Saw Bewitched last night.

Bitsy and I had spoken yesterday afternoon about potentially going and then, after careful consideration (read: checking the TV guide), decided that another night would be favorable.

Around 7:00 I received a call from my dear friend, practically in tears. Her new upstairs neighbors thought that it might be a good idea to play the soundtrack from Grease over and over again. Now, we love Grease. We do! but, as Bitsy put it, "You can only ra-ma la-ma la-ma ka dinga kading-a-dong so many times!" In an effort to salvage what little sanity she has left, we went to the movies.

I really enjoyed the movie! It was really very cute! Natch, Nikki Kidman was just perfect, but isn't she always? She's charming and witty and beautiful and probably thanking her lucky stars that she and Tom separated before he went completely over the edge (Katie, sweetie, you're in my prayers every night)!

The absolute highlight of the movie for me, though, was seeing Kristen Chenoweth on the big screen! She was insanely funny! I heard that, after seeing Kristen in a performance of Wicked, Nicole approached her and told her that she enjoyed her portrayal of Galinda/Glinda so much that she would have a role created for her in the Bewitched movie. What a smart girl Ms. Kidman is!

For the record, Bitsy arrived home to find the sounds of Rydell High still emanating from above. I'm sure Tears on my Pillow took on a whole new meaning.

My mind is like a community pool.

It's very noisy up there, there are a lot of things swimming around, and you just know that those bubbles aren't coming from the air filter.

(Okay, analogies aren't my thing. So shoot me.)

It's true, though. Just over 6 weeks until the move and I can already feel the slow but gradual degradation of my psyche beginning. It happens every time I move, so it won't be anything new for me. Clearly, it doesn't get any easier. I think Bitsy summed it up quite nicely in an email this morning:

"You can do it, all you have to do (besides pack up your life yet AGAIN, move to the opposite coast, prepare yourself for school, prepare yourself to take care of [J], prepare yourself to say goodbye to your family as you've known it your whole life, and leave me here to slowly diminish into a pile of the typical Lynn poor grammar street trash) is focus on what is to come!"

Yep! That's all I have to do!

Obviously, I'm excited to go. That part's not worth talking about (right now). A part of me, though, is beyond scared. What if I'm making the largest, most asinine decision of my life? Don't get me wrong - I love him. And I know that he loves me (something I couldn't have said 6 months ago). He's just - well, so many things. He's not easy. That's probably the most succinct way of putting it. I think I love him more because of that, though. There's something heroic about it, I think. Love against all odds.

He tells me that he wants to spend the rest of his life with me. I'm at the point now where I can say the same to him. Unfortunately, the math doesn't add up. As things stand, the rest of his life isn't going to be the rest of my life. Let's say he has 15 years. That would make me 38. 38 is still young! I might have to start my life over at 38. This worries me.

Granted, these worries could be all for naught. Medical discoveries are made every day. Additionally, another 15 years probably feels miraculous to a man that was originally given 6 months.

Also, there's the part about saying goodbye to my family as I've known it. I don't think that part's really hit me yet. It will, though. Probably when my parents' divorce actually comes to fruition. It's just pretty miserable in my house right now. Absolutely no one wants to be there. There's a lot of negative energy flowing and it's affecting us all. Mostly, I worry about Mother. I know that she's going to be happy and that she'll finally be able to live the life that she deserves, but it's not easy for her. I know how much it hurt when my 1-year relationship ended. I couldn't imagine that times 28.

And, to top it all off, a baby bird died in my backyard yesterday! It's just all too much for me to handle right now! I think it's time to pull the cover over the pool, lock the gate, and call it a day.

The soap in the men's room at work smells like feces.

No. Really. It smells like actual human excrement. I know that I'm known to hyperbolize. I know that I can be dramatic and that, sometimes, I make things out to be far worse than they really are. This is not one of those times. This soap smells so much like poop, in fact, that I'm not entirely convinced that the manufacturer of the soap didn't go out of its way to make it smell like poop. I'm not happy about it.

A woman called in this morning. I'd like to share with you now a transcript of that phone call.

Me: Good morning, circulation, this is Taylor.
Ms. Adler: I DON'T KNOW IF I HAVE THE RIGHT DEPARTMENT BUT IF I DON'T THEN JUST TRANSFER ME AND I'LL STOP TALKING AND START OVER AGAIN I AM HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE AND MY NAME IS (muffle muffle muffle) AND I LIVE AT (muffle muffle muffle) APARTMENT C7 AND I DID NOT GET MY PAPER TODAY I USUALLY GET MY PAPER AT SIX AM BUT I DID NOT GET IT TODAY MY NAME IS (muffle muffle) AM I GOING TO GET MY PAPER TODAY I AM HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE SO JUST SAY YES OR NO AM I GOING TO GET MY PAPER TODAY?
Me: Um. What's your address?
Ms. Adler: I AM HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE JUST SAY YES OR NO.
Me: What's your address?? I didn't hear you.
Ms. Adler: I DIDN'T GET MY PAPER TODAY I USUALLY GET IT BY 6 AM.
Me: What's your address???
Ms. Adler: JUST SAY YES OR NO I'M HARD OF HEARING YOU SEE.
Me: NO!

I <3 my job.

I'm not overweight.

I just want to put that out on the table before continuing.

I've put on weight.

For some reason, people within a certain weight class are not allowed to say that they're putting on weight. Whenever I say that I've added a few pounds people scoff. What they don't understand is that I'm not saying that I'm fat, but that I merely weigh more than I did, say, a few months ago. And this, people, is the case. Weighing in at a whopping 140 pounds, I'm 10 pounds heavier than I was a few months ago.

When I was visiting J in San Francisco last month, we were standing in the bathroom (naked, incidentally), and he said, "Ooooo you're putting on weight!" Naturally, I denied this vicious accusation. Then he said, "Yes you are! The proof is in the pudding!" and he grabbed my belly (he didn't do that at all, but if I had been the one accusing him of putting on weight that's what I would have done. Get it? Pudding? Ha!). He did, however, in a very cute, non-insulting way, tell me that I have most certainly filled out since last December. Obviously, I knew this. I have put on weight. But, people, let's tell the truth here. Could you eat essentially nothing but chicken finger subs and Double Stuf Oreos for 5 months and not put on a few?

I've set a goal for myself, though. I will lose those 10 pounds before I re-cohabitate in August. Granted, I also promised myself that I would have a fair amount of money banked before the move but we can't have it all now can we? Despite the fact that I actually weigh half of a pound more than I did two days ago (I think this may or may not have something to do with the fact that I ate two lunches yesterday), I feel like I've made some really great strides.

Firstly, I've eliminated all soda from my diet. In fact, I really only drink water. This is a rather large feat for me, being someone who doesn't like the flavor of water (and I don't want to hear that water doesn't have a flavor or that the flavor is "refreshing" because "refreshing" is just as much of a flavor as "blue" or "green" and we all know that those are flavors.).

Second, as of this week, I have been bringing my lunch to work with me every day. This actually satisfies both promises, eliminating the chicken finger subs and saving roughly $50 a week. Unfortunately, Bitsy thwarted my reduced-fat-money-saving plan yesterday when she suggested a plan of her own: We could split my homemade lunch at 9:30 and then split a small vegetarian hummus sandwich for lunch. Though I had evenly divvied my turkey and Muenster on wheat, Double Stuf Oreos, and Cape Cod chips, come noon we still ended up ordering both a vegetarian hummus sandwich and a proscuitto and mozzarella sandwich.

Better luck today, people.

What I should really do is have some more surgery. I lost 10 pounds after my surgery and that was when I didn't even need to lose weight. Yeah, surgery would be a hell of a lot easier than cutting back ok on the chicken finger subs!

Every morning when I wake up,

I say: Okay Taylor. Why? Why should you get out of bed this morning?

It typically doesn't take much to get me out of bed. A favorite outfit could do it. Something of interest to discuss with Bitsy could do it. A new favorite song that I can't wait to listen to could even do it.

I lay in my bed for eight minutes this morning because I could not think of one single, solitary reason to do anything otherwise.

Bitsy has always said that she thinks she's on a reality show. She's convinced that there are hidden cameras tucked away in our office and that, if she completes one year at the company, she will be awarded with a million dollars. I can't help but agree. I also can't help but be pissed off for being forced to endure the pain and agony of this obvious television experiment with her.

These people here? They don't really exist. I'm telling you right this very second that people like this do not exist. They're actors and I think they've been tipped off. They've been briefed on all of the things that would drive us crazy and do those things over and over again, day after day. This, obviously, is a ploy to ruin our chances at winning the million dollars.

Mouth has earned her moniker a thousand times over. There is absolutely no imaginable way of getting her to stop talking. Even flat-out telling her to stop talking only incites a sotto voce monologue. Complete and utter disinterest is also ineffectual. I was sitting at my desk reading my US Weekly when she came in and started yammering on about something. One would think that since I didn't once during that entire "conversation" utter a response, look up, or show even the slightest spark of interest, she would stop talking to me. No. Not so much, people.

Margie Gal has gone from muttering under her breath to having full blown, audible conversations with herself. She is horribly unprofessional 100% of the time. She wears black or tan jeans to work every day with white tube socks (rolled down over themselves at the top) and black ballet slippers. She calls the customers "hun" and "honey" despite being asked to stop numerous times, and has recently taken to asking customers for their "zippy" instead of their zip code. Also, she has the mental capacity of a lint roller. One covered with lint. Not even a new one.

I haven't even gotten to the supporting cast:

The Deaf Dock Man who likes to tell me about his sex-capades with hooker-like women

The Elevator Driver Man who is roughly 416 years old

The Mentally Challenged Man who Empties my Trash who is often doing something akin to karate or interpretive dance when I come in every morning

The wicked receptionist we call Attila (Tilly for short)

Sundry drunk homeless men

And more!

One might argue that this is a learning experience for me. That this will teach me acceptance and patience. To those people, I say, "Go fuck yourself." I have learned all that I possibly can from this place! I accept that these people are not at all like me and anyone with anything less than the patience of Jobe would have committed bloody murder by this point. Please. Someone. Anyone. Help me.

This morning, the weatherman said:

"It's going to be a beautiful summer day! Don't you just want to reach out and squeeze the sun's cheeks?"

No, Pete Bouchard. No, I do not want to reach out and squeeze the sun's checks. Instead, I'd much rather reach out, grab the sun, and shake him violently a la Louise Woodward. First of all, why does it need to be nine hundred thousand degrees today? Why? Is that really necessary? (Okay, so it's really only going to hit a high of 87, but that's still far too warm for me). Second of all, Sun, could you please hurry things up? Do we really need a total of 24 hours in a day? If you would just move a long a little quicker then maybe these next eight weeks would progress in a more bearable manner.

Reason number 9,734 on the list of reasons why I hate my life right now is because I had to sit at my desk this morning and listen to The Deaf Dock Man tell me all about the cream his doctor used to remove the hair from his back.

That story, however, paled in comparison to the one I was forced to endure yesterday. Let's just say that it involved The Retarded Man Who Empties my Trash Can, a laxative, and a "metal rod."

Exactly two weeks ago, I said to Bitsy, "This has got to be the longest week ever."

Exactly one week ago, I said to Bitsy, "We were wrong last week. This is the longest week ever."

Today, I said to Bitsy, "We were wrong again last week. This is the longest week ever."

I've been told that today is officially the longest day of the year. HURRY IT UP, PEOPLE!

If you haven't gathered already,

I get bored at work sometimes. I suppose that's just one of the, um, perks, of working in an office where we have maybe two to three hours of work a day to split between four people.

I find ways to keep myself entertained, though. Last week Bitsy and I taught ourselves Finnish (counting and basic phrases). We played MASH today (I'm going to be a neurophysicist with paper mites for pets). I check my email alot (read: A LOT). Also, I like to think of the many ways I could take my life with common office supplies.

Sometimes, though, I actually do productive things, like sketch. I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an artist. Though my drawing skills continue to improve I still have a long way to go. I have a favorite subject in the office. I love to draw Margie Gal. I draw her over and over and over again. It never gets old. And every time I draw her I find something new. A new curve in her bloated cheek. A playful bounce to her intestine-like braid. These are the things that keep me coming back time after time.

And now, I share with you, Margie Gal.

Please make special note of the black scrunchy, the beaded dreadlock, and the buffalo plaid shirt.

I'm actually in the middle of

writing an honest-to-goodness real entry right now, but I had to jump in quickly to say that I just saw a photograph of Mouth's 3 daughter's and I thought I was looking at something out of National Geographic.

In lieu of a scan, I provide you with this as reference.

I have the most amazing friends.

Last night I went out with my friend Angel. Angel has recently returned from a trip out to California. While in California she spent some time with a girl with whom we went to high school. This girl has had a rough life. She's had a brain tumor. She had pneumonia, was in the hospital for six months, lost a lung, had a feeding tube insterted into her throat, and was actually pronounced dead for 42 minutes. Now she has to carry a small oxygen machine with her everywhere she goes. Just after getting all of this information from Angel, she went on to say, "That girl is such a hypochondriac!"

Let's recap:
Brain tumor
Pneumonia
One lung
Hole in throat
Oxygen machine
Died

"That girl is such a hypochondriac!"

I. Love. My. Friends.

I was faced with a decision this morning:

aloe vera toothpaste or seaweed toothpaste?

We had, apparently, run out of good ol' fashioned toothpaste and, instead, were left with two of Mother's latest purchases. Mother has recently become organic obsessed. She thinks nothing of spending $17.99 for a loaf of bread or $34.19 for butter or $114.00 for boneless chicken breasts. She eats 2 tablespoons of virgin coconut oil a day (which, for the record, has the flavor of coconut but the consistency of ear wax). I guess I can't knock the virgin coconut oil, though, because it has allowed her to lose 16 pounds. While she has gone a little overboard I think it's actually good for her (beyond the health benefits). It gives her something to do and, in a sense, something to believe in.

My father couldn't be bothered by the toothpaste dilemma that I had to deal with. He has an obsession of his own: the critters in the backyard. They're still there. And, while he's captured a fair number of them, they persist. He's often found sitting quietly in the backyard or perched in an upstairs window, scanning the lawn for any movement. I've made it more than clear to him that he's not allowed to kill them and, thus, he usually carries his trophi- er, captives off to a wooded area and releases them...except for the one morning when he just pulled over and opened the cage on someone's front lawn. Three birch trees does not a wooded area make. Even though he's seemingly channeling Wil E. Coyote I think it's good for him. It gives him something to do and, in a sense, something to believe in.

For the first time in 26 years, my brother says he's moving out and, by golly, I think he means it. He's spent the larger part of those 26 years refusing to mature and neglecting to pick up the very basic skills that we all need to make it in that big, bad world out there. But now, here he is, making an actual effort (he made fried chicken the other night. While I ended up with a mouth-full of flour after my first bite it was an effort nonetheless). He's been spending some time at his soon-to-be pad fixing up whatnots and painting thing-a-ma-jigs. While I think the little match under his backside has been lit by necessity and not of his own accord, I think it's good for him. It gives him something to do and, in a sense, something to believe in.

So what do I do? I go to work, I go home, I eat my weight in Oreos, and I go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. I guess that's not fair. I spend a large part of my day thinking - thinking about what's to come. I think about where I'll be in 2 months. Where I'll be in a year. Where I'll be in 6 years. Where I'll be in 15 years. And, yes, I think that's good for me. So I guess that's what I do. And that future is what I believe in.

Two things that worry me:

No. 1 - A friend of mine is getting married. When I told Connie about the upcoming nuptials she asked, "Well, does she have a date yet?" and I said "Duh, Connie, I'm pretty sure she's bringing her fiancee!"

No. 2 - Today is Flag Day. We were just talking about Flag day and what it is we're celebrating exactly. Somewhere in the midst of this conversation I said something about "the creator of our flag, Betty White."

I was abducted by aliens last night.

At least, I'm almost 100% certain that I was abducted by aliens last night.

I woke up this morning with an acute ache in the tip of my right index finger. I did not have this pain when I went to bed and, obviously, I didn't do anything to injure it in the middle of the night.

So, obviously, the only logical explanation I can come up with is that I was abducted by aliens and these aliens planted some sort of tracking device into the tip of my finger underneath my fingernail.

This is so obvious because, obviously, I'm a superior specimen that they would be interested in tracking.

I. Love. People.

I am in no way being sarcastic either. I just love people. I love situations that allow me to interact with people. I especially love being around people who are a) wrong, b) stupid, c) mean, d) old, or e) any combination of items a through d.

I love fighting with the customers that call me at work. I've found particular pleasure lately in calling/sending out bills to people who haven't paid for their subscriptions. I like telling them that they're wrong. That, no, they have not paid and that, yes, they must do so before I personally come to their home and relieve myself on their front lawn (I've yet to tell anyone I'd relieve myself on their front lawn but OH how I'd love to).

I practically got off on telling a woman that I was not going to send out a newspaper for her today. She told me that she didn't receive her paper yesterday and that she didn't think she'd received it today. I asked her if she'd checked for it and she said, "That's a waste of time!" I asked her if she said that it was a waste of time because I didn't think we lived on a planet where going out to see if your own newspaper that you just called to complain about had actually been delivered would be considered a waste of time. She replied, "Yes."

I. Love. People. They just fascinate me.

Exhibit B:

How about this guy? "Being bizarre is not a reason to keep somebody out of this country or lock them up." First of all, I beg to differ. Second of all, even if being bizarre isn't enough to deny entrance to the country or put them in jail then that hair-do should be. And, I suppose, if the bizarre thing and the hair thing isn't reason enough then maybe toting sundry weapons (one of which appeared to be bloody) should be!

Lastly, Bitsy told me a story about a woman who was four-months pregnant and jet skiing when she got stuck on a sand bar. Hello? Hello. Isn't that something that you girls are taught by your mothers at a very young age? They teach you the birds, the bees, how to shave your legs, how to insert a tampon, and that riding jet skis while pregnant is bad, right? Apparently not, because, in an effort to locate this news story I found this post over at www.pregnancy-info.net. Apparently this is a common misconception.

PEOPLE. PLEASE. I love every second of it.

Reason No. 2,719 why I should never have children:

At a friend's barbecue on Saturday night I encouraged another friend's 5-year-old son to swipe his finger through the very large flame of a candle. I suppose, in hind sight, that maybe 5-year-olds shouldn't be going anywhere near open flames but I know that it doesn't hurt me and, therefore, shouldn't hurt him.

I don't know why I don't like children. I don't ever remember liking them. I didn't even like them when I was a child - I recall thinking that they were acting like children which, I guess, was appropriate at the time.

Once, I told a little girl on the beach that she was ugly. I don't really know why I did it (besdies the fact that she was an unattractive thing). She was crying. I think she might have gotten stung by a jelly fish. I don't know. Whatever.

I also hit a little boy in the face with a shopping bag once when I was in New york. Technically, he walked right into it, but in his defense I saw him coming and didn't swerve.

When he and I first started dating he told me that he would really like to have a little boy someday. I'm not sure if I actually said "Go fuck yourself" but I'm sure I said something along those lines.

I'm wearing new shoes today!

Except they're not even remotely new. They're 2 years and 11 months old. I know that they're 2 years and 11 months old because I bought them from Banana Republic on my very last day of working there (along with roughly four thousand other things - the discount was not to be wasted).

I don't know how I managed to forget that I owned them because they're perfectly nice cap-toe oxfords that I might have worn maybe once before but, unfortunately, they're black and not brown and, at this point in my life, I would give up food, water, sleep, and sex for new brown shoes.

Do you like how I slipped sex in there to give the illusion that I'm actually having it on an even semi-regular basis?

In related news, MY FEET HURT LIKE HOLY HELL.

I like it when the homos call me at work. It's so rare that I get to have contact with my own kind. One just called. He was all deep-voiced and professional at the beginning of the conversation but I could hear his voice change as he slowly realized that he and I were of the same ilk. Silly queer.

Lastly, I'd like to say that I'm in need of an entirely new outfit for an upcoming affair and the thought of it has me teeming with all kinds of good.