September 30, 2010
Glass Doors
In reading the comments to my previous post, I was like, "Holy crap! Heather made an Old Testament joke! I didn't know she could touch a Bible without bursting into flames!"
And then I remembered that the Simpsons have done several Biblically-based episodes over the years, so that explains it. I'm sure she learned the story of Moses and Pharoh from there. All is right with the world again. I don't have to start searching for the alien pod.
Yeah, okay, more about work. I can't help it, people, we're in the home stretch. (And Hope, I have no freakin' clue what I'd have blogged about for the past three years if I wasn't working for Jeebus' homeboys. The thought frightens me -- more time on my hands, and no bureaucratic asshattery to bitch about...)
Head Boss
He met with Second-In-Command Vy behind closed doors for twenty minutes. When he presented her with his dilemma -- i.e. he wants to be the one to tell us The Big News, but he's going to be outta town that week -- she told him to have one of the H.R. Trolls tell us. Did you hear my audible gasp? Cripes, I'd rather hear it from the janitor than give either of those cunts the pleasure of firing me. If that turns out to be the case, I'll need some sort of dramatic exit strategy. Somewhere between Jerry McGuire and flying a plane into the building. Because I hate flying.
PhD Boss
He's been circling the globe in a hot air balloon and dropping thousands of copies of his resumes over any city that has more than two stoplights. And he has told me that, as SOON as he gets a new job, he's going to call me to be his assitant. And he's going to put me in charge of his staff. I don't know what's more delicious -- his naivity in believing that he'll have a staff, or the thought of me bossing them around.
Security
Last month, our poor, penniless organization sprang for new doors on every floor. The doors that separate the elevator hallway from everything else on every floor. Doors with glass windows in them. Doors that LOCK. Now, we have to use our company keycards to unlock the doors every time we travel between floors. It annoys me because I refuse to wear mine around my neck on a lanyard and ruin my outfit. Rumor has it that the new security system was installed in aniticipation of some disgruntled newly-ex-employee -- or their spouse -- going postal on October 11th. See, now they're just getting my hopes up.
How Awesome I Am
On Wednesday, October 13th, once the horror of it all has sunk in, I'm hosting an intimate bullshit session at my house after work. Just a small, hand-picked group of people whose opinions and bitterness are enough like my own that none of us have to worry about offending any goody-goodies with our excessive venting and sheer evil hatred. Oh, yes, there will be booze. And cream cheese. And chocolate. And maybe a few ladies calling in sick the next day. From my kitchen.
September 27, 2010
Two Weeks and Counting
The Dream Team has been assembled. The executives have been shut out of the restructuring process. The underlings have been ignored, debased and demoralized. You know what time it is?
It's two weeks to D-Day! The Big Reveal! The Unveiling of the Organizational Restructuring! The Giant Shit Storm!
Okay, I know I said I wouldn't be bitching about work again until afterwards, when we all find out if we're going to have to go live in a van down by the river, or if we're staying to trade forty hours of work a week for forty pieces of silver.
Wow. Has it gotten more bitter in here? I need to put on a sweater.
What's The Dream Team, you ask? The Dream Team is the group of eight random people who are deciding the fate of THE ENTIRE CHURCH BODY. Oh, and did I mention that they are doing it all without any input of the executives? Because they are.
Yeah, the executives don't even get to decide which of their people get to stay or go. Why ask those who might have an actual clue, when you can choose TWO PEOPLE to decide the fate of 250?
Guess which two people. Go ahead. Guess. I'll give you a hint. One of them is someone I ocassionally see in the elevator and whom has never warrented a mention in my blog, and is therefore HUGELY qualified to judge whether or not I'm longterm material.
And the other? Oh, my darlings, you've come to learn this place too well. Yes. It's H.R. Troll #1. The grandmammy of all H.R. Trolls. Who, coincidentally, I happened to say "Poop, poop, poop!" in front of last week, and "It sucked!" in front of today. My professionalism knows know bounds!
I might as well just serve her my keycard on a silver platter. Garnish it with some pencil shavings and communion wafers...
Anyhoo, despite The Dream Team's fear tactics, information has leaked out. Add that to some pretty well-informed speculation, and we here down in the muck have a pretty damn good idea of what's going to happen. Well, at least I do. People like to tell me things.
Rumors are flying. Some are hilarious. Some will most certainly come to pass. Fear is palpable in the building, and everyone is kind of gearing-up for mass indignation, disgust and resentment. And Head Boss is no exception. He's so pissed, I truly believe he's psyching himself up to reject whatever offer The Dream Team makes him.
And they will make him an offer.
Doesn't mean anything for me, though. I'm 99% sure I'm destined to be floatsam. You see, the TWO PEOPLE who are deciding which personnel will carry-on after the man-made disaster have made it known that their first priority is "inclusivity." I.e. get rid of whitey.
But back to Head Boss. He served two decades in one of the most prominent -- and demanding -- positions in the entire organization. When he retired, he was the first of his kind to EVER be granted Emeritus status by the people he served. And then, he came out of retirement -- and moved across five states -- to continue to serve this place at the H.Q. He is truly dedicated to our mission.
On October 8, The Dream Team are going to tell the executives exactly what The Big Restructuring is all about. That's a Friday. So they get to live with that knowledge all weekend. Knowing who's staying and going. Knowing that their people are wondering and obsessing and losing sleep. Knowing what they're going to have to do the following Monday.
And then on Monday the 11th, the execs get to call their people -- i.e. ME -- into their offices and tell us our fates.
Oh, but there's a glitch in the system.
MY executive won't be there on the 11th.
Two years ago, he was invited to a big, huge THING. It's a B.F.D., and he can't not go. He leaves on Sunday, October 10th, and doesn't return until the following Sunday. (Which, incidently, are the exact dates of Billi's family vacation to Disney World. Coincidence...?)
Upset at the prospect of making us wait a week to find out or, slightly less distasteful, having to possibly fire us over the phone, Head Boss went to H.R. Troll #1 and asked if he could assemble us at his house on Saturday the 9th and tell us all then.
With her sweetest, cheeriest smile, she said, "Absolutely not!"
"Well, what are my options?"
"You can have Lord God Kind of the Company or his Second In Command tell them."
"But they're MY people!"
"Sorry!"
So now you know why Head Boss is so infuriated. He's worked with Alpha for over a decade. And with PhD Boss for... five or six years, but I'm sure it seemed like a decade. He loves them. And he's just agonizing over not being able to be there for them.
Not one to be deterred easily, Head Boss is going straight to the top and asking Lord God King and Second In Command for special dispensation. I'm very interested to see what the outcome of all this is. Not that I give a crap who tells me to pack my things.
No, I'm more curious to see whether Head Boss goes rogue if denied the ability to do what is The Right Thing. To whom is he more loyal -- his people, or the company that is screwing them?
Stay tuned, kittens. I'm hoping for at least one complete breakdown when the shit begins its journey downhill. And who knows -- I may just have a front row seat.
Posted at 07:34 PM | Comments (2)September 23, 2010
An Open Letter to the Women Who Work on the 10th Floor
Look, ladies.
We all have to share this bathroom, at least until October 11th, after which some of us will be using it for crying. And soon after that, 50% of us will be leaving, and perhaps it won't be so much of an issue.
But until the day when there are fewer of you annoying the watery, corn-laced shit out of me -- or I get mercifully released from my position directly adjacent to the bathroom -- I have a couple requests.
1. Shut the fuck up when you're in the bathroom. I know it seems like the bathroom is a wonderfully clandestine place to hold a conversation about your menopause symptoms or your sister's asshole husband, but it's not. The place is floor-to-ceiling ceramic tile. Lindsay Lohan's va-jay-jay echos less than the tenth floor bathroom! And don't be fooled just because my cubicle wall is a foot and a half higher than a standard cubicle wall. It is not a sound barrier. Trust me. I know that you forget I'm within earshot because I'm hidden behind the fabric wall, but just try to think of me as God. You can't see me, but you know I'm always there. Oh, also? Speaking a language I don't understand doesn't mean that I can't hear it. Just like ignoring me doesn't make me invisible. Are you seeing a pattern here?
2. Do NOT, under any circumstances, use the handicap door-opener if you are not in a wheelchair. Here's the problem. When you use the handicap automatic door-opener (or H.A.D.O.), it takes for-fucking-ever for the door to open and close. That means, if I sit down to pee, and then you use the H.A.D.O. to enter the bathroom, I have to hold my pee for two minutes until the damn door is closed again so that PhD Boss doesn't hear me peeing. That is just way more intimacy than I'm ready for. Oh, also? Same holds true even if I'm not in the bathroom. Because I don't want to be sitting at my desk and have to hear someone else's intestinal affliction. If you are grunting, moaning, or otherwise verbally-lamenting your toilet sojourn, it's time to rethink your diet.
In short, there is no privacy in the privy. Please adjust your lavatory habits accordingly.
Love, Wenchie
Posted at 06:36 AM | Comments (1)September 20, 2010
Wenchie Catches On
I spend my days marveling at how stupid most everyone around me seems to be. Dolts with no manners, no self-awareness, no greater awareness of the universe. And I marvel at how much smarter I am than the general population. I live in The Big Picture. If you're reading this, you've probably experienced similar things because I do not give my URL to knuckle-draggers.
But today, those of you who are idiots and stumbled upon my blog of your own doing -- today, YOU can feel smug and superior. It's your turn, kittens! Grab it by the balls!
For today, I have discovered that I am so staggeringly stupid, it's amazing that I haven't poked my own eyes out with my sheer ineptitude and a tape dispenser. I'm telling you, I am a moron of olympic proportion. A gibbering idiot. A drooling imbecile. A mouth-breather. Dolt. Simpleton. Halfwit. And my personal fav -- addlepate.
We've been over how I don't sleep. Ad nauseum. It's been part of who I am ever since I can remember. Wenchie is tall, snarky, near-sighted, and sleepless.
I have two nighttime routines: wake-up around 2:00 a.m. and stay awake for two hours; or to wake-up around 4:00 a.m. and stay awake until my alarm goes off. I never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever sleep through the night. At any given moment, on any given day, I could lie down wherever I am and fall asleep within fifteen minutes.
["Explains a lot of your posts, Wenchie!" Shut up, turd.]
For years, I have been keeping very busy after work. I know that sitting around on my ass all day is bad for me, so I try to be active between work and bedtime. I walk the canines, scour the house, hoof-it around the Targets, balance the laundry basket on my head as I go up and down the basement stairs, carry water from the well.
From 4:30 when I slump through the door, to 9:30 when I slid between the sheets like American cheese between Wonder bread, I keep on truckin'. I figure, if I can wear myself out, I'll sleep. Right?
Oh, my God, people. I COULD NOT HAVE BEEN MORE WRONG!
Last Monday, filled with the ennui of our impending, collective, workplace doom, I came home from work and sat on my ass all evening. I took care of the dogs and fixed myself a little dinner, but aside from the absolutely-necessary basics, I perched on my ample, snow-white cheeks.
And I didn't even blog or pay bills or ANYTHING! I just played Frontierville and read a book. And know what?
I SLEPT THROUGH THE NIGHT!!!!!!!!
Well, slap me on the head like the dweeb that I am.
Unwinding, destressing, chillaxing, decompressing -- whatever you call it. Just embrace the calm. Quiet your mind. Remember how Mom always gave you a nice bath before bed and got mad when Dad tickled you?
"Bob! Don't get the kids all worked up!"
Thirty years later, I revisited the idea of winding-down before bed and had sleep so satisfying that it rivals cake. And to prove that it wasn't a fluke, I've been doing it ever since, and only had one interrupted night in a week.
Duuu-fucking-uuuuuh!
Yup. I'm the stupidest human alive. What a blessing that I never passed on these genes. I could no more grasp the obvious than I could catch a football.
So go ahead and gloat, my less-than-genius-I.Q.-having readers. You won't bother me. I'll be asleep.
Posted at 08:07 PM | Comments (1)September 16, 2010
The Apologetics of Not Working
Okay, I don't know what that title means, but I didn't write it, so don't blame me. You know what I'm getting at?
GUEST BLOGGER!
I could introduce her here and blah blah blah about how awesome she is and why I adore her and why she's guesting on my blog, but she does that very well herself, so I'll just shut up now.
Hello, masses. This is JB filling in for Wenchie who is actually around to post, but asked me to since the husband is on a business trip this week and I have nothing pressing to do. Occasionally I have been mentioned by the Wench before -- usually in relationship to the big house of religious politics where Wenchie and I, till recently, worked.
Last month, I made the move from there, situated in the third largest metropolitan area in the country, to the state with the third smallest population. I can hear you asking why in the world a person would ever choose to do this. The answer is, of course, money (oh, and being “called” and other religious crap like that). Not that we make much money, but the husband’s new job comes with insurance, pension plan, mileage, a huge house (5 bedrooms and 3 full bathrooms!), lots of food, and other less tangible benefits. So now that the husband is finally working, I’m left unpacking and unemployed. But not complaining! I love not working, and definitely recommend it if you can afford to do it.
Now at this point, some have asked “Won’t that get boring after a while -- no job [read in: ‘no purpose in life’] and not seeing other people for long periods of time?” I think they greatly underestimate my ability to do nothing. For the years that the husband was in grad school, I simultaneously worked a full-time job, a part-time job, another part-time job called commuting (3 hours a day), and yet another part-time job I called housework. In that time, I saw enough people and did enough work to last me a few extra years. Plus I think getting purpose in life from doing a job is really overrated.
So here are a few of my favorite things about unemployment, in no particular order:
1. The obvious: ignoring my alarm clock. It’s the appliance/decoration we all love to hate and for years it woke me up at 5-fricken-30 in the morning! Sometimes I think the sound has driven me to insanity. My kitchen timer is sort of similar, and I cringe and yell at it every time it goes off. Fortunately this month I have began alarm clock deprivation therapy. It may cure me of my great dislike of the sound... maybe.
2. Lacking real pressure and stress. Before I would have worried about losing my job during layoffs, feared picking up the phone at work because of angry callers waiting to bitch at me for some thing I didn’t do, or dodged being hit by cars during my commute. My idea of pressure now is my cat meowing incessantly at me to play fetch with him. Now stress is trying to finish a Netflix disk before the mail is picked up. Not exactly world-ending, or even life-destroying, stuff here. I can even procrastinate and still have plenty of time. Sweet!
3. Not seeing people. It’s no secret to my friends that I am not really a people person, but to lots of others it is a great shock. I actually get along with people just fine, but there is a difference between getting along with them and liking them. In fact there is an ongoing joke that my friends are really non-people -- a high compliment in my vocabulary. They have progressed beyond the masses of people out there to be someone who I can tell the truth to, wear pajamas around without embarrassment, and sit in comfortable silences with. For this, non-person status is conferred. Being at home by myself gives me ample opportunities to not interact with “people”. I can still call, text, e-mail and video chat the non-persons in my life while weeding out those I’d rather not talk with on a regular basis.
4. Having time to do the things I really love. And no, I’m not talking about “Now that I have the time, I’m going to learn the Czech language and napkin folding, practice yodeling, and take up genealogy like I always wanted to.” That kind of perky crap will only make you feel less accomplished. You know very well that if you never found time to do it before, you won’t find time to do it now even though you have all the time in the world. No! I’m talking about doing more of the stuff I always loved to do, the kind of stuff I did to procrastinate, the things I didn’t have time to properly obsess over before. For me this means TV watching and baking, often at the same time. That’s right: this week I have watched Roar (90s period action show), Roswell (like Twilight with aliens), Wizards of Waverly Place (yes, a Disney kids show), Star Trek: The Animated Series (bet you didn’t even know this existed, did ya?), Blood Ties (vampires and other supernatural stuff), Smallville (young, hot Superman) and a bunch of other shows. (You should be sensing a theme by this point). At the same time I’ve made Chex mix, rosemary foccacia, salami calzones, spiced beef turnovers, vegetable soup, lemon blueberry scones, baked potato chips, and hopefully chocolate whoopie pies today. Now who honestly would say that they would rather work than do that?!
5. Talking to myself whenever I want without judgement. I don’t know about you, but I like to talk through ideas, problems, and to-do lists out loud. It’s just not as effective to think it though or write it out. But at the same time, I also hate to bother someone with my half-considered ramblings. So what’s a person to do on the job? Annoy co-workers with muttering to one’s self or ill-conceived brainstorming sessions they would prefer not to be a part of? Well, my solution is simple: stay at home. When you’re not around others, you can talk to yourself whenever you want, and the only person to piss off (or think you are crazy) is yourself. I suspect that after a couple of months of this, being in public may be challenging, but I trust the husband and friends can keep me from descending into a complete anti-social wreck.
Oh sure, this existence will likely become tiresome after a while, but here’s to hoping that is many months off. Cheers!
Be sure to watch here soon for a link to my new blog (which Wenchie and Padawan are basically forcing me to write). I plan to cover the weirdness that is life in a town of 300 people, my ever-so-unexciting hobbies, being a non-traditional spouse to a pastor, and other general bitchiness and/or insanity. Any suggestions on names for this Frankenstein of a blog?
Yeah, this list may as well have been called Reasons Why Wenchie Loves JB.
So if you're reading this, and your church just got a new pastor, and he's a guy, and he's married to a female, it's time for you to wonder in horror, "Oh, sweet Jeebus in Platform Shoes, is Wenchie's people-hating, anti-social friend my pastor's wife???"
MWAH HA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
Posted at 06:11 AM | Comments (2)September 13, 2010
Too Much Stuff
So. Lately, I've had two pretty big thoughts running through my head almost constantly. Both of them require separate actions from me, but they both revolve around the same principle -- there's TOO MUCH.
Too much stuff.
Too much to do.
I have a lot of stuff. Despite occasionally thinning the Barbie herd, and constantly giving away unflattering, what-was-I-thinking? clothes to Am Vets, I still have a lot of stuff.
There's an old saying that you should only keep something if it is useful or brings you joy. Well, I have tons of stuff that fits in neither category. Stuff that only fits in the category Things I Have To Dust.
(Which brings me to a related lament about why did I move out of my small, wonderful apartment that only needed cleaning every other month into a house four times the size that I spend 90% of my free time cleaning? But that's an issue for a whooooole other blog.)
I just feel like I can't breath. I look at the shelves lining our walls, filled with books and Barbies and binders and photo albums and pinecones and pottery and woodcarvings -- all stuff that I love... but does it need to be here for me to love it? Do I need this many physical reminders of what makes me happy? The things that bring me joy are part of who I am, but now who I am is all cluttered inside, and I can't see properly anymore.
Am I even making sense? My habitat is so jumbled, I feel that way inside, too, and I'm afraid the words coming out are jumbled and won't make sense to anyone.
Does anyone else feel overwhelmed by their possessions?
But it's not just MY possessions. It's Husband's, too. That man can't let go of ANYTHING. You would not believe the amount of paperwork from past work projects that we store in our house. And I constantly ask myself -- WHY?!
The thing is built. It already exists. Why do we need copies of every sketch and equation that went into making it so? Is it the equivalent of keeping a copy of your baby's ultrasound, perhaps?
Husband argues that some of the stuff he keeps is for reference, and some is for posterity, so his childrens' childlren's children can look and see what he did. But how much of what's being stored is just for ego's sake? Am I just jealous because I don't have anything tangible to point to and say, "This is what I've done with my life"?
Oh, dear God, there's a thought. What if the biggest tangible legacy I leave behind is a ginormous Barbie collection? Yuck. Can you imagine?! Husband and Girl Child and Boy Child and The Spare all standing around wondering What the fuck are we going to do with all these Barbies? At which point, my hobby becomes their burden.
I'm not sure what has brought all this so sharply into focus lately. Perhaps it's the horrifying knowledge that my parents are old. They've already downsized their lifestyle and surroundings. Well, Mom has. Dad...
Put it this way. When my father dies, the things that have brought him joy in life will become a full-time job for myself, my Mom and my sisters. What the hell do you do with a canon? A full suit of armor? A collection of antique weaponry large enough to make him a militia unto himself? And boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff that I don't even know what it is?!
I love my Dad, and I love that he is unlike anyone else's Dad I know. His crazy hobbies are part of who he is. Does your Dad own a cat-o-nine-tails? But I shudder to think of the work ahead of us when he dies.
Likewise, I love Husband. And I love his artistic nature and ability to build anything. ANYTHING. Actually, he's a lot like my Dad in that way. But walking into his office renders me unable to breathe. All that paper! If he gets hit by a bus, how am I supposed to know what's essential and what's not? How am I supposed to know what to give to his daughters? And how much of life am I going to spend shredding his stuff?!
Okay, this sounds like I have an obsession with death. And maybe I do. But essentially, it's about life, and quality of. I need less stuff and more life.
The past few weeks, I've been making a point of putting things in boxes for Am Vets, for next spring's garage sale. I've actually thrown things away. I've given away eleven Barbies, complete with full wardrobes. I'm giving stuff away to friends. I donated BOXES of books to our book sale at work.
But it's still only the tip of the iceberg. I look around and think, "God, I haven't even made a dent." And looking at Husband's crap brings about full-on despair.
CDs still in their wrappers that have been sitting around since before we got married. Self-help books he bought before we were married and never read. Dozens of paperbacks he's read and forgotten. A million and one books of woodworking projects he is never going to do.
What does that do to the mind -- to be surrounded by hundreds of constant reminders of what is never going to get done? It can't be good for your psyche. I guess Husband looks at it as potential or options, but when does a good thing cross the line and become just another burden? A dozen books? Fifty? A hundred and eleven?
Please don't think I've gone all Possessions-Are-Evil! crazy. I have things that belonged to my parents and grandparents that I have no intention of getting rid of. I'll never get rid of things that people made for me, or that special people gave me. I will always have possessions. I'm not going to burn my house down and go live in a cave. I will always love stuff!
But I think of how little I ownedd in my last apartment. It was downright sparse! But I was soooooooooo happy! And now? More stuff, less happiness. Doesn't take a genius to see some kind of correlation. Am I making a scapegoat of my stuff? Will I truly be happier if I run half of my worldly possessions into the desert?
Well, I know I'll spend less time cleaning, which means more time for the things I love. I'm sure that's a step in the right direction.
So forgive my self-indulgent, emo babbling today, kittens. I've always been the type to work things out in writing. It helps to make things small and concrete by putting them in black and white. If you've made it this far, thanks for listening.
Now tell me -- am I crazy? Can anyone else relate to this? Has anyone else just started purging their home?
Posted at 06:30 AM | Comments (4)September 07, 2010
Wenchie Christ, Superstar
The only thing worse than getting a really bad wedding gift is getting a really bad wedding gift from a tiny, adorable, old lady who means really, really well. I do have a shred of compassion, which makes it difficult to mock the aged. Curse you, Compassion! I'd be that much funnier without you!
I guess because Husband and I used to sing in the church choir, his elderly great aunt or something got use a big, dark, wooden cross for our wall. It's all gothic-looking and easily big enough to crucify a Barbie. I like the shape, but let's be honest -- overt religious symbols don't really jibe with our pinecone-and-milkcan style of decor.
So I hid the cross away and brought it out only on the rare occassion that said aunt visited us. I think it was once, actually. And then she died. And I promptly forgot where the heck I'd hid the crucifix, or that it had even exited in the first place.
Flash forward to last weekend, when I was switching the living room and dining room furniture because our dining room is teesy-weensy, and it's just easier during the holiday season if I can keep the leaves in the dining table and not try to squeeze my whole family into what was probably a walk-in pantry at one time.
That was a really long sentence.
And by the way, as far as I'm concerned, "the holiday season" starts on September 22nd with Billi's birthday and ends on January 7th with The Boy Child's birthday. In between there's The Spare, Egrau, my black dog, ME, The Girl Child, my parent's anniversary, Jeebus, Lola, Brad, and New Year's.
What the hell was I talking about? Ha ha ha ha ha! I actually had to scroll up to see what I'd started this post about! Right, yes, Jeebus' death tree. Got it. Back on track.
So while moving furniture, I cleaned out the drawers of the living room side tables and found -- lo and behold -- the cross! I was about to toss it in the box for Am Vets, but then I thought:
"Wait. I work for a religious organization. Everyone else has all kinds of religious paraphenalia in their cubes -- angels and icons and "Footprints in the Sand"* kind of shit. This. Is. PERFECT! I am so hanging scary, gothic cross in my cube!"
And so I did.
Ironically, of course. Although that's just between you, me, and my other reader (i.e. Mom). I'm hoping that my co-workers will think I am super-pious.
Hey, I don't rest of my laurels! I understand that I have to continuously earn my seat in Hell!
* Holy fucking shit, there is an official "Footprints in the Sand" website!
Posted at 08:01 PM | Comments (4)September 03, 2010
A Week of Haikus
Have I haikued a week before? I'm kinda having deja vu. Have I used haiku as a verb before?
MONDAY
i arrive at work
refreshed and well-rested yet
unmotivated
TUESDAY
movie plans cancelled
no dinner with friends either
home to lean cuisine
WEDNESDAY
mid-week Target trip
cutting board and pizza stone
and some barbie shoes
THURSDAY
red velvet cupcakes
slathered in cream cheese frosting
to ruin diets
FRIDAY
waiting for e-mail
telling us to leave early
hooray long weekend
Bored? Also waiting for that email from management telling you to go home an hour early? Entertain us both -- write a haiku about ME!
Posted at 06:13 AM | Comments (2)