Caterwauling

I have a desk drawer that’s filled with greeting cards. Birthdays. Babies. Anniversaries. Thinking-of-Yous. Condolences. Thank-yous. Etc. Overflowing.

Now, I never buy stamps. Because I cannot tell you where the G.D. post office even is for my ZIP code. And the cards? Remain unmailed. Some I’ve actually written in, but most didn’t warrant the effort because I neither had postage with which to mail them nor a place to mail them.

I do, however, have stamps out the wazoo from previous eras when they cost a lot less. But instead of keeping them, I’ve tossed them into the void as I’ve uncovered them, mostly because they ended up stuck to whatever was thrown into the moving boxes with them.

I drove around half of Rockville today trying to find a G.D. mailbox. I know where the post office is — I just don’t really care to go fight for a parking spot. I figured mailing the card in my possession — stamped! — could coincide with other errands. Not so much.

I fear the mailboxes have disappeared thanks to geniuses (genii?) like me who are willing to stick a book of stamps to their ass and get shipped anywhere but where they are. And I’m totally fine with paying the book rate — I’m all about a month-long journey to nowhere.

It just kills me that yet another card is destined for the all-encompassing void of the Desk Drawer of Good Intentions. Because you know the day I do stumble upon a mailbox, I’m not even going to remember the card I so lovingly filled out today. …

… And I don’t. …

Have been busy with work. (Shocker, I know!) Mostly it’s good but the occasional color-me-unimpressed moment tends to bug me perhaps more than it should.

Oh well. This coming Thursday is Chocolate Day (I thought it was today. Rats), in which we import enough of the addictive stuff to feed every animal in the National Zoo (perhaps not the worst analogy here) and we feed from the river o’ chocolate all damn day. Which entails a lot of bouncing off walls and unbuttoning of pants, because WHO NEEDS REAL FOOD WHEN YOU HAVE CHOCOLATE?

I was mistaken and assumed Chocolate Day was today. Because, really, a girl needs something to look forward to. And come to think of it, I’m working off-site next week, so I shall miss the delightful festival o’ calories. I had been wondering, actually, how to bake/buy for it when I get home after 8 p.m. every night. Shit, my contribution to Chocolate Day would have to be bringing a friend because who the fuck has time to assemble anything? I mean, until there’s a drive-thru that serves chocolate (oh, I can dream), I can’t contribute anything but my taste buds.

Speaking of morale-boosters, tomorrow is our very first (and only) day we can wear jeans. And it’s pretty sad — I was looking at my closet and saw 30 pairs of jeans and at least 40 jeanskirts. I used to be called “The Denim Queen” (mostly after I lost my “One Night Stand Queen” tiara although I wouldn’t say I’ve gone on to bigger and better things. *sniff*). I miss being able to either go out after work or at least wear jeans to work regularly. There’s a whole half of my walk-in closet that goes virtually ignored because it’s casual wear.

I’m hoping everybody behaves well and dresses nicely in jeans tomorrow, and I hope our productivity is as good as ever so that maybe I can get to access the far reaches of my neglected closet with more frequency. Although it is probably more likely that Chocolate Day will move from being an annual event to a daily one. …

Oy.

Returned to work yesterday with a mere 12-hour shift. You know, I had a friend in Pennsylvania who had a meeting in D.C. yesterday and made it a day trip. We left our respective houses around the same time, only he drove four hours each way AND had time to have a meeting and have lunch. And guess which one of us got home first? Yep, NOT ME.

I actually attended my inaugural and perhaps final PubQuiz last Monday, because being able to be anywhere on a Monday at 7 p.m.-ish had to require a vacation day being taken. It’s all good, although I suck at trivia. (Royal Air Force? Seriously? Why on earth would I give up a spot in my brain for Melissa Etheridge lyrics for that?)

To my (small) credit, I was surprisingly knowledgeable during the Britney Spears round. 🙂 There was a question I missed that I shouldn’t have, and I was sort of annoyed, but my friends reassured me that it’s a GOOD thing when I don’t know absolutely everything there is to know about Brit-Brit. (Who, in fact, has to give up custody of her kids by noon tomorrow. Ahem.)

Oh well. When I say it’s good to be back to work, I absolutely mean it. I mean, you know that back-to-school MasterCard commercial where the little boys are dancing to the Parliament song? Blah blah, “Backpack: 20, Being with people who understand you: priceless.” Honestly, that was me dancing around my office yesterday.

Here’s the video, because I suddenly love it so:

Everyone popped in to say hi and welcome back, and it was truly like, wow! I haven’t seen you guys in forevah! Thank gawd I’m home! *resolves to never click heels to be taken away again*

Of course, then you get the snotty comments and the roadblocks and just plain grief from the ones who you needed to escape in the first place, and you’re reminded of why you had to get away in the first place. But at least I’m paid to deal with them. (Note on door, peeps. Is for reading.) But it’s the dumb shit you have to encounter on your “free” time that’s really aggravating.

Speaking of, I’m being summoned to the city to the north that I’ve grown to abhor to do some dirty work. If I have to cancel my plans, as October’s a very social month for moi, somebody is going to get a pointy-toed boot up their badonkadonk.

All I know is that Monroeville’s Red Roof Inn can suck my ass for keeping my iPhone charger (even though I sent them the URL of what it looks like to PROVE it’s mine) and the Greensburg Hampton Inn can eat me — their tub was filthy, General Manager Eric J. Kubas wrote me to say they can find no evidence that my claim can POSSIBLY be true.

I wasn’t looking for a free ride, just a courtesy of hey, that sucked and maybe there’s something wrong with your pipes. Asshole. Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it.

Speaking of smoke, damn it, I’m out of Marlboro Lights. …