They are having a bake sale at work today. Inexplicably, it starts at 6:00 a.m and by 8:00 a.m. most of the goodies are gone. In the morning, you walk in to empty trays and baking sheets, only crumbs left to tease at what goodies were there to be had. I suppose the concept is that the early bird catches the worm. Or cupcake as it were. No one will give any sympathy to the late comers who miss out on the sugar. There’s this whole Midwestern morality all tied up with being an early-riser, as though coming in at 8:00 made you marginally acceptable and woe befalls those who come in at 9:00! I think it’s all inherently related to milking cows, but it’s still boggling.
Anyway, there was a rather seductive pan of brownies, mostly gone. A post-it note promised hidden caramel within the dark moist brownies. I plunked down a quarter and took one, feeling much like Miss Marple to distract myself from the blatant wrongness of a brownie at 7: 40 am. Was there really caramel inside? Or was it all a clever ruse to scam me out of a quarter.
There was indeed caramel inside. And the frosting… oh the frosting. Words cannot describe the delectable silky frosting. It’s that kind of frosting that gets a little crust on top, but is really light and fluffy and slightly grainy as though all the sugar hadn’t completely been incorporated. And the body of the brownie was dense and truffle-like. If I weren’t already married to a rather tasty morsel, I’d want to marry that pan of brownies.
If there was ever any doubt in your mind that I am orally-fixated, the above paragraph ought to have cleared up any confusion rather nicely.
My half-day curse continues. I had a half-day scheduled for today. I figured if I scheduled it in the middle of the week, I’d have a higher likelihood of actually getting to take it. Whenever I schedule a half-day of comp time, my team members decided not to show up for whatever reason and I get stuck working anyway. And this is a makeup half-day from the last time this happened.
Last night, I announced that none of those bastards had better be sick because, as God as my witness, I was not going to get screwed out of my half day again! And I clutched a turnip in my dirty hands while the sun set poignantly behind me for dramatic effect. Didn’t help. Someone called in with a “sick furnace” and another has announced that her child has a fever and she expects that the day care will be calling her a negligent mother any moment now.
It’s enough to drive me to eat another brownie. Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll go into a sugar coma and the ambulance will come and take me away and I’ll get to take my fucking half-day.
Nah. They’d give me a lap top and a cell phone.
Last night’s dream: Mo and I went to a Monkee’s concert. Strangely enough, it was the Monkees circa 1966, but it was only Peter Tork, Mickey Dolenz, and Davey Jones, such as they were on the Monkees reunion tour circa 1986. So basically, they were old but they looked young. And then somehow Mickey Dolenz pulled me onstage to sing “Bohemian Rhapsody” with him, because that was a perennial Monkees hit and all that. And then Mickey was really Hyde from “That 70’s Show”. And he offered to take a picture of me with Peter Tork and Davey Jones, while thousands of people waited for the Monkees to start singing again. And I tried to tell Davey that my Uterus was always reminding me that I should have married him, but he didn’t get it because, you know, Davey doesn’t read this diary. He just thought I was some kind of freak or possibly a Zappa kid. And then Mickey wanted me to stay up onstage and sing with him but I said “Oh, no, really, Mo and I must be going. We have other plans tonight.” so I walked down off the stage, gathered up my stuff, and three forlorn aged Monkees and an arena full of 9000 silent fans watched us walk up the aisle and out of the building, while Mo was whispering “Why do we have to leave? I want to see the rest of the concert!”
I feel kind of bad now because I lied to Davey in my dream. My Uterus feels that I should have married Donny Osmond, not Davey Jones. Donny’s closer to my age. What is more, Davey is roughly the height of a troll doll. I would crush him between my thighs like a twig. Donny is from hearty Mormon stock and might be able to withstand the intense physical nature of a curvy round sex goddess.
This entry has gone in an entirely disturbing direction. Blame that damn brownie. Note to self: avoid so much luscious chocolate ecstasy so early in the morning. Stick to Diet Coke.
