I just sat down to blog at you, and sometimes when I have no pressing news, I look at my recent photos to jar my memory of what’s been going on. Not in a Marvin Gaye way.
We have two new guys at work who hail from Vegas. I mean, they don’t bring icy pellets with them wherever they go. You know what I mean. Anyway, we act like they’ve never lived on the planet before, so…introduce-y are we to The Way of North Carolina’s People.
“Have you guys ever tried honeysuckle?” we asked them the other day, on our 3 o’clock walk.
We showed them how you pull the stamen out and eat the little drip of honey at the bottom.
“I guess that’s why they call it honeysuckle,” said one of the newborn Las Vegas guys, who probably hasn’t seen any of the world or anything in Las Vegas. We also gave them a riveting discourse on humidity.
Here’s the best part: It had never occurred to a single one of us that “honeysuckle” was the same as “you suckle the honey.”
When I got home from work that night, I did the thing where you remain in your car for a moment. I forget why. Something good on the radio (but not NPR, as NPR makes me want to kill own self), something I wanted to answer on my phone. I don’t know. The point is, why do I always forget that this is going to happen?
He can’t wait EIGHT SECONDS for me to emerge from the car.
Then when I did finally go inside, I had all this. LOOKIT THE BABY.
There are also two OTHER new guys at work, and they sit in an office right across from me. That area was originally an “ideation” space, my favorite word, and it was also the space I made doctor’s appointments in, because hello open floor plan. It also served as a milk-pump room for women at work because hello open floor plan.
However, the two guys who moved in there are pretty great, and in fact I KNOW them from another ad agency I worked at.
The agency we came from didn’t just have coffee. It had three different coffee bars, with fresh beans, and from what I hear, there’s a full-time barista there now.
My work doesn’t provide coffee, just a Keurig pot and you bring your own pods, and they were surprised at that.
“I have my own Hello Kitty coffeemaker at my desk,” I said, “but I never bring real coffee.”
One of the guys whipped out a baggie.
“Let’s do this bitch.”
The best part was watching this 8-foot-tall bearded viking carrying my Hello Kitty coffeemaker from the kitchen to my desk.
So we had real coffee at 4 p.m. yesterday, and I slept anyway last night because addict. I just drink coffee now to keep from feeling sick.
When I got home last night, I had a package. About a week ago, my pal in real life, Marty Martin, put an article on Facebook about jewelry called Fordite, or Detroit Agate. For years, people painted cars by hand, at Michigan factories, and the cement underneath it had swirls of the various car paints baked into them. Someone got the idea to make that concrete into jewelry.
When I was growing up, everyone worked at the factory making cars. Everyone. Not my parents, although they both worked at the factories for like a week apiece at some point in their youth.
But my grandparents did. And everyone’s dad did that I went to school with.
When I saw that Detroit agate was a thing, I had to have some. Got this on Etsy–just look it up there and there are plenty of choices. It was hard to photograph up close but all the colors have a little bit of sparkle to them. There are reds, blues, silvers, creams. Ooooo, I loves it. It’s the jewelry of my people.
Also last night, a woman came over to look at Runty and decided she might take the mom cat, Cora, instead. Cora is rather charming, and I’m not worried about people adopting the kittens, because they will.
I take them all in to the shelter tomorrow after my wedding, for their shots and a checkup. I think they will probably take the mom and all the orange boys, who all weigh nearly two pounds now, and give me back the girls for continued fattening–or at least Runty, who weighs only one kitty pound. And if I were gonna keep anyone
WHICH I AM NOT
I would keep Runty, and to give her back to me is a little squealy and I must not love Runty.
I went in to say goodnight to the kittens last night, and three of them were up in the closet. They love that closet in there. They better not ruin my ’60s romance magazines I hid in there when I was thinking of showing my house.
I better go. Tonight is a happy hour for a woman at work who’s leaving, but I really want to be sure to be in good shape for my wedding, so I don’t know if I’ll go. I tend to go to those things saying I’ll just stay for one and being the last person to Uber home at 2 a.m.
Actually, I’ve never done that, but does anyone recall the Whiskey Sour Extravaganza of 2018? ‘Twasn’t pretty.
Or how about the Ned Had to Get Me That One Night Extravaganza of 2016?
I’ll talk to you all soon. My wedding day involves not just my royal wedding, but that trip to the vet, and also m’Botox and then a party and a baseball game. I know. I’m only going to the baseball game because they are giving away free Prince Harry bobbleheads. You know your ass’d go to that sporting event, too.
The point is, you might not hear from me that day, but fret not. We will discuss the wedding, my wedding, ad nauseum.