Curiouser and Curiouser

All day long, since I got out of bed, I have been singing a song by the band Rehab, which I adore on general principle. Specifically, I've been singing the chorus to "Sittin' At A Bar"...

She broke my heart
In the trailer park
So I jacked the keys to her fuckin car
And wrecked that piece of shit, and then walked away...

This, just for the record, is not an ideal tune to be singing idly when one works in a law office.

No one broke my heart in the trailer park or elsewhere recently, and no one stole my car, but it is being a big POS. For the third time recently, the tranny is about to go out. Luckily, said tranny is covered under warranty. Unluckily, my car likes to priss along fine during the week and promptly shit the bed as soon as a weekend is imminent, which sucks, because it is twice as hard to find rides on the weekend as it is during the week.

Because I am supremely blessed with extremely good friends, however, I have pretty much got the weekend knocked out in terms of getting where I need to be when. Action Mike is taking me out to Rickman Castle tonight (a long-ass journey and I owe him big time). My mom is picking me up and taking me shopping so I have law-office appropriate gear to wear to work. And the McGee and the crowd from Hummblebee are collectively taking me to Last Saturday Party.

And Monday I am going back to school. To be a paralegal, because, yeah. Hooray. Maybe I'll end up an attorney.

Who Says Birthdays Come But Once a Year?

...I've been celebrating mine since Wednesday.

So the party on Friday went awesomely. Most of the out of towners ended up cancelling due to lack of funds and/or lack of child care, but about thirty people showed up for the night of drinking and other things. I wore my Sodomy, Not Bombs t-shirt (because if we stop having sodomy, the terrorists win!) which was a big hit.

Highlights included: CRAndi and most of the Moonies playing "6 Degrees of Parce" with the people they didn't know, UnkyDunky showing up out of the clear blue sky and being given a standing tackle by yours truly, my good friend Linnea of Hummblebee making at least $100 selling her hand-blown glass, the group sing-a-long of Pearl Harbor Sucked (And I Miss You), and, once the party itself had ended and only the people staying the night remained, me using Big Leonard as my personal couch (complete with video from Sqami of me pretending to ride him like a pony), and Hummer Mike's photos of me, in the t-shirt, holding a True Love Waits poster (which is funnier if you know that the shirt has a fist holding a large, unsubtle rendering of a penis on it). I may put that picture up on Myspace.

I got a mad haul this birthday too. I don't normally expect a lot of presents; my parents and sister always make with the gifts, as do my friends from high school, and I never make a big issue out of it. But this year, among other things I won't mention here, I got a 60-minute massage, a new pair of Crocs, bath salts, oil, a pound bag of candied ginger, a candle, a handmade piece from my friend Emma's jewelry designs, a $50 gift certificate to my tattoo shop, a new Sri Chakram for the shrine room, and two new pipes. Plus, my sister gave me $40, always appreciated. (And I haven't even seen my friends from high school yet, although I know I'm getting a pre-owned papasan chair from one of them.)

So the birthday party kicked ass, with the exception of me completely ravaging my baby toe on my banded chest, ripping it all to shit and cracking the toenail, bleeding on the carpet (hydrogen peroxide took that shit out, luckily), and then doing it again the next morning, at which point the Artist lost his temper and moved the chest somewhere where it couldn't commit assault.

We went to Gertie's Diner in the morning, to stave off hangover and up-all-night, where I ran into church people (luckily, I had changed my shirt). That was actually OK, because it was people I like. Sqami and I hung out all day, watched an episode of Without a Trace and the last two episodes of Nightmares and Dreamscapes that I taped a couple of weeks ago and hadn't watched, and then I took her home and went to UnkyDunky's birthday party, which I try to attend every year and, every year, end up being the only female-type person to hold out to the bitter end. I went to the Flying Saucer first, where I talked the very nice valet into parking me even though he really was out of spaces. This turned out to be in his best interests, because on his birthday, UD throws money around like it's going out of style, and he got a $7 tip and didn't even have to pull the car around. We went to Cafe 02 for a while, then to Coyote Ugly, because Duncan knows the bouncer so we all get in for free.

I bonded with three very nice young ladies over the issue of whether or not anyone with sense gives up a $40 brassiere so that Coyote can hang it on their bar. Based on that fact and the fact that they had no bras of any color other than red, black, nude and white, we decided it's a total set-up, because who doesn't go drinking in their purple bra? We also had some nice girl bonding over the complete lack of sense involved in wearing one's skinniest heels and shortest skirt to go out drinking on a cobblestone-sidewalk street. I got to hang out with The Moose, who has been less in evidence since he had a baby, and we three had a collective moment of silence for the smoke shop, where all of us met when we worked there and which, as of two months ago, is no more. (Sniff). Plus, after not seeing him for a year, I finally got John the Martian's phone number, and he now lives one town over. Woot!

I had a great fucking birthday with all my friends. Here's to seventy more or so.

This Hold Music? Way Classier

So, I'm back. No, really. No, really. Promise.

Because I have a better job. A new/old job. A not-for-a-corporation job.

I'm working for my dad's law office, again. A job I actually like, which is odd, considering. It's not that much different than everything else I've done since entering the workforce (including what I did here when I was a teenager, although I have a shitload more to do now that I can be trusted to type contracts and wills and things like that.)

I help the ladies with their computers. I word-check important stuff. I consolidate files and close them. I run the mail, send faxes, answer the phone.

I love my dad's office. I grew up there, in a way. My dad would park me downstairs with the typewriter and let me go to town. To this day, I love the sound of a typewriter, and totally want one so I can feel like Hemingway or Hunter S. Thompson, depending on what route to intoxication I've decided to traverse on any given day.

There used to be an awesome bookstore next to my dad's office, also, which is these many years defunct. They have a wedding-reception type gathering hall there now, which is nice; the building is historic and I'm lucky it's not dusty and empty like so many of the others on our side of the court square, but I miss "my" bookstore. Call me crazy.

So, yesterday was my birt'day, and tomorrow is my birt'day party. I spent my birthday basically eating everything in sight; I had beignets and cheese toast at ten a.m., a meat-and-three-style cheeseburger n'fries for lunch, celebratory office ice cream at three o'clock, and the traditional "the Parcemom makes stuffed potatoes and everything else the Parce likes to eat and we eat cake and have presents" birt'day throwdown at my mom's, plus postmortem cake at drum circle. It was a kick-ass birt'day.

This party is going to kick even MORE ass though. I was going through things today and realized that over thirty people have assured me they're going to be there. That's not even counting the folks who are iffy for child-care or work-related reasons.

I love my birt'day. Happy birt'day to me. And I'm back. Really. Pinky-swear.