I'll show you how to fax in the mailroom, honey and have you home by five.

Oh. my. god. I hate the elevator in my place of business, as it has a rear and a front and thus it takes forever to get anywhere.

Except today.

I'd followed a small little woman in from the rain into Chelsea Market. She'd struggled with her umbrella and a younger, hipper, taller woman had helped her.

"Thank you, dear. Have a safe and healthy day!" Older woman called out gleefully.

What a cutie. Reminded me of John's mom. With a New York accent and about another 20 years on her.

Lo and behold, Older Woman and I got on in the same elevator. Also on the elevator were several of her apparent co-workers, one a tall dark-haired fellow I've seen a few times who's always talking to someone.

"How you doing, baby? How's things?" He said to Older Woman.

"Fine. Well actually not fine, I hate this. I'm sick of it," referring to the rain.

"Yeah, we're gonna get pounded until Saturday," tall funny man said.

"Well, I've never been pounded."

to which everyone in the elevator laughed. And then we were at my stop.

What a fine way to start the morning.

Got no title today

What's happening, folks. Finally got some downtime at the job and am consequently using it to enrich myself, aka search various job search vehicles and tidy up where need be. If I could keep my apartment as squeaky clean as I do my desk and cube at work, well, it'd be a special place.

My dad returns to Florida soon and I will be there three times between now and New Years between a baptism, Tgiving and Christmas. Dear god.

Recently read "Debt-free and 30" and dare I say it, it was outstanding. If my dad had a more youthful sense of humor and if he wasn't related to me, he could've written this book. I think the main difference was that the authors seemed to know me, or know people my age and understand, in a way that my dad didn't or couldn't, how money disappears out of one's wallet.

I officially belong to too many yahoo groups. NYC Writers, Motherless Daughters, Flylady and Blogcritics. There's probably another one that I'm forgetting. I dare say, I hear from the self-help kids more than I do the others.

So, I've officially got, oh how do you say it, portly. Dimpled. Wrinkled. Whathaveyou. In the butt, thigh, just-above the knee region. I've always been somewhat but it seems with each passing day, I'm turning more and more into my mother. My face is starting to puff out, the eye circles become bags, the formerly-ripped arms begin to blow in the wind. Ah, the sadness.

So Suzy McChubbs has begun to go to the gym. In addition to curbing my spending, I've curbed my drinking, smoking and overeating. They sort of go hand-in-hand, clearly. I can't afford to replace my favorite pair of jeans so I have to find a way to get back into them. No pressure, there.

I've got nothing of import to say. Alas.

Oatmeal in my coffee cup

I'm using today's post as a means to remember wise words said by my psychiatrist this morning. All of our emotions are self-created and thus, only we are responsible for them. Pain isn't avoidable, suffering is. If we look for a solution to a problem outside of ourselves, aka in the other person or in the circumstance, we are going down the wrong path.

He talked about how casts merely set a broken bone, allowing stability for a bone to heal itself. The second we cut ourselves, the body sets about healing. We can't help but heal ourselves.

All of this was reassuring and scary at the same time, originating from a discussion about recent events in my life.

"You've been well for some time."

"Yeah."

"I'd like to start thinking about taking you off of medication. How do you feel about that?"

"I'm scared. I've been so okay for so long and now I'm in this good relationship. I'm scared I'll stop taking medication and the crazy's gonna come out."

So, we're gonna keep me on the meds a bit longer.

Toolboxes and the women who evade them.

I recently bought a slice at the Ray's on 8th avenue and 51st street. Coming towards me was Jeffy Bigforehead Douchebag, who recently played the dead dad card on me, told me how much he wanted to spend time with me and then, of course, never got in touch with me. I guess he realized I had no interest in fucking him. Thankfully I ducked into Ray's unseen. I had no desire to spend one more second having any sort of correspondence with him.

In other news, my zit and my tits both continue to grow due to the now-upon-me period. All three are absolutely enormous. It's really quite amazing.

Leggo of my Preggo

My tits hurt and I can't get into my fatpants. Any of my fatpants. Which means they're no longer fatpants. They're my skinny pants. And my skinny pants are now my sister's pants. And I need to buy new fatpants. So I'm either getting my period or I'm pregnant. As I had exactly a buck seventy-six (that's $1.76) in my checking account until yesterday and because I'm not remotely close to being an adult except for that whole aging process, let's all say a prayer to Saint Bloodsnatch, yes? Yes. Splendid.

I continue to find unique and all-encompassing ways to torture myself. For example, the Fat One made it to the NYC Underground Comedy Festival. I only know this because I looked at the Underground website. What amused me most is that they have, on the website, an ANCIENT headshot of him before he gained 60 pounds and lost all of his hair, suggesting that he might just be remotely attractive. I hope those who see him perform say "what the fuck? who is this fat unfunny fatty?"

I also enjoy looking at all the various websites that announce events where I could potentially showcase my work, betterknown as my bitterness, in front of an audience but that I'm too much of a pussy to commit to. Perhaps this is something I can discuss with my friends this weekend.

In other news, my left contact lens is all blurred over so I have to spend my entire day with one eye closed, looking like a fucking piratard.

I guess I was a little pre-historic, pumpkin/ At your place this afternoon

I have a litmus test for when I'm getting too complacent and/or antsy in a current job. The subtle nosepicking escalates into not-as-subtle nosepicking. It's a bad sign. I just got caught by one of my co-workers. Thankfully, I think he'll forgive me, given his age (39) and position (not much higher than mine).

So, I'll have been at my current gig for a year, albeit in two different positions, in December. What comes next, I wonder? I'm doing some voiceover work next week but mostly I'm still pretty much just someone's bitch, at the end of the day. Which is frustrating.

Not as frustrating as seeing someone I hate get a listing in Time Out New York's "Comedy" section for something that isn't even a fucking comedy. It's more a play that leaves one emotionally bereft of any kind of hope for the future or humanity or its children. And not in any sort of funny way. Like a miscarriage can be funny, for sure. A dear friend of mine is the product of a botched self-induced abortion. But the miscarriage in this particular play? Not so funny. What does give me hope is now she's giving out free tickets. Which, in short, means: she has no audience. Ha!

I take a sick pleasure in the failures of my enemies. Or, perhaps, since they're my enemies, it's not so sick. Does anyone want to see their enemies succeed, really? If success involves drowning said enemy in a tub of her own fatness and self-loathing while others pelt her with McGriddles and Yoo-hoo, perhaps.

Holy shit. Brad Garrett!

Brad Garrett of "Everybody Loves Raymond" fame passed me on 9th avenue and 47th street last night. That guy is fucking huge. 6'8. I kinda wanted to climb him.

I thought of tomorrow and I wished it was Monday evening

Yesterday was eventful. Post-wedding brunch in Jersey City, home of the Fattest Daly of them all. Well, that's not entirely fair. For all I know, he's moved to Bayonne. The brunch was divine. It was followed shortly thereafter by church and dinner with Ron Weems.

Ron is into Greek food lately and the conversation over baklava warranted a second glass of wine for me, which I rarely have with my dad:

"Kad, I know how many years I've got left."

"Oh yeah? How many?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"How many you thinking?"

"I'm thinking 10 years, max."

'Okay."

"And I know how I want to spend those last 10 years. And I know I don't want to be alone anymore."

"Sure."

"Do you know what I'm saying, Kad?"

"Dad, I've wanted you to get married since 1994."

"And I've had a good run. I liked my independence. But last winter was awfully tough, Kad. The other two don't know how bad off I was. They have their own lives."

"Well, so-"

"And so do you. But you're not married with kids. But, you reach a certain point and you just don't want to be alone."

"You are in love with her, right? I've seen you two together. You're cute, you're flirty."

"Sure, we have a very good time together. And we care about each other deeply but when you're 67, it's not the same as when you were in your 20s. Sex goes out the window, believe me. I want someone to have a cup of coffee with. I want someone to take a walk with. These things are important to me."

I looked around the noisy restaurant, thought of my own infirmities.

"I can tell you these things because you and I went through a lot together."

For a moment, all of the heartbreak that my dad and I have gone though made sense. It didn't resolve anything or whisk anything away, but it made an awful lot of sense.