Just Another Day in Fridaville

September 27th, 2007


*wake up 6am, race to gym, notice the moon is still full — no wonder I’m having wild screaming dog dreams, hop on a treadmill, get bored because my iPod Shuffle has a dead battery, hop off, get yelled at by a friend who sees me slacking, hop back on, hook up with my trainer, talk about our weekends (pitifully boring for both of us, but he’s young single cute–what up with that?), lift weights like a crazy person half my age in order to impress young cute trainer–pitiful.
* race home, hop in shower, hop out, wonder why I ever thought a Posh Spice haircut would suit me. I don’t look hip, I look haunted, like an extra in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
* Pace around waiting for yet another repairman to come and fix the problem he created when he came to fix my original problem. Check my hair periodically to see if it’s become hip while I’m not looking.
* I’m late for work, as usual, so I stop at Starbucks. I hit the one where they think my name is Rita. Somehow they came up with that on a drink order and I just kept it. I like being a stranger to myself in Starbucks. All the rest of the day, I ask myself, What Would Rita Do?, when I encounter a problem at work. Usually the answer is, “fuck this shit” or “go to hell.” I love Rita. Rita is my Jesus.
* I have on a new skirt today. A Narciso Rodriguez skirt, the same Narciso who designed Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s wedding dress. Obviously Narciso has fallen on hard times if he is designing for my ilk, but I feel fabulous. But uncomfortable. Like I’m sitting on a corncob uncomfortable. At the end of the day, I go to the ladies room to see if my hair is hip yet and discover that I’ve had a plastic tag the size of Ohio hanging inside my skirt banging against my ass for 8 hours. And I thought pain was just the price I had to pay for haute couture. No, it was Narciso knocking on my back door. Thank god it was inside the skirt and not hanging out like Minnie Pearl’s price tag when I went to Starbucks, where my cute trainer was having a coffee all alone. I pulled my hair down over my ears and hoped he wouldn’t see me put 3 sugars in my nonfat latte.
* In the long homestretch of the afternoon, my coworker, Katie, made a Peppermint Patty run to the convenience store down the block. We like to line them up on the cubicle dividers and take the Patties down one by one. If I were a lesbian, I’d date Peppermint Patty.
* 5pm and my hair seems to be shrinking…no I mean really shrinking. Getting shorter and looking kind of like it joined the Army and got its neck shaved.
*6pm I head home with Rehab blasting, find that the repairman has broken something new, and ask myself What Would Rita Do? Turn water into wine of course.

2 Responses to “Just Another Day in Fridaville”

  1. ida b. says:

    “All the rest of the day, I ask myself, What Would Rita Do?, when I encounter a problem at work. Usually the answer is, “fuck this shit” or “go to hell.” I love Rita. Rita is my Jesus.”

    I just laughed so hard that I snorted. Then I read this post a second time and laughed even harder. I’m still laughing. I can’t stop. You gave me an infectious giggle over the internet. Please turn this into an essay or at least a frequent theme of blog posts. This. Is. Awesome. I heart you.

  2. ida b. says:

    It’s a day later and I’m still laughing.

    I’m also feverishly trying to pick my Starbucks alter-super ego name. Blanche? Matilda? Bianca? Ruth? Muffy? Chaka Khan?

    The Buckies sometimes mistake Ida for Heidi on my cup, but—what— I’m going to retaliate against the world with yodeling? I don’t think so.