Wired

What a day! Fuzzy and buzzy and distracted most of the day and ended up losing (1) my access card for work on my lunch hour while running to catch the train (which I did not catch, to the amusement of a group of SLC workmen), and (2) my daughter (subsequently found, no worries). It was just that kind of day. I made two trips up to the 21st floor war rooms today and both times either forgot certain necessary files or brought the wrong ones altogether. And trips to the 21st floor are not trips I like to repeat, as the "priority service" elevator (total misnomer) takes forfuckingever and once you finally make it up you step out into the lobby, which is akin to stepping into the sweaty, hairy armpits of a giant hobo with raging body odor. You know this kind of body odor: the kind that lingers, that prickles your olfactory senses 5 stops past where the b.o. offender (b.o.o.) got off the train. And no matter how big of a breath I manage to draw in before stepping off that elevator, it's never quite enough to get me to the office doors, get them unlocked with the special key while balancing an unruly stack of files, and get safely to the other side. Where, strangely, it doesn't smell like b.o. at all. And then you wonder if the lobby really smells that bad. And then you finish your business in the war rooms and go back to the elevator in the lobby and realize yes, yes it is that bad. Its actually worse than you thought. Or maybe it just gets worse all the time. Perhaps it is a constantly evolving b.o., not unlike b.o. left untreated on human specimens. It's absolutely offensive. And the Utah Sports Commission and some other kind of place share the very-swanky office on the other half of the 21st floor, and thus use said b.o. lobby. And I really don't understand why they don't do something, except for maybe they just don't notice. (But how could they NOT notice?? Seriously.) I actually had a discussion one day with a guy who was waiting in the b.o. lobby with me for the "priority service" elevator (the whole situation is just a nightmare, really), and he asked what was wrong, presumably because I was burying my face in my sleeve.

"I just can't handle the smell in the lobby," I say.
"Oh," he says. "I guess I never noticed."
"Do you work here?" I ask.
"Yeah, for the Commission."
"And you NEVER noticed that it smells like b.o. right here?"
"B.O.? Really?" He's honestly surprised and thoughtful for a moment. "Hmm. Nope, I'm probably just immune."

At which point I realize I don't like this guy. Mainly because he started a conversation with me that required me to breathe the b.o. air rather than the Downy-freshness of my sleeve, and then just rubs it in further by being all nonchalant about this VILE, RANCID LOBBY OF DEATH. Like I'm the crazy one. No guy, maybe the acrid stench of this lobby has burned out all of the cells inside your nose, but I am NOT crazy. It could win "Stinkiest Lobby in the Entire World" contests. That's how damn stinky.

Anyway. So it was that kind of day. But I did get some new and fantastic bras from my neighbor, which was a total score. And - major development - I'm writing this from my home computer (old girl's still chugging along, if a big sluggish), after finally buying the wireless card and bribing the downstairs neighbor with a poster of Salt Lake from the '70's that I found at Sam Weller's (they're pretty cool, and only $5.00!) to come and do the hi-tech savvy stuff that I can never figure out. So now we're all up and running and I am able to really ramble (watchout!) as I look at my view of the Capitol all lit up at night just out the windows behind the monitor. Ahh. Life is nice and calm up here in my little computer room in the little city so far away from the life I used to know...

Craptastic

I'm thinking my three devoted readers might be wondering why there have been no new posts lately, and so I offer this hastily-penned explanation: I'm busy. Busy as hell, actually, at the job (yes, I AM posting while at said job, in a futile, desperate grab for a few moments of sanity). Now, I had been bitching about being bored and how lame my job was just weeks ago. So, yes, being busy is a welcome change from the monotony of internet-surfing and intermittent discussions I had been having with myself in an attempt to decide whether or not I should venture into the break-room in search of the one, sad, broken-handled bread knife that I might use to chop off an unnecessary appendage just for something to fucking do.



But oh jesus and mary maybe I should have been careful what I wished for. I'm so buried these days that when I went to the restroom at work this morning I realized I hadn't been in there since last week. Too busy to pee! And while it sure is nice to be needed and appreciated and all that, I have turned into a total space cadet. My brain spins fast and furious for 7.5 hours every day, and the rest of my waking hours are spent in complete mental disarray. So unlike my anal Virgo self, I have found myself in the last 3 days spending way too much time looking for my keys, trying to remember where I've left my flip-flops, re-washing towels (3 times now, apologies to Mother Earth) that I forgot were in the washer until the smell of mildew filtered out from the laundry room, and - to my daughter's constant amusement - looking for glasses that were on my head.



Would love to report something (anything!) else, but sadly my life has taken a turn for the bleak, and its time to get back to work anyway.

Most.Beautiful.Day.Ever.

Today. In the Salty Lake. Jeebus. I went outside at lunch and just wanted to start running to somewhere, anywhere, far far away from the Gallivan courtyard, and leap and skip and smell flowers and never stop. And now I'm back in the fluorescent box, trapped smack in the middle of a zillion floors of stacked fluorescent boxes. Why are there never windows that open? What the hell is wrong with designers and architects? Do they really think it is healthy for all of us to spend 40 hours every single week in a box with NO FRESH AIR? At what point did we as a society decide that fresh air was not important, or not conducive to productivity? And at what point did we decide that our good old American work ethic meant spending eight (for those of us who are lucky enough to ONLY have to work 8) hours of, say, 16 waking hours, working? In closed up boxes? Breathing recycled air and everyone else's germs? And I work in a pretty swank spot with fantastic views and lovely blond woodwork and the like. But the windows still don't open. And that really is the one major ingredient in my always-simmering stew of feeling trapped.


But that's not really what I came here to write at all, actually. Although I'm not sure what I came to write exactly. I have so many stories from my wedding weekend in St. Louis, and my following wedding weekend in Salt Lake. Three weddings in one week - a record for moi. Has made me a bit glum, actually, as I reflect on the fact that of all the boyfriends I've had, serious and not-so-serious, I have never once come close to feeling like I could marry a one of them. Never. Felt that way for a bit with the most-recent-ex, but upon moving in together quickly realized the trainwreck a marriage would be and thus gave up on the idea entirely. I'm not terrified of being a lonely spinster or any such nonsense they tend to pound into young women's brains in the Utah environs (Don't worry Michelle, you're still young and cute. You don't even look your age. Still young enough to have more children too. - this is the bullshit some co-workers & neighbors said to me after leaving the boyfriend, in an attempt, I suppose, to assuage my sadness. Thanks assholes. But no thanks.), but the whole idea of being that in love with someone, of it being that right, just seems about a thousand light years away. At all three of the weddings I went to, I saw how wildly full of love the grooms were for their brides, how proud to be committing to a life together, how amazingly, soul-wrenchingly happy they were.


And that makes me happy. Happy for these friends of mine, happy that there is more love being made in the world, being poured out into the energetic fabric of our time. As war rages on in Afghanistan, Iraq, Sudan, Georgia, god knows we need it. So I'm not quite sure from where my personal ennui springs... maybe just that I'd like someone to look at me like that someday.


Correction: I'd like someone that I am crazy about to look at me like that someday, and return his loving gaze in equal measure. Because for christssakes I don't need any more unrequited crazies gazing longingly in my direction, or any more mullet-crowned men's unsolicited advances, or any more weird stalkers. I'm sorry, but just because I made out with you once does not mean I want to talk to you again. I'm not quite sure in this 21st century where all of the confusion lies. I do know that I receive a lot of attention that I do not want. And very little attention that I do.


So perhaps the crazy-cat-lady life awaits me after all. At least I'll get to sit on park benches and poke people with my cane.