D life

Rice’s last day at the 9th circle of hell finally came. Now, he’s got one week, home, alone (until he picks up Kieran by 6pm) to do whatever he wants.

What his list of priorities probably are:

1. Play Xbox.

2. Play Playstation III.

3. Seriously ponder going and picking up that Wii; then remember wife might throw him off the balcony.

4. Play RockBand.

5. Check out all his favorite websites and, hey, if porn comes up on the screen? Well, no one’s around to say anything.

6. Link up every electronic gadget in the house. The new Zune to the Xbox to the Playstation to the iMac to the TV to the Microwave to my electric razor.

7. Nap.

What my list of priorities for him would be:

1. Clean the apt. A good, thorough cleaning, not just a hasty vacuum with a light dust and a well made bed.

2. Plan interesting/romantic surprises for when I arrive home from my week of hell stuck at the office. Believe me, it would score mega points.

4. Eat the rest of the cupcakes and any other sugary treats in the house before my pms holds me hostage and forces me to eat them.

3. Have a martini ready for me the minute I walk in the door.

Wow, how selfish. That was all about me, wasn’t it?

I need some romance in my life.

But I refuse to buy a paperback with Fabio on the cover.

Just a reminder! It’s my birthday this weekend! Woo hoo!

My birthday… and on a Saturday too….and nary a party in sight nor any plans to speak of. Reminds me very much of last year. Does that mean I am still the same age? Maybe that’s the key right there—do the same exact celebration every birthday and you stay the same age! No new wrinkle, no continuation of sag, and no having to check a new box when asked “which age bracket do you fall under?” By George, I’m going to write a book and sell this idea! And I know one gullible idiot on the planet who will buy it!

My boss.

The same woman who tries every cleanse, reads up on every type of alternative medicine including some kind of hydrogen peroxide therapy she’s been forcing on my co-workers. That theory is written by the same Doctor who wrote books telling of the wonders of smoking, eating tons of red meat and the need for drinking more caffeine and less water. Shark cartilage cured her of arthritis—nevermind that she didn’t suffer from it in the first place. There’s a miracle cure for cancer in Mexico, or Germany—ah, who knows, but it’s out there and “they” are trying to keep it hidden. This boss o’mine tries to be the pal, while bullying atleast one or two people under her until she can’t get away with it anymore, is cowardly and wont deal with issues that arise in a well thought out and sensible manner, and constantly has the audacity to say things like “Oh, SNAP!”

DUDE, (if I may still get away with saying dude as I’m not getting any older) you are a 40 year old wannabe-(shit, I don’t even know what you WANT to be) from the Valley!

Ahhhhh, how this simple little post about my birthday suddenly turned ugly. Well, might as well have a little blog therapy with my morning coffee.

(Cristen, that was for you!)