One of the things I hate most about myself is that I am gullible. I tend to trust most people and take them for their word.
Men, in particular.
There is a good reason for me being as cynical and bitter as I am.
I meet someone, and I am attracted to him, and charmed by him, and I let that cloud my better judgement. Then, I am inevitably disappointed by him, and I end up feeling foolish.
I know that every man is not like that. I know that decent, good men are out there, and all that jazz. I just want to know why none of them seem to find me. It's the silver-tongued snake charmers that find me every time. Sometimes without even realizing it, I let these men affect me in a way that makes me feel bad about myself, and think that everyone must see what an incredible loser I am; or else I wouldn't keep attracting these types of people.
A few days ago, a lovely friend sent me an email, and in it, said "You know, you're a good person." The email had nothing to do with any particular feelings I had, he just said it to say it. I have no idea why he said it, but it made my whole day.
I know I am a good person. Yeah, I make fun of everybody on the planet, but deep (deep) down I really am a pretty fucking decent human being. I don't know... maybe given all the shit on my head right now, I just needed to hear it from someone else.
Also, this is not me fishing for compliments. I just wanted to let you little grapefruits know what's going on in my head.
This morning, I had to get a chai latte for Mr. Big Shot (and an iced vanilla for me) at Starbuck's. Florida, the homeless chick that hangs out in the area where I work, talks to all the people that hang out there. She was sitting outside with a guy I've seen her talk to a million times. A guy named Mike, who I have said "hi" and "bye" to on occassion.
Florida waved me over and introduced me to Mike (again).
"Baby girl, come here and say hello to my friend!"
Here's our chat:
"Hi again. How's it going?"
"Oh, pretty good. Just reading the paper. Working hard?"
"Always! You know, you must have a pretty cushy job if you can hang out at Starbuck's til ten every morning."
"Well, it's not cushy, exactly. But it's good work."
"What do you do?"
"I'm in television. Programming."
At this point, things in my head started clicking. I chatted online with a guy named Mike, who worked in television, and lived a block from my office. I never saw his picture, but the more we chatted this morning, the more I knew it was him.
"Really? That must be interesting."
"It's alright. It has it's moments. What do you do?"
"I'm a psychic. I have a studio over on Avenue I, off the esplanade."
He laughed.
"A psychic?"
"Uh huh. Don't believe me?"
"I don't put much stock in those sorts of things."
"Give me a try."
"Ok. Shoot."
"Hmmm... let's see. You're 38, originally from Pennsylvania. You love the Steelers. You came to California to be an artist, but it never took off, so you took a job in television. Every morning, you run the beach with your dog, get your coffee and read the paper before work."
"Uh..."
"Am I close?"
"Do you know me? How did you know that?"
Then I reminded him who I was, and that he flipped out and quit talking to me (in spite of about half a dozen fantastic conversations, the fucker) when I made a joke about how crappy reality tv was.
Big baby.
I also had to take my previously-believed-to-be-knocked-up cat, Boo, to the vet to get fixed. I dropped her off this morning on my way to work, and was told that I had to pick her up before they close at three. I planned on picking her up on my lunch break.
I got to the vet, signed all the papers, paid the bill, and took my cat home. When I opened my carrier at home, I realized this was not my cat. Not even fucking close to my cat.
Before you assholes start screaming about why I didn't check the carrier before I left, let me explain. First, I had a towel, and a bunch of toys in the carrier. All I saw when I looked in was the towel. Second, why would I think that it wasn't my cat in there?
So shut up, then.
This is Boo, the cat that I dropped off:
This is the cat I brought home:
I could see how they would get the two confused.
I went back to the vet, and told the moron at the counter that she gave me the wrong cat.
"Hi. My name's Andria [Last name], and you gave me the wrong cat."
"No, I didn't."
"Uh, yeah. YOU DID."
"No, I gave your cat back to you, twenty minutes ago."
"No, you gave me someone else's cat."
"I don't see how that could happen."
I took the red cat out of the carrier.
"What color is this cat?"
"Red."
"My cat's named Boo. Would you name a red cat Boo? My cat is black! This is not my fucking cat!"
"Then whose cat is it?"
"Who's in charge here?"
"My boss."
Oh.My.Fucking.God.
"Get your boss out here."
"She's at lunch."
"Ok, this is quite obviously NOT MY CAT. Whoever THIS cat belongs to, might have MY cat. Why don't you find out who the red cat belongs to, and maybe we can go from there."
"There's no tag or collar on this animal."
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
"Ok. Let's attack this from a different angle, shall we? Why don't you get a list of all the people who had their cats fixed today, and we can call them, and whoever else you gave the wrong goddamned cat to can come back with mine, and then we can all go home happy and I can never come back here again for as long as I live?"
"But that's your carrier. Your cat got put into your carrier."
"Please tell me you're joking with me now. Am I being Punk'd? Is Ashton Kutcher hiding under the counter? FIND MY FUCKING CAT NOW."
I really thought my head was going to explode from the rampant stupidity in this girl.
At this point, I was already late from lunch, and had to call my office and tell them what was going on, and that even though I just got back from a week off, I was going to be out for a little while longer while we tried to fix this shit. My boss understood, but I was pissed about it.
Finally, someone calls and says that she just realized the cat she brought home was not hers, and that she was coming back to bring my cat. When she got there, I took my poor little spaced-out Baby Girl out of the carrier, and handed her the red cat.
"This isn't my cat."
Jesus.
"Sorry lady, not my problem. Talk to the brainiac behind the counter." I hated to be such an asshole to her, since she was about to endure the same hell I just had, but I had to take my poor kitty home and get my happy ass back to work.
I left for lunch at 1:15, I got back to work at 3:30.
Fucking stupid people.
I am going to see The White Stripes with my parents and sister in August. My parents fancy themselves quite the hipsters listening to popular music.
They're not hip.
I foresee much embarrassment for my sister and I. I see my mother drunk, dancing like a lunatic (she has been kicked out of Oktoberfest for this), and my dad, trying to sing along, even though he really has no idea what the words are.
I love my family.
