Something I learned today:
When a co-worker casually says “Oh, that’s just like that wolf-baby family,” it’s really in your best interest to immediately change the subject and pretend that statement never happened.
Because, if you say, “Wolf-baby family? What’s a wolf-baby family?” Then she is going to tell you—in detail—the story of a family she knows who as soon as the mother birthed the baby, they all licked it clean together.
And then your views on humanity will never be the same again.
Today I’m wearing a shirt I haven’t worn since last winter. When I grabbed it out of my closet this morning, I forgot an important detail about said shirt: It has a button in a rather precarious place that has a tendency to come undone for no apparent reason.
Last winter, I wore the shirt with camisoles under it and cardigans over it to prevent this being an issue. Today, I didn’t think about it and wore it with very little under it. So far, I’ve looked down after not one, not two, but THREE different business meetings today to discover that I look like a prostitute in Banana Republic slacks.
I’m now sitting in my desk chair with a blanket wrapped around me under the pretense of being cold. I’m not cold. I’m actually really freaking hot. But if one more person sees me partially unclothed today, there’s a good chance I’m going to just give up and go home.
Last fall I took a pole dancing class. In my defense, it was for work (not being a stripper, my other job: being a writer). Anyway, it was awesome.
I made my coworker come with me and while everyone else was wearing stilettos and tight shorts, we were barefoot in sweatpants. I learned a lot though. For instance, my instructor told me repeatedly that my problem was forgetting to “always keep your bottom out.” (Talk about life application possibilities.) And I learned that while the class was for pole dancing, it’s also important to know what to do once you land on the floor. And apparently collapsing on your back and laughing isn’t it.
The only problem with the class was that somehow, on one of my many graceful slides down, I hurt my right hand. And now, almost a year later, it still occasionally aches. I went to a hand specialist last spring, but was never able to determine exactly what was wrong. (Sidenote: I didn’t want to tell him the injury had occurred while pole dancing so I just said that I thought perhaps it had occurred while I was pulling my hand down a pole. And then I did the motion for that. And then things were very awkward between my doctor and me.)
Anyway, these days it only hurts on days like today when it’s raining. As in, I can judge barometric pressure based on my hand. Like an old-timer. My hope is that one day, when I’m a grandma, I’ll be sitting on my front porch rocking chair with all my grandkids gathered around (I envision being a grandma in 1912) and I’ll say “Rain’s a comin’ y’all” (I also envision being a grandma in the country). And they’ll say “How do you know that Grandma?” thinking, no doubt for the millionth time, that their grandmother is a genius. And then I’ll tell them the story of my days as a stripper and the subsequent injury (because that will make a much better story).
I really hope this happens.
If I ever run an office (because it’s Friday afternoon and I feel like fantasizing):
-Dogs will be allowed. Especially dachshunds.
-Mid afternoon cheese breaks will be highly encouraged.
-For the last hour of work on Fridays we will play Lil Wayne over the office speakers in preparation for the weekend.
-All employees will be required to bring one new funny YouTube video to weekly meetings. Dachshund-related videos will be encouraged.
-If work requires employees to stay after 6 p.m., wine will be available. If work requires us to stay after 9 p.m., vodka will be available.
I think these are reasonable plans.
Yesterday, the following three things happened:
An FBI investigator came to my office to ask me some questions about a former intern. Questions like, “Do you think she is a loyal American?” and “Did you know her to be involved in any terrorist groups?” Oddly, these topics don’t come up much in an editorial internship, so I had a hard time answering a few. But once he was done interviewing me, I had a lot of questions for him. I learned some fascinating stuff like that spies from the Czech Republic are really good at using disassociation to lie on polygraph tests. Then, he just randomly told me that if I were ever taking a lie detector test for the FBI and had used marijuana, that it would be better for me to admit that than fail the test. Well. Ok, then.
On my way home yesterday a woman came up to my car and asked for 75 cents to help with her bus ticket. When I hesitated, she pointed out that it wasn’t like she could buy weed with 75 cents. I handed her the 75 cents and noted that it wouldn’t be very good weed at any rate. Then she told me I was funny for a white girl. So that was nice.
When I arrived home Cowboy’s step-granddaughter was over at his house and apparently in the mood to talk. She’s about five months pregnant (with her second child. She’s 20.) and was smoking a cigarette while we chatted. I complimented her on her new haircut and she said, “Thanks, yeah, everybody says not to dye your hair when you’re pregnant, but they also say not to smoke. And I’m like, look, smoking ain’t the worst think you can do when you’re pregnant. There’s a girl who lives in the duplex behind my boyfriend who when she was pregnant she stabbed her boyfriend, smoked weed, and went to bars all the time.” I haven’t had a whole lot of life experience that prepared me to hear that statement and act like it was normal, so I just nodded and agreed that yeah, smoking the occasional cigarette is probably better than stabbing your boyfriend.