I forgot to tell you that last week, my boss's boss went on vacation, so naturally we all blew up 84895949 balloons and filled his office with them.
Mature. We all gave ourselves aneurysms blowing up that many balloons, and I truly felt I was going to faint dead away like someone wearing a corset, which let's face it, I should. Hey, Dumpy, have another football-shaped cookie in the break room.
The point is, my boss's boss, who is from Iowa or Kansas or Nebraska or somewhere else where it is flat and you don't get excitable, walked in Tuesday morning, opened the door, and said, "Golly!"
Then he murdered all the balloons. Is there anything more dejected-looking than dead balloons? Nothing says "The party's over" faster. I mean, other than the balcony breaking and everyone falling to their death. That also wraps up a party.
Maybe I'm hanging around Ned too much.
In unrelated news, my cats just had tuna for breakfast, because organized. I am also completely out of toilet paper and have one of those small packets of Kleenex on the bathroom sink, for all my toilette needs. Did I mention because organized? At least I finally bought hair gel. FOUR DAYS I went forgetting to buy more of that, till finally the police came and said the neighbors were complaining,
Hey, I'm moving. My "because organized" is even worse than before.
Ned brought over even MORE stuff last night, in the rain, and now my house has end tables, chairs, Ned's round bachelor bed, his ceiling mirror and pink champagne on ice.
If Ned had had a round bed, how quickly would I have dumped him and stampeded here to tell you all about it, do you think? Like, eight seconds after seeing the round bed, is that about how quickly you think Ida gotten over here to tell that roundabout tale?
I have made myself go up to the attic every night to organize it, and now it is mostly filled with Xmas decorations, which I am keeping, and empty boxes, which yay. The point is, last night I got down these:
When Ned got here, I pointed these out. "Here are all the journals I have kept since 5th grade, and there are two more on my bookshelf right now. When I die, you may read all of these, and then you are to burn them. Okay?"
"But what if you're famous? Won't these garner me a lot of money?" Ned asked. I told him that if it makes him rich, he can indeed publish these and humiliate my corpse for all eternity. Then I told him to select a journal and hand it to me, and I read one page from a night fraught with agony in 1987, and we made fun of me just like we made fun of Kafka the night before.
I also found a birthday card some girl wrote to Marvin, in which she was all, "May all your birthday wishes come true! : )!" and then I SWEAR TO GOD on the other side was a note dumping him. "I've had a great time being with you, but I can only offer you my friendship at this time."
Okay, friend, thanks for not being able to get a SEPARATE PIECE OF PAPER and having to dump me on my birthday card. Wow! Naturally I phoned Marvin, read it to him, and made fun of him, which put him in the me and Kafka category.
I have been finding cute and hilarious letters from Marvin's old students, and some test papers, like this:
I also located a Victorian wedding book, which although it is not signed, most certainly came from my mother while I was engaged, and it had some pretty stringent rules about when to get married.
Laura Ingalls Wilder married in August, and she went from a small-town pioneer girl in South Dakota to a famous author during her marriage, so again, "so."
There was also a whole diatribe about what color to get married in, and I have saved myself THIS long, and when the big day gets here I am so wearing white.
Okay, I have to go. Remind me to tell you all the songs I found written by my landlord in LA, Mr. Kaiser. He wrote one called Vibrator Rock, and I wish I were kidding but I am not. It failed to penetrate the masses, that song did. There was very little buzz about it.
Someone hit my off switch.