It’s only Wednesday.
Think about that. It’s only Wednesday. It feels like it should be Friday, or maybe a more brutal day, like a day popped up after Friday and still isn’t part of the weekend. All my shopping was done on Sunday (even the cards and gift bags, because a stump-handed Parkinson’s patient can wrap presents better than me), but it still feels like I can’t relax. Graham called to see if he could take me out to dinner and I told him I’d already changed into my pajamas.
I’m sure that tonight will be amateur hour at the bars, so even though a drink or five would be terrific right now, I don’t have the energy to wait for someone to mix six Red Headed Sluts before I can place an order. I’m tired. So tired.
I think I’ll burn a couple of CDs for my parents tonight (hooray for essentially free gifts that supplement the real gifts by culling from your iTunes!). Maybe curl up with some of The Office. I don’t feel stylish enough for Rear Window and Rosemary’s Baby, so tomorrow can be movie night. I have wine. I’ll make quiche. Anyone want some quiche? It’s really good. The house won’t be spotless but you’re welcome to hang out if you’re not going anywhere on Christmas Eve.
(Keep in mind – this could change. I could get tireder and crankier and just say fuck it and never have anyone over again. So there.)
Now, keeping in mind that part of the reason I feel as though I’ve been beaten about the face and head with stuff to do is my job, I think I’ll break out an archived dispatch from the Little Corner of Moron.
But first, you have to watch this:
Brennan: (about the Viking guy with computer programmer glasses from 1981) That man is going to die alone.
Me: I think he already has.
Brennan: Someone’s going to light him on fire and send him out to sea. It’s a traditional Viking funeral.
Me: But less of a funeral and more of a lighting a corpse on fire on a boat.
Fiala: (about the guy with a laundry list of things he doesn’t want, including “fatties”) What the hell is a Donna Juanita?
Me: I don’t know, I’m Googling it….oh, it’s a female Don Juan. I thought he just meant no Puerto Ricans.
Fiala: You can tell that man has had his house robbed several times….by tramps.
Me: I can picture him walking out of his room, wearing a pair of ill-fitting boxers and knee socks.
Fiala: Maybe to get his cup of morning Sanka.
Me: Looks around. Like, “Well, shit. She got me again.”
Fiala: Damn you, Cinnamon.