It's Like I'm Slapping Google In The Face With A Giant Brick Of Porn
R called me at work first thing this morning.
"I just got an email from you," he said.
"No you didn't," I countered, distracted. I was hard at work downloading clip art for the Meat Department manual that we've been working on. My boss recently told me that she doesn't think I'm taking the project seriously, so I'm doing my best to rectify that. I'm a very busy, very serious woman.
"I
thought I did," he amended. "I opened this email that was from 'Estella' in my inbox, and suddenly this enormous picture popped up of some chick getting fucked in the ass."
I jabbed the "stop" key on my "'butcher' or 'cleaver' or 'aliens' or 'safety first'" Microsoft search. "Wha?"
"Yeah. Just... this
enormous ass shot. And I went to reply, to write you back, and I realized it really wasn't you." Shocking.
"Wait..." I interrupted, disregarding the start-your-engines "click" of my boss's Personal Call stopwatch. "You seriously thought that I had sent a picture of some girl getting fucked in the ass to your
office? From
my office?" I corner-smiled at my boss and brazenly typed "'meat' or 'knife' or 'dinosaur' or 'antibiotic cleanser'." SEARCH.
I barely made out his mumbled "well..." amid all the Heathen Loud Whore stopwatch clicks. "I thought, 'maybe she thought it was funny'."
"When exactly was the last time we had a conversation about the inherent humor of hard core porn in general and ass fucking in particular?" I demanded. (As my entire department quietly typed in some version of "inherent" and then pressed shift-F7.)
"Hey," he said, "You could do anything! YOU'RE the one who went out and bought powdered laundry soap! We're not powdered people, we're LIQUID people!"
I closed my eyes.
"LIQUID. PEOPLE." He made his point. I heard a Righteous Indignation stopwatch click to life on the other end. "I mean, who
are you?"
Apparently the devil chain goes something like, "Powdered Detergent, then Hard Core Email, then 1% Milk, then Prostitution, then Different Toothpaste, then Serial Beheader."
If I had a stopwatch handy I could time the whole process for you.
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Life is insane right now. More horrific eye surgery for Mom, and did I tell
you I bought a house? A terrible one that's falling down? That the Blair
Witch may have died in? It's an "investment" meaning that, given the state
of the house, now I have to find either a demon or a serial killer to live
in it. The "finding" is the easy part-- have you ever tried to pry the rent
out of a demon? I've got my hands full. But I miss you.
And ever since my visit with Stace I've been thinking more about the
possibility of "revamping" and moving to a site under my own name. It would
make me feel like less of a sneaky liar, and I could post pictures and
everyday things of RELEVANCE. Like, you know... NAMES OF PEOPLE. What do
you think? Could we do that? Start over? As a family?
Anyone have any advice on how that might be done? What happens to the
archives here?
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I'm At Work Right Now. No Really. No Really. No Really.
1) My cable is out. But only in the evening. So right now? When we're at work? Yeah, right now it's working fine. But when we get home it's all about bashing the remote against hard things and staring at each other a lot. That's fair. I'm having to double up on my US Magazine intake just to maintain my zombie-like shallowness.
Ha Ha! Not really. I just like doubling up.
And typing "doubling up".
2) My stove is broken. Last night I made macaroni and cheese in the microwave. Do you have any idea how long it takes to boil water in the microwave? And then keep it boiling consistently enough to cook pasta? It's like tending a greenhouse. A greenhouse full of toddlers. Especially when you have to go through the whole process twice because your man bumps into you and knocks the boiling bowl of finally cooked pasta out of your hands and onto the floor. (R immediately sprinted down the hall and hid under the bed; an act of desperation which I might have been more inclined to salute if he had anything better to do in the first place.) It's safe to say that The Jake is a giant carby disaster.
3) Put the following three things I did on Friday in their correct order:
a) submitted an application for employment to the public library
b) nonchalantly paid an overdue fine for $64.40 to the public library
c) joked (if "joke" means that I told someone something completely factual while smiling) with the librarian that this is nothing; I owe the university library like $800
4) R seriously woke me up out of a sound sleep around midnight last night to ask me the difference between "proclivity" and "propensity". I mumbled a shocked response that was no doubt wrong, then curled up in a sweaty fetal ball where I spent the rest of the night dreaming about prepositions. Tonight I'm going to see if he'll just set my hair on fire instead. Although I'm thinking that if I can get him to read a couple of pages of In Touch, we can eliminate this problem entirely.
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I was looking at on-line job postings for the City of Mesa, and one of the
categories was "Administrative / Professional". So I clicked on it, and the
first job opening listed was "Judge".
So I guess I'll go ahead and shimmy down to "Office / Clerical".
Thanks.
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I'm at
Stace's house and you're not. (I'm pretty sure you're not. You might be in the bathroom or something.) This would be the Break From Packing right now, a break I'm taking by myself, which might not make it a break so much as just fucking slacking. I'm not sure.
Some things so far:
1) I decided to squeeze my clothes and stuff into the smallest carry-on bags imaginable to eliminate checked baggage, a decision that I thought haughtily at the time to be both practical and... practical. Here's how it wasn't either of those things:
a) After convincing R that my flight left from Terminal Convenient, I kissed him goodbye, grabbed my three practical bags from the trunk and stumbled into the terminal only to discover that my plane
actually left from Terminal You've Got To Be Fucking Kidding Me Is That Even Part Of The Airport I Thought That Was For Test Aircraft. Which meant that I got to hoof it seven miles across steaming asphalt, stumbling all the way under the weight of my knee-banging practicality.
b) I brought like two shirts and a pair of pants. In a bag that apparently weighs thirty-eight pounds empty. I'm out of clothes.
2) Last night in preparation for the Great Duck Cooking, Stace accidentally thawed out like seventy duck livers. Which she was then forced to cook. And serve. This morning when I proclaimed that I had to eat something other than fistfuls of carrot cake-- preferably something DIRECTLY OPPOSITE to that-- Stace came to the conclusion that balsamic fried duck liver is, scientifically, the polar opposite of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting. Correct. Someone should add that to the Periodic Table of Elements. That thing's flexible, right? I mean, balsamic vinegar is an element.
3) I called R a little while ago ("How did you and Stace meet again?" he asked for the fourteenth time. "At Michelle's wedding," I answered, as usual. " Michelle's wedding is where I met all of you. So, you know. In case anyone asks. [Unless I just met you. Then we met at Stace's party. Try to keep up.]) and I got to hear all about the unstoppable power of the new rope-start, gasoline-powered weed wacker. He claims that the only thing more powerful would be a weed wacker that shoots out lasers. I'm not sure why I mentioned this. Except that if anybody has a laser weed wacker, eBay that shit and I'm on it.
3)
Styro, I won't even tell you how much fun you're missing because you already know. I may not go home.
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I turned the corner around my cube earlier and found the Departmental
Administrative Support Person cowering in sweaty fear of a tiny cricket
that was infringing on her cube footage. I'm generally down with the
cowering-- particularly cowering at work-- but this was a cricket. Not a
forced-attendance baby shower for Brenda (or Linda?) in Consumer Affairs,
not a horrifyingly empty Recycle Bin on your desktop... just a tiny little
baby cricket. With wide little cricket eyes and trembling little cricket
legs.
Cricket took another tentative step forward into the cube-- no doubt
looking for his mom or his blankie or just a new friend, hard to say
which-- and Admin Girl shrieked and tried to climb inside the fax machine.
"It's going to take you forever to get out of there," I warned. She glared.
And starting shooting desperate staples at the carpet while trying to free
her left foot from the paper tray.
The cricket, now under heavy fire, started to cry. And then I think he must
have twisted an ankle or something because he just sort of collapsed on one
side, and then I saw him wince in pain.
So I bent down and I picked up Cricket because crickets are perhaps the
only insects with which I have a tentative "no squishing" cooperative
(generally I'm a squisher), and as I cupped my hands and began walking
toward the door, I could feel Cricket relax in my palm. He turned around
three times and curled into a sleepy cricket ball, and then he licked my
hand which was gross.
When I got to the door I realized that, as usual, I didn't have my security
tag on me so once outside I wasn't going to be able to open the door to get
back in. So I opened the door with my body, hands still clasped around the
cooing Cricket, and I leaned out as far as I could toward the nearest
planter.
And I gently flung Cricket toward the planter (as gently as I could fling
something when trying to cover a fifteen foot distance), only to
successfully impale Cricket on a cactus.
Maybe later I'll find a lizard helplessly trapped somewhere and I can yank
his tail off for him.
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