In Which Our Hero Pouts and Feels Sorry for Herself

Y'all, I'm down in the dumps. And it's not just because I'm sure George Bush is going to definitely pick Mr. Roboto to fill the Supreme Court vacancy and I really want it. Mostly its because I love order in my lunchtime food--one peanut butter and jelly sandwich, one serving of baby carrots, one apple, a few cookies, and one diet Dr Pepper--and we've not had any apples or baby carrots up in here since last week. Instead, I've been eating potato chips and Ding Dongs. Yummy while I'm eating them, but they make me surly for the rest of the day. Ah, I remember being young and being able to eat whatever I wanted with nary a thought to how it would make me feel. Obviously, the Butcher is still in that phase, as he's the grocery procurer and I'm missing my regular lunchtime repertoire. Yesterday, I shuffled into the kitchen, saw a huge glob of margarine on the floor in front of the refrigerator and could not bring myself to bother to clean it up. Luckily, Mrs. Wigglebottom found it a few minutes later and took care of it. Speaking of Mrs. Wigglebottom, we still are at an impasse about what to do with her for my cousin's wedding. Listen, I know she'll be fine if she stays here and the Professor and the Red-headed Kid come by to check on her regularly. This is not about her. This is about me not wanting to leave her if I don't have to. She is my most frequent traveling companion and the guardian of my car when I'm on the road by myself. Who's going to protect me from killer truckers? Who's going to stand on the center console and lean far forward and keep me amused? Who's going to sit in the passenger seat and snore? Plus, I'm going to be gone for a week every month for the next six months, as far as I can tell (hmm. How will I blog?) and traveling for work makes me lonely. I have to go and meet with people all day and when I'm done, I don't feel like meeting any more people. I don't want to go to the hotel bar. I want to lay in bed and watch Law & Order reruns until I fall asleep. I'm aimless. I'm lost. I have no career goals other than to continue to receive a check. And Saturday my co-workers are taking me to a place called "Silverado's." Being a hermit, I've never been to this place, but the youngest one assures me that it's full of cowboys and bikers and whores. I will go to watch the bikers and drink enough beer that I feel brave enough to flirt with them. I'm so not a biker chick and I'm going to be there with my co-workers, who are even less biker-chicky than me, if that's possible, so I doubt they will flirt back, but you've got to try. I'm a hermit. I'd rather be a hermit, except for the excruciatingly lonely part, and so I keep going out and keep chatting up men who are way out of my league. Because, damn it, one day, one of them is going to say "I used to own a pit bull and he just died after 20 fight-free years. I know just what to do when they get rambunctious on walks. And so, Darling B., I'd be happy to come over and sleep in your bed and look after your dog while you're away."