You guys, I'm sorry I'm not doing a better job with this blogging thing. My Thursday nights keep getting absconded with (with which get absconded?) and it's darn hard to get away from my desk some days. Still, I do show up, which is something, and I have fond hopes of getting back on a regular Thursday night posting schedule. I just have to figure out which day is Thursday. Not the easiest thing in the world in a short week when you're also jet-lagged.
(Yes, I know the time difference between here and Utah is all of one hour. It doesn't matter. I'm jet-lagged, I tell you. I didn't get to sleep on the flight home because of the screaming child behind me and I'm an hour and a half behind now. I'm not sure how I will ever catch up, though sleeping all day Saturday sounds like a good start.)
So, yes, I spent the long weekend in Utah with my folks and my sister. Which was actually pretty cool. Like we used to do when we were kids, everyone was on their best behavior and we all played nice together. Only one thing went catastrophically wrong: The baseball game. I forgot I hurt my back recently and that stuffing myself into one of those little plastic chairs for 3 1/2 hours was probably not the world's greatest idea. I'm very sore now, despite my massage therapist meeting me at my house practically the second I got home from the airport. (No, you can't have him, but his Web site is here.)
So I get back to the office and everything promptly explodes. Well, not literally, but ever since I started taking one of those wonder drugs that work wonders, my short term memory has been Having Issues. I've tried to build in all these fail-safes to remind me about this and that, but for some reason they took this week to all crash and burn at the same time. So I've been yelled at a couple of times (and one of them, at least, was not my fault, either) and I got into a tiff with the assistant manager that actually led to my complaining to the manager. (Yes, you read that right. I complained about something. And yes, that was the earth you heard cracking asunder.) So I have not had the world's greatest week.
To top it off, the other fat person in the office announced that she was Going On A Diet. I managed not to say, "What? You want a medal?" or something equally sarcastic, but really, do I need to know this? Does anybody, besides the person and his/her doctor? Why do people announce this stuff? To me, it's only a little less obnoxious than announcing, "I've just been diagnosed with syphilis and boy am I hungry." What you eat, or don't eat, really isn't anyone else's business.
Yep, I am not big on Dieting as a National Sport. I realize women use this sort of chatter to bond (James Bond) with each other, but I won't do it. Can't do it, in point of fact. I keep thinking how it's all some sinister plot, to keep us distracted with calorie counts and food plans while they busily take away our rights to safe abortions and birth control. Besides, if we all lost weight and disappeared, there would be no more women and then they could take away all our rights with no outcry whatsoever. Don't tell me Governor Goodhair hasn't at least thought about it.
By the way, I posit that Governor Goodhair is a psychopath. The only symptom he doesn't have is the criminal record, and all that means is that he hasn't been caught.
Anyway. I know things will improve. I'll get everything caught up at work and get all the fail-safes back in place (just in time to be gone two days for my cousin's wedding). I'll get the blogging back to a regular schedule for my legion of screaming fans (both of you). And I'll snarf down a cup of almond-flavored gelato at Afrah when nobody's lookin' and give the dieting industry a sloppy El Birdo.
Oh hey, here's a little cup of almond flavored gelato. Bloody marvelous.
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