I woke up late
(because Nesto woke me up to put me back to sleep)
(bow chicka bow wow)
(sorry. Too much info?)
So I decided to do a short run and then hit the weights
And while I was ACTIVELY WORKING OUT ON THE MACHINES this man starts talking to me.
Why do you have a brace on?
Did you get it from your MD?
They don’t have braces for your hip, do they? HAHAHAHA
Me: No, Sir. They just give you a new one.
He finally goes away.
THEN. As I was getting a paper towel to wipe down a machine that some asshat left soaking wet
He catches me at the dispenser:
Do you come here every day?
Me: Just during the week. I hit the beach on the weekends.
OH IS THAT RIGHT?
Do you swim or layout?
Are you married?
OH. You ARE?
Me: Yes, sir. 20+ years.
AWWWW.. He’s a lucky man…
I was hoping you were single…
OKAY SIR. WELL LET ME GET BACK TO THE MACHINES.
And that’s how at not even 6AM, I got hit on by some 70+ year old man.
Over the weekend, I went to a Dodgers game. The Man & I met up with some friends that we haven’t seen since we left Camp Pendleton. Which was a LONG ASS TIME AGO.
Because men don’t plan things well, we were sitting in different sections (which turned out to be okay ’cause they were sitting in the blazing hot sun and I burn like a mother fucker and it was 1200 degrees Saturday in Elysian Park). So they had to go in through a different gate and then meet us so we could show them Dodgers Stadium and yannow: eat.
Meeting place: Tommy Lasorda’s. There’s a bar nearby, and that’s where I go because it’s goddamn hot and also, beer.
Bartender (I’m assuming)*trying to be flirtatious*: Are you sure you’re old enough to order a beer?
Me: Ha! I am well over the legal drinking age.
The very nice bartender pours my beer and because I almost never carry cash, I paid with my card and also handed him my ID because I try to make things easy when I feel like it.
Bartender: Looks at my ID. Then back at me. Then back at my ID.
I’m on a horse (I can never resist). Then down at my boobs. THEN BACK AT MY FACE.
Me: *smirks* TOLDJA
Bartender: Whatever you’re doing, keep it up!
Look at me over here aging gracefully and shit.
So. There’s a guy here at work.
He…Ummm…is not my favorite.
Mostly because I think he believes he should be my favorite.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHY HE FEELS THAT WAY.
And I have never given him any sort of indication that he’s my favorite co-worker.
Mostly because he isn’t.
He called me at work after he’d left for the day.
Him: Hey. Can you do me a favor?
Me: I don’t know.
Him: I’d really appreciate it if you did.
Me: Well. Tell me what the favor is, THEN I can tell you if I can do it.
Him: DANG. WHY ARE YOU SO MEAN?
Personally, I don’t think it’s mean to want to know what it is you want.
You’re the one asking for the favor, mother fucker.
I don’t owe you shit.
Turns out I *could* do the favor for him. He left his iPad at work and he needed me to lock it up for him.
But, seriously. DUDE. I’m not in the habit of just saying yes and I don’t even know what the fuck it is you want from me.
ESPECIALLY, work people who tap dance on my nerves just by existing in the same space as I do.
So last fall, I decided that taking a class on a Sunday was a GOOD IDEA. Which, in reality, it should have been. I would have had all week to do homework, no rushing home from work to change into something more comfy (read: sweats/flip flops), no stuffing my face with food on the way to class before already being tired before class even started.
EVERYTHING about this seemed like a good idea.
Except, EVERY SUNDAY was FOOTBALL SUNDAY. So every Sunday, The Man and his friends would host football at their home. From the morning game to the last game. Every weekend they rotated houses. But. It was every Sunday. Without fail. This means, food, and football, and refreshments. And by refreshments, I mean beer. And whiskey. And sometimes even wine. (But not for me. Wine does not EVER go with football.)
And I didn’t want to miss out on the fun.
Class starts at 2pm? No problem. I would catch the first few games, eat, have a drink and go to class. EVERY. WEEK. I will even admit to being dropped off at school a time or two because sometimes, I didn’t stop at the one drink. I’m pretty sure the other students in the class thought I had a drinking problem. Whatever. I got an A in the class, because even slightly buzzed, I can bullshit my way through an exam comprised solely of essay questions with the best of them any day of the week. Especially on Sunday, apparently.
I did swear that I would never take a class that was on football sundays again. And I haven’t. I have a Thursday class.
Would you like to know what fun and exciting things are happening on Thursdays?
I can look at it as the universe conspiring against me. OR A CHALLENGE.
Guess which one I’m choosing.