It's story time, again

My brain is tired, my back is sore, and my mouth hurts from being at the dentist.


Plus, there is more water (just a little bit, this time) in the basement from the torrential downpour that hit the city today (as I was driving - I used to be an experienced driver, but I'm not anymore. I was tense when I got to the dentist).


So, I will tell a story.


Way back in March, Construction Inc. hosted a gathering for the office staff at our box at the Phone Booth. I marched in, all cute and sexy in my cute pink hat and black blazer, because N and I were meeting for drinks after the game. There was the usual introduction of guests, and before we were finished, I looked up.


Waaay up. And said, "Hello, how have you been?"


My invoice clerk then says, in a carrying voice (naturally), "Misstea! How do you know my brother!?!?!"

And you should have seen the interest on our office manager's face! He was very, very curious.

I said, calmly (I hope), that we'd seen each other for a bit. There was an awkward conversation. Clearly, we were all flummoxed.

I went to find a seat and enjoyed the hockey game.

I remember this now, because that invoice clerk was fighting with the microwave in the lunch room yesterday.

I managed to fix it for her, saying that the microwave was 22 years old. My Grandad and I had bought the same one for my mom when I was fourteen.

I could see her mind squirreling, trying to do the math... finally I just said that I was 36. Her jaw damn near hit the ground. Again.

So, given that my clerk is only about 22, and I know her brother is only a little bit older. Tall cute boy was indeed, very, very young. And totally unsuitable.

Though he was (and still is) very tall. A compelling trait, that.

His sister has the same eyes. I wondered why she looked oddly familiar.

I will never, ever learn

Y'all know I have a disgusting habit of not dealing with the bills, catalogues, yarn, needles, empty wine bottles and other detritus that comes into the house. Every surface is littered with paper, empty water bottles, empty cd cases, ball bands, patterns, books and magazines. About twice a year, I realize that the mess is driving me insane, and I attempt to do something about it.

So, I hired a cleaning service. Clearly, I am not doing anything for myself, these days.

The night before they came, I raced around the house and swept it all the loose stuff into a 64 litre tub.

My goal was to thoroughly sort through it all in time for their next visit.

Well, that's in less than 48 hours, and all I've done is pull some of it out, wondering where it should go (meaning my desk is covered. Again).

And, the girls are coming over to bottle wine. I've got half an hour. Go!

I might have hit delete, but maybe not.

J left a comment on my last post. She said, "I don't have a polka party, but I bet they'd look cute at our upcoming karaoke event. "

I don't think I'd hit delete... but I've been into the wine. As usual.

J is getting married! The next big social event on my calendar (other than a block party in St. B, more on that later) is her stagette, and then the happy celebration of her wedding,

I am happy, and truly privileged to share in her day. How do I love this woman? Let me count the ways.

Wait a minute. There is no need to count. She knits. Nothing more need be said.

So, the new question is... what does one wear to a karaoke stagette, given that the footwear (and I am sure the bride's footwear surpasses mine, as well it should) is $10 fake argyle/Harlequin loafers with pink hearts and silver stars?

And the budget is $40 (just to make it a challenge, and no, I refuse to go to Value Village.).

Internet, show me your knowledge.

Oh, and I loves the karaoke. I'm famous, such as it is, in certain bars around town.

My dancing shoes

N and I were supposed to go out, a while ago. She was not feeling well, and I was royally hungover.

Therefore, we did not.

But, I had purchased the most, adorable cute shoes (for $10, win!), to temporarily replace the ragged pair of flip flops that should have been retired four years ago, but I cannot bear to part with (far too comfortable, stench notwithstanding).

A girl cannot polka well in flip flops. It's undignified.

Now, the question is, when is the next polka party, so I can show off these shoes?

Happy Anniversary to me

I was surprised, when I looked at the calendar last week. It's one year ago that I began working at Construction Inc (the application for the pension plan told me that I wasn't dreaming).

Oh my, what a glorious wonderful thing working there has been. Truly, I am lucky.

I dance to work every day. Frequently late, but I am dancing.

I mention this tonight because I had dinner with Bosslady and my former junior support person this evening. It's a freaky coincidence that we got together this week.

Junior and I have been in fairly (ir)regular contact, and as much as I love Bosslady, I knew that I needed some time to heal.

Well. I have healed. I have moved on. I am happy, happy, happy.

They are not. Bosslady is running out the clock to (early) retirement, and Junior (at only 25) hasn't figured out that work should be meaningful (but the stories she told me about being harassed. Yikes. Part of me wishes I was still there to protect her).

Am I ever glad I don't work there any more. It is nasty. It's not even the same department. The new department is as messed up as the old, I am not pleased to report, and a new reorganization is coming. Jeebus. Big Financial Corp. has not figured out that people aren't commodities.

The biggest news is that nasty woman has been promoted. I comfort myself by knowing that incompetent people are frequently promoted, so that they can do less damage.

Small comfort, I know.

The best part of this evening, other than hearing the good news about people I care about, and knowing that I am much better off, and having a fine meal with two women I have missed dearly, is that Bosslady and I might be related.

Her ancestral history is eerily similar to mine. And, her parent's names are EXACTLY THE SAME AS MY GREAT-GRANDPARENT'S NAMES (For clarity, my great-grand parents are long-deceased. Bosslady's parents are elderly, but living. But, strange coincidence, no?) That bears further investigation, given the things we discovered tonight. We come from a fairly small genetic pool, she and I. Who knew? I would be thrilled if we turned out to be cousins.

I am determined that it not be another year before we get together. That was far too long.

A rude awakening

A couple weeks ago, N was over.



She, kind and good friend that she is, comes over every couple weeks, and does my heavy lifting (and I love her for it. Well, love her more, because I love her anyway).



She told me, on her previous-to-last visit, that I "have to do something about that basement." Meaning, "Sort out my house and finally get unpacked, dammit."



I know. She hasn't said anything that I haven't told myself a thousand times.



And I promptly returned to my knitting and the book I was reading and forgot (meaning, didn't bother to do anything) about it.



Well, we had 80 mm of rain on Monday and Tuesday. And I think most of it is sitting in my basement. One of the stacks (somehow, I don't know... mhmm...cats?) toppled.



The top box, of books (oh, my dear sweet precious books), was splayed open, on its side, in the puddle, soaking up water (clean water, thank FSM).



I hauled out the bit of paper with the number of the company I was considering on it, called it, left a message, and steeled myself to spend some money. It's time.



I can live in a less-than-stellar space. My books deserve better.

My back yard is 10,000 x awesome

That's why I haven't been blogging. It's too nice to be inside.

I made a promise to myself, sometime in June, that I would get my money's worth out of this place, and sit outside, all summer. And, judging by the eternal sun burn, I have.

Three of the seven daisy plants my mom bought me have bloomed. I got a whole bunch of lilies from a colleague, which seem to be taking well, and there's tomatoes! (some of which are now ripe. I had just about given up hope).

I also got five full, luscious pea pods, which I ate raw with my morning coffee one Saturday. I am a real gardener! I wasn't going to call myself a gardener until I ate food from seeds I planted myself.

Now, I have.

But, it was five pea pods. So, I'm a crappy real gardener. But, I've learned lots (like squash flowers close at night. Who knew?) this year, and next year is going to be amazing!

My dad made me a stand for flowering baskets out of an antique rake (the kind pulled behind a tractor) so I will not be putting flowers in the garden beds next year. It'll be all about the food.