I Don't Get Nearly Enough Credit For Managing Not To Be A Violent Psychopath

I found a used condom in the parking lot on my lunch break today.  I took a picture for effect.  Yes, those are my socks. Don’t ask.

Also, housekeeping fails at putting a bag in a trashcan.

Tonight is my last night in Atlanta on business, and then I get to go back home where the air smells of salt and life. Not crystal meth and decay. I’m celebrating with a steak for dinner on the company dime. 

So, in the spirit of getting my mojo back, I’m going to tell you a Kate’s Motel story that no one but my mother got to hear.  It happened after I moved in with LEH2 and lost all sense of who I really was.

Moving on.

Kate’s Motel in Atlanta was, for the most part, quite boring.  I did still get yelled at, did more work than I would have ever gotten paid for, and got to meet Robert Duvall.  All of these things, with the exception of Boo Radley himself, paled in comparison to the day that I met a married, lesbian woman trapped in a gay man’s body.

Yes, you read that right.

Hold on, I’ll give you a moment to soak that one in.

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Married Lesbian Gay Man will be henceforth known as MLGM for the purposes of this blog.

Seriously, I’m going to have to stop minding my own business.  Because just as sure as shit, as soon as I look like I’m not paying attention to something other than myself, SOME ASSHOLE is going to come along and fuck up my day.

There I was, minding my own business.  This man in his mid forties comes to my front desk and asks me, with a more feminine lilt to his voice than my own, “Are there any good places to party around here?” Complete with the hair flip and the valley girl swish.

The tiniest of giggles escaped me.

K: “Dude.  The only place on this exit is a biker bar.  I’m not sure that’s your prime choice of venue.”

MLGM: “GAH!!! I just can’t find any fun in this town.  My wife is SUCH a bore.”

K: “…Wife?”

MLGM: “Yeah, I’m married.  But we’re getting divorced.  She doesn’t understand me.”

K: “You don’t say.”

MLGM: “Okay FINE!  I’ll tell you a secret.  But only because you seem like such a nice person. *GASP* We should exchange emails and go out sometime! Girls Night!!” (Insert clapping hands and bouncing. And vomit.  Insert vomit.)

K: “Umm…”

MLGM: “My wife and I have been married for seven years.  But I’m not really a man.”

K: “…”

MLGM: “The best way I can describe it is being a lesbian woman in a man’s body.”

K: “So…you’re straight? I don’t get it.”

MLGM: “I’m attracted to women.  I just have the HARDEST time finding one!”

K: “Okay look.  Here’s some free advice.  Don’t spend it all in one place.  Getting a woman is not that hard.  Just never ever ever ever EVER repeat to anyone else what you just told me, and you should be good.”

MLGM: “I knew we would be besties.” (winkwink)

My day never recovered.

I See You've Set Aside This Special Time To Humiliate Yourself In Public

I find it slightly ironic that on the night that I find my inspiration to continue with my blogs, I’m sitting in a hotel as a guest rather than an employee.  It’s really a shame that working at Kate’s Motel didn’t pay enough to sustain a college kid with no bills ‘cause he lived with mom and dad, much less support a single mom. 

Now I sell insurance.

Because THAT’S entertaining…

/insert exaggerated eye roll

It’s been an interesting six months.  Let’s skip over the boring parts about how close I am to hooking so that I can put groceries on the table, and go straight to the interesting parts like how close I came today to pulling a complete Jerry Maguire and freaking out on the ignorant chick in this insurance class with me, here in Atlanta.

PMS is different, apparently, when you’re in your 30s and not on birth control.

Wait.

Maybe I’m just a bitch.

Whatever.

Word of advice: When you have just been hired for a new job, your main goal in life should be to impress your employer.  Because if you get fired, you’re fucked.  Do not come barreling into the classroom 25 minutes late with the obnoxious excuse that you couldn’t find your lipgloss.  You want to know what happened to your lipgloss?  I found it on the floor next to the 2^nd grade Strawberry Shortcake pencil that you insist on writing with and I gave it to the crackwhore that keeps looking in the window after lunch.  She looked like she needed it worse than you did.  She said thanks, by the way.

Also, PLEASE STOP WITH THE DAMNED CORN NUTS.  You sound like a donkey.  This is an insurance class, not a movie matinee. You don’t get to bring snacks.  You don’t get to clutter the table with your makeup and lotion and food and elementary school supplies and call yourself a responsible adult at the same time. 

You wanna know a secret?

The instructor reported back to your supervisor this afternoon.

I saw the email.

I do realize that being a grownup sucks giant monkey balls.  But you should have pretended, at least.