Dear Insane Woman:

On the heels of you almost murdering me this morning with your green Honda Accord, just wanted to make mention of the following:

• You saw the sour, oh-Lord-another-workday look on my face, I suppose? And wanted to put me out of my misery? Thanks, but no, thanks. Running me over with your car wouldn’t have accomplished, by any means, putting me out of my misery. Maybe a free wine cooler at a nice restaurant would have done that. Not a hit-and-run. (You so would’ve hit and run, lady. We both know this.)
• Couldn’t you have waited a second or two for me to cross the street before pulling in? Your fender was thisclose to my ankles. Seriously. It would’ve taken 3 seconds, tops, for me to get across. I’m famous for walking incredibly slow and being allergic to any kind of rushing, but I do rush when cars are nearby. Promise.
• So you sped up. So you almost killed me. Did you get to work on time? No, you didn’t. Admit it: you were still late. And you’re still ridiculous. So nothing came out of this morning’s activities.
• You saw me turn around to cast a shocked, almost creamed glare in your rearview mirror. You saw it and you know what you did.
• Like photos of this guy, I made a mental impression of your car and your black coat and your circa 1986 haircut. And I will remember you.
• Thank you for reminding me that late DC drivers who are woefully dressed like any female supporting character from a mid 1980s movie will try to kill me, so I need to be doubly careful when walking to work in the morning.

Yours,

Still Alive, thank you very much.

p.s.: Watch your precious backs, friends and readers. There are shoulder pad wielding lunatics out there behind the wheel, aiming their vehicles toward your sweet ankles.

to be real.

This day is already starting out bad.

I woke up late and exhausted (no one’s fault but my own; there’s no reason why I need to watch The Nanny at the wee hours of the morning, although the show is utterly hilarious); a cold rain is currently pounding the atmosphere (and I forgot my gloves, so, naturally, my hands instantly turned into icicles); certain ones I share the office with are extremely moody (no explanation needed); I have absolutely no motivation to do anything right now. And I’m cranky.

I hate days like this.

207. 207!

I took a day off from the job, to kind of clear my head and take care of some important things. (Like sustained sleep.)

Came in today, fresh from the mini-break.

To find that my inbox had…

wait for it…

207 emails. 207! Between last week (I took a half day on Friday), Monday (which was a holiday, of which we were ALL off, and therefore no one should have been sending emails), and yesterday. Utterly unbelievable. So I did what I usually do in cases like this–read the first line, if don’t see my name, delete.

Sheesh.

For Reals?

So…I just got a letter in the mail here at work. One of my poems (hastily written at the zenith of emotion, which is probably the best and worst way to write) has been deemed as a semi-finalist in a poetry competition. I KNOW. Wow. Huh? I want to be excited, really I do, but did I just buy a jarful of flies? Have been sold the same potion Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson were shilling in the “Say Say Say” video? Have I been conned?

These things can be a bit funny. Whereas I simply went to a poetry website to add my little poem to the other thousands on there, I’m now a semi-finalist in a contest that I don’t remember reading about when I was on the site. The letter I received seemed real, but so do elixirs that promise to get rid of warts when you have warts. Despite an offer to purchase the publication that will bear my poem (nope), I’m supposedly under no obligation to submit a fee or monies or payment. Again, seems true and genuine, but so did Paul McCartney. I will decidedly not hold my breath. We shall see. I’m keeping the letter, though. If it turns out that I was conned, thank goodness we live in a litigious society. Evidence.