Yesterday, I spent a good part of the day talking on the phone to a network guy from a company that I shall call Lepsi-Lola. That’s really not the name though. I’ve changed it, you see, because I am very clever that way. Anyway, Andy was extremely nice but kept putting me on hold while he did his important Lepsi network business, forcing me to listen to the Lepsi commercials, featuring Litany Lears.
See? Clever.
Thus, I began to fantasize that maybe I was really talking to Anderson Cooper, host of ABC’s The Mole and son of Gloria Vanderbilt. Because he seems like he is secretly an IT guy burdened with good looks, social grace, and an enviable sense of style and is thus shunned by other IT professionals because he doesn’t sport a million techno gadgets and a football injury prevents him from whipping out his Palm Pilot with nerdish flair. But anyway, Andy sounded like Anderson and it made my life a little more interesting.
Ok, unlike some people, I think The Mole is Heather. Even though it’s so fricking obvious. I mean, when Al was trying to get her to admit that she was the Mole, she said, ‘It’s not going to work!’ which is just an admission of Moledom right there. Damn her. Damn her and her proximity to hottie boom bottie Anderson Cooper, who speaks to me in my dreams and asks me if I want a Venti Iced Chai for my drinking pleasure.
So I needed someone to take over for Starbucks Guy. No man is perfect, people!
Ok, here’s my conundrum of the day:
I’ve finally located one of my missing professors from college, which was very exciting. I had a great phone call with him on Friday afternoon, during which I babbled practically incoherently to him about nothing in particular and during which he was his normal witty and confident self. And no, that was prior to the Blind Russian incident at The Bad Bar, so stop looking at me that way. Well, the weirdness is that I stupidly mentioned this web page and he asked for the address.
The horror!!!
I probably could have rattled off the address to him right then and all would have been well, but sometimes people have difficulty because they expect a WWW to be proceeding the Weetabix part, so I told him I’d send it to him in email. But I also was thinking of the goofy stuff that I had on the page recently. I mean, the salon talk, a story about my cat puking, the whole bidet thing. Gah. And this is a man from whom I’m requesting a recommendation letter for a graduate program in writing. You know. Writing. Good writing. Not writing about boobs and poo and porn shop conversations. Or about how really drunk I got on Friday night.
So I haven’t sent it to him yet, and now it’s Wednesday, but I’m telling myself it’s because I also haven’t sent him the stories that I’m going to send in my application to the program. I have to fine-tune them first. And THEN I’ll send him the link. And also maybe I’ll be able to write something more substantial by then. Or erase all reference to my boobs or how I let some man grope me on Friday night.
By the way, Penny clarified yesterday that Suspenders Guy didn’t just grope me, he ‘positively molested’ me. Great. I remember him being fairly attractive, but I have this horrible suspicion that without the Vodka-Goggles, he looked like Red Green or something.
Is it just me or doesn’t the word ‘coccyx’ sound vaguely dirty?
Just me, then?
Dear Michelle Branch,
I’m grooving on ‘All You Wanted’ but ever since Mo mentioned that when you say ‘So busy OOOOUTTT there’, you sound like the boys from Hansen, I expect you to break into ‘mmm-bop’ at any second. On the bright side, I hear that they’ve hit puberty now, so you’ve probably got a lock on the prepubescent boy sound for a while, anyway.
Also, how did you score the gig on Buffy? Because you just don’t seem quite that cool. Even so, I just found out that I’m going to your concert in six weeks. So try to lose the Zachness, ok?
Sincerely,
Weetabix
Dear Cubicle Desk,
What the hell is the greasy stuff that you keep getting on my pants? It’s been like two years and you’re still messing with my clothes, but I can’t figure it out. And Shout Wipes just do not take care of that crap. Where is it coming from? Why are you making me feel so inept and stupid?
Also, do you think you could be MORE exposed to the world, the way you’re positioned so my ass faces back into the department? So that when people walk into the department, they get a lovely view of my ass? It’s a feng shui nightmare. I feel like a ham in a butcher’s window. A curvy round sexy kind of ham, but a ham nonetheless.
You’re too low, too. It’s not ergonomically acceptable.
I hate you.
Weetabix
Dear Angeline,
Yes. I picked up ‘buzzquash’ from you the night of your Karaoke Farewell. It was all your influence, baby!
Hugs,
Weet
Dear Ricky Fitts, my beloved TiVo,
I love you. You’re so tasty that I want to lick you.
You are my favorite person in the entire world. The way you care for me. The way you show me Martha Stewart to watch while I’m doing my ab crunches. The way you giggle with glee when I fast forward through her stupid segments, like when she shows us the proper way to make a bed or detail the different kind of caviars. The way you showed me not one but two episodes of Two Fat Ladies that I had never seen and it’s like the Holy Grail of Unhealthy Cooking Shows. The way you allow me to stash them away to savor later and not delete them in favor of Esteban’s Cowboy Bebop stuff. You show me everything that is beautiful and good.
You are perfect. Never change.
Kisses on your hard drive,
Weetabix
