At work, a bunch of us are doing Dresscember, which is this challenge where you wear a dress every day in December, even on your ding-dang days off, as kind of a fundraiser to say, hey, I hate human trafficking.
I HATE Uncle Jamie.
Do you want to know what annoys me? Is just try to get one simple sentence that is SPECIFIC about this event. Here is the website for Dresscember. I linked you above to where you can donate to my specific fundraiser, because I know you're saying, "It's December! I'm not spending my money on anything else. Why not June's cause?"
Oh, and here. This was the best (edited by me) paragraph I could find on what we're doing…
Dressember opposes the worldwide trafficking and exploitation of women. Dressember works to rescue victims of slavery, sexual exploitation, and other forms of violent oppression. Those who participate in Dressember are supporting the abolition of modern-day slavery.
What I have learned, as someone who writes and edits stuff you're supposed to want to buy for a living? Is once you've gotten really familiar with whatever it is you're selling or advocating or whatever? You get what's called the Curse of Knowledge. As in, you're too close to it and you can't explain it simply and clearly anymore. Like, did you ever have a doctor tell you what's wrong, but all his terms are so medical that you're all, what the…? Am I dying or do I have a cold? Of course, in my case, when you have a cold, you're basically dying.
Anyway, that's what I found with this organization, the Curse of Knowledge. They kept giving me vague, flowery descriptions of why I'm wearing a DING-DANG DRESS ALL DECEMBER–did I mention that?–and I just wanted a simple, declarative sentence that was, oh, precise.
The point is, I went stampeding into work yesterday in a dress. I own two dresses, one of them my wedding dress and the other my 1983 prom dress, and I walked in yesterday and there're all my coworkers, sportin' the pants. I put my hands on my be-dressed hips.
"I thought we were doing Dresscember!"
No one looked up. "We are. Today's November 30," said Fleeta.
Son of a…
I meant to take a picture of yesterday's dress I wore by accident, but you know Mondays are busy for me, as I have a Purple Clover deadline. Here, by the way, is last week's Purple Clover.
And here, once again, is the link if you wish to donate to the Dresscember cause. If you don't, you're saying you LOVE enslaved women. That's all. Don't feel bad about that. By the way, I'm the one who thought of our team name: Addressing the Issue. Love for self will never die. Love for self is here to stay.
In the meantime, tonight's my work Christmas party, and yes, we call it a Christmas party, none of this pussyfooting around. Everything's an argument anymore, you ever notice that? We got nervous people flapping their hands on one side saying we gotta include everyone, then we got the (let's face it) fairly bigoted folk on the other saying, Fuck that. Really, you're all being repugnant. Can't we just live and let live? Don't get your hemp blouse in a twist over a word, and don't get your Confederate flag all mussed over someone else's wants. Geez.
June for President.
Anyway, that's exciting, my work CHRISTMAS party and all. I'm going with my friend The Naughty Professor, who in fact used to work where I work, and he just left this year after about 109 years there.
Four years ago, I took Dick Whitman to my work Christmas party, and afterward we came back here for awhile, and as we were kibbitzing, my cat Roger opened the back door and ran out. He could open the doors. "Roger, don't go out," I yelled after him. That was the last I ever saw of him. He got out of my fenced yard, who knows how, into Peg's yard which is ALSO fenced, escaped THAT and got run over.
That was a terrible time. Roger was so effing cool. Anyway, I think of that every work Christmas party, so thanks, memories.
Shut up, dicks.