You know what's pretty awful?
When I was about 17, we read Ben Jonson's play Volpone in English class and I wasn't really into it. I was much more enamoured of the other two books we were studying---The Great Gatsby and Lyrical Ballads, I think---and every time Tuesday afternoon rolled around, I could hardly believe it was Volpone day again, because it seemed like we'd just had Volpone day and seriously, now we were having it again?
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:
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.
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.
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!
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,
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!
So do you think it was normal for me to cry ALL THE WAY THROUGH the Golden Globe Awards last night? Probably not, right?