Today is my department's annual ugly sweater and breakfast, and I am cooking sausage biscuits. And by "cooking sausage biscuits," I mean I'm throwing some frozen sausage biscuits in the oven in 10 minutes. I had originally signed up to bring "attitude and fruit," but once I got to the store last night, the fruit looked depressed. The fruit needs Cymbalta.
At least I'm still bringing the attitude.
One guy signed up to bring Texas Pete. Like, he's bringing a bottle of Texas Pete. Maybe 24-year-old boys should not be allowed to participate in the work Christmas potluck. Then again, maybe 50-year-olds should do more than throw frozen sandwiches in the oven for 10 minutes. Hey, I have to wrap EACH ONE in foil. Exhausting.
As for what Ima wear, two years ago this very lovely woman at work loaned me her nice Christmas mock turtleneck and sweater vest. She loaned a similar one to The Other Copy Editor, who doesn't even work there anymore, so we would be a matching set. I am assuming The Other Copy Editor returned that nice outfit forthwith. What I did was keep that ensemble in a drawer till October of the following year, when I moved it to the house I lived in with Ned. Then I moved it BACK here to this house, and then I had the nerve to ask her if I could wear it this year and return it after.
I'd have punched me right in the cock.
That's TOCE and me, up there above, with our proofreader gang sign we made up. It's a caret. Proofreader humor is the best kind of humor.
Oh my god, anyway.
Other than that, I've been reading my statistics textbook at night, and I know you envy my pre-holiday excitement. I also keep meaning to do a whole photo montage on Facebook, with "Christmas 2015" as the title, and then just room after room of my completely not decorated house. Fuck it. I'm not in the MOOD to decorate. I think we should all be lucky I don't impale myself with a wise man.
There. I just put it back on. This means I'm not wearing a dress today, but maybe I'll come home at lunch and change so I am still Dresscembering. Jesus, with my many activities. It's never-ending. Dresses, statistics, ugly sweater parties, impaling self with myrrh. Hey, you wanna drive yourself berserk? Try spelling myrrh. One year I should insist my family get me nothin' but myrrh.
...I just cut my goddamn finger on the tin foil serrated edge thing. Goddammit. Fortunately I was able to put a little myrrh on it. Good as new. If you liked it then you shoulda put some myrrh on it.
Now I just gotta wait for my biscuits to cook, and how often do you hear me say THAT? You must be sick of it already. I finally got my baking sheets back from Ned's house; I'd left three of them there, plus a muffin tin, because you know how famous I am for my muffins. So to speak.
I hope somebody else makes something actually good. Did I already tell you this, that Bitchy Resting Face Alex said when she attends a potluck, her goal is to make the thing that everyone goes, "Wow! Who made THAT?" I'm like, really? That never occurred to me to think, ever.
...Okay, they're ready. Edsel let me know, by getting up on his stupid hind legs, that if I wanted help ingesting these, he's here for me. I gotta drive to work with sausage biscuits.
It's the most stupidest time of the year.
