The Freshman and I went to the grocery store on Saturday.  After a long morning of consuming coffee, the urge to go hit me, and I commented to him that I had to pee like a racehorse.  Fifteen minutes later as we were exiting the store, he said “I never really understood that - what does a racehorse have to do with it?”  I explained that it has to do with going, and fast.  “Oh,” he said, “but why is it a Russian racehorse?”

I love him.

Rushing, dear, rushing.

P.S.  Work still sucks, and I miss the ocean.

My neighbor Jerry installed an in-ground pool.  Of course, it’s only one inch in the ground, and it’s inflatable; he is Jerry, after all.  This is an upgrade from last year, when he only had an over-sized kiddie pool.  It’s always a perfect end to my day when I pull in the driveway and get to see Jerry and his wife in their bathing suits, lounging in 4-6 inches of stagnant water.  Neither of them are Speedo-ready, but it doesn’t seem to bother them in the least.

We have newish neighbors living on the other side of the alley behind us: Wes and his new wife and their dog Tucker.  We’ve talked a few times, and I like them very much.  (They mow regularly, which earns high points from me.  You can be a total asshole, but if you mow regularly, we’re friends.)  Tucker is ferocious, and I’ve tried to make friends with him so he’ll stop barking his head off every time he sees me.  He’s got a lot of energy and they walk him a lot.  One afternoon last week, the Freshman and I were drinking on the patio, and Wes and Tucker were walking one way, and another man and his dog were walking the other.  The dogs got into an altercation, and the Freshman said “Where’s the Dog Whisperer when you need him?”  I assume it was Tucker that was being the bad one, ’cause Wes really hasn’t spoken to us since.

There are new tenants in the rental across the street.  While I have no complaints about his mowing habits, I have to think my property value decreases just a little every time he comes out the door.  I may be chubby, but at least I have the good sense to cover up my wobbly bits with fabric when I come out in public.  Half-nekkid and chubby are not a good combo.  I haven’t gotten to know them, but I know they won’t be here long.  None of the tenants in that house ever are.  (And no, it’s not because of me.)

I used to have frie-nemies next door.  We’ve dispensed with the friend part now, though, and we’re in a stage of rampant indifference.  Sigh.  I had such high hopes for us, once upon a time.

(Aren’t you just the tiniest bit glad that you don’t live in my neighborhood?)

I can say without question that if I was as stupid as some of my peers, my boss would have fired me long ago.  I never met people who could talk so much without saying anything.  On two different occasions today, I wanted to say “You are the stupidest fucker I ever met, and you need to shut-the-fuck-up.  You’ve gotten paid to do this job for two years, and you haven’t done a damn thing in those two years.  Now, you’ve got something to say?  No.  No!  You don’t get to talk in circles anymore, and you don’t get to pretend that you know what you’re doing.  Just fucking sit there quietly, and let the people cleaning up your fucking mess do it without fucking input from you.  Just sit there - clueless, gutless, and hopeless like you always are, and oh, by the way, shut the fuck up.”  Instead, I just buried my head in my hands, on the verge of weeping because it was that or explode.  I can count on one hand the number of times during my entire life when I’ve gotten mad enough to feel my blood pressure going ga-gunk, ga-gunk, ga-gunk inside my head.  Today was one of them.  In our morning meeting, I had to force myself to stay in my chair, ’cause every impulse I had said to get up, pack your shit, and get the fuck out of this place before you lose your damn mind.

(Okay Daisy.  I think they’ve got it.  Go to bed, for godssake.  Nobody likes it when you rage.)

I have a hair appointment tomorrow.  I decided during the last six weeks that I would try to grow it out, so I don’t really want to go.  I just need a bang-trim, but I’m not canceling because frankly, I’m terrified of my stylist.  The last time I canceled an appointment, she didn’t call me back for weeks.  I was an inch from resorting to a Saturday’s cut.  When she finally worked me into the schedule, I was afraid; she still hadn’t forgiven me, had a crazy look in her eyes, and was wielding scissors.  I vowed never to cancel again.  I’ll go, and I’ll let her cut off some imaginary hair for $54.  Or whatever. She does what she wants to it regardless of what I say.  See these layers?  That’s her, not me.

With the growing out of hair comes the ugly stage.  As I was getting ready this morning, I looked at my hair in the mirror and thought how much it looks like a brown football helmet.  I battled that by using some of those tiny hinged clips to pull it back from my face.  I looked like an overgrown seven-year-old beauty contestant.  It was a miserable failure, but I was out of time and had to go to work.  I spent the day feeling kinda pervy.

I gave up on professional coloring for the time being.  Spending that kind of money every six weeks is ridiculous.  I’ve colored it myself the last couple of times, and I think I’m okay as long as I stick to the shade I’m using.  I went a few weeks past when I should have done it this last time, and after I’d colored and dried it, the Freshman complimented me by saying that it’s really a shame that women can’t get away with gray the way men do.  (We had choice words for him, but we didn’t say them.)

*I can’t look at her old photos without being a little jealous; no hair worries there.  Unfortunately, not many people have the kind of bone structure to pull that one off, and I’m not one of them. 

I finally signed up for FB last week, after two prior near misses in early 2008.  Boy, what a time-eater that one is.  But I JUST CAN’T STOP MYSELF! I feel like a super sleuth, looking up all my friends.  And yes, I mean you.  I was highly amused by the Catbook application I found on James’ FB page and promptly signed Brinkley up for his own page.  I wondered why they don’t call it Cat-Face-Book.  After all, they’d be saved the time of creating theme music.  Listen here (or not, if you’ll regret losing the next 2 minutes of your life): CatFace.  Seriously?  I’m twelve.

The Freshman and I have this friend (though he belonged to the Freshman first) who is the most Metrosexual man I’ve ever met.  He’s better dressed than I am (ooooh, not a challenge there), spends more on his shoes, and I suspect he may get facials, based on the baby-soft look of his skin.  (I’m frequently afflicted with the secret urge to reach out and touch his face, but I never do.)  He gets his hair done in a salon, including highlighting.  I always liked his hair, but his recent do was not flattering; his forehead was reminiscent of TJ’s on Mount Rushmore (objects in mirror are the exact size they appear!)  He got it cut into a new style last week, and we were a little too rambunctious in our praise of it over the weekend, I think, cause he got all huffy after the compliments and told us he didn’t appreciate our not telling him earlier.

I’m taking my 16 year old nephew on our trip to OBX.  He’s never been to the ocean, and I’m going to go insane with joy to see his face when he jumps in for the first time.  My mother has assigned herself the task of managing the list of things he’s got to take with him on the trip, but she never writes any of it down.  She just keeps calling me for reminders.  Instead of getting mad about it, I keep increasing the amount of money I tell her to send with him.  It goes up $25 every time she asks.  I figure by the time we leave, I’ll have the whole trip paid for.  (No, my first name ain’t Baby, it’s Evil…Ms. Evil if you’re nasty.)

My neighbor Jerry is playing 80s music in his garage tonight.  Whhyyyyyy doncha use it?   Whhhy-i-i-i-i-y?  It’s the Reflex!  (I sing along, and the Freshman has to go back in the house.)  Jerry rocks the house!