The Senator Will See You Now.

So this morning I spoke with my senator's secretary again.

I'm working on becoming a terribly ostentatious person who name-drops the monikers of high-ranking government officials' administrative assistants.

Anyway, this is the other senator. I now have two high-ranking government officials on my case, making me fervently believe that my face will soon be featured in an election ad with a Very Serious Voice-Over:

"Senator X is working hard to make sure that Social Security will always be around for you and your children, because no one knows when medical disaster will strike. Just look at TranceJen, struck down in her prime by an insidious illness."

*Jen makes Very Sad Face while holding cardboard sign and tin cup*

Welcome to Jen's World, in which no fantasy is too far-fetched.

The secretary is sending me some consent forms to sign so that the guy's flunkies can delve into my case.

Somebody wants my vote.

Somebody will get it, too.

I'm very excited by all of this attention. I feel like I'm at a spa of sorts, politicos all rushing around with bottles of nail polish and pumice stones and hot towels just trying to make me happy and get that all-important big tip, the vote.

Right on. I can appreciate this. And when my backpay check is in the mail, I will appreciate it even more.

Hell, I'd almost vote Republican for my backpay check.

Almost.

In other news, I am overcome with the desire to paint, scrape, varnish, refinish, tile, mosiac, shellac. The furniture in this house is tired.

I have at least two gallons of stripper (conjures brief image of Liquid Tits, Tits-In-A-Can) in the garage, and I think I'm going to strip the coffee table (oh, you naughty coffee table, you) and the media cabinet, which was once my great-uncle's gun cabinet, and then perhaps my living room might actually have two pieces of furniture that match.

It's all I can do to sit in the living room and look at the mangy disaster that was once carpet - I should at least have some halfway decent looking furniture in this place.

This is how I know spring has sprung. During the winter, I don't give a shit, because it's too cold to clean/arrange/paint/get out of bed.

Once it starts to get warm, the ugliness suddenly hits me like a ton of bricks and I cannot believe I have been living in this dump for the past four months, what the fuck have I been thinking, Jesus Christ, what a mess, have I actually allowed people in this house?? The horror!

In my living room I have a Paul Klee print in a really, really ugly frame, and I've been meaning to get a new frame since last year. I don't think I've looked at the damn thing in months, but yesterday my eyes locked upon it and I was so shaken that I could hardly breathe because Jesus, there wasn't even any white space, I would have to get a mat for it, the frame was fucking digusting, I could make one out of cardboard that looked better than that hideous yard sale reject, what the fuck was I thinking, and God, it has to come down right fucking now.

So I think I will be very busy this week.

Happy Monday. For the love of Jesus, please go clean off your coffee table, it's fucking disgusting.

11:35 a.m. - 2004-04-26
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