I Heart Paper Dresses

Me and my doc, see, we're tight. We talk about stuff. Health stuff. She really cares. First off, she asked about my Costa Rican illness and if my tummy was back to normal now. (She didn't actually use the word "tummy," but I like it, so back off.) See, she remembers me. She KNOWS me. And my struggles. And my family health history. So there's that. Then she gets right down to the real business at hand...my lady zone. Unlike my previous lady zone examiners, she basically goes right in, barely a warning issued, and then starts asking about my summer travel plans, which, by the way, are quite extensive and basically pretty much awesome. Like me and my doctor's relationship. And just like that, lickety split, she's putting the sock-covered stirrups back and closing up shop. I had even worn a skirt yesterday, you know, for easy access, completely forgetting about the sweet paper dresses they provide (at no additional charge!). Oh, and the paper blanket. Which is also quite nice. Upon her visual check, I look good. GOOD. And NORMAL. And once again, all is well and good with the world.

p.s. I'm not going to apologize for the lack of posts because who the heckll cares. But, yeah, about that. Sorry. No one never said I wasn't lame. Ha. NEGATIVE NELLY STRIKES AGAIN.

Awkback

Last night, as Fiji, PhotoFace, Yogi, and I sat outside a neighborhood bar/restaurant/music venue and had some beers and some dinners, I had a severe, if not painful, flashback. Or Awkback, rather.


Fiji: HEY! Look who it is! It's AWK!!
Tilly: Where? Where? OMG. WHERE?
Fiji: [Pointing across the street] There!


And there he was, Awk himself. Awk on a bike. Awk STOPPED on a bike at a STOP light. STOPPED. Being all Awk.


Tilly [hiding behind large glass of Stella]: Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Please. Please.
Fiji: Let's call him over for a drink!
Tilly: No! NO! OMG. Why are you doing this to me?
PhotoFace: Yes!! This is AWESOME! I always wanted to meet Awk!
Tilly [turning RED and beginning to hyperventalate]: Stop. Seriously. You guys! I'm getting all hot.
Fiji [confused]: Well, THAT wasn't the response I was expecting.
Tilly: Not HOT in THAT way. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.
Photoface: Whoa. Yeah. I never knew...


And then, just like that, the light turned green and he was gone.


And peace was once again restored in my life. And thus on earth.



The end.

The One Where I'm a Complainer Bitch

I just figured out how to lower my (supposedly) ergonomic chair (after 3 months, yes) and I couldn't be happier. Well, I could maybe possibly be happier if, say, I wasn't at work at this job that I hate with this lady that I despise in the office next to me and if that co-worker didn't make stupid jokes at our staff meeting this morning about email etiquette when he's the one that has been asked to use a more "professsional tone" and maybe if that bitch didn't steal Fiji's seat next to me on the train this morning and if she would've moved her flipping purse so it wasn't digging into my arm or maybe if she would have stopped yawning and exhaling her nasty rank breath in my face and perhaps if she would've maybe stopped staring at Fiji sitting across from us who she probably thought was looking at her, when in fact, he was looking at ME and if maybe, just maybe, I could manage a smile, and if we didn't have a retreat this week wherein we will be enduring "team building" activities and if my life didn't SUCK. BALLS.

But yeah, that stuff plus the chair. I'm in fucking heaven.

Why I am Not Smart SLASH Really Super Smart

1. I voluntarily signed up for a TWO-day ALL-day computer training session with a woman who barely speaks english, repeats herself an average of FIVE times, cannot answer anyone's question if it isn't already covered in her presentation, and yelled at me last time I tried to help. BUT, the sessions run from 9:30am to 4pm with an hour lunch and two breaks. HAHAHAHA! I rule.
2. I double-booked myself Memorial Day weekend. BUT, now I can potentially get out of BOTH and do nothing. I'm a sloth. And I like it. And by do nothing, I mean LAY OUT. And drink. DUH.
3. I have another couple of job interviews. BUT they are for jobs I am not at all sure I really want. Genius!
4. I asked for more projects at work to keep me busy. BUT I may be leaving (see #3).
5. I threw FIJI a surprise 30th birthday party last weekend. BUT I was such an emotional wreck from lying to him all week/month, I got wasted before the party and only talked to my own 4 friends. I'm an AWESOME hostess!
6. I met a couple of Fiji's friends from college last night. BUT I mentioned something about being on a major detox. (I really REALLY needed it after last weekend. Trust me. I haven't drank in TWO whole days. WooHoo!) I rock first impressions.
7. I'm boring. BUT I'm not.

Just the uuuush

Scientist [walking past offices, into mine]: Geez. It's loud over here!
Tilly: Yeah. Just the usual.
Scientist: They're screaming at each other.
Tilly: No, that's them TALKING. They talk THROUGH the wall. It's fun.

Here's my 34 cents.

Working for a not-for-profit, we are supposed to reap some minor, very minor benefits in purchasing. One being that we are considered to be tax exempt. Woo hoo. Anyway, this one time I had to buy some cookies at Whole Foods for a seminar. (long/short story: I'm an idiot. But we've been over THAT before.) Anyway. I didn't have the special letter explaining my tax exempt status. I looked at the whopping $9 receipt and figured (as most rational/lazy human beings would), "Eh. Fuck it. It's $0.34" and went on my merry/miz way.

Fast forward two months to today when I receive an email from my business office requesting that I contact Whole Foods in order to be reimbursed for the 34 cents. 34. CENTS. That's like, less than two quarters, people. (Math is hard for some. Stop judging.) So, I call WF. They kinda sorta laugh at me, and inform me that unless I show the cashier the SPECIAL letter saying that I am tax-exempt at the time (despite the fact that I was using my not-for-profit company's credit card for the purchase), then basically I'm screwed. Boo hoo. I'm screwed out of 34 cents. Waah. So then (I realize this story is getting long. Bare with me. Or don't. Whatever. Who needs ya! Scram. No, no. STAY.) I email the business office, informing them that I can't get the 34 CENTS back. They say it's fine. But in the future blah blah blah. Ok. Done and done. BUT then! Then I get the following:

Dear Tilly,

Am sorry but we just had another person who got tax of $.51 charged to his card and [redacted] say that we do need to collect the taxes and deposit it back to the account. Please bring it to me and I will give it to [redacted] for her to deposit.

Thank you.

Okay, disregard the typos and strange tenses...she's foreign. BYGONES. But seriously? SERIOUSLY? SER-I-OUS-LY.

I respond:

To clarify, you want me to bring you $0.34?

And...no response. Yet. Am I getting fired?

Luckily I was able to scrounge up $0.34. In my desk. 2 dimes. 2 nickels. 4 pennies.
NO quarters. Aw, FUCK no.

Secrets, Secrets

ARE NO FUN.

I may be the worst secret keeper ever.

I mean, when it's important stuff, my lips are sealed as tight as, well, really really tight things. Those special Glad bags, perhaps? (I was going to go with some nasty butt sex reference, but honestly that's just not my style.)

Anyway.

Secrets.

I hate them. And they're destroying my life.

*********************
In other news, apparently working at a ski resort in Colorado for a couple of years between college and grad school is not regarded highly by prospective employers. Humph. Who knew?

This weekend:

Fiji's family in town + KBoo's bachelorette party= Tilly in the Hurt Box.

Good times.

Happy Birthday to Fiji! And Go Cubs Go!!

It was Fiji's birthday weekend and we celebrated in style. If you consider skipping work in favor of having close to the best breakfast of my life, ordering take-out in place of late dinner reservations, sitting close enough to smack Soriano's ass, enjoying mid-afternoon rooftop dance parties, and being in the presence of the Dalai Lama (His Holiness, himself) stylie. Because I sure as surely do.

Go Cubs go! Go Cubs Go! HeyChicago what do you say, the Cubs are gonna win TODAY!

Queen of Circumlocution

I have a very special skill. It's called being an idiot. Jealous?

Apparently I like the taste of my own damn feet. Some how, some way, I always manage to mention exactly what I am NOT supposed to mention in front of those whom I am precisely NOT supposed to mention it in front of. It's inevitable. Luckily, I also have very smooth and spectacularly brilliant friends who do not seem to mind shooting me death glares (in the hopes that I will stop running my mouth. Immediately.) and saving me from my own self in moments such as these. It's almost as if my mouth is seized by a life-ruiner of sorts and blahblahblah comes out of it at the most inopportune of times. Once I regain my vocal capabilities, I stutter, I stammer, stunned at what has just transpired, leaving it to my people to pick up the pieces and remedy the situation.

Does it feel like I am talking in codes and circles? Good. Because I am. That is another one of my many, many special skills. I'm the leader of the lame. The pied piper of the derelicts. The Queen of circumlocution.*

*This may or may not make sense slash this does not make sense. PEACE.

Emergency Contact

I just broke through some sort of mental/physical block I've had for the past 10 years or so:

I just put my boyfriend as my emergency contact. Emergency. Contact. In an EMERGENCY.

While it may not seem the biggest of big deals to some more, shall we say, "rational" folks, it is/was to me. For what reason? I'm not entirely sure. All the years with GoatBoy, I never once put him as my emergency contact at the four different jobs I held while we were living in the same town/living in sin. And it was a deliberate choice, the choice of NOT picking him. Not choosing him to "rescue me" in time of an emergency, you know, like if I got injured sitting behind my desk, or perhaps had an allergic reaction to my FIJI water being spiked with codeine. WHO KNOWS? All I know is that I did not depend (or want to depend) on him that way. All the promises we made, the commitments, the determination to overcome the obstacles that stood in the way of us sharing a successful and fruitful relationship, were all moot, seeing that I basically never trusted him to take care of me the way that I wanted and needed and hoped to be taken care of.* The aspects of his personality that drove me crazy in the end, truthfully, drove me crazy in the beginning. I acted as one of those women at whom I roll my eyes, thinking they can "change" him. I mistakenly assumed that his immaturity would, indeed, mature. With time. Yet, I simply mistook his person. He will always be (well, I don't know this for sure seeing that I haven't seen him in years or talked to him) a hyper and energetic spaz. Me, not so much. What could have energized me, instead annoyed me. What others found endearing and exciting, I found exhausting and undependable.

My point here is not that you can't change a man. Although you can't. He can change, sure. We all change. We all grow. We all develop and adapt. My point, rather, is the importance of listening to ourselves and trusting ourselves to know ourselves. Who else is going to?** As the tritest as all trite sayings go, you really do just know. And you especially know when it's NOT right. As much as you may want it to be, you will feel it. If you let yourself. One of the hardest things that I have ever had to do was walk away from that relationship. Close the book. After we had started planning the details of the wedding (pre-engagement). After both of our parents' encouragement. After trying for years and years. After breaking up and getting back together because being apart just hurt too much. After everything. I just knew.

Anyway. Fiji is now my emergency contact. And I couldn't feel more safe, secure, and protected.

*Arrrgh, ending sentences in prepositions makes Tilly go bonkers.

**AGAIN with the preposition. Gee whiz.

The Time. It's Come.

After listening to McNasty coworker (remember him?) discuss his ALTHLETE'S FOOT issues with a sensitive (and iron-stomached) scientist, and then listening to the LOUDTALKINGSCIENTIST hack up his left (or right) lung, I've decided that not only is this place not suitable for my mental health, it is also unsuitable for my physical health. Thus, during my "Performance Excellence" evaluation with my boss this afternoon, I am going to politely inform him that I will be leaving this social skills deprived zone in pursuit of greener pastures (pretty much ANYWHERE else). Even my plentiful lake views and incredi-bendy flex time can't keep me appeased. Being here makes me want to hurl. And cry. And pull out all my hair. And who wants to employ/befriend/do/be around that mess? Not I, my blerds, not this lady.