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Traditional pre-trip mental instability

I find that I have very little patience right now. I was staring at someone as they talked at to me at work and wanted to say “Really? Do you really think I or anyone at all cares about what your mom bought your grandchild at TJ Fucking Maxx?” But perhaps I am too harsh. I think I’m done in my current job. I’m a little tired of a lot of things, things that used to just roll off my back. I find myself caring too much about what the petty people say or think, when in the past, I just would have laughed or found a way to bait them further. This is a sign. A serious sign.

In other career news, Esteban’s job ended. This was the job that wooed him out of his previous job, four long months ago, which he took, thinking that publishing was a more secure business than analytics. How Alanis Morrissette, non? Esteban, being Esteban, was more upset about the end of the publication than his own job, and also, predictably went through the stages of grieving in, like, a day and a half. Some job offers helped, and he’s already signed his acceptance letter for the next gig, and negotiated a great salary, awesome vacation and oh, also the entire month of July off. Esteban? He’s good. It’s a little annoying.

I am about to embark on my trip to Vegas to catch up with my bff and also, one Mister Barry Manilow. I have managed to shove five days worth of clothes (day and evening outfit for each day) plus more shoes than I should reasonably take, into one carryon and a laptop case. Unfortunately, I have no idea where the fuck my ocelot print DVF suitcase is, and it has my travel toothbrush and whatnot in it, so instead, I’m trying not to hyperventilate and distract myself by writing an entry. But where is the damned DVF bag? Where, I ask you.*

Basically, everything leading up to this trip has gone terribly awry. I broke four of my ten fingernails last week while attending a Brewer game, and also got a sunburn, which always makes me look vaguely trashy, like I spend my weekends flashing my boobs at Nascar fans. In effort to fix my trashicure, I stopped at the nail place before my facial appointment and figured that I’d get a quick mani/pedi in the hour before my facial appointment. I got the tree sloth of nail technicians, who made every movement with slow, deliberate attention. It was a Tai Chi pedicure. I only had time for the toes, and as it was, raced out barefoot to skip up to my spa for my appointment. There, my favorite aesthetician Emme gave me a lovely Perricone facial, but either my sunburn or that time of the month (because you KNOW that my period has been saving up all year to go to Vegas too) caused me to have an insane reaction, and somewhere during the facial, some of my skin came off in the process, resulting in red stinging welts.

Meanwhile, thinking I had a hair appointment scheduled on Thursday, I was weirded out when the automatic reminder service never called, so I called the hair place and oh, sorry, you don’t have an appointment scheduled. And my stylist is only insanely popular and has nothing available, except for THREE HOURS BEFORE THE PLANE LEAVES. So either go to Vegas blotchy and also with roots? Or go smelling vaguely like hair color and not be able to wash my hair for 48 hours?**

Yeah, my life is awesome.

*In the trunk of the Chrysler, forsaken over a month ago for the Nissan. I live a careless awesome life.

**I lasted 10.


And that, clearly, was written a few hours before leaving for the desert. I’m back. I haven’t slept in 30 hours. And I brought a camera with a dead battery and no battery charger, thus, no camera. I will need to fill in the spaces with words. More soon.

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