You know your day might be off to a bad start when you are having an AMAZING dream about a beautiful cake, which you are just about to sit down and eat, when The Funasaurus abruplty halts your reverie by shaking you awake all, “C'mon, baby! We've got to go for a run before it gets too light out!”
At that moment, I could see how some people consider divorce as an option.
I then proceeded to start whining, like the mature adult that I am, about how I was hun-gry for ca-ake, and how I really want just some ca-ake.
And The Funasaurus was all, “Dude, it's oh-butt-crack thirty A.M. I'm not really sure what you want me to do about it.”
Meanwhile, work has kept me very busy, which has been a huge impediment to my social calendar. I've also added a sixth bridesmaid to my damn wedding party (long story) so I'll basically have a mini-sorority standing up there with me on my special day. Despite the mounds of work piling up, I decided to go get the material for her dress at lunch time, yesterday. And since I was headed out that way, anyway, I decided to stop by the pet food store where we get our fancy pants hippie cat food.
Sadly, not only was the pet food store closed on Mondays, but so was the fabric store! So I wasted a perfectly good forty minutes that I should have spent working, driving around wasting gasoline in the blazing heat. I contemplated buying a Hummer on my way home, so that I could at least say I accomplished something on my otherwise completely useless and exhaust-creating trip.
Then we got to finish off the night by going to another pre-marital counseling where we were told a sexual relationship can be a tricky thing to navigate (no kidding, I mean, esp. when tied up...) and that our spiritual lives would be more fulfilled if we found Jesus. (The one on my key chain doesn't count?)
I am probably not earning extra bonus heaven points by writing this post, eh?
So now it's back to work, because I have a crap-ton to do before they send me to Orlando at the end of the week, because I work for the company that thought it would be a GOOD idea to have a convention in Orlando in August and NOT get anyone a pass to Disney World.
WTF, company?
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
Part of Your World
The Little Mermaid was awesome. Whether you love Disney, or hate Disney, or question Disney, or have been scarred by Disney-related things, you can't not love the song Under the Sea. I'm sorry, but if you don't like the hot crustacean band, then you are just lame.
And Broadway did not disappoint. The lead female who played Ariel is a Denver native (shout out to my D-town peeps, yo) which is why the show opened here, before it goes back to New York. And she was a dead-on for the Disney character, even her facial features fit the part, not to mention her strong yet ethereal voice. The costuming and sets were unbelievable. How many live theater performances have you been to where an entire ship, complete with half-shirtless crew, raises and lowers from the ceiling? The vocals were all stunning. Ursula seemed a little constrained by her enormous costumes, but whatever, the costumes were awesome. The ending was a little abrupt, but they switched it up, slightly, which was nice because the first 9/10 of the production were straight from the movie.
If you live in Colorado, you must go.
If you don't live in Colorado, that sucks.
And after that brief review, I must get back to work. This responsibility stuff is crap.
And Broadway did not disappoint. The lead female who played Ariel is a Denver native (shout out to my D-town peeps, yo) which is why the show opened here, before it goes back to New York. And she was a dead-on for the Disney character, even her facial features fit the part, not to mention her strong yet ethereal voice. The costuming and sets were unbelievable. How many live theater performances have you been to where an entire ship, complete with half-shirtless crew, raises and lowers from the ceiling? The vocals were all stunning. Ursula seemed a little constrained by her enormous costumes, but whatever, the costumes were awesome. The ending was a little abrupt, but they switched it up, slightly, which was nice because the first 9/10 of the production were straight from the movie.
If you live in Colorado, you must go.
If you don't live in Colorado, that sucks.
And after that brief review, I must get back to work. This responsibility stuff is crap.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Tatum's Kingdome Would Be Overrun with Mice
Tatum has a faux mouse that The Funasaurus and I lovingly refer to as Big Red. It came as part of a Christmas present, I think, and while it kind of looks like the other mice toys, it's made out of some sort of polyester blend, and not the real-feeling fur. Because of this, or perhaps because it's slightly bigger and more inconvenient to carry, I don't know, Tatum does not like this mouse. He plays with it as a last resort. Unfortunately for him, because he plays with it less, it gets less lost, as in, less far under the couch/stove/fridge and is thus easier to retrieve and thus we find it for him all the time and give it to him as his daily mouse allotment which is SO not what Tatum would like.
He would really like a new mouse every day. But we can't afford to feed his addiction, so he often gets the same mouse that he lost after about six minutes of playing, yesterday. And often, unfortunately, that mouse is Big Red.
Today was one of those days, and he turned up his snotty little nose at Big Red until The Funasaurus left for work, at which point he started wailing this pitiful, “MEW! My life is so unfair! SOB!” routine, until he realized that I was lying on the bed trying to get five extra minutes of sleep and ignoring him, and so he fetched Big Red, and dropped it on my head because if he was going to be miserable, then sohelphim, so was I. So we played a few rounds of disgruntled fetch, and then I had to get to work. (As I am now working from home, occasionally, thanks to a fabulous meeting with my boss yesterday where I was also actively Not Fired, which is also great. But I digress...)
Of course, working from home has its advantages and drawbacks. Advantage: windows. Drawback: distractions. Like, say, a pantry full of dried out strawberry cereal goodness. So after a good 15 minutes of work, I went downstairs for a bowl of cereal. I opened the pantry door, and Tatum, in his seven pounds of crazed fury, just about took me out because there was a MOUSE! in the pantry. (A faux mouse, that had apparently been batted under the closed door, perhaps yesterday.)
Suddenly, Tatum's world was looking up. He had the mouse he wanted. Big Red was lost for another day. Fetch could continue for another six glorious minutes until this one disappeared under the stove.
My day was looking up as well. I had a bowl of freeze dried strawberry goodness, and fresh milk delivered this morning. I don't have to shower until tonight, when I go to see The Little Mermaid with my dashing fiance.
Life could be worse. Just ask Tatum.
He would really like a new mouse every day. But we can't afford to feed his addiction, so he often gets the same mouse that he lost after about six minutes of playing, yesterday. And often, unfortunately, that mouse is Big Red.
Today was one of those days, and he turned up his snotty little nose at Big Red until The Funasaurus left for work, at which point he started wailing this pitiful, “MEW! My life is so unfair! SOB!” routine, until he realized that I was lying on the bed trying to get five extra minutes of sleep and ignoring him, and so he fetched Big Red, and dropped it on my head because if he was going to be miserable, then sohelphim, so was I. So we played a few rounds of disgruntled fetch, and then I had to get to work. (As I am now working from home, occasionally, thanks to a fabulous meeting with my boss yesterday where I was also actively Not Fired, which is also great. But I digress...)
Of course, working from home has its advantages and drawbacks. Advantage: windows. Drawback: distractions. Like, say, a pantry full of dried out strawberry cereal goodness. So after a good 15 minutes of work, I went downstairs for a bowl of cereal. I opened the pantry door, and Tatum, in his seven pounds of crazed fury, just about took me out because there was a MOUSE! in the pantry. (A faux mouse, that had apparently been batted under the closed door, perhaps yesterday.)
Suddenly, Tatum's world was looking up. He had the mouse he wanted. Big Red was lost for another day. Fetch could continue for another six glorious minutes until this one disappeared under the stove.
My day was looking up as well. I had a bowl of freeze dried strawberry goodness, and fresh milk delivered this morning. I don't have to shower until tonight, when I go to see The Little Mermaid with my dashing fiance.
Life could be worse. Just ask Tatum.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Damn Outdoors Is Full of Bugs
Wherein I make one Harry Potter reference, but seeing as how I haven't read the book, yet, you're probably safe.
On Sunday I drove back up to my mountains (I feel as though I practically own them; they're part of the kingdom-to-be) just outside of Breckenridge, and I went on a gorgeous hike. The wildflowers were in full bloom, and they were everywhere. I inhaled the fresh thin mountain air, thinking gleefully of everyone back down in Denver suffering through 97 degrees, applied some delicious smelling sunscreen, and trekked my way up to a pristine mountain lake surrounded by columbines... which also happened to be the breeding ground for Voldemort's army of mosquitoes, who agreed with me that my sunscreen smelled fabulous, dah-ling.
So now I am back home, covered in the most enormous bug bites I have ever seen, and investing all my stock in the Cortizone company, hoping to get some of my money back. But at least I got some pictures.
Note my friend's beautiful child in a little yellow sundress 'midst the wildflowers. I took the picture quickly, before a Julie Andrews dressed as a rebellious nun came yodelling through to swoop the child up.
Up at the lake where we finally shared our peanut butter lunch with swarms of bloodthirsty flies. It only looks innocent and picturesque from a photograph.
On Sunday I drove back up to my mountains (I feel as though I practically own them; they're part of the kingdom-to-be) just outside of Breckenridge, and I went on a gorgeous hike. The wildflowers were in full bloom, and they were everywhere. I inhaled the fresh thin mountain air, thinking gleefully of everyone back down in Denver suffering through 97 degrees, applied some delicious smelling sunscreen, and trekked my way up to a pristine mountain lake surrounded by columbines... which also happened to be the breeding ground for Voldemort's army of mosquitoes, who agreed with me that my sunscreen smelled fabulous, dah-ling.
So now I am back home, covered in the most enormous bug bites I have ever seen, and investing all my stock in the Cortizone company, hoping to get some of my money back. But at least I got some pictures.
Note my friend's beautiful child in a little yellow sundress 'midst the wildflowers. I took the picture quickly, before a Julie Andrews dressed as a rebellious nun came yodelling through to swoop the child up.
Up at the lake where we finally shared our peanut butter lunch with swarms of bloodthirsty flies. It only looks innocent and picturesque from a photograph.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Friday Ditty
Brought to you by your friendly neighborhood Funasaurus, promptly after Tatum (who goes by the nickname Monkey) bit him, and then proceeded to trip over a shoe box which was twice as big as he was.
(Sung to the tune of Spiderman)
Monkey Bean,
Monkey Bean
Tatum ate one,
Now he's mean.
He has started
To grow thumbs
But he is still
So ver-y dumb.
(Sung to the tune of Spiderman)
Monkey Bean,
Monkey Bean
Tatum ate one,
Now he's mean.
He has started
To grow thumbs
But he is still
So ver-y dumb.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Famous Fuzzball
Y’all. pssst! Oh my god. The powers that be over at True Confessions… wrote me a personal e-mail! From their handheld wireless Blackberry, nonetheless, if the automatic signature is to be believed.
Remember my little temper tantrum from the other day? They are personally sorry that my confession didn’t get posted, and they thought it was a good confession, and they hope I will be back to post more…!
Say no more, True Confession Owner Person! I’m already on it. Oh, and P.S. and by the way? I really wish I had come up with that brilliant idea, first. What a mind-suckingly entertaining website.
Meanwhile, it is raining, today, which is great for our grass, but not so great for the fuzzball on top of my head that claims to be “hair.” I just walked into the bathroom, and realized I am sporting a giant globe of frizz upon my shoulders today, nocholantly pinned back (?) from my forehead with some uneven clip thing-ies. Of course, I did not realize that I was impersonating a tumbleweed on acid until after I met with the Very Important Vendor this morning, so ah. You know. I’m not sure how seriously she took me and my electrocuted rat’s nest. We’ll see if she calls back.
Remember my little temper tantrum from the other day? They are personally sorry that my confession didn’t get posted, and they thought it was a good confession, and they hope I will be back to post more…!
Say no more, True Confession Owner Person! I’m already on it. Oh, and P.S. and by the way? I really wish I had come up with that brilliant idea, first. What a mind-suckingly entertaining website.
Meanwhile, it is raining, today, which is great for our grass, but not so great for the fuzzball on top of my head that claims to be “hair.” I just walked into the bathroom, and realized I am sporting a giant globe of frizz upon my shoulders today, nocholantly pinned back (?) from my forehead with some uneven clip thing-ies. Of course, I did not realize that I was impersonating a tumbleweed on acid until after I met with the Very Important Vendor this morning, so ah. You know. I’m not sure how seriously she took me and my electrocuted rat’s nest. We’ll see if she calls back.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Pity Party Princess
Yesterday I worked from home, which was lovely and indulgent... and also not as efficient as I remember it being. Yes, I got some work done. But I also took a nap, surfed on the Internet, and caught up on some phone calls. I figured it wasn't a big deal, as long as I was monitoring my e-mail, I could easily just keep working into the evening, and get a full day's work in, just spread out a little.
But then at 4:30PM The Funasaurus called me. His firm was taking their summer associates to a night at the local amusement park, and someone had to back out, so he scored a free ticket and wanted me to join them. Warm summer nights, thrilling rides, fried food topped off with ice cream? How could I say no? So I dropped everything, changed my pants (pajama pants don't fly, even at the amusement park) threw on some make-up, grabbed a small purse to transfer the contents of my normal purse/duffle bag into, and headed out the door. Where I paused.
And pausing, children, is a dangerous thing.
Pausing allows GUILT to creep in. My work was not done, upstairs. There were thank-you notes to be written, dishes to be washed, and suitcases still to be unpacked. There were needy cats weaving figure eights around my ankles as I pondered all this, and then I realized I had to go through all the mail, too.
FUNNEL CAKES! screamed a little voice inside of me.
UNEMPLOYMENT! screamed another little voice.
Ignoring my newfound schizophrenia, I began to panic. And panic is not really fun-inducing. So I called The Funsaurus from the doorstep, looking fondly at my little car who thought it would get to watch the roller coasters, and told him I couldn't make it.
Then I trudged back upstairs, and did a little work, updated my MySpace page, and sadly went to bed.
Just call me Eeyore. I believe I have lost my ability to have fun.
But then at 4:30PM The Funasaurus called me. His firm was taking their summer associates to a night at the local amusement park, and someone had to back out, so he scored a free ticket and wanted me to join them. Warm summer nights, thrilling rides, fried food topped off with ice cream? How could I say no? So I dropped everything, changed my pants (pajama pants don't fly, even at the amusement park) threw on some make-up, grabbed a small purse to transfer the contents of my normal purse/duffle bag into, and headed out the door. Where I paused.
And pausing, children, is a dangerous thing.
Pausing allows GUILT to creep in. My work was not done, upstairs. There were thank-you notes to be written, dishes to be washed, and suitcases still to be unpacked. There were needy cats weaving figure eights around my ankles as I pondered all this, and then I realized I had to go through all the mail, too.
FUNNEL CAKES! screamed a little voice inside of me.
UNEMPLOYMENT! screamed another little voice.
Ignoring my newfound schizophrenia, I began to panic. And panic is not really fun-inducing. So I called The Funsaurus from the doorstep, looking fondly at my little car who thought it would get to watch the roller coasters, and told him I couldn't make it.
Then I trudged back upstairs, and did a little work, updated my MySpace page, and sadly went to bed.
Just call me Eeyore. I believe I have lost my ability to have fun.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Royal Distraction
I have been MIA for the past couple of days because I took a quick trip to Delaware. (And so help me, if the first thing you associate with Delaware is Wayne's World's, “Hi. I'm in.. Delaware, hyuck hyuck” then I disown you as a cyber friend. Or any other kind of friend, for that matter.)
We went back for a little bridal shower so that some of the relatives (several of whom I don't think are going to make it to Colorado for the actual wedding) could get together and talk about Very Girly Things. I got to hang out with my Grandmom, who at 95 is still able to keep up with the Grand Marnier digestif (post-several bottles of wine) after dinner along with the rest of us alcoholics that make up our family, but is now wheelchair bound and very frustrated about the whole thing. (Though Grand Marnier helps.)
Something you may or may not know about me is the fact that I am terrified of flying. I have been flying my whole life, and when I was a kid, I even used to look forward to it. Mostly for the magnetic wings pin and peanuts, but I was down with the whole being-in-a-pressurized-tube-zooming-through-the-air-thing, too. Then suddenly, somewhere around age 14, I had the ultimate meltdown, and started having raging panic attacks on planes. This did not prevent me from traveling several times a year, it merely introduced me to fun, hard-core anti-anxiety medication. Trust me, Chicago O'Hare is AWESOME when you are high, with that whole flicker-y neon lights and New Age music thing they've got going on at the bottom of the escalators.
Back to this trip. Over the years, I have weaned myself off of the drugs, for as fun as they were while flying, they were a nuisance once I was on the ground because I wanted to enjoy my trip, not drool my way to the nearest bed to sleep through the entire first day. But unfortunately, as we were coming home yesterday, we hit some major air current-thing-ies. It was... terrifying. But! I think I have found a cure for my phobia! Unfortunately, it's not as fun for The Funasaurus, but it certainly helped my anxiety. I went to go grab The Funasaurus' arm as we hit yet another mountain of rattling wind, and as I turned to clutch his arms I noticed his eyes were closed and his normally lovely, tan face was an odd shade of... green.
Well, you don't just see a green Funasaurus every day! I was immediately distracted. “You o.k., baby?”
“Murmph. Seasick.” And then his coloring shifted from seafoam to seaweed.
Suddenly, I was a girl on a mission. A mission to find a barf bag. I ignored the severe turbulence as I helped myself to the pocket of the guy sitting in the aisle seat, and then glazed over a jolt of wind as I poked my brother (who was conveniently on the same flight, sitting in the seat in front of me) “Any barf bags up there?”
“No. But apparently planes are not taking off from DIA, because of the severe wind. But our captain is going to try and land, anyway,” he replied, plugged in to the control tower communication in his armrest.
Super. Thanks for that.
But I was back to searching through my own bags for something suitable for the now cringing Funasaurus to expel his half-digested, overpriced snack box contents into, because so help me there would be no barfing on my new Nambe serving platter that I was hand-carrying back to Colorado from the shower on MY watch!
I didn't find much, other than an in-flight magazine to cover aforementioned serving platter, but fortunately the landing happened soon after, and The Funasaurus was able to keep his shit together and slowly began regaining normal flesh tones. And I really was able to focus on something else (pretty new gifts for our house and an ill fiance) without freaking out about landing in a wind storm.
Now we are home again, to the evil kitties and the work that never ends. Next stop, Orlando.
We went back for a little bridal shower so that some of the relatives (several of whom I don't think are going to make it to Colorado for the actual wedding) could get together and talk about Very Girly Things. I got to hang out with my Grandmom, who at 95 is still able to keep up with the Grand Marnier digestif (post-several bottles of wine) after dinner along with the rest of us alcoholics that make up our family, but is now wheelchair bound and very frustrated about the whole thing. (Though Grand Marnier helps.)
Something you may or may not know about me is the fact that I am terrified of flying. I have been flying my whole life, and when I was a kid, I even used to look forward to it. Mostly for the magnetic wings pin and peanuts, but I was down with the whole being-in-a-pressurized-tube-zooming-through-the-air-thing, too. Then suddenly, somewhere around age 14, I had the ultimate meltdown, and started having raging panic attacks on planes. This did not prevent me from traveling several times a year, it merely introduced me to fun, hard-core anti-anxiety medication. Trust me, Chicago O'Hare is AWESOME when you are high, with that whole flicker-y neon lights and New Age music thing they've got going on at the bottom of the escalators.
Back to this trip. Over the years, I have weaned myself off of the drugs, for as fun as they were while flying, they were a nuisance once I was on the ground because I wanted to enjoy my trip, not drool my way to the nearest bed to sleep through the entire first day. But unfortunately, as we were coming home yesterday, we hit some major air current-thing-ies. It was... terrifying. But! I think I have found a cure for my phobia! Unfortunately, it's not as fun for The Funasaurus, but it certainly helped my anxiety. I went to go grab The Funasaurus' arm as we hit yet another mountain of rattling wind, and as I turned to clutch his arms I noticed his eyes were closed and his normally lovely, tan face was an odd shade of... green.
Well, you don't just see a green Funasaurus every day! I was immediately distracted. “You o.k., baby?”
“Murmph. Seasick.” And then his coloring shifted from seafoam to seaweed.
Suddenly, I was a girl on a mission. A mission to find a barf bag. I ignored the severe turbulence as I helped myself to the pocket of the guy sitting in the aisle seat, and then glazed over a jolt of wind as I poked my brother (who was conveniently on the same flight, sitting in the seat in front of me) “Any barf bags up there?”
“No. But apparently planes are not taking off from DIA, because of the severe wind. But our captain is going to try and land, anyway,” he replied, plugged in to the control tower communication in his armrest.
Super. Thanks for that.
But I was back to searching through my own bags for something suitable for the now cringing Funasaurus to expel his half-digested, overpriced snack box contents into, because so help me there would be no barfing on my new Nambe serving platter that I was hand-carrying back to Colorado from the shower on MY watch!
I didn't find much, other than an in-flight magazine to cover aforementioned serving platter, but fortunately the landing happened soon after, and The Funasaurus was able to keep his shit together and slowly began regaining normal flesh tones. And I really was able to focus on something else (pretty new gifts for our house and an ill fiance) without freaking out about landing in a wind storm.
Now we are home again, to the evil kitties and the work that never ends. Next stop, Orlando.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
True Princess Confessions
So I found this website, True Bride Confessions, a couple of weeks ago. It’s fairly entertaining. Somewhat similar to PostSecret, but without the effort of artwork or postage. At first, it made me sad, because so many people seem to be unhappy at this stage, which is tragic, because I am having a blast planning my wedding. I like my mom. I like The Funasaurus’ mom (almost running her off the road was totally an ACCIDENT, I swear, but that’s another post for another day), I like my dress, and most surprisingly, I like my fiancé. After a while, I started feeling guilty for enjoying myself so thoroughly through what obviously should be a terribly difficult and trying time, and I tried to stop looking at the site. But it taunted me. Taunted me with its regular updates and intriguing bitchiness. So I went back.
And then I discovered the sister sites, True Mom Confessions, True Dad Confessions, and True Office Confessions. Whoo-boy, that is a whole lotta time killer for you right there! The mom and dad stuff I don’t check as regularly, because, eh. I don’t really relate. And they can get pretty whine-y. But the office ones are funny. While at first I scorned the losers who would post anonymous confessions about their tedious lives on these sites, my own dirty little secrets began brewing in my head.
It took a while, but two nights ago, I let the demon out and submitted my own confession. I got the generic reply, about it being received and reviewed before posting. I felt strangely relieved. I kept hitting the “refresh” button, to see if it had posted, yet, but alas, they took their time in updating that night.
Yesterday when I came in, I checked the site eagerly to see how many “me toos!” had been posted. How many people share my juicy little secret?
Turns out, I will never know. Because apparently, my confession was not good enough for True Office Confessions; it had not been posted. Maybe I am not scandalous enough. I was horrified. I thought it was a good confession. But apparently it did not make the “I want to bend my secretary over and boink her brains out” cut.
So fuck ‘em. I thought about it, and I have decided… to post my confession here. Because I can. Because I think it is good enough. So here goes.
...
“I practice my ballet leaps in the office hallway after everyone else is gone.”
EEEEEEEEEEEK!
Oh no she did-unt! Girl, you so crazy! Yes, yes I am. And yes, I do. I am not god at ballet, but that does not stop me from attempting to execute the most ungraceful of jettés all the way down the hall to the candy dish at the receptionist’s desk! Ha-ha! When halls are that long, I find it entirely wasteful not to take advantage of the leaping room. So I occasionally get a little skippy start, and leap, appendages flailing everywhere, and soar (?) across a small stretch of carpet. It’s rather fun. I highly suggest it for any of you who work in an office with a good hallway.
And screw you, True Office Confessions, for not thinking my entry was good enough. I still posted it (albeit less anonymously) on the World Wide Web, anyway.
Plbthbthbthbthbthbth
And then I discovered the sister sites, True Mom Confessions, True Dad Confessions, and True Office Confessions. Whoo-boy, that is a whole lotta time killer for you right there! The mom and dad stuff I don’t check as regularly, because, eh. I don’t really relate. And they can get pretty whine-y. But the office ones are funny. While at first I scorned the losers who would post anonymous confessions about their tedious lives on these sites, my own dirty little secrets began brewing in my head.
It took a while, but two nights ago, I let the demon out and submitted my own confession. I got the generic reply, about it being received and reviewed before posting. I felt strangely relieved. I kept hitting the “refresh” button, to see if it had posted, yet, but alas, they took their time in updating that night.
Yesterday when I came in, I checked the site eagerly to see how many “me toos!” had been posted. How many people share my juicy little secret?
Turns out, I will never know. Because apparently, my confession was not good enough for True Office Confessions; it had not been posted. Maybe I am not scandalous enough. I was horrified. I thought it was a good confession. But apparently it did not make the “I want to bend my secretary over and boink her brains out” cut.
So fuck ‘em. I thought about it, and I have decided… to post my confession here. Because I can. Because I think it is good enough. So here goes.
...
“I practice my ballet leaps in the office hallway after everyone else is gone.”
EEEEEEEEEEEK!
Oh no she did-unt! Girl, you so crazy! Yes, yes I am. And yes, I do. I am not god at ballet, but that does not stop me from attempting to execute the most ungraceful of jettés all the way down the hall to the candy dish at the receptionist’s desk! Ha-ha! When halls are that long, I find it entirely wasteful not to take advantage of the leaping room. So I occasionally get a little skippy start, and leap, appendages flailing everywhere, and soar (?) across a small stretch of carpet. It’s rather fun. I highly suggest it for any of you who work in an office with a good hallway.
And screw you, True Office Confessions, for not thinking my entry was good enough. I still posted it (albeit less anonymously) on the World Wide Web, anyway.
Plbthbthbthbthbthbth
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Can You Tell I'm Running Low on Material?
I went to dreammoods.com, one of my all-time favorite websites, to try and figure out what my dream was about, the other night. Unfortunately, when I went to the animals section, “llama” was blatantly missing. So no hope of finding the meaning of miniature llama/catlike llama, anywhere. Now, I might have forgiven them, llamas not being a particularly common animal, but they had a definition for jackdaw and orca! I don’t even know what a jackdaw IS!
Fuckers.
On a totally unrelated note, I have hit another milestone in the tri-weekly torture that is my jogging routine. I passed my first NON-STATIONARY people, today! Of course, it was an extremely fit gay couple who were strolling along, and as soon as they decided to start jogging themselves a couple of minutes later, they quickly lapped me like was standing still, but still… for a brief moment, I felt the power of “ *heave* On your left!”
I rewarded myself with mocha on the way in to work this morning. I like to moderate my healthfulness.
Oh! And speaking of work, for those of you who were interested in what happened with DaG on her date (echo…echo… echo…) I bit the bullet yesterday and asked her how it went.
“Oh, we didn’t really have chemistry. He didn’t have much to say.”
!
!!
Is it perhaps because you talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk and then pause to sniffle and wipe your tired eyes and then talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk some more without letting anyone get a word in edgewise? Maybe? Maybe?
Then she continued on for about ten minutes, telling me about a picnic in the park with a friend who’s a friend but not a friend and she brought some olives that were leftover from her birthday party, and oh, there were only about nine left, but whatever, he didn’t seem to mind, oh and she brought some crackers, too, and since there was wine they didn’t mind and the music was o.k. but not great and the really likes saxophone players well some of them but she didn’t get to meet the musician this time because she was talking (no shit) to this guy and they kind of had chemistry but she’s not sure and did she tell me she just (9 months ago) got out of a relationship and so she’s just taking things slow and not so sure that she’s ready to start up something again so soon and….
Then I poked my eyeballs out with a nearby paperclip.
Summary: apparently, her date was ho-hum. Aren't you so glad you asked?
Fuckers.
On a totally unrelated note, I have hit another milestone in the tri-weekly torture that is my jogging routine. I passed my first NON-STATIONARY people, today! Of course, it was an extremely fit gay couple who were strolling along, and as soon as they decided to start jogging themselves a couple of minutes later, they quickly lapped me like was standing still, but still… for a brief moment, I felt the power of “ *heave* On your left!”
I rewarded myself with mocha on the way in to work this morning. I like to moderate my healthfulness.
Oh! And speaking of work, for those of you who were interested in what happened with DaG on her date (echo…echo… echo…) I bit the bullet yesterday and asked her how it went.
“Oh, we didn’t really have chemistry. He didn’t have much to say.”
!
!!
Is it perhaps because you talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk and then pause to sniffle and wipe your tired eyes and then talktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalktalk some more without letting anyone get a word in edgewise? Maybe? Maybe?
Then she continued on for about ten minutes, telling me about a picnic in the park with a friend who’s a friend but not a friend and she brought some olives that were leftover from her birthday party, and oh, there were only about nine left, but whatever, he didn’t seem to mind, oh and she brought some crackers, too, and since there was wine they didn’t mind and the music was o.k. but not great and the really likes saxophone players well some of them but she didn’t get to meet the musician this time because she was talking (no shit) to this guy and they kind of had chemistry but she’s not sure and did she tell me she just (9 months ago) got out of a relationship and so she’s just taking things slow and not so sure that she’s ready to start up something again so soon and….
Then I poked my eyeballs out with a nearby paperclip.
Summary: apparently, her date was ho-hum. Aren't you so glad you asked?
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Dreaming of Sleeping In
So last night I had a dream (Hey, get back here! I promise this isn’t going to be one of those blogs) that I was sitting in the yard in the house where I grew up, and I came across this animal that was kind of a humanoid cat with occasional llama tendencies, depending on the moment in my dream, and it turned out to be this cuddly little harmless creature, but the FBI (or some big hateful government agency with agents who looked oddly like the guys from the Matrix) wanted it exterminated for some reason, so I was trying to protect it… and I had the presence of mind, amidst hiding potentially dangerous exotic species in my childhood home from scary men with unnecessarily dark sunglasses to think, “This’ll be a great blog entry!”
Sadly, it’s less good material when it was all a convoluted mess in my subconscious. But I really thought, for a brief moment this morning, that I’d really have a hum-dinger for y’all, today.
Instead you get: spaghetti. Made by: me. … And also: The Funasaurus, who took over when I got sick of stirring and wandered off to play on the computer, instead, and it almost bubbled over except for The Funasaurus’ mighty quick reaction time, thus saving the starchy mess before it became a disaster that I would avoid cleaning for another week or two.
Then we watched a ridiculous amount of The Office reruns, and went to bed. Whee whoo.
However, I was woken up at about 4:13 AM this morning, to the most violent wind storm I’ve hear in a long time. Of course, I was too busy dreaming of clandestine operations involving unknown species to really pay much attention to the weather in the real world, but the wind was so loud it kept me semi-conscious until about 6:30 this morning, when our alarm went off. … At which point we bypassed the snooze button and pushed the “shut the fuck up forever” button, because we were both exhausted from all my tossing and turning due to the wind.
Plus, it was very dark for 6:30 AM in July.
So we slept until 8:00, which was kind of bad, since we were thinking of getting to work around that time. But again, it was very dark, so it felt very early, and we got extra sleep which was much-needed and neither of us seem to have gotten in trouble for arriving, oh, at least an hour late to work, so we’ll take it.
Now that I’ve been here for a good three hours, I think it is time for a lunch break.
Sadly, it’s less good material when it was all a convoluted mess in my subconscious. But I really thought, for a brief moment this morning, that I’d really have a hum-dinger for y’all, today.
Instead you get: spaghetti. Made by: me. … And also: The Funasaurus, who took over when I got sick of stirring and wandered off to play on the computer, instead, and it almost bubbled over except for The Funasaurus’ mighty quick reaction time, thus saving the starchy mess before it became a disaster that I would avoid cleaning for another week or two.
Then we watched a ridiculous amount of The Office reruns, and went to bed. Whee whoo.
However, I was woken up at about 4:13 AM this morning, to the most violent wind storm I’ve hear in a long time. Of course, I was too busy dreaming of clandestine operations involving unknown species to really pay much attention to the weather in the real world, but the wind was so loud it kept me semi-conscious until about 6:30 this morning, when our alarm went off. … At which point we bypassed the snooze button and pushed the “shut the fuck up forever” button, because we were both exhausted from all my tossing and turning due to the wind.
Plus, it was very dark for 6:30 AM in July.
So we slept until 8:00, which was kind of bad, since we were thinking of getting to work around that time. But again, it was very dark, so it felt very early, and we got extra sleep which was much-needed and neither of us seem to have gotten in trouble for arriving, oh, at least an hour late to work, so we’ll take it.
Now that I’ve been here for a good three hours, I think it is time for a lunch break.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Boats Don't Have Brakes
For those of you who care (hi, Mom!) The Funasaurus and I are getting married in front of a little lake. (Arguably, an oversized puddle.) It’s very picturesque, complete with little white, wrought iron archway and faux wrought iron vines wrapping around said archway.
There is also a gourmet raft right behind the archway, that goes out on the lake, giving the bride and groom some quiet time right after the ceremony to absorb what’s going on. We kind of liked that idea, since at the various weddings that we’ve attended, the newlyweds seem to be perpetually accosted by well-wishers for the rest of the evening. (Not that we don’t want well wishes, we just like the idea of a few minutes of private time to talk… unless someone is desperate enough to wade out to our raft in the middle of their lake in their good clothes, in which case I will whole-heartedly invite them onto the raft to wish us well all they want, and partake in the champagne which I plan to take on the raft, as well.)
So anyway, the owner of the venue had told us that if we wanted to use the raft, that we should come up sometime before the wedding and practice getting around a bit, since it is a bit clunky and large, being sturdy enough to accommodate a couch, a table, and a bride who will absolutely kill aforementioned owner should her ridiculously overpriced dress get the least bit damp. The idea is that the couple gets pushed out to the middle of the lake, and then it is up to them to get themselves back to the shore using very long staffs, much like punting on the Thames.
Since The Funasaurus went to England once, and actually had the opportunity to punt, and apparently sucked royally at it, we thought it would be prudent to practice.
So we packed a picnic of cheese, pâté, and bottles (plural!) of wine, and headed up with some friends. As the six of us gathered on the raft, we realized that the max capacity was probably somewhere around 5 and half people. The wine already flowing, so that did not deter us. We pushed out, and then spent the next hour running around the raft, trying to counterbalance the weight of whomever was on the edge punting, so that we would not sink.
As The Funasaurus tried to navigate the docking maneuver at the end, I took it upon my rather drunk self to help him. Since we wanted to go right, I went to the left and started pushing on the staff. The Funasauaurs, however, was at the back, trying to guide it in, straight. So I managed to send us off into a spin, then tried to overcorrect by pushing back left, then whacked one of the friends (already on the shore) in the head with a pole, and eventually The Funasaurus suggested (NOT NICELY, I might add) that could he not just do this alone, please?
We eventually got on shore, bloated from cheese, drunk from wine, with very soggy shoes. I nagged The Funasaurus for not wearing sunscreen. He told me to stop being a drunken backseat driver. Our friends laughed, mercilessly. We topped it off with pizza, and came home. I think we are ready to get married.
There is also a gourmet raft right behind the archway, that goes out on the lake, giving the bride and groom some quiet time right after the ceremony to absorb what’s going on. We kind of liked that idea, since at the various weddings that we’ve attended, the newlyweds seem to be perpetually accosted by well-wishers for the rest of the evening. (Not that we don’t want well wishes, we just like the idea of a few minutes of private time to talk… unless someone is desperate enough to wade out to our raft in the middle of their lake in their good clothes, in which case I will whole-heartedly invite them onto the raft to wish us well all they want, and partake in the champagne which I plan to take on the raft, as well.)
So anyway, the owner of the venue had told us that if we wanted to use the raft, that we should come up sometime before the wedding and practice getting around a bit, since it is a bit clunky and large, being sturdy enough to accommodate a couch, a table, and a bride who will absolutely kill aforementioned owner should her ridiculously overpriced dress get the least bit damp. The idea is that the couple gets pushed out to the middle of the lake, and then it is up to them to get themselves back to the shore using very long staffs, much like punting on the Thames.
Since The Funasaurus went to England once, and actually had the opportunity to punt, and apparently sucked royally at it, we thought it would be prudent to practice.
So we packed a picnic of cheese, pâté, and bottles (plural!) of wine, and headed up with some friends. As the six of us gathered on the raft, we realized that the max capacity was probably somewhere around 5 and half people. The wine already flowing, so that did not deter us. We pushed out, and then spent the next hour running around the raft, trying to counterbalance the weight of whomever was on the edge punting, so that we would not sink.
As The Funasaurus tried to navigate the docking maneuver at the end, I took it upon my rather drunk self to help him. Since we wanted to go right, I went to the left and started pushing on the staff. The Funasauaurs, however, was at the back, trying to guide it in, straight. So I managed to send us off into a spin, then tried to overcorrect by pushing back left, then whacked one of the friends (already on the shore) in the head with a pole, and eventually The Funasaurus suggested (NOT NICELY, I might add) that could he not just do this alone, please?
We eventually got on shore, bloated from cheese, drunk from wine, with very soggy shoes. I nagged The Funasaurus for not wearing sunscreen. He told me to stop being a drunken backseat driver. Our friends laughed, mercilessly. We topped it off with pizza, and came home. I think we are ready to get married.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Private Office. Sane People Only.
So I am struggling to find time to write because this job expects me to WORK, which is really inconvenient for my blogging and e-mailing and wedding planning and whatnot. What I do like about this job, though, is the solitude. I am in a little office, all of my own, with my very own four walls and a door that I sometimes close because I CAN. The girl who worked here before me apparently quit because she got too lonely. I, for one, am not lonely. I am reveling in the peace and quiet and for once, and unlike any other job that I’ve worked at, I can really focus and put my mind to the task at hand, thanks to all the quietness and lack of interruptions.
My boss has come in exactly twice, since I’ve started here. (What, two months ago, now?) He came in on the first day to give me the key and take me out to lunch, and he came in once to pick up a document he needed. Otherwise, I don’t hear much from him. He is fairly hands-off, which I love 99% of the time, and makes me panic the other 1% of the time when he needs the Bumblefuck Report right away! And I! Have never heard! Of the Bumblefuck Report! And so I say, “What is the Bumblefuck Report?” and he says, “Oh, it’s the one on server ShutsDownforRepairsALot,” and then I spent another hour trying to find this server, only to discover that a) I don’t have access to it, and b) Bumblefuck Report isn’t on it, anyway. It’s on yet another server that I don’t have access to.
But anyway. The rest of the time it’s great, and while I do spend a lot of time in the office, I don’t mind because it’s quiet, and I am un-messed with and don’t have to come up with inane “Isn’t the carpet ugly?” coworker talk.
Except. Except for Ms. Doom and Gloom, (DaG for short) who works across the hall from me. Technically, we work for the same company, but in totally different departments. Our lives should never cross, other than having someone to say, “Good morning!” to as we walk past each other’s doors. Unfortunately, DaG is bored. And she doesn’t appear to do much work, at work, as far I can tell. She’s always on the phone, and she always has a crisis du jour. She’s always exhausted. She’s always being asked to do too much. (HA! I say. HA HA. Get off the damn phone and you shall be surprised at how much you can get done!)
DaG does not leave our conversation at the socially acceptable, “Good morning!” minimum, which I would so dearly love to do. DaG often wanders in to my office to tell me about a TV. special she watched last night (even though she never really watches TV.) about falling in love. Or about a crazy biker she almost ran over on her way into the office this morning. Or about how her boss used to live here and now doesn’t and that’s too bad because they just got along so well and she’s just not sure if this job is worth it if she doesn’t have someone to go over the creative process with on a daily basis and her commute is just too long (same as mine, 30 minutes) and blah blah organic mushrooms BLAH.
When The Police concert came through town, I had to listen to the same story of her meeting-up-with-her-dad (from-whom-she’s-a-little-estranged-but-not-really) for-a-beer-beforehand,-and-the-long-train-ride,-and-the-walk-to-the-concert,-and-the-getting-up-close-well-kinda-to-the-stage,-and oh,-was-someone-looking-at-her-funny-and-she-didn’t-bother-to-corect-him-that-she-did-just-buy-a-house-with-someone-but-that-someone-was-her-dad-and-she-just-let-him-think-it-was-a-boyfriend-and-were-her-bangs-a-little-poufy? about ELEVEN different times, because apparently she felt everyone in her world had to hear that hum-dinger.
This morning I was rushing to get some reports done when DaG wandered over to announce that her internet connection was out. “Gee, that’s too bad,” I said, not looking up from my Excel spreadsheet.
“Yeah. I’ve been having trouble with my connection at home, too. What is it with me and the internet?” she continued.
Maybe it’s mad at you for talking too much?
She went away, and I continued to have something of a lover’s quarrel with the auto-sum feature. (Crappy program needs to learn to TRUST me when I tell it to sum the whole column, and not just the part that it’s comfortable with. I am not cheating on it by entering other digits that shouldn’t be there, I promise to be more forthcoming and not leave blanks in the columns in the future, O.K., darling? Don’t pout and make the ####s, anymore, I’ll still be here even if you need to expand just a little to make it fit.)
fuuuuuuuck
So anyway, I got through the mess and got the report sent off, and DaG wanders back in and asks if she can borrow my computer just to check her e-mail. Since I wasn’t really needing the computer as urgently, I benevolently said, “Sure.”
“Oh, thanks,” she gushed. “I just need to check my e-mail really quickly. I promise I’ll just be a sec. I have a lunch date I just need to check on.”
?
“I’m just so tired. I really don’t want to go. But it’s kind of a set-up thing,”
I’m beginning to think that perhaps this is not a business lunch date.
“And he’s halfway cute, but he wants to meet at Panera, and I am just so tired, I can’t remember what time, and I really don’t like that place, I mean, I ONLY eat organic stuff, and you can just tell their chicken isn’t taken care of, properly,”
I’m thinking about how I can take care of her, properly.
“Anyway, I just got out of a long-term relationship about nine months ago, and I’ve just started dating again and. … Oh. … Damn. It looks like my good friend isn’t going to be able to come to my birthday dinner.” Sigh.
I stand up from my guest chair, not-so-subtly.
“Oh. .. Well, at least Amy looks like she’s going to make it to dinner, even if Amanda can’t. I mean, we’re not BEST friends, me and Amy, but it’s nice of her to be there for me, we haven’t always gotten along…. You don’t mind that I’m checking these, do you? It didn’t look like you minded.”
Didn’t it?
Did the standing and pacing and staring not convey the message that I would like my computer back sometime before you start replying to everyone who’s coming to your birthday party to tell them to be sure to bring big presents?
So DaG finally stands up, stretches, proclaims her exhaustion one more time, and begins to squeeze by my desk, and I think I see the light at the end of the tunnel which is my long-lost spreadsheet. Except she stops, and turns back around.
“Hey, you don’t mind if I look up the menu at Panera really quick, do you? I’m just so tired. And when I’m tired, I just can’t make a decision! It’ll just take a sec.,” DaG flashes me a big smile with weary eyes, and sits back down at my desk.
I debate screaming.
She goes over the vegetarian options, laments the untextured-ness of their turkey, and the complications of ordering a sandwich (because she’s really hungry for something more than just a salad) on a first date. You just can’t eat a sandwich neatly, can you? But if this guy is going to judge her on her eating habits the first time he meets her, well, then he’s probably not worth it, anyway.
I have made the decision to run down to Panera and warn off her potential suitor INCOMING: CRAZY! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! YOU WILL NEVER GET HER TO STOP TALKING EVER AGAIN EVER! when she does another big stretch, and ambles back off to her office.
Where, not ten seconds later, she calls across the hall gaily, “Hey! I seem to be back on-line! Thanks for letting me borrow the computer, anyway!” and I close my dearly beloved door and sit down, gnawing on my fist, to write this post, instead of finding another spreadsheet.
This weekend I am buying a lock for my door and a handle of JD for my desk.
My boss has come in exactly twice, since I’ve started here. (What, two months ago, now?) He came in on the first day to give me the key and take me out to lunch, and he came in once to pick up a document he needed. Otherwise, I don’t hear much from him. He is fairly hands-off, which I love 99% of the time, and makes me panic the other 1% of the time when he needs the Bumblefuck Report right away! And I! Have never heard! Of the Bumblefuck Report! And so I say, “What is the Bumblefuck Report?” and he says, “Oh, it’s the one on server ShutsDownforRepairsALot,” and then I spent another hour trying to find this server, only to discover that a) I don’t have access to it, and b) Bumblefuck Report isn’t on it, anyway. It’s on yet another server that I don’t have access to.
But anyway. The rest of the time it’s great, and while I do spend a lot of time in the office, I don’t mind because it’s quiet, and I am un-messed with and don’t have to come up with inane “Isn’t the carpet ugly?” coworker talk.
Except. Except for Ms. Doom and Gloom, (DaG for short) who works across the hall from me. Technically, we work for the same company, but in totally different departments. Our lives should never cross, other than having someone to say, “Good morning!” to as we walk past each other’s doors. Unfortunately, DaG is bored. And she doesn’t appear to do much work, at work, as far I can tell. She’s always on the phone, and she always has a crisis du jour. She’s always exhausted. She’s always being asked to do too much. (HA! I say. HA HA. Get off the damn phone and you shall be surprised at how much you can get done!)
DaG does not leave our conversation at the socially acceptable, “Good morning!” minimum, which I would so dearly love to do. DaG often wanders in to my office to tell me about a TV. special she watched last night (even though she never really watches TV.) about falling in love. Or about a crazy biker she almost ran over on her way into the office this morning. Or about how her boss used to live here and now doesn’t and that’s too bad because they just got along so well and she’s just not sure if this job is worth it if she doesn’t have someone to go over the creative process with on a daily basis and her commute is just too long (same as mine, 30 minutes) and blah blah organic mushrooms BLAH.
When The Police concert came through town, I had to listen to the same story of her meeting-up-with-her-dad (from-whom-she’s-a-little-estranged-but-not-really) for-a-beer-beforehand,-and-the-long-train-ride,-and-the-walk-to-the-concert,-and-the-getting-up-close-well-kinda-to-the-stage,-and oh,-was-someone-looking-at-her-funny-and-she-didn’t-bother-to-corect-him-that-she-did-just-buy-a-house-with-someone-but-that-someone-was-her-dad-and-she-just-let-him-think-it-was-a-boyfriend-and-were-her-bangs-a-little-poufy? about ELEVEN different times, because apparently she felt everyone in her world had to hear that hum-dinger.
This morning I was rushing to get some reports done when DaG wandered over to announce that her internet connection was out. “Gee, that’s too bad,” I said, not looking up from my Excel spreadsheet.
“Yeah. I’ve been having trouble with my connection at home, too. What is it with me and the internet?” she continued.
Maybe it’s mad at you for talking too much?
She went away, and I continued to have something of a lover’s quarrel with the auto-sum feature. (Crappy program needs to learn to TRUST me when I tell it to sum the whole column, and not just the part that it’s comfortable with. I am not cheating on it by entering other digits that shouldn’t be there, I promise to be more forthcoming and not leave blanks in the columns in the future, O.K., darling? Don’t pout and make the ####s, anymore, I’ll still be here even if you need to expand just a little to make it fit.)
fuuuuuuuck
So anyway, I got through the mess and got the report sent off, and DaG wanders back in and asks if she can borrow my computer just to check her e-mail. Since I wasn’t really needing the computer as urgently, I benevolently said, “Sure.”
“Oh, thanks,” she gushed. “I just need to check my e-mail really quickly. I promise I’ll just be a sec. I have a lunch date I just need to check on.”
?
“I’m just so tired. I really don’t want to go. But it’s kind of a set-up thing,”
I’m beginning to think that perhaps this is not a business lunch date.
“And he’s halfway cute, but he wants to meet at Panera, and I am just so tired, I can’t remember what time, and I really don’t like that place, I mean, I ONLY eat organic stuff, and you can just tell their chicken isn’t taken care of, properly,”
I’m thinking about how I can take care of her, properly.
“Anyway, I just got out of a long-term relationship about nine months ago, and I’ve just started dating again and. … Oh. … Damn. It looks like my good friend isn’t going to be able to come to my birthday dinner.” Sigh.
I stand up from my guest chair, not-so-subtly.
“Oh. .. Well, at least Amy looks like she’s going to make it to dinner, even if Amanda can’t. I mean, we’re not BEST friends, me and Amy, but it’s nice of her to be there for me, we haven’t always gotten along…. You don’t mind that I’m checking these, do you? It didn’t look like you minded.”
Didn’t it?
Did the standing and pacing and staring not convey the message that I would like my computer back sometime before you start replying to everyone who’s coming to your birthday party to tell them to be sure to bring big presents?
So DaG finally stands up, stretches, proclaims her exhaustion one more time, and begins to squeeze by my desk, and I think I see the light at the end of the tunnel which is my long-lost spreadsheet. Except she stops, and turns back around.
“Hey, you don’t mind if I look up the menu at Panera really quick, do you? I’m just so tired. And when I’m tired, I just can’t make a decision! It’ll just take a sec.,” DaG flashes me a big smile with weary eyes, and sits back down at my desk.
I debate screaming.
She goes over the vegetarian options, laments the untextured-ness of their turkey, and the complications of ordering a sandwich (because she’s really hungry for something more than just a salad) on a first date. You just can’t eat a sandwich neatly, can you? But if this guy is going to judge her on her eating habits the first time he meets her, well, then he’s probably not worth it, anyway.
I have made the decision to run down to Panera and warn off her potential suitor INCOMING: CRAZY! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! YOU WILL NEVER GET HER TO STOP TALKING EVER AGAIN EVER! when she does another big stretch, and ambles back off to her office.
Where, not ten seconds later, she calls across the hall gaily, “Hey! I seem to be back on-line! Thanks for letting me borrow the computer, anyway!” and I close my dearly beloved door and sit down, gnawing on my fist, to write this post, instead of finding another spreadsheet.
This weekend I am buying a lock for my door and a handle of JD for my desk.
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