Having not much else to say at the moment, and feeling good about myself for being back to weekly posting, and desiring to continue in this vein for the foreseeable future, I offer you an admittedly lacklustre post on my experiences in my "professional training" today on a commonly-used internet product.
Depending on when you're reading this and on the type of computer you're using, I can assure you there is no need, as of yet, to intentionally spill coffee (or vodka) on your keyboard or to unceremoniously yank the plug from the socket in an attempt to escape the clutches -- nay, the vice-like grip -- of the mundane (to which I was cruelly subjected in toxic quantities for a seven-hour period.... where are my tissues?! Where is that damn scotch?!.... ).
First, such "training" is normally held at swanky, albeit suburban, hotels with marble-tiled bathrooms and foamy carpet whose patterns wander off, to borrow from Charlotte Gilman Perkins, in "a kind of 'debased Romanesque' with delirium tremens." So, when I signed up, I had visions of these ammenities, along with buffets of fresh danish and hot coffee and fruit salad, and they were of some comfort to me. Late last night, when I actually looked at the registration slip, I discovered that I would actually be sitting in a high school, albeit suburban, the very institution I had hoped to escape.
The next morning, putting all thoughts of what had been irrevocably lost behind me, I climbed in the 'Ho and tried to relish the simple pleasures... coffee... iPod....the masculine hum of the engine... the pleasant vibrations of the road beneath me... no children screaming in the background...And then I had to pee. Not one of those, "Oh, I'm going to have to pee soon" pees, but rather an "I have to pee right now" pee. RIGHT NOW. So, off the exit (once I got to it... traffic jam...). No McDonald's, no Dunkin Donuts, not even a run-down Mobile station. And now I'm running late, which makes me have to pee even more urgently. Thankfully, just as I was about to ransack the car for a Goldfish-encrusted diaper, I spotted a dry cleaners. The woman was nice. She told me she has to go like that all the time. I don't want to talk about the bathroom.
Upon arrival (after signing in at the front office, fruitlessly wandering the postered halls (
Damn Yankees! November 12 throught the 14th) in search of the overheated, starkly bright computer lab that offered no sensual carpeting or fruit salad), I was overtaken by a poisonous cloud of gag-inducing musky perfume. Now, I use perfume daily -- just a dab, you know, because I fear the lingering odors of smoke and cats and small children -- but mine is quite nice... floral... or fresh... or something bright and light, like the breeze off a beach hemmed in by rose bushes guarded by watchful Cupids torn directly off children's valentines.... you know, like that. This smelled more like cat ass, or perhaps the odor to be found under the left breast of the Whore of Babylon following an apocalyptic battle. Rancid. And it has given me a cough, which has made smoking a bit of a chore tonight. Will the disappointment never end? I ask you.
There's not much more to tell. I've grown tired, as you surely have as well. Goodnight, then.
~Ana
