirt with the Ex Parte clerk. But that's another story for another day.

In which I write a post that would be great if you could fry it up and dip it in ranch dressing before stuffing it down your gullet

I had a plan to come home this evening and start writing the story of when I got thrown out of court, but note the time, please.  I just got home from work about an hour ago.  

I'm really liking my new position in the litigation department.  I feel like it is a little more intellectually stimulating than what I was doing before, so I'm enjoying it so far.  Of course, I haven't gotten yelled at yet, so we'll see. 

In the meantime, it's a lot of work and it's really cutting in to my sitting around time, so tonight's post will have to be in note form:

• I had a greek salad for dinner at work tonight.  My breath smells like onions.
• I traded out my regular deodorant for the aluminum-free kind, but I think I forgot to put it on today.  I kept smelling food all morning, and then around noon I realized that it was my armpits.  They smell like onions.

I have to go to bed now and dream of, you guessed it: onions.

In which I recount a story that is totally not funny AT ALL

So I have several stories to tell, but I'm not sure in which order.  I suppose chronological is best, so maybe Fancypants: Kat Killer should be first.  

I mentioned that I was house/cat/fish sitting a couple of weeks ago.  While the fish were plotting world domination, the cats, Lucky and Grey Kitty, mostly hid from me.  Lucky would show up and let me give her her thyroid medicine and pet her for a bit while I watched cable (cable!), but then would usually disappear for the rest of the evening.  Grey Kitty was generally nowhere to be found.  

Wednesday evening before I went home, I stopped in to talk to the head of the litigation department to let him know I was interested in a position that was rumored to be opening up.  We talked for a bit and I headed for the fancy apartment with all the free wine.  I found Lucky and gave her her medicine, after which she went away from me and hid.  I thought this was weird, because usually she hung around after the medicine for a little attention.  But whatever, I mean, cats are weird.  I'm a dog person myself.  They're all waggy and they follow you around and loooooooove you.  Cats eye you suspiciously and then get in your face and make you sneeze and then purr in that sweet kitty-cat way and then shun you.  So I don't really know how to read them.

Anyhoo, I went to bed early, as I had to run an errand to court as early as possible in the morning to file a thing.  Naturally, I woke up late, and therefore HYSTERICAL, as I was supposed to be AT COURT FILING A THING, for heaven's sake!  I freaked out, ran to the bathroom and got in the shower.  When I was done, I noticed that there was something on the bath mat.  One of the kitties had obviously peed on the mat, and there was blood in the urine.  Neither of them was anywhere around.  I got ready and ran out of the apartment and down to court (to file the thing).  When I got to the office, I called my boss for whom I was house/cat/terrorist fish sitting, and left a message on her voice mail asking for the vet's name and number.  Since I wasn't able to reach her, I started looking for an emergency vet.  In the meantime, a coworker came to me desperate for help with a time-sensitive project, so I had to enlist the help of the office receptionist to find a vet for the kitty.  

Now, never mind that I didn't know exactly which kitty was the bath mat pee culprit.  For all I knew, it could've been that big blue fish with the yellow tail trying to mess with my head. I did suspect it was Lucky, because she had been acting so strangely the night before.  We found a vet that was very close to the apartment, but they told me they couldn't treat Lucks without proof of ownership or permission from the owner.  

"What am I supposed to do if I can't get a hold of her?" I asked.

"I don't know ma'am.  I'm sorry.  We just can't do it.  It's the law," she replied.  

It's not the law.  Of course it's not the law.  I suppose it is their right to have their own rules, but it makes me question whether they really have the animals' best interests at heart.  I mean, what am I going to do, abduct someone's cat and take it to the vet for a rabies shot WITHOUT THEIR PERMISSION?  It just doesn't seem right.  Snobbish upper east side animal hospital.  Anyway, the desperate coworker I was helping called her vet (she was sympathetic, as she is a cat person), explained the situation and got me an appointment.  No proof of ownership needed, and they would bill my boss.  Nice.

I worked through lunch, drank a lot of coffee and finally got to three o'clock, when I left to get the cat for the appointment.  When I got home, she was laying on the living room rug wheezing and she had thrown up all over the entry way, poor thing.  No doubt Lucky was the sick one; I found an old towel, scooped her up and ran outside to get a taxi.  Luckily we got a really sweet cab driver who got us there without jostling us too much, though Lucky cried and wheezed all the way.  

When I got to the vet, the receptionist knew who I was and took us back to the exam room immediately.  The vet could tell right away that Lucks was pretty sick, so she took her away for a chest x-ray and some blood work.  I waited in the exam room, then in the waiting room.  When they finally called me back, the news wasn't good.  Lucky had a collapsed lung, fluid build up around her heart and lungs and blah blah blah de blah de bad stuff is wrong with her systems are failing recommend euthanasia.  

Euthanasia.  

Shit.  I have to put my boss's cat to sleep, I thought.

It all made sense, of course, the cat was in pain, that was obvious to me without a visit to the vet, but to put her down?  The whole idea was horrible to me.  

I called my boss and got voice mail.  "The vet said that Lucky's in pretty bad shape and she -"  my voice caught, "she thinks that," my voice cracked, "she's recommending," my voice broke, "euthanasia."  Then I finished brightly, "so, give me a call back!"  

She called me back pretty quickly: "Let me talk to the vet," she said.  I handed over the phone to the vet and continued to pet the wheezing Lucky, who was now on my lap.  The vet brought the phone back to me and my boss said, "I'm really sorry about all this.  Please give Lucky kisses and tell her goodbye for us."  

Then I started crying.  I did as I was told and then the vet gave Lucky a shot to tranquilize her as I kept petting her.  

I won't recount her death (the cat's, not the vet's), but suffice it to say that she went before she was ever euthanized.  I continued petting Lucky until after she was dead, and I cried like she was mine.  

Then I went back to work covered in cat hair.  Dead cat hair. 

Did I mention I'm allergic to cats?

On the upside, I think my boss felt so bad that she accepted my suggestion for a name for Grey Kitty.  She has now been deemed "Lucy".  And she has apparently become much more friendly than she ever was when Lucky was around. 

Hm.  Suspicious.

Maybe Lucy was the one plotting, not the fish.  

Spent

Yes, I know you're expecting something here, something witty and clever but it is 10:54 pm and I just got home from work.  I'm exhausted.  I can't even think of the next sentence.

I will tell you that in this past week, I have:

1) become a "Kat Killer"

2) done a film

3) gotten a new position at my job (I think, but without giving up my old position.  Caution: this can lead to a 13 hour day)

4) engaged in an altercation with an automobile and the yahoos in it.

I have been busy.

You might also be looking for a new post here; I will update that one soon, too, I promise.  

Go do some cat sitting while you are waiting.  You could get a really good and morose story out of it.

In which I might have had too much wine

I am house/cat/fish sitting this week for one of my bosses. She's actually one of my favorite people at work, because she's, well, awesome. She used to walk around the office saying "I LOVE ME!" and kissing herself on the arm. We should all have such good self-esteem. By her own account, she didn't have an easy young life, but she put herself through school and worked extremely hard and now is in a pretty high position at my workplace. She also has a husband and kids and cats and fish all in a nice apartment on the Upper East Side. She only left me the cats and fish for the week. And some wine.

Things are going well so far. One of the cats gets medicine and takes it very easily, so that's good. The other cat is supposedly one of the scared-y variety, but spent yesterday evening hanging around me and getting attention.

The only thing is - the fish. There are a number of them; saltwater, and they are beautiful. I am one of those people who is calmed by watching fish, and these are really lovely. They are all blue and purple and pink and yellow. Gorgeous. Except for I think they are plotting against me.

Look, I don't know what their plans are, but I know they are up to something. You know when you walk into a room and people stop talking in hushed tones and look at you? You know they are talking about you, right? Well, imagine walking into an apartment and looking at the saltwater fish tank when you come in and all the fish disperse. You can practically hear them say, "Cheese it! The Fuzz!" And then they swim around looking all innocent. Yeah, right. I know what's going on. I'm going to wake up one morning with a fish head on the pillow next to me, aren't I?

It's all the doing of that little stripey red fish. He always hides when I walk by the tank, swimming into the little caves, going under the coral, but I can tell he's the ring leader. It's always the innocent looking ones that are really out to get you. I SEE YOU, RED FISHY. I AM HERE FOR FOUR MORE DAYS. DON'T MAKE ME HAVE A FISH FRY.

In which I have an untapped ass-et

It's no secret that there's a lot of crazy around New York City.  Apparently it was out in full force today.   

I've taken to wearing my yoga pants to and from work, because I am either walking for exercise or I am all hot and sweaty from running to the subway because I'm late.  Usually it is the latter.  Anyway, I was coming home from work this evening and got off the bus at my usual stop.  I was struggling a little because I was carrying a small box of stuff and my pants were sliding down a little bit.  So I juggled a bit, pulled down my shirt and hiked up my pants, and about ten seconds later I heard a woman's voice say:

"If you want, I could represent your ass.  Very nice." 

Wait, what?

I looked back to see this tiny older woman behind me.  I thought for a second that she might be on the phone, but she wasn't.  And then, because I am sensitive about my size, I assumed she was being derogatory.  Don't acknowledge her, I thought.  Don't engage the crazy.  So about two nanoseconds later, I whipped around with, "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME??!"  

"I'm an agent,"  she said.  "I could represent you."

Another woman walked by and said "No, she's not.  She's..." as she made the international sign for wack-a-doodle-ding-dong-doo. 

The older woman kept walking, saying "Lovely.  Just lovely."

Creepy.  

But now that I think about it, could my butt make some money somehow?  I mean, of course there is always the obvious, I know, but I'm not desperate enough for that.  Could there be some sort of fully covered ass modeling that I could do?  Could I teach it to do tricks?  Sing songs?  Play the French horn?  I'll have to see what I can come up with.

In which I get a haircut and a new name

You might ask me, "Fancy Pants", for that is what you call me, I know - "Fancy Pants," you might say, "why the hell haven't you updated in forever?"  

And I might say, "oh, shut up." 

Or, you might ask me "Fancy Pants, how is it you are able to maintain your fanciness when you are broke?  Broke-ity broke broke!"  

And I might say, "Well, dear reader, I am quite creative.  Par example, I saved $80 on a haircut this weekend."

Impressive, no?  I'm verah clevah.

I went to my usual New York walk-in salon at noon on Sunday and was told that they could take me at 3:00 pm.  It's not a walk-in salon, I think, when you have to make an appointment to, er, walk-in.   So I went to the barber shop by my apartment.  Yes, I said BARBER SHOP.  I stepped in, expecting to see Andy Griffith and his wacky gang of Mayberry friends, but the shop was empty.  I called out and a gentleman appeared from the back.  "Can you trim my hair?" I asked.  He nodded.  "You pick chair," he said.  So I sat.

"What you like?"  he asked.  "Um, trim it, " I replied.  My hair is short anyway - pixie-ish - like a boy's, so I figured he could do it.  

"Where you live?"  he asked.

"Right next door." 

"Oh! You neighbor! Good.  I am from Russia. You look Russian." 

"No.  Part of my family is Czech, though," I offered.

"Oh! Czech!  Close enough," he replied.

He was a sweetie.  By the end of my trim, he had taught me an Uzbekistani history lesson, assured me I would find love and given me a fairly decent haircut.  For 15 bucks.  

Who says rich and fancy has to be expensive?

In which I have a few things to say...confidentially

Confidential to Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl: 

You are a bad, bad boy.  With a heart of gold, though.  I am really pulling for you and Blair to get together in the long run, but in the meantime?  CALL ME.

Confidential to M:  

Please stop emailing me after work hours because I feel obligated to answer even though I am not on the clock and that really annoys me.

Confidential to Self: 

Stop checking your email after work hours.

Confidential to dooce.com: 

Congratulations on the new baby!  In the past, I have really enjoyed reading your blog.  I think you are a very clever, witty writer.  I even posted a link below in my blogroll (now removed).    I'm pretty peeved at you right now, though, considering you have been blogging about preparing for the baby, whom all of your readers have been anticipating meeting, and now you are holding off on photos and the baby's name.  

Now, listen: if you and your family want a little privacy,  I totally get that.  And I think even if you do blog about your life, you are entitled to keep an event like this private for a little while.  But don't tweet all through your labor, announce that the baby has arrived and that you are going to announce the name soon and then STILL don't post anything twenty four hours later.  Either post a photo and a name, or say "hey, we want to share this with you, but give us a little bit of privacy for a few days first."  You know we are waiting.  DON'T refuse to show the readers a photo of your baby and instead give us a pic of that shitty green jello and then post that everyone is "annoying".  Your behavior, Heather, is annoying.  You are being manipulative and incredibly disrespectful to your very loyal and supportive readers.  

Confidential to Jon:  CALL ME, YOU TALL DRINK OF TEQUILA.

Just watch this - it is Eddie Izzard set to Legos.  

I don't know - is just awesome:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sv5iEK-IEzw