Nancy Sullivan's life might be better than mine.

I live in a nice property in a questionable neighborhood that’s dedicated to a community improvement project. When the building first opened 4 years ago, people became concerned when those native to the location couldn’t afford to live there. The solution was government subsidies for qualifying adults which introduced working minorities living below the poverty line and their children to a building full of upper middle class white folk who hankered for lofty condos. *That* is a very long sentence and *it* is an interesting dynamic.

Anyways.

Instead of Megabusin’ it, I have a plane ticket to Chicago this weekend. I was instructed to 'wear something nice on the plane' presumably to go directly from the airport to... somewhere. Now for a Megabus girl getting in at 1AM- I’m sure I know what that means. (::winkwink:: scandalous!) But what for a frivolous weekend plane ticket girl..? Hmmm... I know- WWNSD? To the mailroom!

The prior occupant of my apartment was Nancy Sullivan. I know this because I get a ton of her mail. She still gets more than I do- even after 3 1/2 years. At first I tried to be polite about it- letting the mailman know she was no longer at this address, sending the mail back, calling magazines to be removed from listings, etc. That was then. These days I paw through her mail eagerly- I figure the post office *must* want me to have these invitations to posh charity events and catalogues for high-end items I didn’t even know existed. I can’t help it! Her mail is a secret glimpse into an alternative world.

"Take for example this article, Norman." We’re in the kitchen having dinner; I’m sitting on the counter, holding a travel magazine while the cat is standing on the kitchen island- looking down at his food with typical distaste. I read aloud- "Being a white American conferred on me an automatic status abroad. I represented power. Affluence..." Huh. I had no idea. I don’t know if *I’ve* ever had this experience. "But then again," I say- flipping through the rest of the mail and pulling out a glossy appliance catalogue "I’ve never owned a microwave that cost more than a month’s rent either."

Now typically, I tend to dislike the lavish on principle but I wonder if a teeny-tiny part of that is envy. "It’s not just having a $900 microwave, Norman. It’s the lifestyle that supports having a $900 microwave." I try to appeal to his kitty nature by explaining that this means eating something a lot better than tuna everyday. And THAT means it's okay to want nice things.

Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should have just picked a major for the sole purpose of landing a prosperous career. I mean- that’s doable, isn’t it? *This* makes the most money. I need to do *this* to get *there*. Ta-dah! This feels like a slightly sleazy way to go about this business but, if I’m entirely honest, it’s not like I’m doing any altruistic work at the moment anyways.

Norman, as usual, is undisturbed by my ponderings. Demonstrating his blatant lack of concern for the most things in life, Norm only half listens as he idly bats my cellphone from one end of the island to the other. He swats harder and we both watch as the phone goes sailing off one end- directly into his dish of tuna. Norman looks at me as if to say, 'Well? Are you going to get that?'

Then again... maybe there’s another reason I don’t have nice things.

My social awkwardness. Let me show you it.

Asperger syndrome is an autism spectrum disorder, and people with it therefore show significant difficulties in social interaction, along with restricted and repetitive patterns of behavior and interests. Physical clumsiness and atypical use of language are frequently reported.

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Norman has this way of wrapping his little furry self around my neck that makes me impervious to the sound of my alarm.

Which means- I’m late.

One would think I would become used to this sensation. Or that the novelty of it would have worn off long ago, making me nonchalantly shrug instead of race about like a lunatic. It hasn’t and I do.

I practically hop out of the car while it’s still moving. Arms full of dry cleaning, I rummage around in the back to find a suitable pair of heels. Much like my smoking habit, instead of finding ways to break my early-morning-laziness addiction- I make excuses and find ways to enable this lifestyle. Like keeping items essential to my work presentability in the backseat at all times. Upon glancing in, one might think the car is simply a mess- but it’s actually an essential mess.

In my haste to reach the time clock by 7, I’m halfway to the door before I realize the essential mess in the backseat essentially made a mess in my shoes. More specifically, my right shoe (and now my right foot as well) is covered in tranny fluid. I’m the only person I know who springs a transmission fluid leak in the *backseat*. I should win some sort of epic girl award for that.

I kick the offending shoe into a nearby snowbank, juggle my burdens to account for a new center of gravity, and steel myself to plunge my bare foot into the pristine snow. I’m a hardy northern Minnesotan girl and this seems like a sensible solution to my current situation. At this exact moment, the owner of the hotel walks around the corner. He starts slightly to see me there- both arms wrapped around a mound of laundry, cinnamon latte balanced precariously on top, smoke dangling from my lips, naked foot poised above the snow. Oh dear. Unfortunate situation. I should try and make the best of it. "Good morning Mike!" I give him the most cheerful smile my cigarette will allow.

"…oh."

Oh? Uh-oh, that can’t be good. I wait for him to ignore me as usual and walk by but he just stands there. I'm waiting for some signal so we can start laughing about this but there’s nothing but an uncomfortable indifference. Some tense seconds pass and I have the insane urge to giggle. My bare foot starts to tingle.

I should tell him what’s going on here. Shouldn’t he ask me? He doesn’t ask me. I don’t dare put my foot down as this begins a process that requires me to poke around in the snow with barefoot for the lost shoe, demanding dexterity I do not possess at 6:59 (::gasp::) in the morning. Without mad pinwheeling of the arms and comical tottering, that is. I plan on doing neither in front of him as right now he’s staring at me as if I’m some sort of hopeless curiosity.

(Oh no, much better to stand on one leg- while I do my best to ignore the icy pinpricks starting to weave themselves up my leg.)

Then, blessedly, he walks off without another word. I give him a head start while I’m finding my shoe and dash to the time clock. 7:02. Dang. My place of employment requires explanation for any late punch- even if it’s only a minute or two. Car wouldn’t start, bad traffic, overslept, etc. (Mine, more often than not, say ‘fell on head’)

On the small card provided, I write: I think I might be a ridiculous person with a natural tendency towards awkwardness.

Happy Tuesday!

Proof the cougar is a she-car

Slipping and sliding down the snow-filled streets, I cursed and threatened my much loved car. Seriously Cougie? If I was driving any slower, we’d have to be going backwards! (Which is a completely different lament, as the cougar’s transmission has been slowly deteriorating for the past couple of years, making reverse and 1st gear vague, cantankerous acquaintances of ours) As yet another car zooms past us I point it out to the steering wheel- ‘Look! Look! No one else seems to be having these problems! Why do you require so much effort to simply stay on the road!? You’re a car! You belong on the ROAD!’ I continue my rant all the way into downtown. Parking in the lot at work, I open the door and start changing out my heavy-duty winter boots for smooth-soled work shoes. I stand up and shut the door, still mumbling under my breath about the morning adventures. Walking away, I glance over my shoulder to give Cougie a dirty look- wondering what the hell can possibly be wrong with it now. I don’t make it two steps before I immediately slip and fall on my head. ARG! Dang stupid shoes! ...wait a minute. Lying on my back in the snow I have a thought. I glance to my left and from my new vantage, I can see three of the cougar’s tires... three of the cougar’s completely bald, snow-encrusted tires.

Oh. That would make sense. Well then. Sorry car.