American Girl

She waits another week to fall apart...

If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace. ~ Thomas Paine

May I have the envelope please....

posted by: rustymadgal at 17:46 | link | comments (18) |

ha ha ha ha!  I know  something you dont know! 

posted by: rustymadgal at 16:30 | link | comments (5) |

On Monday we have an appointment for an ultrasound, so we can find out if this baby is a boy or a girl.  So, you can place your bets now!

posted by: AmericanGirl at 19:41 | link | comments (20) |

There's this woman on the train that I used to see every day.  She has long white hair and wrinkled skin.  Every day she would get on the train and go through this whole make up routine, heavy on the rouge.  Does anyone say "rouge" anymore?  I think "rouge" implies heavy cheek makeup smeared abruptly on an older woman who thinks it looks glamorous even though really it just looks dark pink and creamy and not at all natural.  Everyone else wears blush, or bronzer and I know the difference.  This is rouge.  She applies it over orange foundation that leaves a tell-tale line where her face ends and her neck begins.  She always has a very ornate thing in her hair, like a butterfly clip or a fancy barrett of some sort.  Nobody says barrett anymore, but trust, the woman wears barretts that sparkle.  Sometimes she wears her hair in one of those things - we used to call them "banana clips", that pull all your hair back so that it looks like a horse's tail, or a mohawk.  Usually they have rhinestones all up and down the sides.  She clips on earrings and wears white cowboy boots with purple foil designs on the outside of her pants or with tights and a skirt.  Her clothing looks very expensive and even nice,  but it's always mismatched.  Purple with orange.  Flowers with stripes.  You can tell she puts considerable thought into her appearance, and yet her appearance turns heads for all the wrong reasons.  I can always tell when she's done because she finishes with perfume on her wrists and her temples and the back of her ankles, or her knees if her ankles are covered by cowboy boots.  I think it's Opium.  Then she sits back and closes her eyes, and I marvel and the blue shadow and the eyeliner that is thick and obviously applied on a bumpy train, and it passes the outside corner of her eye and curls up, like a fancy mustache.

I've changed my hours and now I don't see her in the morning.  I wonder if she wonders where that girl with the drab brown coat and the unadorned hair and the plain face who always stares at her has been.  I wonder if she's thinking "Doesn't that girl ever sleep at home?  She always looks exhausted.  Does she own any shoes that aren't black or brown?  Has she even heard of under eye concealer?  Oh!  The wonders I could do with those dark circles!  She could use a haircut.  And, she's getting fat."

There's a whole list of things I want to talk about, and a slew of things I don't.

For one thing, I've been getting complaints about our receptionist, which is nothing new, but this one kind of takes the cake.  She needs to ask someone to cover the phones and the front lobby for her breaks, and it seems she's been taking several bathroom breaks a day.  The poor girl who has to cover for her can't get any of her work done because the receptionist is constantly asking her to cover the phones so she can "relieve herself".  Now, it's one thing if nature calls, but it turns out that in order to "relieve herself" she needs to take the elevator up three floors, where the building is mostly unoccupied right now and therefore the bathroom is usually empty.  She likes her privacy, and apparently stalls are not enough.  So, instead of a five minute trip down the hall to the bathroom and back, she's taking twenty minutes, several times a day.  And now I have to do something about it.  Because I don't deal with enough shit, literally, at home, now I have to wade through it at work too.  How the heck do you tell someone to stop pooping so much, and to bite the bullet and poop in the nearest bathroom?  If you need your privacy that badly, so many times a day, perhaps a check up is in order.  Or a switch to a low-fiber diet.

Management is seriously not as glamorous as I thought it would be.

I'm sick and I hate being sick.  It's freezing outside and I hate the cold.  I slept through the last half of "Survivor" last night and I hate missing "Survivor".  My blog hangs over my head as a nagging item on my to-do list and that's sad because it used to be something I really enjoyed.  In about 100 days I'm going to have a baby and we are very, very unprepared.  And I really, really need a meatball sub.  Now.

posted by: AmericanGirl at 12:36 | link | comments (10) |

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