Instead of my usual funereal work clothes (shades of brown, black and gray), I wore a bright yellow shirt to work yesterday. BRIGHT yellow. I’m not sure what I expected. The seas to part? Co-workers to drop to their knees and shout, "Mrs. Mullet, you are a fucking lemon goddess"? I guess I thought that something should happen. But nope. When I put the shirt in the hamper I felt like yelling, “Hah! Boy did you blow it.” Then I imagined all the drab clothing around it snickering.
And I hadn’t even been drinking.
It's probably good I didn't go into teaching.
While I was wearing said yellow shirt, Mr. Doll asked me for a favor. At first I said no. He asked what it would take for me to say yes and I said, “A cinnamon doughnut.” So after lunch he brought me a box of Munchkins, mostly cinnamon. That was disappointing because the chocolate were much better. I called him and said he shouldn’t have. He shot back, “Well, you shouldn’t have asked then!” When I hung up I had a flashback to the playground. You know, when boys used to push you down and spit on you because they liked you.
I didn't end up doing him that favor.
I think I’ve solved the whole how-to-get-everyone-to-relax-on-the-playground dilemma: coin-operated kegs. And you'd need someone to check IDs, so voila, there's job creation.
Sometimes I miss laundromats. When Chuck and I had an apartment pre-Junior, we’d drag our asses to the laundromat on Sundays. We’d get coffee, read the paper and window shop at Raymour and Flanigan next door. Then we’d get potato pancakes and drink more coffee. At the time I was irritable: I wanted my own washer and dryer but now, those days don’t seem so bad.
I bet if I had to go back to using a laundromat I'd reconsider that last statement.
For more randomness head on over to the Un Mom. From what I hear, she wears yellow all the time. And you know what that means.
