My brain is a terrible coach. Case in point:

OK, here she comes, just act casual, wait for the right moment, and do just as we rehearsed. Wait for it… wait for it… Now!

Me: “Good morning. You look very nice today.”

Good job. Excellent. Look, she smiled and said, “Thanks.” That’s a very good foundation for-

Me: “I wasn’t sure how to dress today, the weather’s been so crazy.”

What the hell are you doing? Stop talking! Now! Move on. End conversation.

Me: “I was thinking about shorts. I’m really glad I didn’t wear them though, it’s cold in here.”

NOOOOO! Don’t speak! You moron!

Me: “Oops, that’s my phone ringing, see you later.”

You know what… don’t speak… ever.

My dad and I walked in the door at about six o’clock. We had spent the day playing car roulette; the loser being the one who wound up with my car.

He had to bring the van in to the dealer that morning to have the air conditioner looked at, so I followed in the second family car, picked him up, brought him home, let him take the second family car so that my mom could take me to work in my car and take my car to her doctor’s appointment.

Dad was the one who picked me up at 5:30. We went to the dealership on the way home, only to find that the car was not ready. When we got home at six, mom informed us that the dealership had called and told her that repairs to the air conditioner would cost $850 dollars.

I turned to my father, looked him in the eye, and said, “Welcome to my world.”

He didn’t see the humor in it. Can't say I blame him.

By the end of the week I had two band-aids on each hand. Not so much for myself, but to keep from sending letters to clients with telltale blood stains.

My body has become a roadmap of papercuts. It’s all I can do to keep from spouting blood every time I point to something. Kind of like Eric Idle in European Vacation. “Oh sure, you just go up that way ::squirt::”

I suppose as I get more experienced in paper handling I’ll be able to go home at the end of the day not looking like Mr. Orange after the bank robbery.

Oh wow. Two movie jokes. Can I do one more?

So right now I just have to deal with the fact that I look like I’ve been thumb wrestling with Freddy Kruger.

Woo Hoo! Three!

I’m somehow worse at my job this week than I was last week. I suppose it might just be the absence of that “It’s my first week,” cushion. Saying, “It’s my second week,” really doesn’t count for shit.

I know I’m always paranoid that I’m doing worse than I actually am, but people must really be tired of my questions and mistakes by now. I feel bad for the poor lady I work with. She must be using all her willpower to keep from just poking me in the eye.

But I digress. Maybe I am too hard on myself.

To my credit, the job is pretty hard. It’s all paperwork and there are a million details to remember. What pages, which cabinets, which people, how many copies, scans, printouts, signatures, tags, file numbers, stack orders, labels, postage, envelopes, paper clips.

I take that back. It doesn’t sound hard. I’m just a fucking chunk-head.

Can you hear me now? … hello?

Well, I got a cell phone. If you need some ice, I suggest you try looking in hell.

Three months ago, when I was back in my apartment, I would never have imagined myself with a cell. Even with a regular phone, I only got three calls each week; one from my parents, one from my sister, and one from the phone company. What did the phone company want? They wanted to sell me a cell phone.

I recruited my sister, longtime cell phone user, to help me with buying one. Every time I went into a cell phone store on my own, I was assaulted by a salesperson who began humping my leg and spouting nonsensical words like “Anytime Night and Weekend Minutes,” or “Long Distance Roaming Charges.” Jen helped me sort things out, and I am now the proud owner of a T-Mobile phone.

I’m still learning the basics of using it. Right now I can only enter names into my phone book and select the least annoying ring tone (which is to say I’ve turned it off). I’ve set it to vibrate when I receive a call. Now when my back is sore, I go into my room, pick up the house phone, lay down on my cell phone, and repeatedly call myself.

Just kidding. I wouldn’t lay down on my cell phone, it might break. Besides, it’s hard to get back up without having the arm and leg that I used to pay for it.

My heart goes out to the poor kids I see waiting for the school bus every morning. On top of the fact that it’s cold, they’re waiting for the infernal school bus, which was my own personal hell. Imagine an overcrowded prison on wheels where everyone wanted to shank you. That’s what a school bus is like.

So work’s been alright. My only complaint is my back. It’s been sore no matter what position I sit or stand in all day. I only get relief when I go home and lie down or sit in my uber-ergonomic computer chair. This is, of course, just another symptom of the medical condition known as “being a pussy.”

Tomorrow is Good Friday, which seems to be a total misnomer. As I understand the history of it, it seemed to be a Pretty Shitty Friday.

The lady who runs the booth at my parking garage has only one hand. She has no problem doing her job, but I feel really guilty when I ask for change.

What did man do before the invention of those little rubber knobs that you put on your fingers to sort papers? Did he just lick his finger every time? That must have gotten brutal when flipping through the real heavy stacks. I’ve got a lot of paper to sort at my job, and thankfully I have one of those knob thingies. If I had to lick my finger each time I might accidentally poke my eye out. I’ve been wearing it for so long though, now I have phantom knob. Every time I touch something I imagine I’m feeling it through an eighth of an inch of rubber. Whenever I make sudden hand movements I instinctively clutch my fist to keep my knob from flying off. It’s starting to freak me out.

I’ve started my temp job and everything is great so far. One of the first things I couldn’t help noticing was the large number of young, professional women in the company. Let me tell you, never in my life have I wondered so often if there was a booger sticking out my nose.

It was easy to stay focused as the day wore on, but every once in a while my mind would wander to my past jobs. Looking back on my past employment, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve worked more jobs than the average person. Not that I’ve worked harder than anyone else, goodness no. But looking at all the places I’ve been employed in the last 8 years, the list seems kind of long:

Clinic, Engineering Company, Toy Store, Accounting Firm, Woodshop, Retail Warehouse, Leasing Office, Computer Lab, Registry of Motor Vehicles, Design Firm, Children’s Software Company, Mortgage Firm.

What’s that, like 12? Is that normal? It’s not like I can’t hold a job, all of those place listed above I’ve had to leave for things like college or relocation. I’ve never been fired. Although in my last job I was paranoid that they wanted me to leave; mainly because they occasionally forgot my paycheck and kept filling my work area with plants.

I suppose it doesn’t make any difference. More experience just makes me a better person. Because I’m good enough, I’m smart enough…

A lot of movies come full circle. The Deer Hunter came full circle, then continued around again. This might have been what made it so special, but it bugged the living hell out of me. Frankly, I didn’t like the film. It was overly drawn-out, I disliked the characters, and the vast majority of this three hour film seemed to go nowhere. What little bits of character development and actual plot that I did like could have been made into a half-hour movie.

I would have stopped watching at about the halfway point, but a) I didn’t know how long it really was, and b) I figured it must have some redeeming value; it won, like, five Oscars.

The characters were afflicted with either drunken stupidity or insane madness; and it’s very easy to confuse the two. Drunken stupidity was played out very thoroughly in the first third of the movie, which was thick with the kind of people that make you want to yell “SHUT THE HELL UP, IT’S THREE A.M. AND YOU JUST WOKE UP MY GODDAMNED BABY!” out your window. Madness was conveyed as a disease where the victim simply doesn’t answer any questions, even though they’re asked over and over and over.

Now, I think I “got” the movie. I don’t feel that any of the intricate points were lost on me. But it really is possible to convey plenty of the things that were conveyed in the movie without the agonizing pauses and slow editing (yes, let’s watch ten minutes of them driving away from the church).

Honestly, my DVD player froze in one scene, and I didn’t notice it for three whole minutes.

Add The Deer Hunter to the small pile of movies that I hated, but everyone else seemed to like. Right on top of Rushmore and Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

Oh man, I dug up some winners in the want ads today:

Early Childhood Teacher
At that age you really don't know enough to teach. Unless, like, you want to impart your wisdom of crayons and edible objects.

Food Demonstrator
And this end goes in your mouth...

Front End Operator
Wouldn't that include anyone who knows how to go to the bathroom?

Tree Specialist
These are the people who know if it makes it sound when it falls.

Dump Driver
They must have seen my car.

I liked Dawn of the Dead. I liked the original, and I liked the remake; I thought they were both good. And I'm not one of those people who was bitching and moaning how a remake would sully the integrity of the original. It was a zombie movie, it didn't have any integrity.

The remake was less of a social commentary than the first. There was a lot less of the "people who shop in malls are zombies" in the new version. What they had in common were emotion and drama. Both movies succeed because it's not just about crazy zombie effects or buckets of blood; it's also about characters, characters like us, who aren't stupider than the zombies. That's a rarity; most zombie movies get it wrong because the characters are oversexed and too stupid to live. At the risk of sounding silly, these movies are good because they've got BRAINS!

And if you kept your eye on financial standings, Dawn of the Dead finally knocked The Passion of the Christ from the number one spot. This poses an interesting question. What's worse, a child sneaking in to see Dawn of the Dead, or The Passion of the Christ? It's pretty easy to explain to little Jimmy that the zombies need to feed on human flesh to survive, but what are you going to tell him when he asks why Christ died? Hmm?