In the last five days at work, I've spent at least 8 of my (minimum) 9 hours at the office each day trying not to cry. Five of those five days, I have failed at that task, and also at waiting until at least 10:00 to plow through all my daily snacks. Strangely, on my recent annual evaluation, the attorneys all mentioned the gross misconception that I'm "cool under pressure." This means that either 1) I'm better than I thought at closing my door before my daily "leave Britney alone!!!"-style breakdown, or 2) They are all deaf, dumb, and blind.
Draw your own conclusion. Mine will get me fired.
Anyway, tonight's attempt to black out my gainful employment has involved barbecue, red wine, and making tepid, disinterested love to the TV, which led me to rediscover the magic of Sigourney Weaver, as the voice of Mother Nature on "Planet Earth." PE is my new most favorite pastime, largely because it's the most relaxing thing to be part of, short of getting a lobotomy or lying in a bed full of puppies. Since my puppies are on backorder till July, PE stepped up to the plate and really performed like a champ. LB and I caught "Shallow Seas," which I prefer to "Deep Seas," since it involves far fewer starring roles played by goblins or Tyra Banks. Because I'm on a never-ending quest for knowledge and snacks, I came up with a few important questions that I would like answered. Perhaps you can help.
1) How do whales reproduce? The way they just drift around like unmanned rowboats leads me to believe that vigorous sexual activity may not be within their skill set. Something I may have learned in middle school, or that I may have made up, is that dude whales leave their sperm all over the place, and then the valiant, intrepid sperms get all up on the lady whales like Perez Hilton on the Oscars, and wham! baby whales. But I could be wrong.
2) Where can I buy a herd of pygmy seahorses? Something has to occupy my time and love until those back-ordered puppies arrive.
3) I would be afraid of sea snakes if they didn't look so damn much like party streamers. With, um, fangs and death.
I'm going to go make cookies before Google stops returning results for my queries on "whale porn."
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Failing the Stress Test
I've missed you, amigos, and I hope the feeling is mutual. I meant to disclose about four weeks ago that I would likely be MIA until April 1, but just like my plan to do yoga every morning during Lent,* I got distracted by shiny things and forgot. April 1 is to immigration attorneys (my employer of choice) what April 15 is to accountants, and since the beginning of February I've been working long, frustrated days and weekends more busily than a ten-buck Bourbon Street hooker. My thigh-high leather boots are really starting to look rough.
I've been meaning to post something quick and dirty** to communicate the sad fact that I've been too busy to blog, but I've ironically been too busy to post something about how I'm too busy to post something. My days have consisted of actually rolling in to work on time for a change, pounding enough coffee to give me the energy to run around the office, wailing like a caffeinated banshee, for ten hours straight, and then coming home to collapse in a pile of laziness on the couch. These extended periods of time spent pretending to be a grown-up have taken a toll on my mental acuity, which, let's be honest, was on thin ice in the first place, and so even if I had the time to write, I'd probably be doing things like typing with no vowels or devoting extensive posts to extolling the virtues of moss.
I realized last Saturday that I was ready to board the mothership with the other space cadets when our neighbor Edward came over to grab a beer with Lawyer Boy. While I had been in the office all day, Edward and LB had been playing man-time in our front yard, using every tool that could saw, hack, or clip to take down a holly tree that most closely resembled a starving hobbit. When they were done, LB had gone on the obligatory Saturday afternoon beer run. Edward walked into our front hall to find LB nursing not a beer, but a strongly-mixed bourbon and coke, and turned to me. "Don't let him play with those clippers after he's finished with that!" he joked.
I looked at him like he had seven heads, unable to believe that he had said what I thought he said. I was horrified. When Edward said "clippers," in my warped little head, I immediately assumed he was talking about nipple clamps. Why does he think we have nipple clamps? Why was he telling us not to drink and clamp? Omaigod, how do I respond to that?
After fifteen of the longest seconds of my life, I realized it was much more likely that Edward was referring to the clippers they had been using all day, than it was that he was giving us S&M pointers. I revoked my own speaking privileges for the rest of the night.
If you don't hear from me again until April 1, please remain calm and continue to breathe normally. I'll come flailing back into action once I climb out of the bathtub of Chardonnay I'm planning on soaking in once the work is done.
*Despite my allegedly solemn promise to Baby Jesus, I have yet to get up and play Crouching Tiger, Hidden Moron in my living room at all this Lenten season. My bad.
**Which would be a departure from my usual ramblings only in being quick.
I've been meaning to post something quick and dirty** to communicate the sad fact that I've been too busy to blog, but I've ironically been too busy to post something about how I'm too busy to post something. My days have consisted of actually rolling in to work on time for a change, pounding enough coffee to give me the energy to run around the office, wailing like a caffeinated banshee, for ten hours straight, and then coming home to collapse in a pile of laziness on the couch. These extended periods of time spent pretending to be a grown-up have taken a toll on my mental acuity, which, let's be honest, was on thin ice in the first place, and so even if I had the time to write, I'd probably be doing things like typing with no vowels or devoting extensive posts to extolling the virtues of moss.
I realized last Saturday that I was ready to board the mothership with the other space cadets when our neighbor Edward came over to grab a beer with Lawyer Boy. While I had been in the office all day, Edward and LB had been playing man-time in our front yard, using every tool that could saw, hack, or clip to take down a holly tree that most closely resembled a starving hobbit. When they were done, LB had gone on the obligatory Saturday afternoon beer run. Edward walked into our front hall to find LB nursing not a beer, but a strongly-mixed bourbon and coke, and turned to me. "Don't let him play with those clippers after he's finished with that!" he joked.
I looked at him like he had seven heads, unable to believe that he had said what I thought he said. I was horrified. When Edward said "clippers," in my warped little head, I immediately assumed he was talking about nipple clamps. Why does he think we have nipple clamps? Why was he telling us not to drink and clamp? Omaigod, how do I respond to that?
After fifteen of the longest seconds of my life, I realized it was much more likely that Edward was referring to the clippers they had been using all day, than it was that he was giving us S&M pointers. I revoked my own speaking privileges for the rest of the night.
If you don't hear from me again until April 1, please remain calm and continue to breathe normally. I'll come flailing back into action once I climb out of the bathtub of Chardonnay I'm planning on soaking in once the work is done.
*Despite my allegedly solemn promise to Baby Jesus, I have yet to get up and play Crouching Tiger, Hidden Moron in my living room at all this Lenten season. My bad.
**Which would be a departure from my usual ramblings only in being quick.
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