About me: I'm 40 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 8-year-old Junior, our 5-year-old Everett, our baby and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Random Tuesday thoughts
I’m beginning to loathe the Island of Sodor and Thomas the Train. For one, Thomas has psychological issues. He’s either cross or tooting. I think he needs a mood stabilizer. Second, there’s too much wheeshing and shunting. I try not to snicker when the narrator says “Thomas shunted Gordon home” but I can’t help it. I hope Thomas at least buys Gordon a drink before he shunts him again.
It was so hot at work today (how hot was it?) people started congregating in the bathrooms because that’s where the air conditioning was working. There was talk of a walk-out. Instead everyone just complained and sweated. Forget solar energy: There’s enough pent up anger in Corporate America to run the planet.
I envy people who look sweat-less and composed in warm weather. When I was in high school, our gym class had to run around the track in the spring. My face would turn bright red as soon as we stepped outside. The teacher told me it was because I had a great internal cooling system. I’m still waiting to reap the benefits of my internal greatness.
One of the copier repairmen at work has a crush on me. He calls to check on the printer but begins the conversation by saying, “I was thinking about you.” Yesterday he said he drove by my house and saw Chuck and Junior in the yard; he recognized them because he’s seen their pictures in my office. I swear, if he pulls a Glenn Close on me and boils our fat cat, Mr. Cat, I’m going to be pissed. Even though Mr. Cat leaves tufts of fur on my rugs and attacks his sister when he’s hungry (which is every couple hours), I still love him. Besides, if anyone's going to boil that furball it's going to be me.
We’re having a potluck lunch at work on Friday. The owner of the company wants us all to get to know each other better. I want to send him an email and tell him that through the mutiny exercise in the bathrooms, we’ve already accomplished his goal. I’d also like to suggest that we affix place cards to each potluck item. Truthful place cards. Place cards that read, “I swear to God I did not lick the spoon while making this”, “I may have licked the spoon a little” or “not only did I lick the spoon, my dog did too, and then I scratched my butt and dipped my finger in the batter.” I cannot eat another bite of cornbread without this knowledge.
Thanks Keely. Again. And again. And again.