Today is Jeans Day™ (one of, like, three we have all year) and I busted out my brand new Target jeans. You Know!!
I swear, I know I am like 50% cooler because I wear jeans from Target, but unfortunately, today I lost all of my cool points because I walked around with the long skinny sticker advertising your jean size that runs down the back of your leg.
Now everyone at work knows I’m a size 4!
(Hahahaha)
(HahahahAHAHhah1!haha1qhhah)
I would encourage anyone with a will of aluminum (read: NOT STEEL) to avoid working in Purchasing over the holidays. For you will end up a chubby spinster with chocolate stains on your shirts.
Why? you ask.
Because suppliers, they like to buy us stuff. Edible stuff. Caloric stuff. Tons and tons of edible caloric stuff. They think it will help in their efforts to sell us their crap. Hahaha, if only they knew our Supplier Selection Procedures didn't include "What kind of holiday gifts do they give? Generic crap like calendars, or edible food stuff crap like shrimp-sized cashews or designer chocolate?" If only.
And your will, since it is weak like aluminum (not strong like steel), your will draws you TO the candy-stuff, instead of AWAY from it like it's supposed to.
But hot damn if I don't looovelovelove the suppliers who send us Harry & David Dark Chocolate Carmel Corn. Oh, to work in purchasing…
To Melvil Dewey, creator of the Dewey Decimal System! Huzzah!
Thanks to good old Dewey, I can find my library books with great ease, and don’t have to sift and search for hours on end, combing the shelves for the latest novel or biography du jour. Digital search engines at the library are for chumps!
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Friday night: consumed an insane amount of Aubree’s pizza, ignoring my stomach’s plea to cease and desist at my earliest convenience. Also played (and lost) Kino for the 2nd time in my life, and thus realized I may have the tiniest of slivers of lazy gambling spirit in me. (Other versions of lazy gambling spirit: betting anyone who thinks they know more about celebrity gossip than you do, or playing slots at a casino, kerplink, kerplonk, kerplunk.) Commenced the night by buying I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry because Blockbuster was out, watched 30 minutes of it, realized how God-awful it was, listed it and sold it on EBay before the movie was even over. I know, we’re such PARTY ANIMALS!
Saturday: vigorous and deeply satisfying apartment cleaning, craft show, dinner with the in-laws and grandparent in-laws, drinks upon drinks upon drinks with Robby, and attempting to help a bro out by passing love lust notes and also failing miserably with my overt stares at the subject. Big Ten Burritos were consumed, I think.
Sunday: Alpha’s, hydrating, lazying, Tylenoling, moaning, crying, puking. Waiting 1.5 hours for Thai takeout, telling myself “the wait will be worth it… the food will taste so much better after this wait” and then being supremely disappointed, wait or no wait, nay, especially because of the wait. I imagined the food would taste that way coming up rather than going down.
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The highlight of my work day and the only thing that really excites us around here is when we flip for pops. Rules of the game: flip coins until someone is the odd man out. If only 2 are playing, some calls ODDS (head + tail) or EVENS (tail + tail etc.) The new guy lost today, there were 5 of us playing. It took like 6 flips until someone lost. Corporate Excitement? Or Corporate Depression. Take your pick.
…wondering how many more times I can be called "kiddo" by my colleague at work and not snap back…
…thinking non-stop about my delectable dinner waiting for me (to make) when I get home (Sharp White Cheddar Grilled Cheese with bacon and pear, courtesy of www.elise.com/recipes)…
…eagerly awaiting my date tonight with Nick… downtown Ann Arbor field-trip to the cinema!...
…wondering if I will have room for popcorn or not…
…or if I should smuggle in some candy (girlfriend is MUCH TOO CHEAP to pay what the cinema demands!)…
…trying to bring back the word "cinema" if it isn't blaringly apparent…
…thinking that the INTERNET/EMAIL USAGE policy that was sent to our department by the department director was perhaps due to my incessant surfing…
…questioning whether or not one's body can learn to be lactose-intolerant after a year-long hiatus from (cow) milk, because DAMN [TMI? TMI.]
Am I being a total bitch by being totally wanting to lay out the checkout lady at Meijer who palmed my coupons? Now, I realize that by admitting that, I admit that I use coupons which just makes me feel cheap and all, but my anger far outweighs my embarrassment over being cheap.
First of all, they were dollar coupons. Worth whole dollars! Dollars to pay for pops and lattes and, I don't know, electric bills. Secondly, eff you! I realize that I should have caught it while the transactions were happening, but I didn't put 2 + 2 together fast enough. I handed her coupons and the proceeded to finish bagging my grocery in my eco-friendly reusable bags. Damn, I was even DOING HER JOB and she still stole from me!
As she handed me my receipt, I was all "why does she have crumpled paper in her hand?" but that's was the extent to that thought and I forgot it immediately. It wasn't until I got home and studied my receipt more closely that I learned of Cynthia's crime. (Stupid Cynthia.)
Now, I realize that 1.) she works at Meijer and 2.) she probably needs the $2.00 more than I do, but it's the principle of the matter. I clipped those coupons like the frugal cheapskate I am so close to becoming it frightens me just a wee bit. She even had the audacity to chit-chat with me before hand!
So, if I make a formal complaint and she gets fired (not that I would have any way of knowing, per se…) would I sleep guilty at night, or forget all about it? Oh, the choices we make…
P.S. I freaking love daylight savings time. Bring on the dark skies, bia!
Til next time...
I love that T9Word remembers my most-frequently-used words and suggests them first while composing text messages. I love that while writing a text to my sister to see if she had gotten our mom and birthday card that it first suggested barf first. My cell phone, it knows me inside and out.
Just as hard as it is to teach a dog new tricks, it’s just as hard to un-teach an old dog a trick he learned ages ago.
THINK ABADID.
*******************
So, I have a confession… I bought one of these water-aerobics belts:
It’s true. This is not a lie. The question is: Will you still be friends with me?
Also, visit www.midwestgothic.com
Cuz yo momma told you to.
So, it's hardly a secret that Andy on The Office is annoying as hell. He's always singing in that annoying "I think I'm a classically-trainer singer and want people to complement me" way, you know what I'm talking about? The type of singing that makes you roll your eyes and purposefully yet painfully ignore him? Because if you complimented him, he'd get a big head and do it far more often?
1.) Last night, after coming home from work and strewing about my belongings all over the place like a child throwing a fit, I picked up after myself before I went to bed. This, my friends, is monumental. Normally, I would keep the strewings as they were, add another layer of strewings the following day, so on, so forth, living in filth, then hyperventilate on Friday night after a whole week of this behavior because I live in a pig-sty. This whole “pick up after yourself daily” thing is pretty rad.
2.) I sold something on Ebay and made twenty bucks. SCHWING!!
3.) I signed up for Extra-Curricular Activities. AKA, Hobby Hunting. I am optimistic.
I don’t know if it’s because I work in Purchasing (where I subconsciously live by the motto “the customer is always right” thus making ME always right, ahhh I love it) or if it’s because young Americans are just used to instant gratifiction, but man, let me tell you, I am a hard-to-please customer.
This car salesman I’ve been talking to, he has a low say-do ratio. “What, pray tell, are you talking about?!” I can hear it in your head right now. Say-Do Ratio. A beautiful thing. Let’s say you tell your wife “Honey I will mow the lawn and clean out the gutters” and you only end up doing one of those chores. First of all, you are a chump. Get off your ass and go clean out the gutters, the football game will go on regardless if you watch it or not. You can look up the score later. Second of all, let’s say you still only do one of the chores. Well, you’ve SAID you’ll do two things and you’ve DONE one thing. Say-Do Ratio is low. (For mathematical purposes, it’s actually Do-Say ratio in that Husband’s ratio is 50% right now). If he were to complete both tasks, his Say-Do Ratio would be 100%.
Right, so where was I?
Car salesguy. He SAYS he’s gonna go “x” in “y” time. Such as, “I’ll fax you the quote within 30 minutes.” Well, I’m standing at the fax machine 29 minutes later and pissed-off by 31 minutes. Don’t say something you’re not going to do.
I’m allllll over Say-Do Ratio like white on rice. It’s my favorite thing to judge people on. Well, that, and their choice of MySpace song, but I digress…
Why must car shopping be so dreadful and why can I not trust a car salesman to save my life. Oh, because they’re employees of Satan, that’s it! I forgot…
We were traveling to
Hoo boy, was I wrong. They quickly confiscated my Oil of Olay face serum, which cost me about $20 a pop from the drug store. In other words, I feel as though I’m slathering diamonds on my face when I use it, the cheap bastard I am. Since I’m known to be, errr, somewhat sensitive when ‘people of power’ (aka airport security hahahahaha) yell at me or look down upon me for ‘breaking the law’ I get all meek-like and obedient and repentant. TRUE STORY.
So I’m stammering like “oh I’m so sorry, yes it’s not in a quart-size bag, please, take my diamond-expensive face cream and throw it in your trash bin even though I know you guys go looting through it at the end of your shift” and I give it up without a fight. Up ahead, as we were putting our shoes on, my mom could see I was upset and down in the dumps, and asked what was wrong. I boohoo’ed to her that they confiscated my face cream, and she marched her pretty little butt up to the airport security and demanded they hand it back. This, if you’ve ever met my mom, is slightly out of character. My mom obeys laws. She makes us face the consequences for our actions. I admire this about her. Except that day, when she got all ball-buster with Airport Security.
“I’m sorry, ma’am” the woman said, pointing to the newly-placed sign “it’s not an a plastic bag.”
“Well what difference does it make if it’s in a bag or not, it’s still 3 oz?”
And so on, and so forth.
I got the face cream back, I cried tears of joy, did a little back-flip and break-dance in my head, and saw my mother in a different light.
Dang is that whole “waiting” thing intense… I’m “waiting” to hear back on something (not to be all vague-like, peeps, it’s just an inquiry about a new vehicle I’m hoping to purchase) I am now getting a glimpse of that excruciating feeling one must get when one waits for something important.
Such as: an answer to a first-date request by a nervous college freshman (especially those few seconds you have to wait to see her response on IM), or waiting for a pregnancy test to come back either positive or negative or “what does THAT mean?”, or waiting for a MCAT score to see if you got into med school, or waiting to see if the revival efforts worked on your loved one in the E.R.
Or waiting to see if a car is sold yet or not. You know, same thing.
My cube-neighbor is telling a story in gross detail about pulling a tick out of her pet’s paw. Barf faint gross.
A day late, but alas: taken from The Writer’s Almanac for August 26, 2007:
“It was on this day in 1920 that the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, guaranteeing American women the right to vote, was declared in effect. After the Congress passed the amendment, it had to be ratified by a majority of state legislatures. The state that tipped the balance was
At the house, supporters of suffrage sat in the balcony, wearing yellow roses. On the house floor, those who opposed suffrage wore red roses. When Burn entered the room, he wore a red rose and the anti-suffrage camp thought they had his vote. But when he was called on to say aye or nay for the ratification of the 19th Amendment, he said, "Aye," and the amendment was ratified by a vote of 49 to 47. A witness there that day said, "The women took off their yellow roses and flung them over the balcony, and yellow roses just rained down."”
You know that awful feeling of regret mixed with that pit-in-your-stomach mixed with “Whyyyyyy did I doooo that?!” when your eyes move against your brain’s will and read down at the end of a website containing spoilers you weren’t going to read, you swear, you would NOT read how the end of the movie ends…
I’m sure many people fell prey to this phenomenon during Harry Potter frenzy, etc. but for me? I got that feeling when I was put on hold with a supplier this afternoon while at work.
Knowing from past experiences that this company has HORRID hold-music, I was prepared to start humming to myself in my cubicle, or start reciting what I could remember from “The Raven” which my 8th grade English teacher made us memorize, or even start talking to myself rhetorically like my coworkers do.
But with that same power that forces you to scan your eyes down even though you see the **~*ALERT SPOILERS~!!11!!!** warning, I didn’t plug my ears, put the phone down, or answer “no” when asked “will you hold?”
Instead, I braced myself against the chair, lied to myself by theorizing “maybe it’ll be GOOD pop music… some JT or Fergie” and listened:
The Bodyguard, by her HIGHness, Whitney Houston.
Obviously, I have some bad karma residing somewhere on my karma slate. After those painful two minutes, that slate damn well better be scrub clean, clean like the top of the
I’m still shuddering.
For over 2 years now, I’ve periodically received phone calls from someone trying to fax. It happens every few months, and I’ll get 10 calls in a row from an Unknown Caller and all I hear is the fax shriek and I grumble to turn my phone to silent because I know there will be 9 more calls to follow. Since I never get a phone number I can’t block the call and sometimes Unknown Callers turn out to be actual phone calls from people I know, so I can’t just ignore every time I see that on my Caller ID.
Finally today I get about 6 of those fax calls starting at 7:15 am (Thanks!!) and I turn my phone to silent. Then, a few hours later, I reach into my purse at work to grab something, see that my phone LCD is lit up because someone is calling, except this time! It’s a phone number! An unrecognizable phone number! I answer the inquisitive “hello?” and hear those precious precious words… “sorry, wrong number, I was trying to fax something” and I can finally let him know that this number you’ve been faxing for 2 years? It’s a cell phone buddy.
Lame news, lame blog, but that totally made my Friday.
When you have the luxury of living a mile away from work, thus going home every day to make lunch, take a nap, browse the boob tube, etc., maybe it’s not such a good idea to start watching a show on Animal Planet that shows abandoned and malnourished and abused dogs, for you might return to work looking like a 16-year-old girl who just got stood up for her Junior Prom.
So at work, I’m pretty much in our ERP1 system 24/7. Well, more like 7.5/5 but you know what I mean… Anyway, so the system’s command for “go back a screen” (much like hitting the “back” button in any web browser) is F3.
It’s true, I’ve become one of those people at work with the Jack-be-nimble fingers, that can navigate the system with my swift keystrokes and deft fingers. You know when you were a little kid and you used to go to the bank with your mom, and you’d watch the tellers use a calculator or keyboard and they’d pound out the numbers and you’re just left thinking “Oh my gosh, how do they know where the numbers are so quickly? Mom, can we get ice cream on the way home?” Anyway, I’ve become that bank teller. I am that person typing 200 words per minute at work. At all times, I have my right hand on the number-portion of the keyboard, and my left hand hovered over the F3 button, always a tap away from going back.
Don’t you wish you could just F3 your life? And I’m not talking Marty McFly2 like go back in time, but more like just go back to the way things used to be, when going to the bank meant trips to the ice cream store on the way home, when your first instinct was to drive instead of fly because the road trip with your best friend was worth it even if meant it took six times as long than the time-efficient mode of flying. I recently realized that I need to go back. I need to F33 my life.
(Say it with me: DEEP.)
1 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Enterprise_resource_planning
2 http://imdb.com/title/tt0088763/ (swoon re: Marty)
3 http://www.flickr.com/photos/lindsay_smith/1061682802/
BY JESSY RANDALL AND DANIEL M. SHAPIRO
I am in math class. I have done my homework.
I am at work, wearing my clothes.
I registered for a college class and today is the final exam. I am well prepared.
No one is chasing me.
I'm standing perfectly still. I don't feel like I'm falling.
A guy comes up to me in an alley, smiles and says hello, and keeps walking.
I'm underwater for a long, long time. Then I surface, take a deep breath, and go underwater again.
I drive my car really fast and get to
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/links/lists/4JessyRandallandDanielM.Shapiro.html
"Starfish" by Eleanor Lerman, from Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds. © Sarabande Books, 2005. (Not sure if I’m allowed to post this on a blog, ‘reprinted with permission’ and sent to me via email from The Writer’s Almanac.)
Starfish
This is what life does. It lets you walk up to
the store to buy breakfast and the paper, on a
stiff knee. It lets you choose the way you have
your eggs, your coffee. Then it sits a fisherman
down beside you at the counter who says, Last night,
the channel was full of starfish. And you wonder,
is this a message, finally, or just another day?
Life lets you take the dog for a walk down to the
pond, where whole generations of biological
processes are boiling beneath the mud. Reeds
speak to you of the natural world: they whisper,
they sing. And herons pass by. Are you old
enough to appreciate the moment? Too old?
There is movement beneath the water, but it
may be nothing. There may be nothing going on.
And then life suggests that you remember the
years you ran around, the years you developed
a shocking lifestyle, advocated careless abandon,
owned a chilly heart. Upon reflection, you are
genuinely surprised to find how quiet you have
become. And then life lets you go home to think
about all this. Which you do, for quite a long time.
Later, you wake up beside your old love, the one
who never had any conditions, the one who waited
you out. This is life's way of letting you know that
you are lucky. (It won't give you smart or brave,
so you'll have to settle for lucky.) Because you
were born at a good time. Because you were able
to listen when people spoke to you. Because you
stopped when you should have and started again.
So life lets you have a sandwich, and pie for your
late night dessert. (Pie for the dog, as well.) And
then life sends you back to bed, to dreamland,
while outside, the starfish drift through the channel,
with smiles on their starry faces as they head
out to deep water, to the far and boundless sea.
I don’t get us. We are our own worst enemies. Why is it that judge each other, sabotage each other, are curt with each other, yet excuse men for much, much more? This is not a man-rant, so I won’t further propogate that argument, but seriously, women can be so ruthless to other women, it’s alarming and makes my stomach flip-flop a little.
Whether it’s judging someone because of their job position (ranking, bosses [thank God I love my female boss]) or because she’s your ex’s new girlfriend or because she has something that you want (a child, a fancy car, a house, peace-of-mind, good luck, good fortune, drive & determination, or any combination of the sorts), we are definitely our own worst critics, our biggest unfriendly rival, and our fiercest judges.
Now, I’m not interested in having heart-to-hearts Oprah-style while eating at Panera and maybe getting teary eyed over a scone (my idea of purgatory), but let’s cut each other some slack and not keep living our stereotypes of being bitchy and judgemental.
</rant>
So I skip breakfast this morning, sacrificing my bowl of Grape Nuts and glass of V8 for 10 minutes on the internet. DAMMIT. Seeing as how my level of cheapness went from $12 bottle of Aveda shampoo to $0.99 bottle of Sassoon… let’s just say I was a little uneasy going to the vending machine.
I blame my year-old career in Purchasing, but I’m as cheap as it gets now.
::: Thinking to myself ::: “Now why would I buy a 20 oz. pop from the vending machine for $1.10 when I can buy, like, 6 cans of pop from the store for the same price?!” Of course, I do realize this is the ultimate in cheapness, it’s like, JUST PAY THE DAMN DOLLAR AND GET A SODA FOR GOD’S SAKE! It’s not as if I am totally cheap – I will still drop pretty pennies on clothes, vacations, shoes, purses, books, music, etc. It’s just this random, doesn’t-make-any-sense cheapness about commodities that I’ve recently developed.
Anyway, so at this point, I’ve mentally committed to my Vending Machine Purchase. I was having lunch with a supplier today anyway, so what’s a little bit of coin in the machine going to do, I “saved” money by not going out to lunch.
So, first mistake – in my attempt to get a Diet Coke, I somehow end up with Coke Zero VANILLA. You’ve got to be kidding me, people. WHO INVENTED THIS, and WHERE DO THEY LIVE?! I’m saying this in a bad way, as Coke Zero Vanilla is a bad, bad idea. Like, Barry Manilow plastic surgery bad. ::: Shudder ::: (See: Perez Hilton)
You’d think my bad luck ended there. You are, and always will be, wrong.
Next stop: food machine. So much to choose from… who knew they had Chocolate Payday?! And why didn’t you tell me sooner? And Lorna Doone. Excuse me for sounding like an old lady, but DAAAAYUM those are good. (Open Note to Lorna Doone people: A little redo of your packaging would go a lonnnng way.)
So, foregoing the sugary sweet treats that looked so tempting, but not wanting to negate my hour of cardio yesterday, I opt for a healthier treat. Like maybe some baked Cheetos. Or Salsa Sun Ships. Or Caribou Granola Bar! OH THE CHOICES!!
So, I decide to go for the baked Cheetos. Can’t go wrong there.
Well, maybe you can go wrong, let’s say, by pushing B2 instead of B4.
Now, not only do I have to endure Coke Zero Vanilla, I also have the joy of eating, nay, wasting UNSALTED TRAIL MIX. Worst $1.85 I ever spent!
P.S. Quite possibly, one of the worst blogs ever posted, yes I’m well aware, but also out of the blogging-loop.
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I can go home at lunchtime, fix myself a grilled hammin’ cheese, and watch E! explain the details of Paris Hilton’s house arrest.
So I sign up for Yoga, right? Thinking it will be a way for me to become all Zen-like and holy and one with God and nature and self and quite possibly Budda as well. You know, body-mind connection crap. So nerdy little Lindsay drives herself to Target (where else?!) and buys herself a yoga mat, dons herself up in inconspicuous yoga clothes (can’t be a typical yoga yuppie yet, you know) and heads off to the gym.
First thing I hear when I walk in the door: “We don’t wear shoes in here.” Um, okay. Do I get to be a part of this “we”? Are you exclusive already? Am I out of the group before I was even in it? I’m feeling a little bit like Bridget Jones when she shows up to the Tarts & Vicars party only to realize… the Tarts & Vicars party was cancelled and it’s now a posh luncheon… Except I’m not wearing a corset and stockings to everyone elses’ Sunday best, it’s more like tennies to barefoot. So, okay, I get over it and take my shoes off.
Next, I get dirty looks and am told “oh, put that yoga mat away, use our sticky mats here” and inside I curse myself for having ripped off the tag just seconds before entering, in fear that I look like a novice who just picked up her first yoga mat. Except, I AM a novice who just picked up her first yoga mat, it turns out, unnecessarily. I chalk the $15 up to a lesson learned in not ripping tags off of something until you’re actually USING it and move on.
So, we finally start the class. Tiny Hipster Buddhist Lady (THBL) goes into yoga poses and we follow. Although, lying on your back with you feet up the wall, it’s kinda hard to turn and see what she’s doing next. I digress. She says she’s moving on to another pose… but here comes the kicker: “Are any of you ladies menstruating right now?” Awhaaaa? Exsqueeze me? First of all, there are men-folk in the room… we ladies must never mention the M. as a first-person occurance with men in the room. Sure, I’ll be the first to talk about “It’s sucks for women cuz we have our periods and cramps and we push BABIES out of our hoo-ha’s and you dudes? What? You get kicked in the junk and it hurts? You want me to feel bad for you?” but always in the second or third person… you know “we women…” or “women in general” but NEVER, no never, the first person. Am I seriously expected to raise my hand profess to be riding the crimson wave?? (Shameless Clueless quote) Shaaaaa right.
Screw this mind-body crap. Let’s get to the humming and pointing the thumb to the finger and closing the eyes and can we not talk about our periods?
So yoga! LOVES IT! (Cue: Quick fake smile and a roll of the eyes)
After 40 years of service.
Not only was I not even born yet,
But my parents weren't even hitting
Puberty when this guy started.
DinoDinoDinoSaur.
Cerrrazy.
CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: This email contains information from the sender that may be confidential, legally privileged, proprietary or otherwise protected from disclosure. This email is intended for use only by the person or entity to whom it is addressed. If you are not the intended recipient, any use, disclosure, copying, distribution, printing, or any action taken in reliance on the contents of this email, is strictly prohibited. If you received this email in error, please contact the sending party by replying in an email to the sender, delete the email from your computer system and destroy any paper copies of the printed email.
But wait! I do have a couple of dollar coins... and hey, no one is
behind me in the U-Scan, this is THE PERFECT and perhaps my only chance
to go through my (bottomless, as it turns out) purse to find those
annoying pennies and I loathe so much. Turns out, I have PLENTY of
pennies to use, and I do just that. Clink them into the machine, clink,
clink, clink. And more of the clinking. I left the store a new woman.
And thing which possesses The Awesome: hearing Queen's "Another One
Bites the Dust" on my way to work, and having the foresight to shut off
the radio THE SECOND the song is done so as to not damage the good taste
in my ears, so to speak, and ruin it by having some lame-ass Nickelback
song in my head for the rest of the day.
WORD.
Sweaty mosquitos hovering over the water
Muscles flexed in fear of leaches
My biggest fear life-to-date
Smell of wet wood and humidity
Not caring if my hair is frizzy
Or my shirt damp with perspiration
Oh how carefree
To be seven
"You are feeling uber-psychic, and will have three separate instances
today where you will email someone, only to have them on the other end
of the computer writing you the exact same email. THREE SEPARATE
INSTANCES. One, two three. Also, today is the day you will wear pants
that happen to be see-through enough to show your black undies to anyone
who has the unfortunate experience of walking behind you. Also? Because
that's not bad enough... you also will wear a shirt that is a scoosh too
small, and therefore your boobies will show just a little if you move
the wrong way. Actually, let's call this a HORRORSCOPE."
With lyrics that sing "Big girls, you are beautiful!" and "You take your
girl and multiply about four / Now a whole lot of woman needs a whole
lot more..." Doesn't get much better than that!
So I leave work at 10:30 am for the Secretary of State, to renew my drivers license. The place opens at 11:00, and I pat myself on the back for cleverly leaving early so as to get there before it opens, but it turns out I'm not the only one who was thinking that morning… doh. So I join the other 15-20 people in line, standing single file and silent, like claiming an unemployment check or something. Anyway, back to my lie. Once inside and making my transaction, the clerk verifies my information…
”Still in
“Yes.” First lie. Except not the= one I’m alluding to.
“Still need corrective lenses to drive?”
“Yes.” Truth.
“Still five-foot-two and 120 pounds?”
::: Pause :::
::: Pause :::
“Yes.”
Hahahahaha. She was duped! I had a hearty chuckle allllll the way back to work. It just made my day.
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In other news… can we please talk about Planet Earth and these amazing jumping lizards and the dancing birds and baby bears and could I be any more generic in my descriptions? It’s the next best thing since The Hills, I tell ya…
Also: sharing is caring. Listen to your mother.
