Yay. I'm glad 39495940303 of you so far are in on the doing-good-deeds-in-December thing. Remember, you have till midnight tonight to tell me you are in.
DO NOT TELL ME YOU ARE IN ON THIS POST, THOUGH! Tell me on YESTERDAY'S post. I have to pair you up with people and do not wish to toggle back and forth through two sets of comments and have my own good deed end up being the part where I do not kill you all.
And whoever said I had a hissy fit last year can just go to Halifax. I may have had a slight moment of crankiness last year. A HISSY fit. Hmph!
In other news about why I am Stretch Armstrong at the moment and could burst into tears like Taylor on the Real Housewives--who I actually am liking more and more and perhaps I am alone on this, but I feel like she's trying to be as honest as possible and that jaded phony crowd cannot fathom such a thing--today is the last day of my statistics textbook freelance work. It is due tonight. And guess what. GUESS WHAT?
Last night at NINE-THIRTY I get an email from the statistics textbook company. This happens all the time.
Dear June, they said.
Here is some new work. It takes priority over what you are currently doing, so blow off that book you were gonna finish, that was dangling like a shiny golden carrot of doneness. Blow off the carrot, June, and read this thing first, so that you will have EVEN MORE NIGHTS of working all day then dashing home to work all night.
Love, The Textbook Company.
Oh, booo hooo hoooo hooo hoooo. My large inflated lips are quivering.
At least I will be rich. Ish. More yodeling pickles for everyone!
What if I sent yodeling pickles to everyone on my Christmas list? And nothing else? I wonder what everyone would do?
Wow. That divorce she seemed to be handling has really done her in.
I must go get ready for my actual real job. It was a year ago today I got laid off from my last actual real job. I was thinking yesterday that this past year, from getting laid off through having surgery and Marvin leaving and Tallulah getting hit by a car and Winston running away and Daniel Boone breaking my heart and having no money now and getting shingles, this year has
SUCKED IT.
So maybe starting today this will be a better year. Because it all began last November 30 and I had no clue it was on its way.
Watch. I'll walk out the front door today and a tree will fall on my head.
I've been waiting to tell you this until it was for sure going well, but Anderson Cooper doesn't live here anymore.
I know!
Marvin was saying that he was going to get another cat, because Henry was sad and meowing and bored, and he was even considering licking Henry himself, because that's what Winston used to do. I suggested this might be crossing the I-heart-cats threshold.
I thought about it and offered him Anderson. I thought if I got kittens, they'd grow up okay around dogs, and certainly that's been the case with Roger, who splays on top of the dogs to sleep, and leaps up onto Edsel's head and stays there just for yucks and so forth. But Anderson was always scared of them, and whenever he walked across the room, the stupid dogs would chase his delicate self.
You always found Anderson hunkered up high on something.
"I think he'd be happier with just a cat friend," I said. "I LOVE Anderson!" said Marvin.
Can I just tell you that when I met Marvin he was unfamiliar with cats, and all awkward around them, and I consider it a personal victory that I have turned him into a cat-loving girly man?
Anyway, Marvin got him over a week ago and I am happy to report that Anderson is so happy. He and Henry are playing and running around and Anderson gets to actually run across the floor and there was only one hiss out of Henry initially.
I didn't mean to put this picture in, but you can see how deeply concerned Roger is about losing a brother.
Here's the picture I meant to put in. I will miss my little gay cat. But I think I did the right thing by him. "I'll try not to lose this one," Marvin said.
While we're on the subject of my cats, and hi, Hulk, we have a winnah! in the photo caption contest.
"rodger in junk drawer. rodger wish he still had junk. in his drawers."
Yes, Faithful Reader Funny in my Mind was funny outside of her mind. Send me your address, FIMM! You get the yodeling pickle! Christmas has come early.
An honorary pickle goes to the disqualified-before-the-contest-began Paula, because we all knew she'd be effing hilarious. She came up with about 47 captions, including:
"Oh, Miss Gardens, thank you for coming in. I have the results of your cat scan right here."
"I hate this desk job."
"Do these drawers make me look fat?"
"Man. Pete Campbell's office IS cramped." (That's only funny if you like Mad Men, WHICH YOU SHOULD.)
"NOBODY puts Roger in a drawer."
Paula. Killing all of us since whenever the hell she found this blog.
I must go, but before I do, let's start the good deeds thing. Because I don't still have your photo project to do and a statistics textbook deadline and this house doesn't look like Sanford & Son's house or anything.
Every year I like to do this on my blog to make myself break out in hives--too late! But it's a nice thing to do and we all end up liking it, except for Jan and Steve.
We pair up with each other cyberly and do good deeds for December. So all you have to do is write in the comments: "I'm in!" and then I will at a later date (maybe Friday?) pair you up with your good-deeds partner. So please be "in" by Wednesday at midnight.
And the good deed should be generally free or very low-cost. Open the door for someone whose arms are full of packages. Put quarters in all the parking meters down a street. Anonymously leave cookies for your old-lady neighbor. Whatever. Nothing huge, nothing fussy. Just come back here before Christmas and let us know in the comments what your good deed is, and your partner will return the favor with a good deed of his or her own.
Last night, I had Thai food with the Tall Boy. Who is delighted to have her phone back, do you think?
Anyway, Tall Boy is a vegetarian, and I wish I could be one because I love me the animals but also they are so darn delicious. My point is, it seems like it must be a pain in the arse to be a vegetarian. "I'll have the spring rolls, but without shrimp."
"You want chicken in the spring roll?"
"No! NO! Not chicken. Just no shrimp."
It's like the whole world is a meat obstacle course. Anyway, my cashew chicken came, because I'm sensitive that way (I asked if he'd mind if I had them kill it right at the table) and Tall Boy said, "What's that on your plate? Is that a big mushroom? It looks good."
"That is a piece of CHICKEN," I said. "Would you like to try it?"
"Yeah. I really do. I am meat-curious," said Tall Boy, with the enthusiasm of Kristen Stewart.
My point is, because he did not help me eat it, I had leftovers, so I put them in Tall Boy's refrigerator, where I have never looked before. It was a monumental night. I saw Tall Boy's fridge.
Is it just me, or is this a tidy refrigerator? I mean, for a boy. The little stacks of Tupperware, how the butter is right next to the bread. I don't know. Maybe it IS just me.
Look how the garlic sit in their own slot. It's disturbing, yet kind of reassuring. Maybe I am just used to slobbeldy Marvin, who would have the milk way back so you have to knock everything else over to get it, and the garlic would be rotting on the counter. That's what I'm used to.
At any rate, who was completely over me and my cell phone by the night's end? "Oooo! Can I take a picture of this? You want to see this app?" I am a fun date. Really in the moment.
In other news, I got a gift yesterday from Faithful Reader Texas Kari. She felt bad because she told me she was the woman who looked at me on OK Cupid, which lead me to send said woman a rather forward message, when in fact Texas Kari was lying through her Texan teeth.
But look! Here's Topol, the smoker's tooth polish! Do you remember that commercial? What is wrong with me? Compile a list.
What I WANTED to say was, look! Look how cute her little package was, with the tissue and lace and the little tag. Am so stealing this idea.
(It was because she had a cute package that I tried to pick her up on OK Cupid. Whooooo-hahhhh!)
"edzul not like dis ideeya. not madogga."
She sent me vintage Christmas kitty pillowcases!!!!!!
Who better to receive such a thing? Hmmm? WHO BETTER? Love them. Thanks, Texas Kari. And it all worked out. That woman on OK Cupid and I have had a few dates and am working up nerve to kiss her. (It was actually another faithful reader who looked at me that day. She emailed me on OK Cupid to tell me. In case anyone wonders, she and I have 84% compatibility on OK Cupid and we really should give things a try.) (Apparently I am meat-curious today, too.)
I must go, as I am in statistics-book-proofreading hell, which explains why I went gallivanting around to Thai restaurants all night, but before I go, we are gonna have a little contest here at Bye Bye, Pie.
Whoever comes up with the best caption for this wins a yodeling pickle. You must think of it by midnight tonight--whenever that is for you. I'm just saying when I get up tomorrow time is up.
Should we just disqualify Paula H&B right away, because she is funnier than all of us put together?
I know you do not want to miss out on winning THIS. I wish my pickles wore leiderhosen. What gives? Also, my pickles are more whiskey connoisseurs.
Here is the photo again.
It's just like Reader's Digest or something, isn't it? Good luck! Good luck winning that yodeling pickle, which I won't take 700 years to finally send you or anything.
Yesterday I had brunch with Dick Whitman's mom. It was very pleasant to meet her.
Oh please. I LOVED HER!!! Wait. More exclamation points are needed! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I knew she'd be the bomb.
Every story Dick Whitman ever told me about his mom, I would listen and then say, "I love your mom." I think I said that from the first story. And we share a birthday. And she Facebook Likes all the pictures I have of cats. AND SHE READS MY BLOG.
What's not to like?
But then I got there and she was even better than I had imagined. Oh, she was charming, she was hilarious, she was thoughtful about the predicament Dick Whitman and I are in, with our new singlehood and all.
At one point, Dick Whitman mentioned my dogs for some reason. "She has one dog, Tallulah, who's a little wild."
I was about to yell at him when Dick Whitman's mom said, "No. Tallulah is the calm one. Edsel is crazy. I know more about her dogs than YOU do, and I've never been there."
Seriously. How could you get Tallulah and Edsel confused? I think Dick Whitman is indifferent to dogs. YOU'RE INDIFFERENT TO DOGS, DW!
She talked about how she tried not to interfere in her kids' lives, and how she was worried meeting me would count as interfering. How cool is she?
Anyway, I could have stayed there all day, talking about Dick Whitman's ear infections that he got as a kid, and which old movie stars we liked and who was stupid, and how chickens don't taste right now that they're pumped full of hormones and kept in a cage.
And there was an Art-O-Mat at the restaurant! Y'all know how I always have to put my $5 in there, and no I DON'T know why my savings account has $9.48 in it. What do you mean?
Art-O-Mats are old cigarette machines that some genius, meja, decided to turn into a vending machine for teensy works of art. So artists from all over, including my friend Charlie with the orange hair--who by the way now has a girlfriend with pink hair and thank heavens he went back to brown hair, because that combo makes me queasy just thinking about it--put their art in these machines.
Yesterday I got a teensy patron saint--It was St. Zzzzzz, for a good night's sleep. I need that. When you sleep with the entire animal kingdom, not to mention occasionally King Don, you don't always get your rest.
As if meeting Dick Whitman's mom weren't good enough, I got home and decided to pay bills, because they'd all been languishing on my secretary gathering cobwebs. I don't know why King Don doesn't just pay my bills. Shouldn't he be wealthy?
Anyway, I decided to check my bank balance before I went around paying bills all willy-nilly, and I had a TON more in there than I thought. This is because Google Ads just deposits money right in there, and no one had said, "Hey, June, you got paid for your ads!"
I could not even stand the temptation. I sat here and debated for awhile and finally called the Tall Boy. "I have surprise money. Should I go stampeding to the Apple store and get another iPhone?" I think I have whined about having no iPhone a mere 49493002202 times to Tall Boy.
"Yes," he said, sounding weary. "If I found out I had extra money, that's certainly what I'd do." Tall Boy is not what you'd call up on technological advances. In order to email him, I have to send a Pterodactyl over there to crank up his internet. He's, like, the only boy I know who isn't into all that crap. It is kind of refreshing.
So who went over to the Apple store on African American Friday, as Hulk calls it? Who is an idiot? I mean, other than Hulk. Dudes, there was a LINE, with a ROPE, like we were all trying to get into Studio 54, and will somebody PLEASE give me a club that has happened since 1977 so I come up with a better example next time this comes up?
I was behind a very cranky techno nerd who kept glaring at me when my purse touched him, and I'm SORRY I am not a motionless blowup doll like you're used to, and I was in front of two Asian girls who had some sort of cultural idea of personal space that differed from mine. Can only hope I gave them my shingles.
The point is...
yay!
And I got the cheap old 3G, and that's all I need. Girlfriend's ad revenue isn't DOOCE good. But oh! How I played with it and tormented Tall Boy with photos of my car and my pets and more of my pets and who wishes he'd said I should invest that money in bonds or something?
Do you enjoy my gray robe and t-shirt from The Turkey Roost, which is only the best restaurant in Michigan? If you are in Michigan right now, get in the car and drive to Kawkawlin. You will not be sorry. Try not to picture my I-just-got-up hair when you are eating.
Oh! And Dick Whitman's mom said I have to stop complaining about my hair, as she thinks it's lovely. "You don't think it looks like George Washington?" I asked her. She paused, realizing it totally does. "Well. Now you're just looking for flaws."
So there it is. Would totally marry Dick Whitman to get to his mom. We could each date whomever we wanted, and he could continue to think Tallulah is Edsel. Sounds promising!
I joined my friend Laurie, who is a capable adult, and please note the part where I tend to hang around capable adults. However, THAT TURKEY WAS MADE BY ME. And purchased by me. With a little help from a lesbian.
And dear lesbian readers, am I offensive when I make these jokes? I hope not. Please come slap me with your lesbian livers if I am.
As usual, I was helpful and mature in the kitchen, and not at all such a pain in the arse that you just wanted me out of there.
This, of course, is not a skill I have crafted over the years or anything. "Hah haa! Okay, June. Now real work has to commence. Go watch TV."
In my own way, I am a genius.
Laurie, being an actual real photographer, and note how I find THOSE to hang around with, too, with my narcissistic self, told me to go outside so she could photograph me, and we discussed how I am a lovely friend because I do not do the annoying, "Oh! I HATE pictures of myself!" thing.
Dear people who say that: Get over yourselves. We all have to look at you all the time. If you hate seeing a picture of you, just don't look. Let us snap the damn photo and move on. Or I'll have all the lesbians come slap you with their livers.
Speaking of livers, Laurie asked, "Will it bother you if I have a glass of wine?" and I never want people to feel like they can't go ahead and drink in front of me. I mean, watching people get DRUNK is annoying, but normal drinkers are fine for me.
Except OH MY GOD she is such a normal drinker. She poured that ding-dang glass of wine and TWO HOURS LATER there was still some in the glass. And she'd leave it over across the room, forgetting about it, whereas I would have duct-taped it to my hand. Finally, I said, "Are you EVER gonna drink the rest of that wine?"
Not that I was obsessed with it or anything.
Laurie, when she wasn't ignoring perfectly good alcohol, and talk about your alcohol abuse, noted that my Latisse is really kicking in. Hello, lashes! I used to use the blackest of black mascara and I'm starting to think I should move on to brown-black so I don't look so harsh. I mean, you used to never be able to SEE my eyelashes before this.
Straight male readers...?
I know how we can get them back. PILLSBURY PENIS ROLLS!
It was my job to roll the crescent rolls, and folks, what the hell is wrong with me? Why can I not roll them in the nice crescent shape? That one in the middle looks exactly like when Edsel has the lipstick out. I'm sorry but it does. The rest are like Vermicious Knids. What the Sam Hill? Can anyone identify what I do WRONG, because this is not the first time I have made this tactical error.
Despite this, Laurie trusted me with sharp implements, although note she only let me play with the end of a carrot. And if you're thinking my little cherry barrette is cute, I used to, too, and this morning I got up and Edsel had eaten it.
Finally it was time to eat, and I got a glass of traditional Thanksgiving urine and we were set to go. I said, "Let's not eat like my dogs, where they stare down at their bowl and consume everything in sight then look up for more after they've licked the plastic. Let's enjoy this."
Eight minutes later, we looked up from our empty plates for more.
Oh! We were stuffed. We were not even able to have dessert, so later this weekend Laurie is coming to have pie with June of the Pie.
Afterwards, I said, "Let me help clean up" with the enthusiasm of a tree sloth, and Laurie said, "No, I got it" and I said "NO NO, let me help" as I got my coat and she said, "Really. I've got it." Please note that DAMN GLASS OF WINE that she never finished.
Anyway, it was a lovely THANKSgiving, as they say here, and I was grateful to have Laurie to spend it with me. Mostly because otherwise I would have had just turkey. And a messy kitchen. And who would have photographed me all day?
Now I have to get ready because I'm (sit down) having brunch with DICK WHITMAN'S MOM today!
!!!!!
Hi, Dick Whitman's mom!
Am so excited I could spit. She STILL reads this blog. Half the time I'll hear from Dick Whitman and he'll start out with, "My mom tells me [insert June life event here]." I wish I had met her on Match. We'd still be together.
Do not fret. I will be reporting on this fabulous meeting of Dick Whitman's mom--my birthday twin--tomorrow. And we will begin our good deed project. And keep sending in your photos! I love how almost everyone has included a pet. You all know me too well.
It's Thanksgiving! I'm up! I do not WISH to be up early on a holiday, and I realize those of you who are grownups have already BEEN up for 109 hours, gutting your turkey or whatever, and believe it or not I have to also too take the innards out my turkey. Can I feed the inside parts to the dogs?
I can Google this, but go ahead and send me hysterical "NO JUNE! YOU WILL POIIIIIISON YOUR DOGS!" comments. I like how dogs can eat strange poop (as opposed to normal poop) and Dortios bags and half-rotten Kongs they find under the shed in the spring but one single grape is gonna murder them dead.
I am going to celebrate this delightful day of giving smallpox to Native Americans with my friend Laurie, who is a faithful reader and also an overachiever. My father was going to come here for Thanksgiving, all the way from Albuquerque just like Bugs Bunny,
(I adore YouTube) (what made Bugs Bunny think that orange thing was a flattering ensemble? Also he has the same coloring as Roger. I never thought about that before. And they have the same-sized feets.)
but wouldn't you know I got a statistics textbook to proofread, and I really super extra cannot turn down the extra money at this juncture, so I was all, "Come for Thanksgiving! Right after dinner I have to completely ignore you!" So we decided he is going to come in the spring when his seasonal allergies should kill him, and we are having Thanksgiving in April.
Anyway, this lead to Laurie and me deciding to have Thanksgiving together, and 18 seconds later she emailed me an entire menu, in Thanksgiving-color font, with a turkey gleefully holding up the headline, as if a turkey would be gleefully having anything to do with a menu wherein he was the main course.
I told Laurie I would make the turkey, which was generous of me, seeing as that leaves her with the other 10 items. Why does anyone like me? But since everyone has such low expectations of me, the paramedics had to be called that I even knew HOW to make a turkey.
"You WILL?" she asked.
Then a few days ago, she emailed me to remind me to get the turkey, and I emailed back, all incredulous. "Of COURSE I'll get the turkey. GOD."
I would have never remembered to get the turkey. I would have gotten there and been all, where's the turkey? Aren't we having turkey? Geez, Laurie. I thought you were an overachiever.
So I go to the store, where as you can imagine no people were milling about looking haggard and miserable, and I get to the turkey section and HOLY CRAP was that overwhelming.
They had fresh turkeys that yelled at you and pinched your hind parts, frozen turkeys that had had botox, Butterball turkeys that ate a lot of In-and-Out Burger, store-brand turkeys that were probably cheap for the bargain shopper but that is not me and see above re statistics book and now you know everything that is wrong with me, and Martha Stewart turkeys for $40.
And listen here, Martha damn Stewart. I don't know what kind of entitled rich lady world you live in, but here on planet AMERICA we do not have any FORTY DOLLARS to spend on your stupid turkey--who lived unmoving in a cage somewhere like all the other turkeys--just because you've wrapped it in pretty blue-and-white plastic. You snooty WASP.
So I was overwhelmed. And yelling at Martha Stewart in my mind. When this nice lesbian women came up. And I know it is not nice to stereotype, but, folks, girlfriend was a lesbian. And if she wasn't, she needs to have a good talk with herself about why she prefers a buzz cut and walks like John Wayne.
She stands over next to me, looking at Martha damn Stewart's pretentious turkeys, and I'd like to state for the record SHE DID NOT GET ONE, EITHER, MARTHA, so if you were trying for the gay demographic, good luck, there.
"Do you find this overwhelming?" I asked Buzz LikeGirls.
"I find it expensive," she said. "Normally this breast (stop with the obvious joke, you guys. Geez.) is bloop de bloo dollars, and just because it's Thanksgiving they want bleee dee dee blee."
I was totally bored by the how-much-groceries-cost talk, and also amazed that people make turkeys when it isn't Thanksgiving.
"So, if you make turkey when it isn't Thanksgiving, you can probably tell me. Can I buy a fresh turkey today and it'll be okay on Thursday?"
Christopher Walken-Like-John-Wayne paused, like that was the weirdest question she had ever heard, and I love to read what she is saying about me in her blog. "Well, yes, ma'am. ('Ma'am.' We were the same age if we were a day.) See, here? 'Best by 11/27.' You're fine to eat this on Thanksgiving."
"Well, that's what I thought, but I didn't get why, if you could buy fresh, you'd buy frozen."
I still don't get that. Groceries. They confuse me.
Anyway, I thanked that woman for her help and as I was leaving said, "If I die from eating this turkey, Ima come back and haunt you."
And with total seriousness, she said, "Oh, please don't do that. I have so many people who're already haunting me."
Who wanted to throw her fresh Butterball on the floor and sit right in the refrigerated aisle and hear all about THAT? WHOOOO is haunting this poor woman? Why do people have to say interesting things right when you're leaving?
So, anyway. That was my turkey debacle. And now he is sitting in there waiting for me to reach inside and yank his guts out.
Don't forget to take a photo today and send it to me for my photo project. You have till Sunday to get it to me, and I did that because if you are at your mom's house, she may have no way to email a photo. I mean, that may or may not be the case at my own mother's house, and I was picturing the part where you all go around the table and say what you are thankful for, and you are bursting into tears because you couldn't participate in June's photo project and therefore are thankful for nothing.
At any rate, my email address is on--I think--the right side of this blog. And if it's not it's on the left side, genius. Be sure to tell me what time of day it was for you and where in the world geographically you are.
I am thankful for all of you, my little blog family. Have a happy Thanksgiving. Or Thursday. You international readers are so cranky.
I really like this song, because I'm 12, and also because Justin Timberlake calls me regularly and begs me to love him, and also because I am not at all a delusional freak. My name is Lola. I am a showgirl.
My point is, what irks me is the guy in the background of this song who keeps saying all the obvious stuff in his kind of falsetto voice. "Take it to the chorus!" "Take it to the bridge!" Was this just some friend of Justin Timberlake's who needed a job?
I have decided I want someone to stand around, and in a high, nervous voice command me to do really obvious stuff. "Breathe so you live!" "Make coffee now!" "Blooooog!"
Go ahead, be gone with it.
Perhaps nervous, high-pitched person could have helped me yesterday when I humiliated my own self in front of Vilhelm Oyster, and I realize I have now brought up my coworker Vilhelm two days in a row, which is not going to help his rather sizable ego but this sad tale needs mentioning.
I borrowed 50 cents from Vilhlem, because he is the kind of responsible person who always has cash on him and my wallet always has old receipts from Burger King and movie ticket stubs. Yesterday afternoon I went to his desk to return his 50 cents, feeling very adult that I had actually remembered to pay him back. I probably owe him about $79 in quarters by now.
I held my palm out flat, with the change on it. "They say you should hold your hand flat for horses and Vilhelm," I said, loving my own self, as usual. I'm bringing self-love back. Except apparently I really had been.
"What's going on, there?" asked Vilhelm, gesturing toward my nethers.
You guys. My pants were completely undone. I mean, they weren't just unzipped. The little snap thingie was unflapped, too. It was like, HELLO, WORLD! Say, what day is it? I don't know, let's gander at June. She has her chonies out with the days of the week on them.
Fortunately I had on a longish shirt, so Vilhelm was not seeing London and France, but that was the only thing that was saving me.
You can imagine how Vilhlem let this drop.
"Hey! Shouldn't I be paying YOU?" he guffawed, taking my change.
Awhile later, he dashed past my cubicle on his way to do some work. He had just passed me when he backed up. "Oh, is there still a show?"
Who adores himself? Who is going to let my humiliation drop, ever, in the next 70 years, do you think?
What I want to know is, HOW DID MY PANTS COME COMPLETELY UNDONE WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE? Did I have a blackout? Did I go into the bathroom and get so distracted I forgot the fasten-your-pants part? Am I bringing sexy back? Whiskey tango foxtrot.
I guess that is all I have to tell you, except that Tall Boy asked to see the pictures of Norma and Vern, and in case you just got here, I have three photo albums of this couple I don't know, and the albums date from the '40s and '50s, and supposedly someone is making a documentary about me and other odd people like me who have the hobby of collecting pictures of people we don't know.
Here is the trailer for said documentary. I look insane. Enjoy my bra strap! When I stand up my pants are undone. Anyway, you have to hand it to Tall Boy, who by the way pointed out about 80 things in those photos that I'd never noticed before, which is saying something because I've stared at those pictures 93949394 times.
Tall Boy kind of rocks.
Okay, I have to go get dressed, and you know, FASTEN MY PANTS. Hey, since this is the last day of the week that we are working, does it count as jeans day? What if I get there and no one else has on jeans? Crap. Maybe I will go with cords, which are pretty casual yet not jeans. I don't know why I'm even bothering to wear pants at this point, now that everyone has seen my ovaries.
Good gravy. I spent so much time reading my comments and actual email from people I know in real life that it's now 7:30 and I have to rush. Fortunately I do not have to listen to Rush, and sometimes the end of my marriage feels like a tiny blessing.
And by the way, for those of you who don't read the comments, and I wish everyone either did or didn't read them--100% either way, and I know as a bisexual woman I am one to talk about being 100% either way, but it is HARD to repeat myself. Math is hard--Marvin's birthday was the other day.
"Did you get any good presents?" I asked Marvin.
"I got myself a guitar." Marvin said.
"SIGHHHHHHHH."
"Why do you possibly care at this point if I got a guitar?"
You know, I don't know. Just the IDEA of it irked me. Does he NEED a new guitar? How could be possibly NEED another one? He has 97 of them, as you may recall from how I could never Swifffer under the bed. Now the undercarriage of my bed is as clear as a bell and how often have I Swiffered under there, do you think?
Okay, I was not going to drone on, because now it's SEVEN THIRTY-FOUR, so I wanted to get to some pertinent facts.
1. Let's not have a book club book until the whole Thanksgiving/Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever pagan thing happens in December/okay, this is as culturally and politically sensitive as I can get/New Year's thing is over, okay?
2. Remember a year or so ago when I did that cool project where you all took a picture of where you where on a particular day? You wanna do that again? Should we do it on Thanksgiving or is that too soon? If it's not too soon, send me a picture from Thanksgiving day (does not have to be at the dinner table) with the time of day, where GEOGRAPHICALLY you are (Denver, not "in my kitchen") (I got a lot of "in my kitchen" last time) (can you tell?) and email the photo to me. Try not to email a 394959304054030-foot-wide photo. And I realize photos come in feet quite a bit.
3. As soon as THANKSgiving, as they say it here, is over, we will start our good deeds project, and why does this blog get so busy at Christmas/pagan ritual time?
4. Yesterday at work I had a ton to do, which you'd never know from all the picking-up-of-women online I did (oh, just read my COMMENTS already), and after the first hour I was there I shouted across the room to my coworker Vilhelm Oyster. He answered, but the part where no one else chimed in with something snotty got my attention.
"Vilhelm? Are we the only ones here? Is is just us in this room?"
Vilhelm immediately burst into Just the Two of Us, and naturally so did I. I did the high parts. Which is what you always want.
God, what a horrific song. Anyway, we surmised it was indeed just the two of us, because no one told us to shut the Sam Hill up. I guess everyone is on Thanksgiving vacation, or they checked themselves into some kind of facility, having to work so closely with Vilhelm and me.
I'm sorry. Ima need you to play this whole song and jam out to that stupid steel drum and horn solo at the end. I want you to sway around your house with a brandy snifter. Yes, with brandy in it, at 7:50 in the morning.
You can make it if you try.
Okay, am leaving. Will totally be late for work at this point and Vilhelm will fire me.
