got your nose! no, I really do!
Today I am all in purple. Various shades. I like this outift: however I fear I look like some sort of popsicle or Muppet as I walk down the street. My sartorial anxiety was not lessened by the elderly Asian woman who, as I approached the bus stop, exclaimed, “Oh! Not black! Very nice, very nice.” Am I really that predictable?
LT and I thought of an adjunct to our Mr Penis routine, which really amuses only us: Mr Penis will run a promotion at his shop called “Penis Fever!”
Ahem. I apologize for my sometimes junior-high sense of humor.
We have a cafeteria here at work, and it plays the light hits. Oh boy does it ever. The worst radio station in the whole world (I don't even want to learn its call letters. If I do, it could easily be the first stop on my Murderous Rampage on the day I finally snap) plays at a just-above-subliminal level, and I made the mistake of stopping off there for tea this morning, and now I am cursed. Inside my head, Whitney reminds me that the children are our future, Elton John pleads with me to feel his love tonight (gack. If his “love” got anywhere near me there would be the biggest lawsuit you ever saw), and Steve Perry is warbling about the sort of things Steve Perry warbles about. I'm in hell, people. Light-hit hell.
Did everyone survive Fathers' Day? I personally don't believe in these Hallmark holidays, but my family did come out and take us out to dinner. My father won the wrestle for the check. I guess he doesn't believe in Fathers' Day either, or else he just doesn't quite believe that I am a real person, with a credit card and everything, and perfectly capable of paying for dinner.
I learned a shocking thing during my family's visit, actually. It is that I have an evil half-sister, whose father is Baron Von Scaryface, and she's had extensive experimental plastic surgery to look just like me, and she will soon be exacting her vengenance upon my perfect happy life.
No, I just made that up. My life is neither a soap opera nor a gothic novel, so here's the slightly less shocking thing that I learned this weekend. As a child I had a beloved stuffed bear named Harold, and it's a family legend that I ate his nose. Apparently I was put down for a nap and shortly thereafter Harold was found to be missing a nose. This came up again on Sunday (don't ask), and jokingly I said to my mom, “Hey, I always get blamed for everything. Did you search for the nose? How do you know I ATE Harold’s nose?” to which she replied, “Why, you told me you ate it.” I was flabbergasted. (Really. My flabber totally got gasted.) I had always assumed I was a baby when this happened. It turns out I was around 4 years old, a walking, talking, nose-eating person. Shocking.
Watch out, readers, I'm coming for your noses next.