Several G&Ts, a shot of Tuaca, and a Spicy Tendercrisp later...

Published almost simultaneously on Myspace.

I woke up from the weirdest dream this morning. I was on vacation with some friends in California or somewhere. One friend was trying to set me up with her ex-husband, who was also on the trip, but they kept running off and having sex in mausoleums. My other friend and I went for a walk and ended up hanging out with this big bunch of locals sitting around outside of a mobile home and smoking. I realized one of my left molars, (which I really do have problems with), was loose, so I panicked and my friend and I headed back to the hotel, seeking the hotel's in-house dentist.
This is where it gets really weird. As my friend and I were nearing the hotel pool, Ricardo Montalban approached us and started sweet-talking us, trying to sell us on his master plan. He wanted to turn us into cyborgs. We jumped into the pool, knowing he couldn't go in the water, since he himself was a cyborg. We swam out into the middle of the pool, and Ricardo just stood on the edge proselytizing to us about his cyborg dreams. He was dressed like the millionaire from Gilligan's Island, in a navy blazer, white pants (ugh, the horror!), and a red ascot. The hotel and pool were really elaborate, the pool extending under the entire hotel, which had a mall and many restaurants and coffee shops. My friend and I first tried to swim in circles around each other in order to make Ricardo get sick and give up, but this didn't work because cyborgs don't get sick. So we went under the bridge he was standing on, and swam on, under waterfalls, past palm tree islands, past all the shops and ladies having coffee, to the far side of the hotel. Here, the pool just sort of got shallower and shallower until it became dry ground, imitating a natural body of water. Of course, Ricardo was there. My friend ran away from the pool and disappeared, while I tried to run back into the water. I woke up just as I was struggling to get back to the deeper part of the pool.
I have always found Ricardo Montalban vaguely menacing after being exposed to The Wrath of Khan at the tender age of eight. Near the end half of his face gets melted off, and it really freaked me out. I had always thought Mr. Roarke was creepy for more reasons than just being omniscient and keeping a little person for a pet, but after that movie, Fantasy Island moved several steps up the sinister scale for me.

Bad Jenny!

Sometimes my job is just intolerable. And sometimes, I let it get to me. Like today. I got this call from this frigging asshole who was really rude and told me and my company to shove it because he got a bill for something he imported into this country. People simply can't comprehend the fact that when they import things into this or any other country, the government charges taxes on the items and they are not immune from it just because they don't like it. He told me that in the future, my company shouldn't deliver anything to him if the person sending it has asked for him to pay for it because he doesn't like our company. Like my company has anything to do with Customs charging him for imports. So I did him one better and contacted his local delivery office and let them know that he hates our company and that he wants to refuse any and all packages we have for him in the future.

I had to ask him for his address so I could pass along his message, and when he told me his street name, he spat it out really fast, which was impossible to understand given that he had a very thick accent. He was annoyed that I had to ask for his address in the first place and didn't just magically know it, but, you know, I had to know where we weren't to deliver the cursed packages in the future. So he said it again very fast. The name he said sounded like "Chris Lake Road," and I thought that might not be right because that's a fucking stupid name for a lake or a street (as would be Mike Lake, or Jen Lake, or Dave Lake--you get the point). So he replies with, "We are speaking English here, aren't we?" And I wanted to reply, "Well, I am. You aren't, sexist bastard." But all I said was, "Please spell your street name for me." It was Chris Lake fucking Road.

After I got his unpleasant ass off my phone, I thought, "You fucking asshole. I could call Homeland Security on your ass and totally make something up and make your life hell." It was horrible! But I think people make things hard for themselves when they refuse to be polite at all.

So fuck him.

I don't usually have a problem with people who have accents, unlike most of the people I work with. They are just plain racist and I am not like that. But rude people are rude people, regardless. I would never really call anyone on his ass. I'm sure it's not that easy, anyway. I'll just live with the satisfaction that the rude people I talk to every day make their own lives a frustrating hell by being assholes. But I hope his local delivery office keeps packages from getting to him. And I hope our billing office keeps sending him bills for things he's not getting.

Living by myself rules!

This post was inspired by an episode of "Arrested Development" in which the mom discovers the joys of living alone.

For instance, when I feel like calling in sick to work, there is nobody to tell me that I should really go to work because I'm not really sick.

I can listen to really cheesy music or watch dumb movies and nobody will give me shit about it.

I can watch tv as late as I want. And if I talk back to it nobody has to know.

I can make messes and never clean them up.

I don't have to wash the dishes if I don't want to.

I don't have to dust if I don't want to, (this backfires, as it just aggravates my allergies).

I don't have to answer the phone.

I can sing along with stuff really loudly.

Nobody will see me if I cry because I realize that I broke my digital camera on New Years because I was really drunk. And I don't remember doing it.

Nobody else eats my food.

If I lose something, I only have myself to blame.

Also, I don't have to wear clothes if I don't want to.

Lucy

Stella

Kelly's cat, Pudge

My dog, Ginger

Meggers just posted an interesiting spot about what the internet does to us and how it affects us socially. It does seem kinda silly, because when you think about it, blogging is not only about reading other people's thoughts and experiences, but reading them because they are, quite possibly, better than your own. I have recently become obsessed with this Australian dude's blog because it not only is well written, but is also funny and human. I find it comforting to read that other people in different parts of the world experience the same stupid randomness that characterises life.
Basically I just love to know that if I'm having a shitty day, someone somewhere else might be having a similar shitty day. And I've had lots of shitty days lately, mostly due to my own stupidity, and not really relatable in a tangible way to others' shitty days, but, you know, it's all about being able to say, "I had a shitty day--you too?"
I'm not always like this, just a lot lately.

.