"Did you ever take an actual copyediting class?" my boss asked me, and not in a mean way. We were talking about what we studied in college, and did it have anything to do with what we did for a living. I studied English, and at my school there were three tracks you could go on, or were they tracts? I have no idea. Anyway, teaching, business and literature.
Guess which one I picked? Hey, sensible.
To this day, I can read the shit out of a book.
Anyway, my boss, featured above–and I realize I used to have a boy boss. I have a whole 'nother boss now. THE POINT IS, she got out her copyediting book from college, from those days of yore, and it was this sort of spiral-bound thing that still talked about picas and point sizes and laying out pages, literally. With your hands. Oh, it was charming.
"You can look at it if you want to!" my boss said, and who wouldn't want to go down pica lane? I spent from 1982 to the year 2000 worrying about picas and leading and kerning and points. Then I didn't. Computers worried about it for me.
She handed this book to me, this book she's kept and treasured all this time, a book that was as pristine as a newborn fawn, which technically would be covered in goop but stay with me.
And I got lipstick on it.
A big smear, which much have been on my hand, and hey, corporate ladder. Why so elusive?
Steely Dan Silverman (good idea, y'all) just ran off with the muffin paper from my blueberry flax muffin. I mean, have fun with that. Looks like a party in a paper.
In other news, I'VE GAINED WEIGHT and I have 42 dollars. Payday is tomorrow. I was worried sick when my aunt was here that I'd run out of money running hither and yon to stores and restaurants and the like, but look! Got it just in, at $42. And the headache place gives me a $25 gas card every time I go, and yesterday I was almost on E, used the card, and got three dollars back.
So technically I have 45 dollars.
"Why am I fat?" I emailed my coworker, Austin, who does cross fit like it's fun and also stands around eating raw pepper all day. I was so annoyed, because I've been following this damn headache diet pretty well, with the eating of fish every day and the no processed foods (except yesterday I was upset at a work thing and got Pop Tarts. It was my first really bad cheat. The five potato chips the day before was bad enough), and we decided I can't (a) eat salty snacks even though they're allowed and (2) drink like a sailor.
So last night I had no wine. I was wineless. It was weird.
I went seven years with no wine at all–I didn't drink. But then I took it back up again, because I'm no quitter, and you know I go back and forth on that. Should I drink? Shouldn't I? Should I stay or should I go, now? I haven't had any negative consequences from it, but I worry. I mostly worry because of my father.
A few weeks ago, I forget what post it was, but a commenter got on my blog late at night and left three really nasty comments in a row. They were about how Lottie was better off without me, and I remember the final one read, "Did you ever notice how everyone does better when they're away from June? That includes lovers."
Now, normally when I get a nasty comment, I roll my eyes, sometimes shoot off a reply that I later regret, but mostly it hurts my feelings for maybe half and hour and then I forget about it. I've been doing this almost 10 years. I'm used to mean people popping out sometimes.
But this one was late at night, and I was here doing nothing, so I got on Typepad to see who left it. If you suddenly decide you hate me, but you've left me comments before, even if you disguise your name and email I can see who you are. That's how, years ago, I figured out this WING NUT from my old job was leaving mean messages (not the ones above). Before the mean comments, she'd written me a really
long email (we'd worked together about four weeks total) about her life and what was happening and how her dog wasn't convenient anymore, and would I go on my blog and find a home for him?
But back to the nasty comments from a few weeks back about my pets and lovers. I got on there to see who'd left them, and it was my father.
Yeah. My father.
We haven't talked in years, because last time we did he also said mean things, and that was enough for me. But that night I was so angry that I wrote him.
He wrote back and said he was ashamed to have had anything to do with me, and that I should just kill myself.
I don't know what this behavior is. For most of my life, we were great friends. He was the person I called first when anything bad happened, as he always made me feel better in a way no one else could. Now he'd made me feel worse than anyone ever could. I'm his only child.
I blame this change of personality on substances, although I can't, of course, be sure. And I don't want to be addicted to anything and 70 and alone and telling my loved ones that they should kill themselves.
I have no idea how I went from lipstick on a copyediting book to all this, but there it is. I got deep, man. To top it off, I'm late for work.