I've been away from my dear ol' blog because a) I have been nursemaiding (badly), b) I was out of town for a couple of days to see my sister and get a chair for the digs-I-haven't-seen-yet (and yes, I know, not see other people who live in the same town whom I love dearly and never see - I'm bad, bad, bad! Hi, Don!) and c) I have actually been doing a wee bit o' the stuff I don't want to do. Sorry. I'm sure it will happen again, though. I'm sure you'll deal.
Yesterday, the Salvation Army refused my donation. Ahem. THE SALVATION ARMY REFUSED MY DONATION. Wow. That can make you feel like a loser. Because, really. Have you seen the stuff they sell at the Salvation Army? And my stuff was good stuff (that I didn't want anymore, but that's neither here nor there). I was somewhat demoralized, what with the sorting, packing, carrying down two flights of stairs (there were six boxes worth -- I tell you, I've been working) and there was no way I was taking that stuff back home. I seriously considered just leaving it in the bed of the pickup until someone stole it. But today I took it all to Goodwill and they took it with a smile. I was nervous, though. I don't think I could have taken it if both places had refused to take my stuff. So my pride is saved. This time.
It's my last week of work and I have whatever the workplace equivalent of senioritis is. Bad. I swear I spent at least as much time today doing interpretive dance as I did working. What? You don't do interpretive dance at work? How do your coworkers ever know what a complete dorkwad you are? I like to have all my dorky cards right out there on the table so there are no awkward silences when dorkiness accidently slips out, like when the PA student spills a gallbladder container and you can't stop yourself from saying, "How do I get this off my hand without betraying my cool exterior?"* Well, okay, there are still plenty of awkward silences, but you don't care as much because you've already established yourself as a dork. And, really, who can keep from doing interpretive dance to certain Duran songs? Or cheering a grumpy coworker by whippin' out the jazz hands for a jaunty "Just Jack!"? Like Colt 45, it works every time.
I found out that the George/Eleni-gan is now officially the George-gan. Yay! Congrats, Em and Deno!
*-Fox Mulder, The X-Files, "Squeeze"
(the episode that made my friend Meredith afraid of her bathroom for months because she had registers just like that)