I spoke at length with my friend Cheryl this evening, which was very nice, just getting caught up, exchanging anecdotes and frustrations about our jobs, and reminiscing about the days gone by. Her main reason for calling was the recent entries here about some of my recent lunches and birthday escapades with our mutual friends here locally, people she misses because of her Fort Worth location, and she was telling me that she hasn't kept in very good touch with me, which I assured her wasn't a big deal, as I have friends across town
here that I don't keep up with. I'm a so-so friend, I think, because I tend to get into my own rut, and not pursue friendships as much as I used to, which is something I sometimes think may be relating to adulthood, and growing into a different set of responsiblities, or perhaps that's just a cop-out that allows me to not feel as bad for not making more of an effort. I have been in contact recently with several friends, mostly regarding the upcoming wedding, but it has been interesting in that most of them, in that 'true friend' fashion, have dropped right back into conversation as though no time has passed, which is pretty nice.
But enough sentimentality, on with the airing of today's grievances.
As you may or may not recall, a crazy friend of ours gave us an assortment of chicks for Easter, which are of course slowly growing into chickens even as I type the very words. This is all well and good, as I fully plan to build some sort of containment field, a 'coop' if you will, in the backyard area, once they are large enough to beat the stuffing out of the fat, lazy neighborhood housecats when they wander into the chickens' domain. What I wasn't counting on was how fast they might come to cross words with one another in such close quarters as they are currently confined. Each morning sees a new series of power struggles of a near epic nature, while I try to do simple shit like change their water, all to the tune of flapping, scratching and squawking. These little feathery fuckers are just shy of getting booted out into the elements if they don't learn to rope it in a bit, you can re-establish the pecking order all you want, fellas, just let me get out the door to work first.
The dog is in a perpetually dejected state, as K has been out of town for upwards of 4 days, so Bella has been quite beside herself, especially with me being out of the house for long workdays. She's so down-trodden with her lot in life, she doesn't even follow me to the door, she just raises her head from the couch as I leave, as if to say "Fine, be that way. Bastard." and lays it back down. If only we could attach the back of her paw to her forehead, woe is me
. I can only hope
to come back as someone this pampered in another life. Yeesh.
I then spend near 20 minutes in the drive-thru of a restaraunt waiting for my breakfast burrito, I assume that the car at the head of the line was broken down and that they had to send a runner down to Auto Zone
for parts. Nearly late for work as a result, the day seemed to be heading south fast, the clock reading merely 8:27 in the AM.
I got a call mid-morning saying that the museum has pulled some strings that will allow for the Modernist
exhibit currently on display to hang around for the wedding reception, which I find really exciting, a definite bright spot in an a thus far blah week. I also have a suitably pessimistic notion that these people just left us hanging for a few days, just so they could call back and say that we could use the art, while it in actuality doesn't have to be anywhere for a few weeks, they just wanted to look like our heroes. Either way, I'm elated, it's one less thing we have to fight someone about.
Work was long and blah, and our featured annoyance, Chatty Cathy, wore a sweater draped over her shoulders in what I perceived to be a very grandmotherly fashion, one that didn't allow for a lot of movement, as the sweater would fall, clearly indicating that she had zero intention of getting in a hurry about a single Goddamned thing happening today, which is a nice thing to see at a busy holiday. Therefore, tomorrow, I'm coming to work in a robe that doesn't quite close, and some missmatched slippers.
The day after that, I'm taking a walker and an earhorn.
A nice lunch with Becky, an old friend who won't be able to make the wedding, who I hadn't seen in forever. Like I remarked earlier, it's been a week for renewing old acquaintances.
Once I got home from work, I ran across the strangest thing I've seen in awhile, which was in the upper reaches of our cable channels, because we'd recently added a new block that contains BBC America
, so whilst searching for episodes of Coupling
(Mmnnn, Gina Bellman
.) that I've not seen, I noticed a channel immediately below the BBC called Fuse
, which was showing a program called Pants Off Dance Off
, a title too intriguingly stupid to ignore. I imagined a dumbass play on words involving "I'll dance the pants off of you.." or some such, but this actually has average idiots stripping down to music of their choice, while the video plays behind them and they themselves pop onscreen occasionally, telling you about themselves. Curiously, they don't ever seem to mention their obvious lack of self respect, although several do mention needing money, so I assume there is a prize involved somewhere in this insanity. If I were 14, this would probably be like a Godsend to me, but being 31, and having access to actual hardcore pornography, this just makes me want to wince, because it was like watching a car accident with a play by play from the victims and a soundtrack. The nudity is pixilated, and if I want pixelated titties, I can just check out the Girls Gone Wild
commercials, their participants are generally a lot hotter than the ones on display here. As with any reality television, I firmly believe that at least one of the losing contestants should be put to death, preferrably with a handsaw, because it would encourage everyone to bring their 'A" game, if you know what I mean. No more "Ha Ha, lookit me, I made it on television!"-type of half-assing it
, if you know that you might be playing for keeps.
Just a thought.
Labels: Chatty Cathy, Chickens, Co-Workers, Depression, Friends, Personal, Television, Yorkie