A is for Agoraphobia

This weekend was one of those weekends that remind me of this oft-forgotten scenario: if I really, really, REALLY put an effort forth, and as long as I crush and mix a few extra Adderalls into my morning cocktail, and assuming that I'm not suffering from some sort of explosive diarrhea due to eating expired Twinkies again, AND as long as I don't have a really good pile of magazines to catch up on (Thank baby Jeebus that Dog Flosser Aficionado only comes out bi-monthly!)...

...only then am I capable of being a productive human being who actually invites contact with other human beings and does "stuff" and "things". This was one of those golden weekends.

Here is some of the "stuff" and "things" that I did this weekend, in no particular order, and in bullet form as I know that non-bullet form gives you a rash in your crotchal region:

• Friday I was supposed to be subjected to a full day of work-related lectures and "breakout sessions" (which I found out- both to my relief and disappointment- had nothing whatsoever to do with pimples).  An hour and a half in, I decided that my time would be better spent doing pretty much anything else.  Seriously- I could have spent the rest of the day thinking of creative uses for cocktail weenies and I could have chalked the day up in the "win" column.  I could have given my cats cornrows and I would have felt that I had accomplished more, such was the suck.  So...In an effort to recreate the 1987 me, I ditched class and went to the mall.  I also took up smoking and renewed my love for Aqua Net hairspray, but that is neither here nor there.  I bought a bag (extra 30% off), had cocktails with my girl Blondie, bought a straw hat I may never wear, had a boring quesadilla, and then I went home and ordered the treadmill that my winterized, doughy butt needs and my lovely tax return will provide.  A good day, overall. 
• Saturday was a bit more lively.  It was snowing and slippery here, and here you can see the result of running errands in snowy, slippery weather: 

NINJACAR IS INJURED!!!  SEND HELP!  AND WINE!!

• Shortly after Ninjacar's concussion, I was due to judge a cake decorating competition at Mystic Lake Casino- a place I mistakenly thought was 20 minutes or so from my house, but it turns out it is halfway to Iowa and in the middle of a cornfield...or something.  I had also forgotten the smoky, sad, lifeless grossness that most of these casinos have in spades.  I walked in and breathed in the barely recycled air that could only be best described as "thick".  Between the "bong-bong-bong!!!" of the slot machines and the overabundance of NASCAR-related clothing, my poor little brain almost esploded.  I also forgot how, back when people smoked pretty much everywhere, there were little "smoker conveniences" everywhere you went: Ashtrays in armrests, cars actually had electric lighters and not MP-3 jacks, restaurants gave away matches, etc...  Well, that spirit is alive and well at Mystic Lake Casino!  Behold:    

An ashtray firmly secured between the toilet paper dispenser and the Sanitary napkin/tampon litterbox in the little girl's room.  I guess if I smoked, much like writing my memoirs and practicing air guitar, this too would be something I would enjoy doing whilst on the can.  Convenience!

• The competition was pretty uneventful, other than the fact that there were two (2!) Einstein-related cakes, neither of which I thought to take a picture of, such is my idiocy. A few pics of some I liked: 

 I like peacock feathers.  Pee-cock- teehee. 

 The creatures on this one reminded me of The Oatmeal, which I love. 

 Puppies!

 Fish cake.  Mmmm...I hope it's tuna-flavored. 

And I thought this one was just "disco" enough for me. 

• Other than that, the rest of my weekend, in no particular order so as to not make sense because I like to fuck with you like that:  cat grooming, wine, cleaning, cursing Mother Nature repeatedly, discussing a friend's dog's poo in great detail, buying losing lottery tickets, teaching myself various styles of "jazz hands", polenta for breakfast, shoveling, laundry, ordering pizza, forgetting that I was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra when answering the door in my cold front porch when the pizza guy came and wondering why he looked so happy, having the "birds and the bees" talk with Bubs, texting Gwen, and eating approximately 4.5 pounds of various cheeses in various forms.  

Happy Sunday, my jazzy little fish-flavored cupcakes.  Happy Sunday.

Seventeen seconds, seventeen minutes, seventeen hours.

So, about a month or so ago I got a speeding ticket.
I've only ever had one other speeding ticket in my life, and that was 11 years ago when I was pulled over with a large group of cars and was issued a ticket without even getting to say two words to the occifer, let alone treat him to the one-woman, one-act play that I have titled "Would a quick handie get me out of this? Because, I totally would: the Whiskeymarie Chronicles."

 This time I was actually pulled over, flashing lights and all, and yet again I was denied the deep, meaningful and often tearful interaction with the Popo that so many before me have used to "get out of a ticket", whatever the fuck that means.  Nevermind that I never, ever speed on purpose (well, not 99.9% of the time anyways), and that I was going the same speed as everyone around me- in fact, there were people in the lane next to me going faster than I was, which only leads me to believe that I do, in fact, have an evil leprechaun that follows me around with the sole mission in his miserable, lucky-charms-infested existence being to get me into trouble.  Man, I hate that little green asshat- I've named him Seamus MacDouchydick. 

I was informed by Occifer Mustachenstein that, while he was making my already stressful day suck so hard that it would later be entered into the Shitty Day Hall of Fame, there was a bucket of gold at the end of this dung-colored rainbow: I could go in, talk to one of Hennepin County's many delightful paper pushers, and if they deem me worthy, I could pay the fine, but keep the ticket off of my record, providing that I don't get any more violations in one year's time.  These violations include (but are not limited to): speeding, driving naked while texting threatening messages to members of Congress, running over old people for sport, and playing "bumper cars: 3D" with my vehicle. 

So last week, I got up early-ish, put on my finest dungarees, and drove downtown to deal with this.  One can make an appointment for this meeting, but I was informed that the earliest I could get one of these alleged "appointments" would be late January, which means that by the time I saw anyone, my $150 ticket would have grown into a $4,785 ticket, and yet another pesky warrant would be out for my arrest (someday I'll tell you about the other one- it involves donkeys, stalking, diapers and Clive Owen.  The gag order currently forbids me from giving you any more details).  I was told to try the "walk in" service.  I was also told to get there early, bring a book, and plan on a hefty wait.  Fun!

I arrived about 8:45- I walked in, talked briefly to a sour-faced clerk behind bulletproof glass, then pulled my ticket from the dispenser.  It was number 36, they were currently at number 9.  "Hmmm.  This isn't so bad!" I thought.  Not like the one time I went to the DMV and pulled number 11 and they were only on number 22- as in, I had to wait for 89 people to go before it was my turn.  Seriously.

The office where I had to go is located on the ground floor of the Courthouse building, and it is a dank, dreary, sad little place where one could easily find oneself planning one's own grisly suicide.  I kind of expected a wide assortment of folks waiting along with me, but mostly it was a shiftless, crabby, shady bunch, and judging from the conversations I had no choice but to eavesdrop on, many of them had spent many other hours and days in that particular office.  One woman in particular, obviously in deep, soulful love with the sound of her own (very loud) voice, had been there twice already this month because of "bullshit" cops that seem to take issue with people smoking weed while riding as a passenger in someone else's car.  Her charming outbursts every 3 minutes or so that "This is bullshit" really helped things as well, as if none of the rest of us would have recognized the bull shittyness of the situation without her brilliant observations.  Yeah, lady- no one else here has anything better to do- in fact, I'm kind of enjoying sitting here, smelling mystery farts that keep wafting over, and listening to you blather on about how you getting a parking ticket for an expired meter counts as racial profiling.  It took every fiber of my being to not reach across the stained carpet, grab her around the neck, and rip her loudmouthed head clean off in one satisfying and forceful tug. 

So I'm waiting while trying really hard to not commit premeditated homicide, and things seem to be moving along fairly smoothly.  People are getting called forth to the inner sanctum, they depart, then more minions are called forth.

Until number seventeen.  Fucking seventeen.

When seventeen hit, a few of us took notice and started looking around- "How come they aren't calling any more numbers?" "Is something wrong?" "What the fuck is this motherfucking bullshit?" (You can guess where that last one came from.)  (Yes, it was me.)
Twenty minutes, then thirty minutes came and went with no movement.  The guy holding number 18 started crying, but number 24 consoled him and talked him off the ledge.  Number 42 started offering people cash to trade numbers.  The guy sitting next to me- number 30- started fidgeting and making a strange, low humming noise.  I sat there, after finishing reading my Real Simple magazine, and already halfway through my short book, hoping that the humming wasn't a precursor to a total meltdown involving me, violence and/or humping.

Once we hit the 45-minute mark with number seventeen, the shit hit the fan.  Lady loudmouth started pacing the room, muttering to herself about having to plug her meter again, as well as her love of weed and how she could use a hit right now.  The guy trying to bribe ticket holders upped his offer to $40, without any takers.  People coming in were being told that it would likely be a 3-hour wait, which meant that about every third person that approached the window ended up either yelling at the clerk, storming out, or bargaining with her as to why they needed to be seen sooner than the other 65 or so people sitting in that sad, farty office.  One of my favorite moments from this day was when two women walked in and I heard this exchange:
Woman #1: "Damn, I should have got here earlier!"
Woman #2: "Damn, girl- you should have woke up earlier!"
Woman #1: "Girl, you know I was doing my hair.  I'm tired"
Woman #2: "Bitch, I ain't waiting for this shit.  And your hair is busted."
And...cue angry women storming out of the office.  (And for the record: Her hair was totally busted.)

Then, my second favorite moment of the day occurred.
Lady Loudmouth had to go plug her meter and duck into a doorway for a quick hit (judging from how she smelled when she returned, anyways), and the funniest thing happened.  The minute she walked out the door, the gates of heaven opened, a glorious light spilled forth, and...

...the door to the offices opened.
"Number eighteen?  Is number eighteen here?"

Number eighteen jumped up, wiped the tears from his face, hugged his comrades, and walked towards the clerk and the light.  Hurrah!  All is right with the world!  The angels have crapped sparkles and rainbows on us!  I love bureaucracy! 

Unfortunately for Lady Loudmouth, her 20-minute trip to the meter yielded the hilarious (to me) and disastrous result of her missing her number called.
Ba-zing!
Upon her return, I braced myself for what would surely be mayhem.  When she found out that she missed her chance and would have to wait yet another 30 minutes until they could get to her again, she looked like she was about to do something that would surely get her the lead story on the evening news: "Marijuana-addled loudmouth broad goes ballistic at the courthouse: Brilliant and ravishing St. Paul woman sustains minor injuries to her uvula while subduing crazy lady.  Awesome St. Paul woman will be honored as a hero in a very austere ceremony Thursday."
Or, something like that.

In the end, I wound up waiting 2.5 hours, I paid my fine, kept the ticket off my record (for now) and I (cue heartfelt piano music) learned a little bit about myself, life and this crazy place called Earth.

Then I went home and had a very satisfying poop.  Not the best day ever, but not the worst either.

Like quicksand squishing in my toes, so are the days of my life.

I probably should have mentioned at some point how I've been off from work since June 30th.  I meant to tell you, but I was so busy...doing stuff that I kind of forgot.

Well, that's not exactly true.

I was doing stuff, but saying I was "busy" is pretty much a bold-faced lie, and I will forever swim in the shame river created from the spittle of the thousands of mouths yelling at me for being a big fat liar.

No, my summer has been blissfully boring.  The kind of boring that would make someone with things like "ambition" and "goals" and "drive" the special kind of crazy normally reserved for celebrities with paint huffing issues/schizophrenia.  Sure, I gardened a bit, I constructed houses out of discarded boxes for the cats, I organized my underpants, and I found shaded patios around town where a pale, publicity-shy gal like myself could get eleventy cocktails with a friend or two and accidentally fall into the bushes without nary a flash from the paparazzi or an inappropriately-located sunburn.  

One would think that, given the vast amount of time that I had, that I would have been on the ball enough to do maybe one teeny, tiny bit of work in preparation for my triumphant return to work.  This coming Monday. 
If you had thought that, I would be bitch-slapping you repeatedly right now for your astounding level of idiotness, you idiot.  You should know me better than that by now, stupid.

No, instead of "getting a jump on things" like most marginally mature adults on the planet, the most impressive work-related thing that I've accomplished in my 50 days off (so far) was to get the most wicked-awesome score on electronic Yahtzee EVER.  512, bitches!  Five hundred-freaking twelve!! (Yes, I consider this work-related as numbers are involved, and everyone knows that numbers = work)

Yeah...you'd probably be correct in assuming that, as I get older, my brain is slowly turning into a tapioca-like mass of gray goo.  Yup.  In a few years you will probably be able to suck it out through a straw stuck up my nostril.

So now, as the final days of my Enchanted summer of nothing (patent pending) come to an end, of course NOW would be the time to be forced to sit through two days (13+ hours) of meetings under the guise of "In-service", thereby rendering my remaining few chances of being prepared impotent. 
I fucking hate In-service.
Yesterday we were forced to sit through 4 hours of lectures, 3 powerpoint presentations, a goddamn MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER that I will need to devote a separate post to, such was the...wow.  Just wow, one divisional meeting, and too many technological snafus to count.  Today was worse, and that's all I can say about it until the PTSD subsides and the shitty coffee has left my veins.

So...I guess that the basic point of this rather incoherent post is that I, like many a dipshit, have yet again procrastinated to the point that I am, indeed, quite fucked.

And, no.  I don't believe that I will ever learn from my mistakes.  We all know by now that learning stuff is for losers.

Now I'm going to go and git my cocktail on and write an outline for next week once I'm good and drunk.  Lord knows that has worked for me every other semester.

Have a moderately productive weekend (but don't strain yourself sweetie), my totally screwed little worker bees.  Happy weekend!

(Oh, and?  I guess I'm on the Twitter/Twatter now.  Look for @Whiskeymarie  All the kids are doing it, you know.)

(And I just realized that I've spewed out over 600 posts at this point.  Holy shitballs, you people put up with a lot.  Freaking saints, you are.  -Yoda OUT.)