Another Late Night

There's something about working late that makes me, I don't know, somewhat reflective, a little nostalgic and a little wanting to bare my soul to all you faceless readers out there. Well, those of you not posting pics and what not.

But I'll save you the soul-searching. And the confessional. But the nostalgia, well, if you keep reading then you fucked yourself over and can't blame me.

Being down here again is kind of weird. Outside the big town, not much has changed. And now we live right off the road I used to go barrelling over on my way to pick up the missus. It's just as I remember it, perhaps a little better. I feel like I'm seeing so much with fresh eyes. The hills are bigger than I remember and the land deeper. Instead of some areas being pressed between the hills and the highway, they seem to be opening their arms to me.

I know I've changed somewhere along the way. When and how, I'm not so sure. But somethings, thankfully, haven't. Like the wide open spaces. Or coming off the hill and looking at the ridges and bluffs down in California. I don't know if all people feel this way after their homecoming. Maybe it's being a descendant of homesteaders that make me feel this way. Maybe after being the fourth generation to live in this country and born in it, there's something deeper inside that pre-disposes me to loving this dirt and sagebrush and junipers and rocks. Or, maybe it's simply where I fell in love.

I don't know what it is, and to a degree I hope I never find out.

What, Me a Dumbass? I Feel I Need to Clarify . . . . .

Okay, if you've read this lately you know I went to Atlanta. Whoopee. And with any luck, you may have read this comment:

" This is, by the way, Jamie's Cubicle Neighbor:

Oh, sweetie. You're so precious. Not from a big city, are ya?
Please, for your own sake, take your beginner's luck and run. Next time, say "No," don't make eye contact, and get in your damn car ASAP. Don't look nervous, though, attitude is everything, and fear can be fatal. Not to scare you or anything.

Ministry? Seriously?

Let me clarify: I'm not saying you're a dumbass. Just naive. I was once a small-town gal from South Carolina - then I moved to New Jersey.

Don't go to New Jersey anytime soon. Or, ask me before you do."

Okay, so now you know I don't know cities. But is Atlanta really that bad? Or am I just that naive?

And after circling Newark for 45 minutes and looking down on New Jersey, I so wanted to go see it. But maybe I'd just better be glad to not have had my ass handed to me. Or I look like such an incredible badass people don't want to fuck with me.

To think, for a little while I felt like Anthony Bourdain. A shorter, fatter version. And with a Carhart jacket instead of a leather one.

Ugh.

I'm so sick of being sick it isn't even funny anymore.

And I hate those fucking Citi-bank commercials. If I ever get the opportunity to meet the creative team who developed them and the moron who greenlighted them, I'm gonna' serve them all a shovel up alongside their fucking heads.

Assholes. Very rarely does a commercial come along that makes me want to change the channel. But then there's that little gem. Those assholes. Fucking hacks.