Saturday, December 29, 2012

Spinster Saturday

I'm so happy to be back together with my full-sized keyboard. Heaven help me if we all make the switch to touch screen keypads at any point. My thumbs (like all spinsters, apparently), are too fat for that business.

Side Note: a guy on the flight back to New York told me that all spinsters were rumored to have big thumbs and bad breath back when the title actually related to spinning as a profession. However, I've just googled this and it is as yet unsubstantiated.  Though, I have to admit his reasoning did make sense.

This morning I had an early and spinsterly brunch at my favorite neighborhood brunch spot, Cafe Bar. They have excellent chocolate lave cake, but since I was already eating alone at 10:45 in the morning, I decided to settle for the (still delicious) huevos rancheros and the divinely fresh squeezed orange juice. I don't know what it is about fresh squeezed orange juice, but i just really love it.

After brunch I stopped by the grocery to get some special milk so there won't be any rooty-toot-toot or rummy-tum-tum in my apartment or cubicle, and I tried to find some peanut butter Chimes Ginger Chews, and of course they weren't there. Why are those so hard to find? To be a proper spinster, I need to have a purse filled with random candies.

On my way home, it started snowing really hard. Like sideways. So, I decided then and there I was going to come back to my apartment, put my bathrobe over my clothes, and not leave again. And that's what I've done. I made some hand painted and glittered thank you notes to send for my christmas gifts, and I watched two episodes of "Toddlers and Tiaras," one episode of "My Strange Addiction," and now I'm sitting in my bed under the covers watching Tyler Perry TV shows. I know, you're jealous.

The last thing I will say is about Twitter. I'm not sure I'm doing it right, but I'm trying. Yesterday I tweeted this photo to The Ellen Show. I think maybe it was a weird thing to do.

I'll leave you with this thought: for once in my life, my feet are actually cold right now. This is a (post Christmas) miracle.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

The Most Requested Story of the Season

Today I head back to the city, and unfortunately it's not a moment too soon. I've been feeding myself like a fatted calf, and I suppose it has to stop. But for once, this entry won't be about eating. Well, at least not all of it.

I come from a long line of story tellers. Our oral tradition dates back at least three generations and is fueled by a cast of idiosyncratic characters like my life coach of a grandfather and my beast of a workout-fiend Uncle Tom. So every time we get together, in whatever combination, the telling of stories on request is sure to occur. So this morning I bring you my most requested story of the season: "The Freelancer."

It took me three weeks to leave my last job after I'd accepted the one I have now, and in those three weeks I got so stressed and tightly wound, I knew I'd need to take a week's vacation in between. So, in the four weeks my job waited, a freelancer was brought in to hold my spot. She was a 38-year-old short,round, Canadian who hadn't had a full time job (from the sound of it) in all her eight years in the states.

As is customary, on my first day I had a rather extended meeting with Human Resources in which we reviewed all the necessary paperwork, etc, and when I left I was given a nice little wooden box that held a bright green composition notebook, a company water bottle, a can of coke, a box of coconut water, a cliff bar, some Raisinets, sun chips, pirate's booty, and a large box of nerds that held two different flavors divided in the center and with two different openings so you didn't have to mix them.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that I was so pleased with the snack box because it presented so many hoarding possibilities. I like to save my snacks for when I need a little pick me up or reward or break. Having a little stock was exciting.

When I got to my new cube, I saw that the freelancer was sitting there working on a desktop PC with long, curly hair and eyes that were maybe just a little too jolly. Her teeth, too. There was something about her teeth that made me think she might have eaten a few too many oranges in her life.

The Freelancer stayed for the next three weeks, and slowly (or not-so-slowly) drove me to the brink of insanity. Aside from having suggestions for how I could do just about anything I was doing better and more efficiently while she somehow failed to get anything done herself, she seemed to have a growing obsession with my little box of treats.

"You should really put that coke and the coconut water in the fridge," was a daily suggestion. But if you've ever worked in an office, you know why I told her in as many ways I could think of that I'd like to keep them at my desk. As soon as anything goes in that office fridge, it seems there's someone in the office who regards it as community property. And yet every day she would bring it up. I finally gave in and gave her the coconut water, hoping for a policy of appeasement. That worked about as well for me as it did against the Germans of the 20th century.

And The Freelancer hated to eat alone. She always wanted to order in, but I need to take a little break from the office and its occupants around lunch time. One day she said, "we should order Moon Cake for lunch." Of course, she'd already brought this up before and ignored my disinterest in ordering.

"I've really been wanting to go to Subway," I said. Really, I didn't care where I went as long as the freelancer wasn't there. So I waited. I waited for The Freelancer to order her food so I'd know I was in the clear. Fifteen minutes passed and then twenty, and just when I was about to mention she should go ahead and order, she piped up.

"You know, I think I'll just go to Subway with you."

Really? Really. "I want to go by myself," I said, and I knew by her response that she was hurt. But remember, she is 38 years old.

When I got back to the office after my five minute absence, I told her I'd brought her a cookie.

"Are you sure," she said, more than slightly accusingly. "Are you sure you brought me a cookie? I thought you didn't like me anymore because you want to be aloooone." She sounded like a sixth grader. There was a pause. "Or did you ever like me?"

I couldn't believe my ears. I wanted to punch her in her acid-eroded teeth. I turned my head slowly and spoke to her like the child she was, "don't be a baby."

And she scowled.

But then, later that week, I tried to preempt any attempts she would make to milk her hourly pay by telling her it really wasn't necessary for her to stay late. I said it a few times, and around 6:45, she told me she was off the clock. And yet she stayed.

"What would it take for you to go to a singles event with me tonight?" She asked as if she knew I was going to say yes. The thought of attending any singles event where she would be present made me want to die a spinster.

"That's absolutely 100% not going to happen," I said quite firmly. I was hoping she'd then take this as her cue to go ahead without me. But she stayed. And she stayed. And she stayed. And she told me she was going to eat my pirate's booty. I was almost scandalized until I remembered it was a food product.

"I already ate it," I said, glad I had. She wanted to know when that had happened as if I should have shared. I would have rather eaten it in the dark recesses of the sample closet than shared my treat with her. She finally left for her event around 8pm, a good hour after it began. And of course I had to hear about it the next morning.

The next day, I walked away from my desk for a moment, and when I returned, she was facing me, my special box of nerds in her hand.

"I went ahead and opened this," she said, " just know."

I was sure steam was shooting out of my ears, but I tried to sound like I was not that upset. "Why you gotta be takin' my stuff without asking?" I said, sitting down and turning away from her.

"Oh," she said, "I kind of thought you'd already given them to me."

Clearly, this woman had learned nothing of me and my nature in our three weeks together. I would never have done such a thing as relinquish my treats to her.

"No, I didn't," I said, trying not to sound as explosively annoyed as I actually was, "but that's all right." Subtext: that's all right, I see you now. I know how you are. I will henceforth be hiding all my treasures from you. Especially edible treasures. Fatass.

The next morning, as I entered an appointment with my doctor in my phone, I received a text from my mom. My response detailed the coke situation, work fridge dynamics, and of course, Nerdgate 2012. I hit send as I crossed the street, hoping for a little sympathy. But when I checked to see if my mom had texted me back, I realized I'd sent the whole thing to my doctor.

And of course he received a detailed account at our next meeting. I'm sure you can guess what kind of doctor he is.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Forever Lazy and Christmas Morning

So I'm sitting in my bed waiting for everyone else to wake up this morning, and I've just seen a commercial for this thing called Forever Lazy. Please check out this commercial. It's basically a polar fleece zip front body suit with a "convenient hatch" in the back. I need one. According to the commercial you should even wear them outside.

Well, I guess I should brush my teeth before I kill everyone with my breath.

Monday, December 24, 2012

Christmas Shopping on Christmas Eve

Just a few images from my last minute Christmas excursion:

This lady's luxurious crushed velvet head to toe Christmas ensemble. Complete with DTM ( fashion speak for dyed to match) suede 90's heels.

Action shot of the same lady.

Camo wrapping paper.

A woman with her dog in a baby Bjorne

Merry Christmas!

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Sweaty Feet and Candy for Breakfast

Of course, I didn't eat sweaty feet for breakfast. What I mean to say is that I'm still in bed, and my feet are sweaty, but I don't want to get up. I'm leaving for the airport in less then three hours, and I meant to clean my apartment this morning, but instead I'm sitting here eating the candy my neighbor gave me for christmas (Andes Mints are surprisingly good for breakfast) and watching that weird Brad Pitt Chanel No 5 Commercial.

And also, to avoid cleaning, I made a twitter account for this blog! (Scary). So...follow me @spnstrhddiaries. I'm sure I'll be tweeting from the airport while I'm avoiding finishing Infinite Jest. That book is so long, and I'm still waiting for it to become rewarding.

All right, I think I owe it to myself to at least wipe down the counter (all 6" of it).

Friday, December 21, 2012

Cookies for Breakfast on the Last Day on Earth

Since the world didn't end, why not eat Rite Aid store brand Chocolate Chip Cookies for breakfast in bed? So I did. And then when I sat up to write this post, crumbs from my chest fell all over the duvet. I really never wonder why I'm single.

I'm really glad the world didn't end this morning, though, because the last thing I ate yesterday was a dinner of black beans (no rice) and more chocolate chip cookies. I mean, I could have done better than that for a last meal. Upon closer inspection, however, I have no idea what I would eat instead. Ice cream would be included, clearly.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

La Abuelita Mala

Yesterday was rough. I was super stressed and everyone needed something. So I was particularly excited to go out at lunch and call my mom on the way to my favorite lunch spot, Dig Inn.

As usual, my mom didn't pick up and called me back about a minute later. My guess is she can never find her phone.

When she did call me back, though, I stood outside the restaurant , my back against the wall, explaining why I am explosively stressed out. And suddenly, as I stood there, a tiny old woman in a stylish black coat kicked me in the shin and yelled at me in Spanish, shaking her fist and pointing. And all I could do was stand there and stair at her, dumbfounded.

And then I stayed at the office until 10:30Pm, not because I was afraid she was lying in wait for me out in the cold, but rather because I have enough work to do for three people.

And I'm blogging now while I am on hold with the office IT because, on the midst of all this work, my computer keeps massively malfunctioning. But oddly, it's more hilarious than anything else.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Pop Tarts on a Paper Towel

One of my favorite Spinsterhood-related books is Marjorie Hillis's Live Alone and Like It. Though the book is from the 1930s, I find a lot of the suggestions are still quite valid. Re: Breakfast in bed. While I don't have a maid to serve me breakfast in bed the way Hillis suggests, I find it's still enjoyable.

When I lived in the Village, I ate my breakfast in bed because I wanted to avoid my roommate, and my bedroom was actually the size of my bed. Now, I do it by choice. Luxurious Choice.

This morning, as ever morning, though, I'm doing it my own Spinster style by eating Brown Sugar and Cinnamon Pop Tarts   off an amazing paper towel. You know, I like to keep it classy.  But this way, more luxury: I don't have to do any dishes or load the dishwasher.

Last night when I got home from work at 10:30, I ate Pop Tarts off a paper towel for dinner, too.

Since starting the new job, I've been putting in a minimum of a 60 hour week. I assume this is mostly because I'm new and still getting my bearings, but the other night I found myself being chided by a (senior) coworker. Saying I should ask for a freelancer or some help, the lovely petite lady was concerned for me. "Don't you want to go out or watch TV or...have a baby?"

While the third item in that list seemed to be the one that didn't belong, I suppose she was speaking to one of the main reasons for my spinsterhood. And, unfortunately, the reason my thighs look like their made of oatmeal. I know, delicious.

Well, now that Pop tart time has ended, I shall take myself and my oversized cat shirt to wash my face.