I’m writing this directly into the edit window. It’s weird. I never do this anymore. Diaryland has burned me too many times, but since I’m in a hotel room on a ridiculously expensive internet connection, I’m feeling a little, oh, how shall we say, rebellious.
I’m in Shermer, Illinois, by the way. Well, not really, but almost. My training during the day lasts fourteen million hours and then as soon as we are done, I go shopping. In my rented Pacifica. God help me, it’s not bad, the Pacifica. If it had leather seats and maybe some testicles in the engine, it would be plausible. And also, hi, have we met? I’m a soccer mom.
But when I buy the giant rug at Ikea on Friday before I go home, it’s going to slid in easier than… well, a really disgusting sexual euphamism.
(Can you tell I’ve been enmeshed in politically correct business speak for the past two days? I live in utter fear that I’m going to make a dick joke during a meeting. )
Tomorrow I have to give a presentation. I should be working on that. But no. Edit window. Typing. Bad Weetabix.
During the day, I’m one of four females in the room, and the youngest by at least fifteen years. One of them has worked for the company for longer than I’ve been alive. She got snooty today during a group project. THAT was fun. You know what, lady? If the guys are talking over you, then you have to talk louder and make youself heard. You don’t just leave the meeting and sit in front of your PC and pout because people aren’t playing your way. God, women bug me sometimes.
Said the girl who has to make a conscious effort to restrain her own pout.
Also, one of the others wore a shiny silver blazer with shoulder pads that I am almost certain was on the rerun of The Cosby Show that I passed while flipping through the channels last night (another hotel with no MTV. God doesn’t love me.) and if that wasn’t enough, a black scrunchy. I am not making that up. All she needed was white slouch socks and a pair of high top Reeboks and she would have been a revival of Working Girl.
I just got an e-mail that one of my short stories is going to be in a lit journal. Which is pretty cool. (Also, there’s a dick joke in it.)
There are many geese in Shermer Illinois. Every time I come here, nothing but geese. What’s up with all the geese, Shermer? Seriously, I almost hit one with my Pacifica tonight.
Last night I went out in search of a West Elm store. After driving for forty minutes (and mysteriously losing and regaining cell phone bars while standing still… I suspect my phone is dying) and stopping to buy a map and then also getting directions from five very helpful workers at Whole Foods, I found it. I did a little giddy clap and then skipped up to the store. The window displays were so pretty and everything was lit up and beautiful, a sea of chartreuse and mocha and teal. I pulled the door handle and nothing. Locked. Then I read the sign on the door:
We will be closed on Monday, January 30th for our annual inventory. We apologize for any inconvenience.
I doubt the good people of Oak Brook have ever heard a more pained scream of anguish in their pleasant little community. I probably should be ashamed. My team member thinks I’m insane, shopping every night like it’s the most important thing in the world, but man, mofo West Elm. Way to dangle a carrot and then snatch it cruelly away from me. Bastards.
So there it is. Not dead. Not a whore. Just stuck in an Embassy Suites for a week, which really, is arguably almost as bad. At least whores have MTV.
