All if ever does is rain here. I mean, Christmas day was sunny, but that was like 49 days ago, right? I don't even know what day it is, other than we're at that weird purgatory between Christmas and Dick Clark.
What do you mean?
The point is, it feels like it's rained for 140 days and 19 nights, and my hair is not pleased. Or rather it is pleased; it's puffed up and bloated like Templeton at the fair. Last night, I stood up to roll my yoga mat after a particularly ardent session with Tracy Chapass (as Dancer called her in the comments the other night and am totally stealing that line), and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I mean, was I preheating the oven to place Hansel and Gretel in there? Was I getting ready to hang weird configurations of sticks about the forest? What I'm saying to you is, my hair said, "I'll get you, my pretty." And by "my pretty," it certainly didn't mean me.
By the time Ned came home, I'd showered, slathered 14 pounds of conditioner on my hair, and had it in two pigtails for sleeping in. "Hey, Pippy," said Ned, unfazed by Whatever She's Doing Now.
So here it is this morning, and I know I look rather like one of those old paintings of the Virgin Mary or maybe Jesus of Nazareth, yeah, Jesus of Nazareth, and I hope this gives me the ability to turn our water cooler into a big tank of wine, because someone's workday just got way interestinger.
Do you like that nail polish? It looks black in this light, but really it's dark gray. When I came home with it and screamed my fingers out in front of Ned for that hour's Whatever She's Doing Now, Ned said, "Midnight Caller?"
Pfft. Midnight Caller. Who does Ned think he is, being so off on my latest color? I recently had Midnight Caller on, which I think is a polite way of saying bootie call. Anyway, here's that shade.
Here's what I have on currently:
Really, you have to hand it to him for knowing my nail names. Ned is good at assimilating.
I have to go, as it is 8:27 and I am in my robe, which is a good sign re my 8:30 arrival at work. Before I go, I wanted to ask you what your dog would drink. Since they moved my desk, I now sit next to the nicest guy, who Ima call Zechariah, and that's not gonna get old at all, me having to Google Books of the Bible and look up how the hell to spell Zechariah each time.
The point is, he has three dogs, and in case you didn't know, I have two. We discussed what our dogs would order should they belly up to the bar. Haunch up to the bar.
"Well, one of my dogs appears to be gay, and that's okay," said Zechariah tolerantly. "So, mojito."
"OH MY GOD EDSEL WOULD SO ORDER A MOJITO!" I said a trifle enthusiastically. Then I may have done my Edsell impression, with the bottom teeth and the Edsel voice, which may or may not sound vaguely not so bright. "yes. moheeto if you pleese thank you."
Tallulah would get whiskey, neat. And none of that pretentious single-malt anything. She'd be fine with a well drink.