You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June 2008.
- death sentence
- slut
- guadalajara
- fat
- recourse (I don’t even know what this means)
I’m a procrastinator. A huge one. However, I would often use the old “well, I work best under pressure” excuse, and always manage to get things done with mere minutes to spare. In school, it was homework. At home, it’s laundry, grocery shopping, bill paying, returning phone calls (sidenote: returning phone calls doesn’t actually fall under the procrastination category. That should technically be in the “absolutely never happens” category.)
Today (which, in actuality, started yesterday) it was putting gas in my car.
I was on my way to work, and the gas tank light was on. I’ve been driving my dad’s car for the past month while he “updates” some of my Nissan’s “features.” Because it’s a huge tank of a car, filling up the tank costs way more than filling up the tank of my Nissan. And now that gas is at $40 a gallon (I also exaggerate. Anything that ends in “ate.” I love cake.) I’ve been putting in about $20 at a time. Which lasts me about 4 days. SO, in a nutshell, I’ve been driving on empty for most of the month I’ve been driving my dad’s tank.
But I digress.
I’m on my way to work, and the gas tank light is glowing it’s subtle little warning glow. “I can make it to work. I’ll get gas on my way home.” After work, I needed groceries (which we needed for the past 3 days.) So to avoid having to eat another chic pea sandwich for lunch the following day, I hit the Shaw’s around the corner from the office. Then it started downpouring. And hailing. And since I had already gotten in and out and back into my car once, that was enough for me for that day. “I’ll make it home and get gas in the morning.
This morning, I get in the car, start it up, and Happy Little Gas Light smiles at me. “Good Morning!” it says. “Not now,” I say. “I’ll feed you on the way home. I can get to work no problem.”
And I do. And I work. And the workday ends, and I climb in my car, and Gas Tank looks at me hopefully. “Now?” it asks? Let me explain my procrastinate reasoning. Each time I get in the car, the gas gauge is just above the Empty line. My theory is that, depending on what angle my car is sitting at, I probably have a lot more gas than it actually says. If it says I have slightly more than none while sitting around all day, naturally, the movement of the car just makes the gas slosh around, so the gauge only THINKS I’m empty. There really IS enough gas. If I were to get in the car after a long day at work, and have the gauge be BELOW the line AFTER it’s been sitting around all day, well, yeah, now we’re entering into dangerous territory.
But it’s above the line.
Still, as I leave work I think, “I’ll stop on my way home. I don’t have to be at Sister’s until 8, so I have plenty of time.
Due to pure laziness, as I approach the gas station I decide to just go home and get the gas on my way to Sister’s.
I spend the next three hours doing very important things, like updating my website, filling in what I ate today on my calorie counter, playing Snood, taking pictures of my cats, etcetera. Suddenly, it’s time to go to Sister’s house so we can get to a dance class for 8:30. I race around and grab all my dancing gear, now panicking about being late, since I still have to put gas in the car. As I open the car door, I say, “She lives exactly 2 miles away. I’ll DEFINITELY go to the gas station on my way home.”
I turn the key, and the car says, “Fuck you, Fucker.”
I had NO GAS. None. Zero. Zilch. And I ACTUALLY COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. I run in the house and call to Smacky, “I have no gas! I have to get to dance class! Help me!!” He bails me out, as he usually does, and while en route I decide that in the morning I’ll walk to the hardware store, buy a gas tank, walk to the gas station, fill it up, walk home, put it in my car, drive back to the gas station, put a reasonable amount of gas in the car, and then go to work.
This evening, I sat down to send an email to my bosses this evening, to let them know of my stupidity and why I will be late in the morning. But then I thought, “I can pretend I didn’t know my car was out of gas until tomorrow morning, and then I can be even LATER to work…”
Which is why it is 11:11pm, past my lame-person bedtime, and I’m sitting here happily typing away. Because I’ve just procrastinated to my advantage. I’ve Pro-Procrastinated. I’ve just turned an annoying habit into a useful skill. I wish I could use it to do laundry, because I’ll be wearing Smacky’s underwear tomorrow.
UPDATE:
8:45am this morning, I knocked on my neighbor’s door to borrow a gas can. I hoofed the quarter mile to the gas station, and gave the guy 5 bucks for just over a gallon. I hiked back home, put the gas in the car, returned the gas can, got in the car to head back to the gas station, and i thought:
“I have enough gas to get to work…”
I immediately metaphorically punched myself in the face, and drove to the gas station to actually fill up the car.
Which cost me $60.00.
On TOP of the $5 I had already paid for “starter” gas.
I want my horse and buggy back. At least I can cuddle with a pony.
Over the last few years, I have developed a borderline insane fear of sickness. And when I say sickness, I mean vomit. My vomit, other people’s vomit, the potential of my or other people’s vomit. And the potential factor can be really debilitating. As we all know, vomiting is an uncontrollable bodily function – it can happen at anytime. And I have become intensely sensitive to any type of movement that could signify the split second before a vomiting occurs. For example, you could be standing next to me, and slightly bend at the waist to check to make sure your shoe is still tied. In my peripheral, what I see is you bending at the waist to empty the contents of your stomach onto the floor. Driving down the street, I’ll pass someone walking on the sidewalk. They drop something, or see a shiny penny, and bend over to pick it up. And what I see is that person positioning themselves into that pre-hurling stance. Every time this happens, my heart speeds up, my head pounds, I sweat – I get this intense rush of adrenaline that I would imagine matches the rush of adrenaline one gets when they realize they’re 1 second away from getting into a car accident or getting punched in the face. Once the moment passes, and you straighten up from your bent-over-shoe-checking position and continue talking as if nothing happened (because nothing DID happen) I am overcome with such an intense feeling of relief that the thought of telling myself I’m being completely and utterly stupid doesn’t even come to pass. All I can think is, “I’m safe.”
The other half of this condition is the fact that despite my “fuck fight just flight” reaction to the very idea of being anywhere in the vicinity of vomit, is that I am totally obsessed with other people’s experiences with vomit. For example: a friend of mine and Smacky’s is a Spanish teacher, and was a chaperone on a school trip to Spain. About 1 hour into the 6 hour flight back, she was hit with food poisoning. Because she knows about my “situation,” she tried to tell the story AROUND the story, leaving out any details that might make me freak out. But I stopped her. There were certain things I had to know:
- What did you eat? (mussels)
- Did other people get sick? (yes – 3 others. They ate mussels too.)
- How did you feel when you got on the plane – did you know you were getting sick? (she felt fine, just a little bloated.)
- Did you throw up in the bathroom? (no, she passed out in her seat and threw up while sleeping.)
- Did it last the whole flight? (yes. And not only that, they flew into New Jersey and had to take a bus back to Boston.)
There was no way I could NOT knowing these details. I HAD to know. As if I was trying to solve a scientific phenomenon. Which in this case meant my pre-period bloating could be salmonella and I should never eat mussels EVER. Especially in Spain.
So how did I get like this?
Well, it all happened over a 2 week span which I can pretty confidently say was the worst 2 weeks of my life. And I will pause here while I regroup…
Setting: Living-room. Late afternoon. Chillaxing on the couch in our usual setup.
Helena: (pointing to the tree next to my car, which, a few days earlier, her friend Peanut-Allergy told her they should spit on it, but Helena told her that would be rude, so they didn’t.) See that tree there? You know what’s buried under that tree?
Smacky: A turtle?
Helena: No – try and guess.
Me: A body?
Helena: No – i’ll give you a hint – it came out of my mom when i came out of my mom.
Me: …um… a puppy?
Helena: (grinning hugely) Noooo…
Me: um… (I look at Smacky for help, who is useless to me at this point) some marshmallows?
Helena: No! (She proceeds to cover her mouth with the tips of her fingers and giggle - it reminds me of a demure Asian lady) I’ll give you another hint – it’s a blob, and it’s gooey (She emphasizes this hint by using her hands to demonstrate the approximate size and shape.)
Me: Ooh! Ooh! (I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this) Placenta?
Helena: Yep! Mine’s there, and Mitchell’s is there. Not that tree, but that other tree – the one there. And Wesley’s is under that tree in the side yard.
Me: Wow!… Well!… That is pretty cool! (Note to self – do not picnic under ANY tress on the property.)
Helena: Yep! Can I have a snack?
So.
I’ve spent about 3 days prepping my blog for some serious blogging. And I’ve totally been here before. My friends have blogs, and I’m addicted to reading them WHEN THEY UPDATE THE CONTENT… So i’d like to give back to my small community of talented YET INSANELY SPORADIC group of blogging friends. I’m also hoping to develop some sort of discipline. If i can discipline myself to do this ONE thing, imagine all of the other things I could accomplish… I could have a clean house, I could have a finished stockpile of all the half-finished crafty things acucmulating in my basement (and every closet in the house) and start to profit off of my etsy shop, rather than have it sitting there empty, I could lose the 15 pounds i’ve vowed to lose before my wedding, i could finish planning my wedding, i could maybe even accomplish the items I have to do at work. The possibilities are endless. And it’s all riding on this blog. Keep it consistent, kepe it funny, keep readers engaged, which will cycle back to keeping it consistent and funny etc.
This is my challenge. How hard can it fucking be?
(I know i’m going to regret saying that.)
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