I’m in between boring meetings right now shoveling lunch into my mouth, and my mood is fairly close to what I imagine it feels like to run a gauntlet: “Wow! That sucked! Good thing that’s over…OW, dammit!”
I don’t know why I despise meetings so much because once I’m in there, I’m not working. Maybe it’s because my brain feels compressed and my fist involuntarily clutches imaginary throats when people start having circular discussions, or maybe it’s because most of the time during a 2-hour meeting, I will talk for maybe 4 minutes.
I also fret about the work that’s piling up in my absence; work that’s spilling over my desk and gaining lifelike properties: an extra torso, five legs, its own brain stem.
I think the weather is really getting to me this year for some reason. This morning, I was personally insulted when I saw the sun shining, like really? You’re pretending you’re all pretty and warm outside when the only thing you’re accomplishing is making me snow-blind right when I have to navigate that tricky turn into oncoming traffic?
Because of this weather, I’m now opposed to the idea of having a leap year. I originally thought a leap day was cute; an extra day in a short month. But now I’m thinking I’d like to get to March 1st as soon as possible. So I’d like to relocate February 29th to sometime when I’d enjoy it more, like say, at the end of July. Yes. I propose we move February 29th to July 32nd.
I’m going to submit a vacation request for July 32nd and see what happens.
Hi,
I cannot post today because I have SIX HOURS of MEETINGS.
(That is 75% of my work day.)
There is not enough bacon in the world to make me happy about this.
Thank you so much for your kind words about my grandpa. He was a great man, and although it was definitely a sad day, the fact that he lived a long happy life helped immensely.
Do you want to know what I learned yesterday? You’d think that when it’s below zero, you don’t need to go to the cemetery for the burial. But you’re wrong, because the cemetery has enough notice to thaw the ground well enough to dig the grave. And the cemetery staff has put down astroturf and a tent to block the fresh-from-Siberia-wind. But it’s still cold, even though you’re wearing a scarf wrapped around your head like a refugee and your husband has long underwear underneath his black dress pants. Then the priest reads really, really fast and everyone is back in their cars in less than 5 minutes. And you promise your cousins and brother that you’ll do your very best to die between the months of April and September (year undetermined) because man, that was cold.
Let’s pretend I’m not the only person to download the theme song from Knight Rider to their iPod.
Jason & I went to St. Croix Casino to play roulette on Saturday. Have I ever told you how much I love roulette? I do. A LOT. Even when I’m losing. It’s the only game where I feel I have a chance, you know? Anyway, unlike last year when I lost all my money right away, this time I played for over 5 hours and only spent $20. And the only reason I quit was because I was hungry.
I want it noted for the record that I realize my car needs to be washed, and I would love to wash it, but since it won’t be above 40 degrees until say, June, I can’t. Stupid winter.
Do you ever get itchy in weird spots when you do certain things? Of course not, you’re normal. Anyway, every time I cough one of my deep, gasping-for-breath asthma coughs as I’m reaching for my inhaler, my right shoulder blade itches. Deeply, like in my nerves. Should I be concerned?
On the front page of The Sporting News from May 1937, the same month the Hindenburg exploded, there was a tiny box in the lower left corner that stated my grandfather had been picked up by the Philadelphia Phillies.
Although he never played a major league game in his life, he was an excellent player in the minor leagues. The statistics I’ve been able to acquire from baseball research organizations say his career batting average was .333 and that he was a talented power hitter who once hit a home run off legendary pitcher Bob Feller.
In the book The Rangers Reign: a glimpse of semi-pro baseball in the ’50s, one of the authors recalls seeing my grandfather play and described him as Babe Ruthian.
After starting out as a third baseman, he switched to catcher. Once his playing years were over, he became an umpire.
A few weeks ago, he fell, requiring surgery to insert a pin. He was put in a nursing home because they wouldn’t release him home to my aunt until he was able to walk. He would need 6-8 weeks of physical therapy before that was possible.
We visited him last Wednesday. He was tired and had a cough that wouldn’t let him finish his bowl of pears. He offered us his chicken pot pie and talked about the Super Bowl.
Yesterday morning, my aunt went to take him to physical therapy. He didn’t want to go (he never wanted to go). She asked him what he wanted to do – did he just want to lie there and die? And he said, “Yes, I do.”
And 10 minutes later he was gone.
It’s unbearably sad, but I’m so grateful we visited him when we did and I’m so glad he’ll finally be at peace with my grandmother.
