Party on!

The job (the old job!) is throwing me a party to say goodbye. Fun! Silly, but I'm looking forward to it.

Almost everyone that I don't work with has asked, "What are you wearing?" And every time I hear it, in the back of my head I'm sniggering at what a silly question that is. Then I tell them what I've decided to wear, down to the underwear.

Judge not lest...

"Good job!"

The other morning I was walking the pooch down a block we rarely walk on. As a matter of fact it's a block where I've probably only seen someone come in or out of a home three or four times in over 2 years. This particular morning at around 7:20am, though, I heard some generalized toddler-type wailing and gnashing of teeth. While the dog sniffed vigorously I looked up to see if I could identify which window actually sported living inhabitants. Wonder of wonders I saw a door closing as an adult in blue and white striped pajamas pulled the paper inside. This muted the hollering and Em and I moved on. Being a dog, however, she was enjoying sniffing exactly every square centimeter of this oft-skipped block so I was still close a minute or two later when I heard "thunk". I looked up in time to see a heavy, bright blue bag of New York Times landing back outside onto the stoop of the door I'd just seen. Then a tiny hand reached out and laboriously hauled the paper back inside. An adult voice said, "Good job!" and the door closed again.

CSI...am that woman

"There's just something sad about a woman with raggedy drawers."
Warrick Brown
CSI

I have to confess it. I'm wearing raggedy drawers. They weren't exactly show stopping when they were new. Although I do believe they were free which, made them attractive at least in some respect. Now? Now they are laundry day panties. I don't understand how cotton can get runs but these have runs like you get in pantyhose. Also, they're kind of gray and dingy and they have a saggy ass pouch that just isn't sexy at all.

Keep your fingers crossed that I don't get into some sort of accident where the doctors or the criminalists will have to see my undies.

And please, please don't tell Warrick.

Tampa Today

Pitchers and catchers, baby!

Birthday Boy

What is the internet for if not to spew out the dumb things that your head thinks when you thought you were in control of it and were wrong?

So there's this boy.

There's always a boy, haven't you been listening when I speak?

His birthday is coming up.

My brain keeps thinking/hoping/fantasizing that he will call. As a sort of birthday present to himself to hear my dulcet tones and make me giggle. OK, for this boy he'd probably call me to berate me for not calling him to celebrate the momentous occasion of his birth and his dulcet tones and some other parts of his, er, make up. The fantasy part involves me, quite coyly and to great effect, explaining that my birthday present to myself last month was not to call him and to be strong and feminine and to have moved on, Mister Man.

But the other part of my brain, the one that doesn't quite have a rein on the fantasizing part but is trying valiantly to keep control, realizes that he probably is waiting for me to call, if he's thinking of me at all. He's probably expecting an apology for one of the numerous misunderstandings, again, if he's thinking about me at all.

And, apparently my brain is big because there's another part that just piped up, "Bitch, this is the fucking internet, he can find this. Shut the fuck up."

Shutting up now.

Compelled

It's been a while since I last checked in. I feel pulled to write SOMEthing and yet, got nothing well thought out and ready to go. How about a question?

What if I'm actually psychic?

There is evidence to support it but it's somewhat subjective. What if, though?