Really, where ARE we going?

There’s a very good chance I’m completely self-absorbed, but I’m always shocked upon discovering that not everybody in this city works the same schedule I do. And my schedule is seriously meshugeh.

For example, I don’t work on Tuesdays because Monday nights are late, late, late at the office. In the event I actually leave the house on a Tuesday — in the event I get off the couch on a Tuesday ... in the event I don’t spend eight hours watching "Gilmore Girls" DVDs on a Tuesday — I’m baffled by the numbers of people walking the sidewalks of my neighborhood. On a weekday. At, like, 2 p.m. Don’t you people work?!? Where the hell are you going? Do you realize how much it costs to live in this freakin’ city and you’re not at your JOBS??? GAH!

(I realize that I, too, am walking aimlessly down the street and they could be thinking the same things about me. In reality, there are a lot of writers and various art-types living in my neighborhood — freelancers who work from home, people who have their own businesses. People who are actually more productive than I am because, professionally, they are living by sheer force of their own drive and creative energy and business-minded instincts, and I [professionally, anyway] live by my employer. This is what works for me, but I wish the spirit of individualistic free enterprise in my lovely nabe rubbed off on me a little bit more.)

I had to be at work at 9 a.m. today. This is VERY early. I think back to when I still lived in Detroit and commuted 45 minutes every morning to make it to my desk by 8:30, and it’s inexcusable that I now can’t bring myself to get to work before 10. (If you can sleep, you will sleep, and I often don’t have to be at work until after noon, and no I’m not complaining.) Anyway, there’s a whole different breed of people who slog through the early-morning commute. First, there are SO MANY of them. And they are a mighty aggressive bunch, hurling their way into the subway trains and bolting for the standing poles in the cars so my short self has to reach too high to hold onto a ceiling-mounted one and all the blood rushes to my shoulder and my fingers go numb. Today I got slammed against a wall dripping in gawd-knows-what because I deigned to attempt to pass through a turnstile that was actually on the same side of the station as my exit and not 50 feet in the opposite direction, which was where I was being corralled. Really, people, why so angry? Don't you have iPods and Dean Koontz novels for the very purpose of not being so angry during your commute? And they dress far more homely than the 10 a.m.-and-later crowd: These are business jobs, and they can’t dress as hooch-ily as the "Today" show jackassedly illustrated we do in our magazine jobs. Frankly, I think it’s worth it to get to work later just so I don’t feel like I have to wear Casual Corner cardigans and sensible loafers.

(A note on my brief-yet-mortifying "Today" show appearance: I went to work the morning of taping wearing my Slimming Jacket, just in case I did make it onto the clip. The Slimming Jacket does not extend its svelte-making powers to the chins, however, and I was concerned that my various face parts would be splashed across the screen, thereby ensuring that any ex-boyfriend who saw me on TV would be grateful he treated me with less respect than he would someone more hot and with fewer chins. I even worked on my lower-face concealer strategery. So there I was, two blink-and-you’ll-miss-them close-ups, and I didn’t have to worry about excessive chins because, apparently, my face is now COMPLETELY ROUND. No chins to speak of. Je suis moonface.)

In other news, Dave Navarro is not interested in dating women who are made of human parts.

Also, "pool boy" is two words, but I wish it were one.