I wish more things could hurt on my body today. Stupid Pure Barre. Also? It turns out? When you get up at 5:20 and you’re used to around, oh, 7:00-ish, you feel really tired all day. Just a little news flash for ye.
“Ye.” Because suddenly I’m in biblical times.
Anyway, Bathsheba, before I forget because you know how I am, let’s delve into my boss, fmr.’s, wardrobe.
My boss, fmr., has an office right outside my open, exposed, raw desk in the open, exposed, raw floor plan that stresses me out on the daily.
“Oh, look, you’re here!”
“Going to lunch?”
“What’s that you’re snacking on?”
“Why you taking antibiotics?”
I’ve no idea who thought making us sit in a huge room with no privacy whatsoever eight hours a day was a stellar idea, an idea that would “inspire” us, because man, do copy editors ever seek inspiration. They don’t at all seek quiet and a place to concentrate. Anyway, whoever thought of it has an office, I guarantee you that.
The point is, my boss, fmr., has an office that she’s never in that’s right next to my exposed-innards desk. I know she’s never there because about 97 times a day, someone says, “Do you know where boss, fmr., is?”
She’s a good boss. She’s the kind who actually answers your emails and takes time out for you and so on, so she’s probably out doing just that, or at meetings, because meetings. There are always the meetings.
Once a month, her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes to work, and as she’s pawing through it, I always take the liberty of stampeding in there to veto her choices. I don’t recall her ever asking me to do that, but let’s face it: she’s in an office. I get like 30 seconds where I’m not exposed, I’ll take it.
This is also why I pee 11 times a day.
Anyway, now a committee of women assault her in this manner when her Stitch Fix–or is it StitchFix–box comes, and that is when I was inspired, in an office and not an inspirational open floor plan, mind you, to
BOSS MY BOSS, FMR.
“What if, every month, you try on all your choices and my readers help you pick?” I asked. And she was all, okay yeah.
Here is her box for this month, wherein she has already decided what to keep and what to get rid of. Ready? Brace yourself. Grab onto the person sitting seven inches from you in your open floor plan.
She is KEEPING the spotty dress!
She said YES to the skirt!!
She is RETURNING the ’80s Forenza-looking sweater with gold thread.
Also, she immediately played up to the camera. For a relatively quiet, unassuming person, it was surprising that you get a camera on her and she’s Princess Diana all of a sudden.
See. This is where we can boss the boss, fmr. next month. Because I wanted her to keep the Blondie Bumstead shirt, totally, for sure, and she returned it.
These boots are cute, but $110. My coworker Poochie, who has 8 million pairs of expensive shoes, was encouraging her to keep them, but I burst in and said, DON’T LISTEN TO POOCHIE. SHE SPENDS 8 MILLION DOLLARS ON SHOES EVERY WEEK.
So that’s a little preview, and next month we’ll actually get to vote. Oooo, ooooo! I can do another SURVEY! We can do a survey for each piece! Is that the best way, do you think? If someone has organizational skillz and can think of a better idea, let me know. LMK, as the kids say. The inarticulate kids.
I meant to show you a photo of today’s Clinique Chubby Stick, but instead I uploaded a photo of my coworker’s dog. I took this photo yesterday, as said dog ate A WHOLE BOWL of chocolates, wrapper and all, so my coworker brought him in so she could make sure he didn’t die. If he had, I’d have lead with that.
HERE we are. This is Graped-Up, and first of all, what does that even mean, and second, it looks like I have no lip color on at all. We have one more boring day of nude-ish colors, then we stampede into some exciting pinks. So.
And speaking of exciting, come back here tomorrow afternoon I MEAN IT. There will be photos of something very exciting. No, not my boobs. Perv.
Before I go, I mentioned this in the comments yesterday but perhaps you didn’t see them, as you were busy asking your coworker who she just called, seeing as she was four inches from you and you heard every word and you KNOW that wasn’t her husband.
My point is, at 6 p.m. today, NedKitty is going to be put to sleep. The vet with the pink hair is going to Ned’s to do the deed. She really isn’t eating anymore–NedKitty, not the vet–and she’s had kidney disease for more than a year.
And yes, I’m going over there while it is happening. And would you like to know what I’m not in the mood for? Opinions re this or anything having to do with Ned. It’s a sad time. And even though we were broken up, when Tallulah died, I called him at 11 p.m. crying so hard he couldn’t understand me and was literally here in less than five minutes. So. I’m going over there for this.
This is the very first picture of NedKitty I ever took, in 2012. She gave me that look for about three years before she decided she liked me. Now I’m the only person who’s allowed to pick her up.
Godspeed, NedKitty. May there be paper bags to wear on your head, and much hair to chew in the kitty afterlife.