Missing Explosives Burst
My mom called last night to explain that she might be hungover when she flies in tomorrow. Some Johnny Walker Red-themed party is interfering with her ability to travel sober she claims.
In preparation for not only her arrival, but also the arrival of a friend from Atlanta and one from Texas, I've been furiously cleaning and re-decorating the shoebox in which I live. While I’m looking forward to a full house, I worry over how the lot of us will co-exist peacefully with one shower. It's a good thing I don't bathe often.
Last week was crazy-hectic and this week was promising to be more of the same. Trips to the airport and evenings spent foraging for food and alcohol to re-stock my bachelorette-style fridge would be scattered amid everything else I have going on. Thankfully tonight’s engagement (a spanking booth construction party) was cancelled, freeing my time to bathe Black Pumps, scrub my bathtub and vacuum The General.
I'll be spending the big 3-0 surrounded by old friends, new friends, my mum, and the roller derby girls. I can't think of a better way to get old. I considered telling a few work people about Saturday night’s shindig, but they are simply not ready for it.
Most folks here at “The New Job” don’t talk at all. When they do, they whisper. The few conversations I have had go a little something like this:
Me: Excuse me. Where is the supply closet?
Co-Worker A: Downstairs.
Me [walking away]: Okay. But....we're on the fourth floor.
I often spend my drives home from work wondering what these people are like in "real life" but I realize that one of Colfax's diviest dive bars on my birthday isn't the setting in which I want to find out. With age, comes wisdom.
In preparation for not only her arrival, but also the arrival of a friend from Atlanta and one from Texas, I've been furiously cleaning and re-decorating the shoebox in which I live. While I’m looking forward to a full house, I worry over how the lot of us will co-exist peacefully with one shower. It's a good thing I don't bathe often.
Last week was crazy-hectic and this week was promising to be more of the same. Trips to the airport and evenings spent foraging for food and alcohol to re-stock my bachelorette-style fridge would be scattered amid everything else I have going on. Thankfully tonight’s engagement (a spanking booth construction party) was cancelled, freeing my time to bathe Black Pumps, scrub my bathtub and vacuum The General.
I'll be spending the big 3-0 surrounded by old friends, new friends, my mum, and the roller derby girls. I can't think of a better way to get old. I considered telling a few work people about Saturday night’s shindig, but they are simply not ready for it.
Most folks here at “The New Job” don’t talk at all. When they do, they whisper. The few conversations I have had go a little something like this:
Me: Excuse me. Where is the supply closet?
Co-Worker A: Downstairs.
Me [walking away]: Okay. But....we're on the fourth floor.
I often spend my drives home from work wondering what these people are like in "real life" but I realize that one of Colfax's diviest dive bars on my birthday isn't the setting in which I want to find out. With age, comes wisdom.