Monthly Archives: July 2013

Top of the Morning

While getting my coffee in the office kitchen this morning–

Co-worker: I almost hit you on your bike this morning. 

Me: I’m really glad you didn’t.  

Co-worker: Yeah, I was on the phone with Geico and pulled over before I turned into the parking garage so I wouldn’t drop the call and that’s when I almost hit you.

Me: You mean you almost hit me with your car when you were on the phone with your insurance company?

Co-worker: Yes, that would’ve been very bad.

Me: Or very convenient.  


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This, That and the Other


In a 40 person office, I am the sole person on my wing.  The only one.  Which is making it very hard to motivate.  So far today I’ve approved the daily media report, eaten leftover couscous for breakfast, done some quality Facebook stalking and drank two cups of coffee.  I’d call that very productive.

My list of things to do today include continue to perfect my 2000’s hip hop Pandora station, cross all my fingers and all my toes they close the office early, peruse and certainly, under no circumstances, online shop.

Speaking of 2000’s hip hop.  I realized Sunday when I was “running*” that as I listened to most of these songs on the radio** when I was younger, they were censored.  So many swears, Ja Rule, so many swears.  


I was at the gym last night all ready to exercise like a mother fucker when a 904 number popped up on my cell phone.  A random 904 number can only mean one thing– that I haven’t called my grandmother in over a week***  and therefore, I must be dead or not OK.  So she panics, she breaks out her brick-sized burner drug dealer cell phone (because only elderly grandmothers and drug dealers still pay for cell phone minutes by the minute) to call me long distance.

After reassuring her that I was absolutely OK, just neglectful, in the hallway of the gym, I got on the elliptical for 6 whole minutes and then walked to the bar because french fries and a beer sounded so much more compelling than working out.  Excellent life choice I think.


I pretty much love the 4th of July.  Fireworks, a parade, an excuse to eat 45 hot dogs and drink beer in daylight.  What’s not to love?

Friday morning gentleman caller J$ and I are hoofing it to exotic exotic Hackensack, New Jersey for a wedding.  I bought a new dress.  I am going to smash on some Italian food and try to figure out where the mobsters hang out.  They probably hang out in Hackensack, right?

I always thought I’d be an excellent mobster wife.  Although I’m not a great liar and would totally buckle under pressure, so maybe not that part.  Carrying around wads of money and having really big hair?  Now that I could do.  I’ve clearly seen Goodfellas too many times.  And now I’m rambling.



*I use the term running very loosely, as it is mostly moving at a pace slightly quicker than walking and trying not to die on a street corner.  Or throw up.

**Because, young folks, this was way back in the day when people still made mix CDs.  You want to blow a 7 year old’s little mind?  Tell them Gameboys used to be in black and white.

***Because I call once a week like an extra great granddaughter.


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There are certain things a lady doesn’t initially realize when deciding it’s a super good plan to live without a single other female– and usually these things are learned the hard way.

Run out of tampons at 11pm on a Sunday night?  Prepare to ransack every purse and backpack you own.  No toilet paper, paper towel or napkins in the entire household?  You will be the only one to care–or notice– for at least 4 days.  This is also usually something you discover at 11pm on a Sunday.  Former Roommate A once told me “just shower,” which traumatized me enough to now keep a secret roll in my bedroom.

But most importantly, what to do in a fashion crisis?  The day before a job interview a couple years ago, I walked downstairs in my navy suit wearing a purple shirt and holding a white shirt.  All three of my roommates at the time were watching TV.  Guys, guys!  I said.  What shirt should I wear tomorrow?  They told me I was blocking the TV.

In recent years, I started seeking text approval from lady friends and family, because clearly the boys aren’t nearly as invested in my outfit as they should be.  Saturday morning I was out to brunch with gentleman caller J$.  Show me some pictures, he said, starting with an adorable adorable photo of the cutest baby around and continuing to flip through my iphone.

After 2 baby photos and some photos of roses at a rose garden, he happened upon a solid 10 pictures of me standing in front of my mirror wearing various dresses.  But how else am I going to find the appropriate outfit for a wedding next weekend?  Text pictures to my girl cousin Jo in Atlanta, clearly.  Which is only embarrassing, it turns out, once you get caught.

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