It's no secret that if my house was burning down and I had to rescue one thing from the flaming wreckage, I'd be hard-pressed to choose between my hot pink Kitchenaid mixer and my shiny white iBook. (Uh, sorry Sean. Sorry, cats. I sort of assumed you'd all be able to tie some sheets together or something. We're only on the second floor.)
So y'all remember Greg, right? (Wow, that's the first and last time I'm using "y'all." British girls cannot get away with it.) He's the neighbor who regularly plays Gloria Estefan at 4am and who once got some girl so drunk that she wandered naked into our apartment one morning. Remember him?
"So you know how I'm going out for drinks tomorrow night---"
"Wait, I thought you were going out Thursday night."
"Yeah, tomorrow is Thursday."
"No, tomorrow's Wednesday. Today is Tuesday."
"Uh, Sean, today is WEDNESDAY. I think I would KNOW."
"Why would you know?"
"Because I'm wearing my Wednesday knickers! It's not Tough Tuesday, it's Wishful Wednesday! Look!"
"I swear it's Tuesday. Wait, turn on the TV and see what's on."
"Scrubs. Damnit, you're right."
"Told you. Tuesday."
"I can't believe I wore the wrong pair."
Do you know, my parents went to see Elvis at the Pontiac Silverdome in Pontiac, Michigan, in 1975, and he was totally drunk and slurring, and also bloated and fat. He couldn't remember the words to his songs so he kept pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket and reading them out, but getting the timing wrong and stumbling. And then in the middle of one song, he kind of suddenly stopped and grunted and said "uh.... I split mah pants," and then he shuffled off stage BACKWARDS to hide the fact that his Generous Elvis Flesh was hanging out the back of his white spandex pantsuit.
So do you think it was normal for me to cry ALL THE WAY THROUGH the Golden Globe Awards last night? Probably not, right?
On Sunday afternoon, a policeman came over to our house and all the lights were flashing on his car when he parked in the driveway. It's kind of awesome how policemen still make house calls; it makes you feel very important, like you have many leather-bound books and your apartment smells of rich mahogany. And it's not even like calling a plumber or an electrician to come out and see you, because you don't even have to pay! You just phone the police department up, say "I need a policeman!" and they send you one!
Last night, Gallaudet---who lives in Iowa, which is a place I totally used to make fun of but can't possibly now because I rather like her (but seriously, come on, doesn't it just make a joke funnier if you can somehow work "Des Moines, Iowa" into it somewhere?)---left me this in my comment box:
Dear Holly's Employer,
So here we all are for week three of Secret Bachelor Tuesdays! Take a seat! Hide your shame! And remember: I'm watching so you don't have to!
So apparently people Google themselves way more than I'd realized, and maybe sometimes this can get me in trouble, if, say, someone about whom I'd been talking on my website happens to do a little research on himself one day and gets directed here.
I believe this may be a picture of me wearing them; Susie very kindly e-mailed it to me after (probably) wetting herself upon finding it in the family photo album. Somewhere I have one where I am wearing the same glasses---or at least some very similar ones---plus some very high-waisted tapered jeans, a plaid flannel shirt that's three sizes too big AND TUCKED IN, and some kind of medallion that I can only hope I borrowed from someone else and didn't actually PART WITH CASH FOR.
Don't you wish you worked in the office in The Office? Preferably the NBC one rather than the BBC one, mainly because Jim is quite a bit hotter than Tim, but still, either would do. My office is not like The Office, but sometimes it's still quite amusing. Sometimes there are scenes like this: