I tend to be a pessimistic daydreamer. Lately, I've been daydreaming about the work dynamic when old girl starts back. I'm comfortable here. Honkered down even. I keep creating scenes where she's bossing me around or plotting to have me fired. In a fair world, if one of us had to leave one day, it should be her, right? She left. I wasn't hired under the impression that my job was at risk of her return. I just hope her presence is the only thing to change. She'll have her own work area, very separated from mine, so I maybe I won't even have to know she's here. But then my doubts strengthen. What if my boss, who's very keen on her return, favors her and makes me the neglected orphaned step-child he's stuck with? What if she renames all my files "Untitled-1," "Untitled-2" "Untitled 3" and so on to the end of my files?* Why would she do that you ask? Because I can think of it. She could take the same exact lunch time as I do so I have to watch Passions instead of What Not to Wear. I mean, apocalyptic much? She and my boss could form a little whisper huddle and discuss hugely vital goings-on, while not doing anything about it and assuming I know. And then when customers wonder where their stuff is, they'll be directed to me, but I'll be lost and yelled at.

In reality, I'm not too shook up over her return. I see it as neither positive nor negative. But neither positive and neither negative do not wrangle my worries.

*Random side note: In an effort to illustrate how catastrophic such a re-titling would be, I thought I'd check the info on my external and see how many files are there. It didn't tell me, but now I really want to know. There are 337 folders, very few of which don't contain sub-folders. So I'd guess we have at least 500,000 files. Catastrophic.

Target uses "Everybody's a Star" by the Kinks in their new commercial promoting the launch of Converse in their stores. It's off one of those albums I grew up on. "Soap Opera," was a concept album about a rock star trading places with a normal man, Norman. I'm excited to hear the song, but also annoyed because of that whole sell-out stigma of having a song in a commercial.

The girl I took over for is back. In September, she moved to the coast to be with her boyfriend. Well, they broke up, and she's back, and my boss offered her a job. Not her old job, which is to say MY JOB!, but a new position in "Sales and Marketing." From what the fellas in the back tell me, that means she'll sit and do as much of nothing as she can. I worked with her for a month before she moved and she seemed to work, but I'm thinking it was just to show me how things work. I don't think I need to worry about my job, but I will be saving a lot more for a while. And I'll feel less guilty when I leave for grad school.

Crazy Cat Lady

Three stories. The first two feed the third.

1.) Today, I bought Oscar a $.99 Tyrannosaurus Rex from Target. He named it Renee (after DeCartes) but then decided it was a girl. So, it's a girl with a girl's name, but after a boy. Anyway, he keeps randomly roaring at me and making it climb on me. It's quite adorable really.

2.) I quote myself from an email to a friend:

Euler is a kitty garbage disposal. He will eat anything.
I told you about the felt. Well, he ate the plastic ring
from a milk jug. He eats string, toilet paper, cotton balls,
carpet, plastic bags. When he eats his food, he literally
makes scarfing noises. I don't think he chews. When I get
home from work, I buy their love with with Catmilk.
Wedgie won't drink it unless it's on their carpet tower.
And I have to look away. Euler is such a lover bunny though.
He slept on my head last night, and he totally hugs my
shoulder when I pick him up.

3.) Tonight, I made broccoli soup from a recipe from "Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares," a show on BBC America in which a great chef goes into failing restaurants and tries to diagnose and cure the problem. He literally threw cooked broccoli and some of it's cooked in water into a food processor with some salt. It's tasty. Euler thinks so too. He and Wedgie were being particularly feed me feed me tonight, so I gave them some more food. Inspired by his scarfing noises, I tried him on the broccoli soup. He LOVED it. Wedgie wouldn't touch it. Renee (as played by Oscar), despite being a carnivore, insisted on trying it too. She didn't like it, so I let Euler lick it off her. My cat made out with a plastic dinosaur covered in broccoli soup.

Somehow, I've managed to eat rather healthily this week. Except last night. We went to B-dubs and I feel funny this morning. Who knew a few wings and a beer could throw me off.

I am not a neat person. Perhaps stepping on a ruler and gashing my toes will change that. But probably not.

Marie Smith Jones died. I'd never heard of her, but it's interesting nonetheless. If I were in her situation, I'd have wrongly defined some naughty words. So people trying to learn my language would be saying "shit" whenever they were saying, oh I don't know, "love." "I shit you." "I shit that color on you." Nobody would ever know. Ever.

Of course, that's immature.

mettez le poids sur moi

A little back story . . .
In high school, I was obsessed with a band called Travis. They did a cover of "The Weight" by The Band. Therefore, I was totally obsessed with that song and decided to make a mix CD of all covers of that song. It didn't work that well because I just kept finding a bunch of "rockers" covering it live. That just wasn't my scene back then. Maybe it was because I'd never been to a concert. I still don't love live recordings, but I like the spontaneity of some of the songs. I guess I'd just rather be there. Anyway, back to "The Weight." Today, I heard a cover in French. Weirdest thing ever. To know the lyrics, but then, not.

I'm starting to resent our clients. Their stupid ideas. Their stupid timing. Their stupid schedules. They think it's so easy and so reasonable for me to re-type their huge pages of text. No. No. No. I'll set type alllllll day long, but for crap's sake it's not my job to type it out. I mean, I guess it can be, but I will keep track of every minute I spend typing, and you will be charged $72.50 for each hour I spend typing, just so you understand the value of typing yourself.

Seriously?