Go Ahead and Laugh

* On Saturday evening, as we drove down the highway in the cold rain, discussing how hard the holidays were on Anna, my mother withdrew a "finger pistol" from her pocket and fired at each of the lighted angels hung on the streetlamps.

* The Professor is now my friend on Facebook, but his acceptance of my friend request was preceded by an e-mail explaining why his relationship status is set to "In a Relationship" with The Ex.

* I have developed a crush on the FreeCreditReport.com dude.

* The Dirty Film Boys continued their stare tactics until the ladies in our office revolted and created a sign to wear on our backs that said, "I can see you looking at me in the reflection, genius." But The Boss interceded and let the Dirty Film Boys know they were creeping us out - to which they apologized and noted, "They're the best things to look at up here."

* I am seriously disappointed that I missed the Britney documentary and even consulted MTV.com to find out when it will be online.

Facing the Negativo

The last couple of weeks, I seem to have fallen prey to The Negativo. Suddenly, my first reaction to everything is negative. Anger, irritation, impatience, anxiety, dread. It's seething just underneath my skin, and it's provoked at the least infraction. And then it's like the worst version of me just jumps down the nearest person's throat. For example,

* The Dirty Film Boys are back, smelling up the common area. Every time I walk to the bathroom, the one closest to the door turns and stares at me. I am SORRY if the click-clack of my heels on the concrete annoys you, but get over it.

* On the way back from J. Island last week, my Garmin lost its ever-loving mind and directed me into the least populated corridors of the state. And when I turned around for the second time that day using the interstate median out of frustration, I promptly found myself sidelined by the state patrol. I had never ever cried on a cop until that day. "Happy belated birthday," he said. "I'm just going to give you warning."

* The Fam is experiencing too much togetherness. Patience is fraying; tempers are flaring. We're all slightly sick of the sight of each other but are quite at a loss how to avoid the suffocating conditions. Anna, though doing remarkably well, just isn't quite ready for abandonment and so we go and we sit together and we try not to kill each other.

* Work has me tense and knotted. I love my job, but right now, it just feels like everything is on level ten. There are too many balls in the air and I'm distracted...by...what, I don't know. By the shift in the office environs because of the Rockstar's impending departure. And the potential replacement's frightening Type-A over-achieving ways.

* I'm totally annoyed by people who do things better than me. How ridiculous is that? But it's like, I want the universe to give me a break, to give me some arena where I'm a winner free and clear. But instead, I'm on the insecurity train and riding shotgun.

* Another wave of grief seems to have washed over us all, and at times, it makes me resent every spark of happiness in the world. I want to tell other people not to smile. Because every time I think we're seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, it fades into the distance, and all I can hear is the echo of our voices in a long dark cavern that never seems to end.

* I hate waiting. I'm so mad at waiting. Waiting for the next thing. Waiting for it to be the right time to buy a house. Waiting for the time when I'll feel like writing a book. Waiting for friends to blossom out of acquaintances. Waiting for a time when I don't stand in a room full of people and feel like the loneliest person in the world. Waiting for a time when my whole life isn't hijacked by mourning.

* I resent practicality. I want to throw caution to the wind and plan trips and be carefree. I have 80 percent of my vacation left. I have no idea when or how to take it. And sometimes, when I think about it, I just feel more tired trying to think of how to use it. I just sort of want it to go away.

* I worry about us all...all of us with our respective heart conditions. Anna's broken into a million tiny pieces. Dad's grown tired and stressed. Mom's heavy with her worry for us all. And mine empty and lonely and guilty and sad for feeling all that it feels.

Getting a Sense After Eight Weeks

Mouthing off: jargon deciphered - noodle, offline, sidebar, inoculate, POD, pman; the correct company name when I answer the phone (even though I want to say the old one)

Noise, noise, noise: high hat notification on The Exotic's email (that drives me mad), dumpster emptying on Fridays, click-clack of the overhead fans, sonar beep of The Goofball's phone, music on The Rockstar's computer that I can barely hear but often sounds like electronica chanting at the end of the day

Taste buds: Peaches for fried chicken, green beans and mac & cheese (listed as a vegetable), chi-chi new dive by the art house theatre serving up overpriced prosciutto and grass clippings doused in olive oil, pastries from Black Forest Bakery, free(!) Maggiano's one day in ATL, only French vanilla creamer for coffee, Grape Laffy Taffy and Aztec Punch Starburst from the candy dish

Sniff: occasional chicken odor drifting from nearby poultry operation, stale sweat from the Dirty Film boys despite cooling weather, odd smell of cabbage in the ladies' which The Violinist and I determined was highly abnormal in the bathroom, old wood and machine oil from the freight elevator, Italian bistro cranking up for dinner every night when I leave

I Spy: my picture on the website (ick), other people reading Perez Hilton during the day, very drab blue background on the laptop I warily use each day, a growing number of folders on my desk containing information that I'm supposed to understand, three stalls in the ladies' but I will only use two of them - the third to me...well, it's just off limits for no apparent reason, red brick out the window, hope for me yet(??)

Dirty Film Boys

Almost from the first moment I started The New Job, I thought of the guys that work in the office across the common area from us as the Dirty Film Boys. Right in line with the oddness of ATown, I think they make short films and indie documentaries and maybe make commercials to pay the bills.

Their hours are irregular - sometimes they are there when I arrive in the morning at 8:30, but more often than not, they come in somewhere between 11 and 1. When they aren't there, I notice the place on the white door where they've pushed it open, a big brownish stain from dirty hands. And when they are there, I notice the stale sweaty smell that seems to linger in the common area. I attribute it to them, although, that might not be fair, since the common area isn't air conditioned and we have been experiencing a heat wave. Whatever the case, they take the fall for the pervasive locker room odor.

And then there's the interior of their office. Shelves line the right wall, spewing all sorts of cords and equipment. Weird props - like the mannequin head that looks out from the first desk along the wall, which is painted this ridiculously vibrant apple green. Sometimes I see the guys in there in their giant video-gaming chairs looking at the huge monitors and shouting incoherent commands to each other. And sometimes I meet one of them coming out of the men's as I go into the ladies' - I seem to be on the same pee schedule as the one who could easily be a stand-in for Vincent D'Onofrio. I think about introducing myself, but that's an awkward place to shout hello, so mostly I just smile benignly at him on my way to the WC.

So far, I kind of love the Dirty Film Boys and their mysterious sweaty office with its mannequin, whom I've name Elsa (even though it has no hair and is not clearly female). Perhaps they will become greater players in the drama of my life - or maybe they'll just continue to be the extras across the hall.