McCarla

I slept for 12 hours, but don’t feel all that much better. I’m stuck in the apartment with no food, and no medicine. Back to bed, maybe?

Some days, I like my job. People are friendly and understanding, even when they’re having some sort of trouble. Needing an appointment to speak to someone at the Genius Bar really isn’t the end of the world, and coming back at a later time (or date, even) is perfectly acceptable. And then there are days like today. People are rude and impatient, even when I’m doing my very best to help them. Needing an appointment to speak to a technician is absurd, and it’s perfectly reasonable to throw a hissy because I can’t get you seen ahead of people who have appointments.

By the end of my 9am-5pm shift, I was ready to leave the Apple store for good. I didn’t know what had finally pushed me over the edge—maybe the woman crying over the accidentally damaged screen of her white MacBook, or maybe the belligerent Russian man with the imaginary iPhone problem—but by noon, I was counting the seconds until the end of my workday. When I left, it had just begun pouring rain, and I was drenched by the time I got to my car. Finally, I pulled away from the mall and onto the interstate…which was at a stand-still. My trip home should have taken approximately eight minutes. In reality, it took closer to forty-five.

By the time I began maneuvering the slick backroads near my apartment, the rain had slacked considerably. In fact, visibility had improved so much that I was able to see a freshly killed chipmunk in the road. Seeing its tiny little body, surprisingly unmangled, made me profoundly sad.

Finally home, I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter with a too much force. They slid across the counter and onto the floor. I left them there.

a) I just had dinner at Soccer Taco. As usual, I ate too much, and now I feel like I might explode at any minute.

b) I’m trying to prepare myself for a 12pm-9pm shift tomorrow. I loathe that shift.

c) I’m going to post a lengthy blog entry this weekend.

That is all. Good night.

On the schedule: The Duchess, The Wrestler, and The Queen.

Originally posted 5/3/08, now relevant because I’m going roller skating next week and the, “Hey, you should totally be a roller girl,” comments are starting to pour in.

Someone once told me that I’d make an excellent Roller Derby Girl. It didn’t surprise me, because he didn’t know me very well, and I do seem sort of edgy, what with my multiple tattoos and facial piercings.

He said, “Hey, you should try out!” I responded with a polite, “No fucking way,” and left it at that. I have a bad knee. I’m fat and mean, and, ohmygod, I have rage issues. I can see it clearly: I’d be dressed (in)appropriately, in a short, saucy plaid skirt and knee-high tube socks. My top would, of course, be tight and pink and the silk screened skull would stretch across my breasts. The back would bear the number 37 and read, “Sagitterrorist.” I’d be holding my speed skates by the laces, swinging them over my head with wild abandon while shrieking my battle cry and charging toward the unfortunate bitch who had wronged me. She would be lucky to escape without having her skull bashed in. I would be lucky to escape without jail time.

Roller Derby? No, thank you. I’ll keep my teeth, if you don’t mind. Kentucky Derby, though, now that’s a different story.

This, too, I can see clearly: I’d be dressed appropriately, in a demure knee-length dress made of pale yellow organza. It would swish elegantly about my knees whenever I moved. My hair would be in large, glossy ringlets, and I’d wear a chic, white derby hat. My charming wrist-length gloves would be removed early on and used for emphasis as I tell witty anecdotes. My jewelry would be tasteful and understated, a strand of pearls that glint in the sunlight when I toss my head back and laugh coquettishly, and a simple right-hand ring that would sparkle as I sipped my mint julep. I’d use my hand fan to ward off the Southern humidity (and subsequent vapors), and a delicate handkerchief to dab my brow or to toss at a persistent suitor. I’d toss it with a faux-indignant, “Well I do de-clayah,” while I try to keep my stern expression, though the corners of my mouth would twitch with suppressed laughter.

“You are just too much!” my friend would exclaim once the young man had scampered away, duly chastened yet hopeful because of his firm belief in the inherent fickleness of women.

I’d look at her from under my lashes, green eyes dancing with laughter. “I know, dahlin’, I know.”