5/24/00 (cont'd)
Not to mention the fact that it's also the bar where the young hip law crowd (and old drunk judges) hang, and one that L frequents...such a whore, such a whore... I would be feeling awfully guilty right now if not for the fact that I talked to Megan a few minutes ago and she's back into bitch mode.
Oh, FUCK, I am so hating my job. Today they first insulted my intelligence by sending us a memo dictating the "casual dress" policy for the summer. No sandals, skorts, shorts, jeans of any color, short skirts, sundresses, t-shirts, "bare feet" (no socks or hose) or a slew of other "inappropriate" items. Uh...that's different from the norm IN WHAT WAY, EINSTEIN? Then to add further insult to injury, they send another e-mail inviting us to a "fashion show" hosted by Nordstrom's to instruct us on what is "appropriate summer casual dress" and to answer our "do's and don'ts about summer casual dress" questions. Okay, first of all, you're assuming that I can afford to shop at Nordstrom's. Secondly, you're assuming that I can afford to shop, PERIOD. Third, you're assuming that I'm some ignorant fucking bubble-headed straight girl who finds a lunch-time fashion parade more fun than a barrel of rabid squirrels--YOU HAVE ASSUMED WRONG, FUCKHEADS! Oh, Christ, of all the ludicrous, audacious, condescending bullshit--I am completely beyond words to describe how badly I want to pack up my desk and haul ass to the nearest temp agency right now.
So I try to explain my frustration to Megan and she goes right into "here's a simple solution, now do this and shut the fuck up because your bitching is bothering me" mode. And I'm like, listen, Sparky, I ain't in the mood to be told what to do here, all I wanted was a sympathetic ear. But she was really only half-listening to me anyway, which pissed me off all the more. I told her last night that what I need from a relationship is to be worshipped and adored and my every word hung on (hint--don't ever date me). And she admitted--readily--that she is not the worshipping, adoring, word-hanging type.
I think this relationship--indeed, my whole life--is a huge universal big-bang disaster waiting to happen.
So I'm going to the bar tonight (13th Street Bar--it's on 13th Street--again, how do they come up with such witty names?) and I'm going to drink and eat wings and hope like hell I don't get pulled over on the way home. And I'm going to be perfectly happy if L is there (or not) and if some recently-released convict or alcoholic judge hits on me, y'all will be the first to know...
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