2002-06-28

No Good. Horrible. Very Bad.

I wake up at 7, and I don�t smell the coffee. I remember that it�s Friday, and the houseboy, who usually makes said coffee, is now on a four-day work week at the largish university where he�s employed. He is slumbering peacefully beside me.

I harrumph and thrash my way out of the bed, taking care to make the mattress bounce as much as possible, and stomp through the apartment to the front door to get the newspaper. I squint blearily at the empty doorstep. No newspaper. There�s a newspaper on the doorstep next door, but our newspaper is GONE.

I slam back into the apartment, wild with indignation. �MotherFUCK!� I screech.

Kevin appears in the bedroom doorway, tying his robe. �What�s the matter, hon?�

�Some COCKSUCKER took our NEWSPAPER!�

�...�

�No, I MEAN it! There�s a newspaper on DANA�S doorstep, but WE don�t have one!�

I flop into a chair. My day is ruined, chickens. I cannot possibly have a good day if I cannot read �For Better or for Worse� first thing in the morning. You laugh, but it�s true.

I shower and dress, pulling on a pair of jeans and my old Gulf gas station attendant shirt. I�m getting ready to leave when Kevin timidly offers me a dollar so I can buy the paper and read it on my way in.

�Noooo,� I whine, �I don�t like to read the paper on the train. I�ll just go online when I get to work.�

�Oh, yeah. And you can read �For Better or for Worse� online, too, you know....�

But it�s not the same, chickens. You know it and I know it. So I�m bound and determined to have a bad day, and by God, I�m going to savor every second of it.

I was actually looking forward to snarling at the Al Franken lookalike Metro distributor who is always so goddamn adamant that I take a copy of his crappy newspaper, but he WASN�T THERE. Do you see? Do you see where this day is headed?

I get into my office, and start busying myself with the dozen or so piles of paper stacked on my desk and on the floor around my desk. Then I hear it: �Leeeee-sah?�

I cringe. There�s a woman at my workplace, who, whenever she needs to ask me a question, cannot simply rap on the doorjamb and come into my office. She has to call out my name from wherever she happens to be (sometimes clear down the hall), and THEN come into my office to ask the question.

�WHAT?!�

�Oh, um. The stamp price goes up on Monday, right?�

I go out to get coffee. They are playing what is, arguably, the shittiest song ever written. I am convinced that roughly 72.9% of this country�s problems can be directly attributed to Peter Cetera. I hate that Peter Cetera. I may hate him even more than I hate Mike Love. In fact, I suspect that they may even be the same guy.

The intern outside of my office is listening to showtunes. It�s only noon. Help me, chickens.

Okay, so Linda, responding to my virtual plaintive wail, reminds me of this website, which both she and Ad have been pushing on me for several days now. Sweet suffering Jesus. How did I ever manage this far without Homestar Runner? I am in love.

Hot on the heels of Linda's email, comes confirmation from Paula that we will, in fact, be playing the Duran Duran board game she found on Ebay next weekend. I am practically incontinent with excitement.

You ask for help, and you get it.

lisamcc at 12:03 p.m.

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