thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Weekend Update with YOUR MOTHER! Hi, Master. Lately the blasts from my past are coming in droves. I'm unsure why. I noticed the beginning of the trend the other night when Babcock, the company downstairs from us, posted advertisements for their Christmas production, "A Very Babcock Holiday Special." Okay, so the actual show is a reader's theatre of that "Merry Christmas, George Bailey" radio adaptation of "It's A Wonderful Life." I perused the cast list, and apparently Paul will be in the show. Saturday, in related news, Desi turned up at the PTC matinee -- alone. You'd think she's turning into me. After curtains, I carpooled her home to the dorms and we caught up a little bit, swore to phone one another. She noticed Tinkerbell -- a gift from Melissa -- on my windshield and, having written the "fairy tale character group therapy" one-act in which I re-created the role, got all choked up. That evening after work, ExBoy dropped an instant message. These things only happen in threes, right? I'm not going to end up bumping into anybody else for a while, am I? ~~ Worst Nightmare Ever: HM as my gynecologist. It's a good thing I have a two week break from PTC right now. Because that's the most horrible work-related dream I've ever had. ~~ On the subject of work, The Other Chick On My Staff Who Has My Name And Birthday found out last night that Fisher is a virgin, and relayed it to me. He found out about it, and started almost being civil. He helped me put 37 tiny bottles of Dasani into the display fridge. Of course, he was still shooting rubber bands at us during break. ~~ At work, we've all been helping ourselves to courtesy cups full of pop on a regular basis, because (a) we can and (b) as it's been said countless times, it's one of the perks of the job. We began using our ticket-validating Sharpies to tag the paper cups with our names for easy reference, because the vast majority of us drink Coke and don't want a mix-up. (Al and I have already had such an incidence. Fortunately we love flaunting our close bond by sharing drinks.) Gradually, however, we started embellishing. No longer the only "Erin," I started identifying myself as "Di." This gradually became "Her Excellency, The Right Honourable Di." After that, it was "The Wrong Di," which didn't amuse HM as much as I'd hoped. (Ewwwww. HM.) Meanwhile, Al was becoming "Lord of All He Surveys" with forty-word paragraphs to elaborate. Denise was writing her name in the gorgeous calligraphy of her homeland. Then I went into musical quotes. Last night's: "Maybe in Florida, I'd hold up myself for the keys to the cramp in your style." (A Side Wins, Sloan, for those who don't know now and won't remember tomorrow.) Everybody groaned. ~~ For some reason, when I checked with Key on the balance in my chequing account, it was about a hundred dollars happier than I thought it was. This means I can afford new uniforms for PTC! I'm way too good at being a drone. ~~ Last item of the day: the cookies. My higher-ups, after a tempestuous debate, have elected to replace the grease biscuits from Marie Callendar's with something else. (I gave them Missa's recommendation for Costco, although I could supply no credible endorsement of my own.) We had 200 to sell yesterday and only got rid of about 100, so I have two boxes sitting in the back of Hamilton right now, begging me to snuff them. And yeah, you, you, you and you should get in touch and let me know for certain if you want, as you alluded, VHS copies of last week's adventures, because I'm probably buying blank tapes today. Yours is already on the way, attached to your Flaherty porno. ~ETK 09:04 - 11 November, 2001 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||