tardy

why i hate being late and why i can’t stop

I detest lateness. I hate being tardy. I was always on time in school, I hate being late for a movie, late for a party, late paying the rent, the bills, whatever. I am on time for rehearsal consistently.

Then answer me this:

Why, why, why am I late for work every morning?

I just cannot get up, get in that shower, get dressed and drive to work before I’m supposed to start my shift. It’s impossible. I feel terrible about it, but that’s just the way it’s been for a couple of months. No one seems to notice that I’m coming in late, so it’s not like someone’s hounding me about it. But I feel bad about it. I don’t want to be late. But obviously it doesn’t bother me too much because I don’t get up earlier for it or anything. I just won’t do it. I’m not going to spend more time in the mornings getting ready for a job that I have to go to. Then I get to work and everyone looks all nice (my officemate is always impeccable. It’s disgusting. Well, it’s only disgusting in that I look disgusting, and that’s disgusting.) and I look like I just rolled out of bed, fell in the shower and shuffled over here because it’s exactly what I did. I get home really late at night from rehearsal and performances and such, and I feel like Angel.

This is the only time I’ve ever be constantly late for anything. Even in college, when I had some boring classes, I would be late occasionally, but for the most part I would be on time. Not here. And once I get here, I find a good hour to kill (reading e-mail, checking phone messages, having a cigarette, reading other journals) before I actually start doing any work. I’m not a slacker. I just don’t like to be bored. I find that once I start doing my “job” I feel like my time is being wasted.

Now, not every day. Sometimes I’m actually busy and I get to work and I start working and the next thing I know it’s the end of the day… but it’s starting the day that’s so hard for me to do.

And I’ll be real tired when I get to work, but once I get home, I cannot sleep. I’ll find other things to do. What’s wrong with me?

The funny thing is I’m really obsessive about my alarm clock. I lay down in bed. “Did I set the clock?” Let me check. Yeah. The little light is on that means the alarm is set. “Well, are you sure that’s the alarm light and not the p.m. light?” Pretty sure, but let me check. Yes. The alarm is set. “What time?” Eight thirty. “Are you sure?” Yes. “Okay?” What? “No, nothing, you said eight-thirty. What’s the problem?” You don’t believe me? “Of course I believe you.” Okay, I’ll check. Yes. Eight-thirty. “Oh. Good. AM or PM?” Dammit! Uh… let me check. AM. “Good Night.”

And then I sleep through the alarm or I hit the snooze button for an hour. It’s pitiful.

My trivia reign continues. Last night we went to a bar that has NTN trivia… for those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s like a tiny computer that you play trivia games on a screen across the country. You get ranked nationally and locally and such to see how smart you are and consequently how big your dick is and such. So we’ve been playing this game for over a year, and we have found a new way to spice it up. We bet a dollar a game, per person, that we will have the highest score at the table. Now this is terribly illegal, gambling at a place where they serve alcohol, but since the kitty usually runs four to seven dollars, no one has ever given us any flack about it. It’s raised the stakes of our games so that not only do you beat them at a mind game, you take their money as well. Last night we played a few rounds, and I walked away fourteen dollars richer. Sweet. Sometimes I’d go all the way down to last place, but then pull ahead right at the end and win (Don’t test me on my Dustin Hoffman or Simon and Garfunkel knowledge, baby). I only lost one game… to the “Champion” of the aforementioned Trivial Pursuit game from Monday night. So we played until people felt that they were losing too much money to me, and then we called it a night.

If only Las Vegas had trivia games. Trivia slot machines were you played “You Don’t Know Jack” or “Jeopardy.” Can you imagine? That would rule. Except I bet the house computer would be like that Far Side cartoon where they were all playing “Jeopardy” against God. It’s tough to beat the house.

Speaking of Las Vegas, we’ve set the plans to go in January. A slew of us. I’m looking forward to that. But it suddenly hit me.. if we all go, who’s left to take care of all of our pets? We always check on each other’s pets when we are out of town… damn. I gotta go make more friends.

oooh, surly customers make me mad. I just got off the phone with someone who was yelling at me because I couldn’t give him all the info he needed on this software that he found in the closet that he bought a year ago. I told him where he could get the info he needed, but he didn’t want to create an e-mail, he wanted me to know the answers. I did not answer the phone, “Psychic Friends.”

I got the pamphlet last night in the mail (finally) concerning the colposcopy/biopsy. They sent me a pamphlet called “Disorders of the cervix” and it had certain sections highlighted. Just like a hug from Mom. Not even a written note in there about seeing me next week or anything… anyway, it still doesn’t answer any more questions than, “We don’t know. With this, we’ll find out.” I started freaking out, because I read the risks for what they said I had (or, rather, highlighted what I had) and why I was having these abnormal cells (pre-cancerous… which makes me a little more at ease) and it said genital warts (not me), having sex with more than one partner in your life (oh.), having sex with someone who’s had more than one partner in their life (ihh.), smoking (shit.), and being on the pill (dammit.). And I said to Eric, “Christ! I’m just putting myself at risk everywhere!” And he says, “Don’t you think that describes just about every woman around your age?” And I guess it mostly does. But the treatments for what I could have sound none too delectable. Freezing the cervix, burning off the cells with heat or lasers, slicing the cells off with a looped wire with an electric current. So I’m sitting all cross legged on the couch not touching my cheeseburger freaking out when Eric pointed out the picture of what the procedure looks like, and it’s this drawing of a male doctor by these spread legs looking between her legs with a microscope and smiling. So, apparently, someone is going to have fun on this biopsy. Anything to make ’em happy, right?

I’m mad at my car again. The seatbelt holders by the bottom of the door have broken, ON BOTH SIDES, so now when you want to put on your lap belt, you have to bend down and dig out the seatbelt from this crevice by the back of the seat. And last night I was trying to find my seatbelt, and my car bit me. I’ve got this slice on my thumb. Stupid car. I’m telling you one thing, I’m never eating a cheeseburger in my car, that’s for sure.

I forget sometimes, who reads this thing… I was reading trouble’s statement about online journals today, and it reminded me that I shouldn’t get nervous when I hear about other people reading my journal that I wouldn’t expect to read it… it’s not like anyone could sue me for slander or anything… but the other day one of my co-workers came into my office and said, “I read Livid.” And it took me a second to remember what that was… and then I did… and she says, “You go, girl.” But if the wrong co-worker read that, I suppose some shit could get started. No one reads it now that I don’t trust around here… it’s not even like I don’t trust anyone.. everyone here is pretty cool… but if someone took things the wrong way and didn’t think I was very funny… I suppose some things could go down that I wouldn’t find very fun.

In any event, just taking a second to make a shout out to all my friends that read this page, and the new friends that I’ve made through it.

I just ordered lunch, and I realize how much “When Harry Met Sally” has ruined my ordering out experience. I just don’t like all the condiments that places put on their food. A lot of times they drown the food in sauces, and I ask for them on the side. Salad dressings, mayo, ketchup, etc… I just ask for it on the side. Sometimes I like the sandwich to be on a different bread, and if they don’t have that, then I’ll have something else. But before you know it, I’m doing the entire “On the Side” monologue from “WHMS” and someone’s expecting me to simulate an orgasm at any moment. Well, I WON’T DO IT! I JUST WANT MY SALADS PLAIN! I’M A PICKY EATER, OKAY? There. I’ve said it.

And I’m sitting here waiting for a customer to call me back and I’m upset that he is so late at calling me, when he may just be stumbling into work as legitimately late as I do. I’m such a hypocrite. I suck.

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