Spent the whole day out yesterday — went to Starbucks for Columbian coffee and a cinnamon scone. They had neither, so I ended up with a venti Sumatra and an iced pumpkin scone. Mmm … yummy!
I was up and out really early — it was just one of those days in which I felt like being alone but amongst people (look, in my mind, this makes sense. lol). I was surprised to actually get a table at Starbucks — I’d left my notebook in my car, because the damn place only seats 10, and I’m never one of the lucky ones. But even without my trusty pen-and-paper, I sat and ate my fresh little scone and enjoyed my piping-hot coffee. And I people-watched — the world’s cheapest and most productive hobby.
There were these two people, whom I thought were together, who obviously wanted a table so badly they could taste it. The man looked slightly confused and the woman appeared slightly deranged. They stood in place, looking imploringly into all of our faces, for at least 10 minutes. I wasn’t in a huge hurry — I only planned to stay long enough to finish my scone, and I wasn’t choking it down for them. Usually, I scarf down my scone in my car, but as there were torrential downpours and fog-o-plenty, I relished the chance to be inside a warm coffeehouse.
A consummate problem-solver, I started sending them vibes to maybe take the extra chairs from some of our tables and set them up in an unoccupied corner. Simple, right? Almost all of us with tables were alone. As if the guy could read my mind, he asked a woman if she were using the other chair, which she wasn’t. But what did he do? Threw his stuff down on the tiny table, grabbed a huge hulking handful of the WaPo, grabbed another chair from a nearby table, and put the paper on the chair. The woman orginally at the table looked horrified, and I saw her hurry to finish her pastry. I left when she did, and I saw the slightly deranged woman scurry over to my table to occupy it immediately. How weird.
All of the Starbucks that I’ve visited in this area look like they were furnished by IKEA, and they’re all so tiny. I miss the sprawling Starbucks stores in Pittsburgh that I used to haunt — they were overflowing with cafe tables and armchairs and couches. Granted, it was always difficult to get a table in those, but oftentimes you could get the little tables by the windows, so you could watch the pedestrians and traffic pass by. I loved it. Most people never really even looked in the windows — they were so consumed with themselves. Those are the people I love to watch most — those who aren’t acting like there is a TV crew following them. So many people walk by and peer in everyone’s faces, making certain that everyone sees them. Sometimes I can be like that — when I’m feeling good, I want people to notice me — it’s validating. And when I’m not feeling so great, I can either fade into the background or at least hope someone throws me an appreciative or at least a curious glance. 🙂
Oh, at any rate, I went shopping amongst the illiterate at the Kingstowne Wal-Mart, found some cute cheap shirts at Ross, got my nails done with Shan, and went to the dollar store to whore around. I also went to another Ross store, the one next to the dollar store at Landmark Center, and found the sweater I am now wearing. I went back to the dollar store today — they had some cute hair accesories, and I’d only bought one yesterday (before I ran out of money) and loved it so much that I wanted the other dozen that looked similiar to it. So I bought eight more. 🙂 And a whole bunch of other shit that I can’t wait to tear into — all kinds of neat household gadgets and products. (I *~*heart*~* the dollar store!!!)
Stopped to meet Shan for dinner at Landmark Mall tonight, but she wasn’t feeling well and we never did end up eating. On a pleasant note, we ran into Dave and the three of us hung out and chatted till the mall closed. Shan and I have this running joke that we ALWAYS run into someone we know at the Food Court, and on those days, we’re never dressed up or wearing makeup (read: we look like drowned rats when we see people we know). Heh.
We all parted ways as the lights started blinking (like the mall was a bar during last call or something), so here I am at home, finally, scarfing down Ben & Jerry’s and smoking a cigarette (I’d gone a week without any smokes, but I really was craving one today). I’m also dealing with my consummate “back-to-school” feeling — that gut rumbling that always accompanies Sunday evenings, as I dread returning to the workplace again. Joy and rapture. I’d planned to go into work tonight, but as I drove past it, I decided that I can only withstand so much agony and torture in a given week. My theory about having to work during a weekend is simple: most people choose Saturdays on which to work, so that they can get it out of the way and then enjoy the remainder of their weekends. Not me. Saturdays are my days — it’s the one day of the week when I get up early and run my personal errands and bum around the malls, as stores are open late. Sundays used to always be for hangovers, but now, they are for doing work (when/if the inspiration strikes). The way I figure it, Sundays suck by default, because that’s when the dread starts to set in because you know that you’ve got a full week of work-related bullshit ahead of you. When you work on a Sunday, it becomes your Monday, so at least you’ve gotten the poison out of your system before you’ve had to lay eyes upon all the sad sacks in the office when their workweek begins.
I had to go into work yesterday to let Mac Guy into the building. That was enough pain for the weekend for me. I couldn’t wait to get out of there — Shan says we should just have bars on the windows, because that place truly is our prison. I can’t tell you how much time I spend staring out my windows, wishing I could be out frolicking among the land of the living.
In “Making a Living Without a Job,” Barbara J. Winter says that whatever you do as your hobby, you should be doing full time for profit. My hobby is writing — I write anything. I write what I see when I people-watch. I write when I think about things that please or bother me. I write notes for the book series I began planning when I was 14. I write little inspirational messages to myself and leave them around my office or around my home computer to keep me motivated (such as: Envision your successes and they will happen!). At work, yes, I’m a writer, but I write about subjects and people that don’t interest me. And I write for people who kill me, again and again. That ship was sinking before I stepped onto it, and the only thing those morons inspire me to do is to make the most of a bad situation before it gets worse, as it inevitably will.
Demure indicated to me that she has a few more interviews coming up. We’ve still never rescheduled mine. So far, she’s interviewed J-Ho, the Oily Bo Hunk (remember “Sixteen Candles,” anyone?) and a twig-like perky blonde bimbette — and Demure had the audacity to come into my office when she was done with Bimbette to ask me how the paper was going and to meet with me about miscellaneous shit. I was incensed.
I had to re-do the budget for my department for the remainder of the fiscal year. I budgeted for Mac Guy and our freelance writer to be there with me till July. I think it was unfair of her to make me do this budget when I don’t know what they’re doing about the hiring situation. And if they hire J-Ho, well, she and I have matching skill sets (albeit, I assume mine are waaayy better, and my resume is much more impressive). That means we’d still have to pay Mac Guy, which defeats the whole purpose of the hiring process, if you ask me. If those fuckers had any brains at all, we would have done a Skills Inventory with me and found someone to complement me, instead of match me. But those fuckwads couldn’t manage their ways out of a paper bag, so it makes perfect sense for them to have two writers with no desktop publishing expertise. They beg us to cut corners and save money, yet when one of us has an idea that would save the agency fifty grand a year, they plug their ears and whistle “Dixie.”
On that note, I’m getting away from the computer and beginning the beauty rest process. I look just as bedraggled as I feel!
