A Red Bull Convert Speaks

It is Summer Solstice today...and I've heard its a beautiful day. I've heard the spring was nice too. But I wouldn't really know because I've been in the seventh circle of hell, known in wider circles as my job.

Have I mentioned lately how much I hate my job? Well, its getting worse by the day. In March, I was so bored I wanted to pull my hair out. And then April came along and I've barely seen the light of day since. On Saturday, I got shipped off to jolly olde England for the most exhausting of all my cases and all my friends kept saying how lucky I was -- how it was just sooooo coooooool that I got to travel to London on business. So cool my fucking ass. What my friends don't seem to understand, even after I fucking explained it to them, is that the only parts of London I'll be seeing are the inside of my client's offices, the inside of the law offices of our co-counsel, and if I'm lucky, the inside of my hotel room for a few hours each night. I got to see London Bridge, too, but that was only because we had to drive over Tower Bridge this morning to get to one of the offices where I'll be spending the better part of the next week (and then three more weeks in July). And yet, despite being told all this, the friends all insisted, Oh stina, I'm sure you'll have some free time to yourself; you'll be able to have some fun. And something inside me would crack just a touch more.

So I gave up trying to explain the insanity that is my job. I even gave up telling people I was traveling because I just couldn't bear to hear the, Oh that's so cool, nonsense anymore. I've almost given up on getting a good night sleep - but a little part in the back of brain remains hopeful, and I can't in good conscious say I "gave up" on sleep because that would suggest I've done so voluntarily even though the sleep deprivation at this point is more akin to torture than it is due to some undying work ethic or some shit.

And so, to keep myself from falling asleep at my computer and hitting my face on my keyboard (again) I've given up water for Red Bull. Even though the only time I ever used to touch the stuff was after a shot of Jager had been dropped in it. Which, actually, come to think of it, might not be a bad idea right about now. Because, seriously, if I'm going to be delusional from lack of sleep, might as well get a buzz while I'm at it, right? I'm not talking about getting dance-on-the-bar drunk or anything, just a shot or two to take the edge off. Bad idea? Good idea? You let me know. In the meantime, I've got to go see if Marks & Spencer unpacked the new shipment of Red Bull yet.

A Potential Advantage of Celiac Disease

About 2 months ago was the last time I posted here. And also about the last time I had a true honest moment to myself. Or did anything particularly fun or exciting. Or hell, the last time I left my fucking desk for lunch. But today, for the first time in 8 weeks, I will get to leave the building while the sun is still shining. I will get to have lunch somewhere other than my desk. And I may even get home before my husband goes to bed. It's like I've been lost and am now returning from that lost place.

You see, in those 8 weeks, my work has exploded, or imploded, or whatever you call it when it gets so busy and so out of hand that you find yourself working around the clock and without end. Now granted, there are some folks in my office who have worked even more than I have in the last couple of months, but those people are fucking crazy or lack imagination. Because the hours I've put in have fucked with my life enough -- I can't imagine putting in anymore, and especially not double. Let's put it this way: I have worked 12 hours a day, 6 days a week for the last 8 weeks, but these other folks were putting in at least 15 hours a day, 7 days a week. And living at a hotel to be on call 24 hours a day. And every single one of them just put up with it. I don't know if they're afraid of losing their jobs during this shitty economy or what. But you better believe that that life will never, fucking ever, be mine. Fuck that. Although it looks like one of my cases is barreling toward that insanity as I write this....

But I plan to avoid this fate one of two ways...

One -- my preference would be to find a new job. And I'm working on that, but as you can imagine, the pickings are slim. Really slim. So, that may take much longer than anticipated. Which means I might still be stuck here when trial hell starts for my case. And if that happens, then .....

Two -- I will absolutely and without regret check myself into a psych ward. Any psych ward. Because just the thought of working 100 hours a week makes me sick, and crazy, and in need of serious medication. I figure after 4 or 5 15 hour fays, I could definitely have a nervous breakdown. Or at least fake one enough to get them to admit me, right? And if that doesn't work, then I will simply poison myself with gluten. Repeatedly if necessary. Can't work 15 hours a day if I'm puking my guts up all day, now can I?

Today in Bigoted Scumbags

You may have heard about Constance McMillan, the high school senior who was told not only that she could only have a boy as a date to prom but that she had to wear a dress too....she's been all over the telly and the interwebs, including a fan page on facebook. So you must have. But if you live under a rock or have been in a coma or something, here's a quick recap...

Backward-ass town in Mississippi (is that an oxymoron?) tells high school senior she cannot bring lesbian girlfriend as date to prom. Oh, and she can't wear a tux either. Dresses only you little bitch (I don't know they said that, I'm just assuming the bitch part). Cute little lesbian calls in the big guns (aka the ACLU) who demands the school change its policy. Shithole "agricultural" high school, instead of letting a girl wear pants, or god forbid, dance with a girl, cancels said prom. Lawsuit ensues. Yesterday, federal judge says students have a first amendment right to take whoever the hell they want and to wear whatever the hell they want to prom. And that canceling prom was a violation of McMillan's rights.

Now this is all good. Right? Right.

BUT, the judge did not order the school to actually hold a prom. The reasons for this depend on which article you read. But on this one I'll go with the ACLU's press release which says the judge isn't ordering the school to hold a prom because there is a "private" prom being held to which he "expects" Miss McMillan and her girlfriend will be invited.

This private prom, however, was set up by a bunch of fucktard redneck loser ass parents for the whole purpose of being allowed to exclude Miss McMillan, AND as of a few days ago, Miss McMillan was definitely NOT invited. And that just pisses me right the hell off.

OK, the shitty "private" event is going to be held at a furniture mart (yes, you read that correctly) so it will probably suck ass, and all LGBT and LGBT-friendly students in Mississippi are being thrown their own prom by the Mississippi Safe Schools Coalition, which prolly will be way better (um, hello, Green Day is sponsoring it! along with hottie-petottie Lance Bass), but still. The whole "lets have a prom and only straight people can come" makes me sick. And that so many people seem to have no problem with it whatsoever make me even sicker.

Well I for one hope the federal judge throws the fucking book at this homophobic little school system. And I hope the parents who arranged this willfully bigoted "private" prom all....well... I don't know exactly. I could up with a few choice words but I don't want to sound like a raving lunatic so I'll just say I hope they get whats comin' to 'em, whatever the hell that is. Fucking bigots.

Dom Perignon taste. Korbel budget.

In 9 months and 2 days I'm getting married. Well, technically, I'm ALREADY married, so I guess the proper word is wedding. In 9 months and 2 days I'm having a wedding. In the Dominican Republic. On the beach. And now that we have a travel agent that doesn't suck, it's coming together quite nicely. Except one little teensy tiny little thing. Its nothing really. It's only, well, its only . . .

THE DRESS. Oh goddess help me.

Don't get me wrong, I know I still have plenty of time. So I'm not really stressing about finding something I like (although I'm kinda hoping I can avoid too many trips to those bridal salon joints, something about them just seem so....so....antiseptic and uptight). No, that's not it. You see, my problem, when it comes to the minor issue of what the hell I'll be wearing to my own goddamn wedding, is not finding something I like but its finding something I like that I can actually afford. My problem, quite simply, is that my tastes are WAY beyond any reasonable calculation of my budget. WAY beyond. Besides, even if I had it laying around, I'm not about to spend five or ten grand, OR MORE!, on a few pieces of chiffon that are going to be worn on a beach, for a few hours. That's just so not my style. There are so many better ways to spend that kind of money.

And yet, there in front of me, page after page, are pictures of pretty dresses and every time I find one that jumps off the page and screams "me, me, me! find me! buy me!", I look more closely and find that its a custom Vera Wang; or a vintage Dior; or, like this cutie to your left, a fucking Monique Lhullier. Granted, these lovely ladies have nothing on the most expensive dress ever purchased, but still. They're outta my league. Way out of my league. Even though they are gorgeous as hell. So now the search continues. I only hope I can find something, without too much effort, or too many pushy bridal sales ladies, that is as fabulous as a Marchesa but at a price that doesn't make my stomach turn.

Although who am I really kidding -- if I hit the numbers, I'll buy whatever the hell I want, money be damned. I'll just donate the same amount to charity to assuage my liberal guilt. Ahh, now that would really make this whole dress shopping ordeal a pleasure.

Another reason (or two or three) to love Tuesdays

Tonight was the Celiac Chicks fundraiser for the Celiac Disease Center at Columbia University: An Evening with the Paul Taylor Dance Company. And of course I had to go....how could I not? It combined my 2 favorite things: food I can eat and dance. And Oh. My. Fucking. God. The food! Unless you have some serious food issues, you have no idea what its like to be free to eat anything you want from a WHOLE BUFFET. Usually, I can pick a few things, at best. But tonight. OH. It was...I don't even have words.

But even the spread (and the goody bags!) was second fiddle to the show. The company did 3 pieces, closing with Syzygy, and oh how I wish I could find a video link for that piece because there is no way I can properly describe it. I don't know what exactly it was about it, and I'm am 100% sure that other people didn't get from it what I did, but it may be one of the very best pieces of choreography I've seen in all my life. In the coat check line, for example, some dude actually compared it to Elaine dancing on Seinfeld and if he had not immediately followed that comment with "But I don't know dance so what do I know" he definitely woulda got a piece of my mind. Although at the same time I kinda see his point because the piece was haphazard and almost frenetic. But at the same time it was also controlled and organized and well, simply amazing to watch. So....he was spared.

And then, not only did I get to pig out at a buffet without worrying about throwing up 2 hours later, and then, full from super tasty food and a lovely Pinot Grigio, see some amazing dance performances, I also came home to the DVR. Where for once, an Idol contestant took on Stevie and did not disappoint. Srsly. If that chick recorded that song tomorrow, I would download it. I'd even be willing to pay the extra 30 c. that iTunes charges for "hit" songs.

But wait...there's more.... What? you ask, could top yummy food, beautiful dance, and a sweet new version of Rhiannon? One word. MamaSox. Oh yeah...my new fave singer chick rocked another one.

It was a good night.

And, hold up a minute -- turns out I CAN buy the Stevie song for the low low price of a buck 29. Sweet. Or at least I will be able to in about 4 days. Which will be Saturday. I love Saturdays.

Tuesdays rock. I bet Elaine would agree.

Another reason to hate Monday

Driving to work this morning, I found myself getting teary eyed and more than a little weepy. Not moments before, my mom, who had driven up from VA for the weekend and who I don't get to see very often, had turned off my road to hit the highway and head home. I wasn't surprised to feel the way I did -- I hate goodbyes and always get a little sad whenever a visitor goes home -- but usually I have something else to distract me and so the doldrums are short lived. Today, however, I face another ridiculously boring day at work -- I literally have NO work to do. None. And since last week was SOOOOOOO slow too, I don't even have any personal business to attend to. So not only is it Monday, which sucks of its own accord, its a Monday that started with tears and one that will likely take weeks to be over. The best thing I can say about today is that the Oscars were last night so I'm sure there is a ton of obnoxious internet chatter but who was wearing who and who should be seeking out a new stylist. But even that is unlikely to distract me from knowing that it will be several months, at least, before I get to see my mom again. And that's just too long. Maybe its time to start thinking about moving back down south. Or maybe I should just get a job that doesn't have me bored to death one day and stressed beyond comprehension the next. I don't know. All I do know is that I hate Mondays.

The Ever-Changing Face of 42 (or "Winter Sucks")

OK - I know its only early March and I should not yet be complaining that winter is still around, but DAMMIT, winter is still around and I HAVE HAD. E. NOUGH.

Last night, driving home from the train station, my car said the temperature outside was 42 degrees. A few weeks ago, when it was snowicaning all over the damn place, I would've been siked for 42. I would've been like, "Hells yeah, spring is coming, spring is coming!" But last night? Not so much. I felt like telling 42 to go fuck itself. Assuming the car was telling the truth, 42 has completely changed its tune since a few weeks back. Or rather, I suppose I expected it to be kinder than it was. But it wasn't being nice. NO. It was being a little bitch actually. That is if it really WAS 42. It sure didn't seem like the 42 that a few weeks earlier I had wished for. Oh hell no. Last night, my sweet little 42 was more like that frigid bitch 32. And that was so uncool. But I didn't want to fault 42 so as I sat there shivering, I actually yelled at my car. Out loud. "Bull-shit it's 42. You fucking piece of shit liar." I know. I know. It's not nice to swear at my car, especially since its a Toyota and is likely to go postal on my ass, but comethefuckonalready. Winter seems so long at this point that I don't even recognize my beloved 42. And that, my friends, is reason enough to think your car capable of temperaturistic plots against you.

Needless to say, if winter doesn't end soon, I may very well have to check myself in somewhere. But at least then I'll be warm. They tend to keep temperatures up in places where people wander around in bathrobes.