As an American, I adore money. Unfortunately, as someone of wholly island decent, of which 50% is Puerto Rican, I hate working and love binge drinking. Thus, on Monday when I am given the chance to come in on Saturday, my money grubbing half is eager to accept. Come Friday, however, I am worn out from a 45 hour week of the corporate version of sucking dick without hand breaks and I am completely ready to binge drink. This obviously does not combine well with working on Saturday morning.
This morning I experienced one of those hungover Saturdays, leading to standard ridiculousness. Last night I went out with my boyfriend's friends, all of whom were celebrating finishing their second year of law school. I celebrated on par, including two Long Island iced teas and shots of godforsaken Jagermeister. This morning I woke up at ten AM, exactly when I was supposed to be at work. I immediately started crying angry tears and stomping, throwing a three year old style tantrum. Boyfriend tried to calm me but I explained that I not only hated that I had to go into work but I also hated my entire life. I then decided that I wanted to get fired so my parents would be forced to pay my rent while I spend my days day drinking and job hunting. (It's actually surprising that I haven't gotten fired yet since I was two hours late twice this week, I regularly cry when I am made to do something that is not in my job description and I openly complain about how much I hate my job.)
Regardless, I needed a reasonable excuse as to why I was late this morning. I resorted to an old tactic - find ragweed (my kryptonite) and sniff it and rub it on my face. Since I am insanely allergic, about five minutes of this will leave me with horrible facial swelling and uncontrollable sneezing; a terrifying sight that automatically gets me sent home every time.
I forced my reluctant boyfriend out of bed and into the streets of Queens to start the hunt for ragweed. I live right next to a super industrial area so I figured it would be a good place to find untended, unbridled weed growth. It was not. I forced boyfriend to join me deeper and deeper into the wasteland, alternately crying and yelling, "This is why Queens sucks! There's no ragweed here! If I were at home I could find ragweed no problem!" He begged me to turn around, claiming we were treading on territory where it didn't seem like people should be walking around. I trudged on, eventually ending up next to a motorcycle driving school with some very intimidating Latinos on mopeds, where I finally found some low-grade ragweed.
I sniffed and rubbed with fury, to no avail, elevating my previous cries to full on proclamations of impending suicide until I was talked down by boyfriend. Defeated, I began the trudge to the train and my trek to work, my face as beautiful and perfect as always. When I transferred to the 4 train, I realized that not only was it running local (adding 15-20 minutes to my trip) but it also wasn't going to my stop in the Financial District. I spent the entire ride sniffing my bag of plants and crying. A judgmental mother forced her child that was sitting next to me to move to the other end of the car. Finally, I made it to Brooklyn Bridge where I had to transfer to the J train, a wholly unknown line for me. While riding the train, I got really into a game of Word Worm and suddenly I was three stops past the one I was to get off at AND in Brooklyn. Angry at God, I got off the train and boarded the return train, paying attention and getting off at the appropriate stop, but realizing that I had no idea where the fuck in the Financial District I was. I furiously stormed in what I assumed was in the right direction, relieved when I finally saw a familiar Duane Reed. Giddyness washed over me as I realized that I was two hours late for the third time this week and I would certainly be fired.
I skip into work making eye contact with my Super Boss (as compared to my Immediate Boss) and slip into my desk. As he saunters over he asks me what time I was supposed to be here. I respond ten and offer zero apology, daring him to fire me with challenge in my eyes. He replies, "We really need you to be on time. Oh, we're having pizza later, do you like pepperoni?"
Ugh, looks like my day drinking will continue to be regulated to the weekend. Unrelated, I am now experiencing some delayed facial ichiness.