There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


What's British for "red-headed step-child"?

I've started having those stress dreams that are all about skipping school until the day of the final, then showing up in your underwear. Except that mine are somehow different, because in the dream, I realize that I've been skipping class but I have to drop the class before the final to ward off an F. So it's like a warning dream that the final in your underpants dream is around the corner.

The relationship of the couple who live in flat #1 is clearly on a downward spiral. All of the time with the yelling and the slamming. All night. All morning. Just break it off, will ya? Why drag it out? You clearly can't agree on one damn thing. You are incompatible. Let it go.

And one more thing: don't call the pizza delivery guy and "forget" to tell him that you live in the backyard so he rings my doorbell over and over and over AFTER I've gone to bed.

Yesterday's experience continued in the same vein well into the afternoon. I was originally told that I would have 20 minutes to present a product that it takes 2 days to explain, and that I'd do that presentation twice. Fine. Somewhere along the line, someone changed that schedule without telling me. I had 10 minutes, not 20, and I would have to do it 8 times, not 2. OK. I can roll with the punches. No problem. Apparently no one really cares to know about the features of the product or they'd give me more than 10 minutes. I can spout crap for 10 minutes (often even longer). But then comes the piece of resistance. The coop dee grace. After this stupid marathon of pointless crap-slinging, the rest of the people involved with this shin-dig -- all of the other product presenters, all of the clerical people, all of the participants -- hopped onto luxury coaches (big fancy Mercedes Benz buses) and went off to have cocktails and fine dining at the London Stock Exchange. The only people not invited were me and the tech support guy, who was a contractor.

I didn't realize quite how insulting this was until I was telling it to Greg. He repeated the story back to me ( they all went and had a nice dinner? And you went back to the bus station?) and when I heard someone else say it, it just made me laugh hysterically. Somebody just Cleveland Steamer'ed all over me, and I didn't realize it because I've grown accustomed to being crapped on. Faboo.

Just to make it extra special, there was a big accident on the M-something on the way home. A one-hour car trip took 3 hours by bus. I really must rethink all of my life choices. I am, it becomes clear even to me, not really qualified to decide dookie. I am the incarnation female-style of George Costanza. Just call me Koko.

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