Wherein Bry is undateable.

I'm "single," or as RF told me, "a playa." I can't be tamed.

Actual conversation.

CJ: I'm going to a wedding over Halloween.

ME: (frozen in fear that he might ask me to go with him)

CJ: I know you hate Halloween but (at this point I'm about to die) can you help me decide on a costume.

ME: (trying not to sound relieved) Sure. What do you have in mind?

CJ: Zombie? Something Star Wars?

ME: Have you considered going as a doctor or a lawyer.

CJ: (his brow furrows and I can see he is trying to censor his response).

ME: (I decide to make it worse) How about Mr. Darcy?

CJ: Okay. Now I know you are just messing with me.

ME: I'm horrible at this. It maybe part of the reason I hate Halloween. Aside from all the made up crap. The only costume I ever wore that I like was a a dress slip and a name tag that said Freud. I was a Freudian slip.

CJ: That's clever.

ME: Yeah. I wore it to a frat party.

CJ: (quiet and a little frown)

ME: That's sounds worse than it is. It was the gayest frat ever. Well that sounds bad too. They were not all actually gay. Well not all of them. But some. I'm trying to say, in the most offensive way possible, apparently, that I wasn't there to meet guys. I was there to hang with my girlfriends. (he raises his eyebrows). Friends. FRIENDS. This conversation is going down hill. Let's rewind.

CJ: Okay.

ME: I think you should be a zombie lawyer.

Wherein Bry takes hobo to a new level.

My blogs tend to be about the following things:

1. Ways I am a hobo.

2. Ways I am a spinster.

3. Things that happen on the bus.

4. Things that happen at work.

5. My snuggie.

6. Burritos.

If I were able to wear my snuggie to work and eat a burrito while I sell books, I could accomplish nearly all of these things in one day.

On Tuesday I really out did myself.

At about 3pm, as I was trying to leave, I realized my bag was locked in the office where they were conducting a group interview.

There was no way, after being awake since 3am, that I was waiting around an hour. So I knocked on the door.

"Sorry! But I need my bag."

Of course my boss had placed the bag in the furthest corner.

And when I say bag, I should clarify that it was a huge IKEA shopping bag. I hadn't been home in days, was towards the end of LL's wedding weekend and also house-sitting, and was carrying around the contents of my closet in an IKEA bag. I'm pretty sure an adult human being (like CPR!) could easily fit in the bag.

"Yeah, sorry I'm such a hobo!" I said as they shifted around the tiny office to hand me my hobo luggage. I later said they couldn't hire any of the prospectives because they should find out I'm a hobo after they are hired, not before. Kind of ruins the fun.

Speaking of house-sitting, I watched LL and KL's critters while they went to San Juan, WA. The two cats (Buttons and Ziggy) and dog (Madeline) always looked upon me distantly, but favorably, when I was just a visitor. But Buttons wanted nothing to do with me as her temporary owner. I was determined to make Buttons love me.

Buttons was determined to murder me.

Or at the very least, make me think she was capable of getting the butcher knife and stabbing me.

She does this thing in the middle of the night where she gets in the cupboards and leaps off her perch by the window, making it sound like someone is opening the door.

Cue Bry waking up several times convinced a crazy person was in the house.

She stopped snubbing me somewhere in the final day of my tenure as her fake owner, and even willingly got on the bed. However, I woke up from a nap (and her napping on top of me) with cat scratches right in between my cleavage.

So thank you Buttons for roughing up my chesties, for not actually murdering me, and making me grateful I don't have pets.

As I like to say, I'm only a cat, or a dolphin figurine collection, away from being a real spinster.

Wherein Bry deals with animals.

I feel as though somewhere in the past few days, I missed some sort of memo regarding the proper place to go poop. As though all my preconceived notions regarding the proper pooping procedures are suddenly out dated. Am I operating under 2009 sanitary standards, similar to reading the 2010 Farmer's Almanac when the 2011 is available?

Monday, as I looked at the newest pile of poop sitting on the bathroom floor, I briefly thought "I could walk away, go to the back office, clock out, and let AC deal with this."

But then I decided there was a possibility that AC would know that I bailed on the BM and then hate me for doing so. And as I told another new employee that day "It is way too early in your career here to start hating me," which is true for AC, too.

Side note: Knowing her initials are AC, I kind of want to call her Slater, in reference to AC Slater. End of side note.

On Saturday I happened upon a sizable chunk of real estate lingering on the tile floor in the lady's bathroom at work. A sizable chunk similar to those seen while hiking in the woods and happening upon some animal droppings.

The only animals on the loose in Lake O are cougars of the human variety.

I'm not sure what was worse, that someone pooped on the floor and then left or that multiple people went into the bathroom and then didn't say anything.

Either way, I spent an hour cleaning the bathroom.

Speaking of animals, the other night I was walking home rather late when I saw a fat grey cat scurrying towards me. "Oh!" I exclaimed as I walked towards it, bending so I could pet his or her fat head.

Yeah, it was a raccoon. That little bastard let me get really close.