One of the girls in my office is teeny tiny. As I arrived this morning, I opened the door for another co-worker, a young guy who was carrying a huge box of cookies.
Teeny Girl: Who are the cookies for?
Other Co-worker: They're for you. You need to gain some weight, you're a twig!
OK, part of me was a little happy to hear this. And of course, hearing this directed at myself would be like the answer to a prayer. But then another part of me thought, "What if it was the opposite? What if someone thoughtfully bought me a bag of celery and a box of Dexatrim to snack on? Because I was looking extra-puffy lately?
Hmmm. Maybe I'm growing?
A Potentially Disturbing Story:
My sister called me last night, to share with me a harrowing tale about dating in San Francisco. A "really cute guy" asked for her number at the gym. They went out and had an awesome time. Only....
Evidently, after a couple of drinks, Mr. Wonderful has been quite forthcoming about his job as an FBI operative. Which is odd because FBI operatives, as I understand it, are pretty closemouthed about what they do. Also, two or three other jobs have come up, none of which are checkable through Google. In fact, one sounds ridiculously similar to the plotline of "Hitch".
Okay. So he's potentially a liar.
"Wait...there's something else."
The something else is that she's pretty sure that he is gay.
"OK...why do you say that?"
Well...he showed up to function wearing an open-necked shirt. With gold chains.
"I think he's clueless, possibly trapped in the 70's, but not gay."
"He was also wearing body glitter and called all my friends Darling. Also, I could swear that he was hugging me and checking out guys...like simultaneously."
OK, that's a fair point.
"Did he have a Pomeranian?"
Apparrently, no small fluffy dogs. But he keeps calling her, and he is laying it on pretty thick, because now she feels bad.
"Sis, if this happened to me? I would put posters up in his neighborhood with his head Photoshopped onto the body of Michael Flatley. Under the title "FBI! The Musical!" Starring...."
Sadly, I am not her. She still feels guilty.
"Do not let him make you feel guilty. I know you haven't told me everything, and I am already picturing him clubbing you like a baby seal and turning you into a lampshade with pink marabou trim."
I got a panicked e-mail today. She decided to check out his bona fides, and he is definitely nowhere in the FBI, not even as a file clerk.
I think I need to write a horror movie screenplay...stat.
Teaching today was interesting. I had to send a kid to the office for hitting another child. And then throwing a pencil at him. Who knew Science could be so violent?
When I was there, the nice ladies in the office asked me to fill out an "incident report." So I am now eternally a part of little Bobby's educational history.
I saw the kid's file...just the outside, but if the files a few inches thick, and you're only in the first grade...well. Evidently, kid has some issues. Which is great, since the only info his parents thought to share with me is approximately diddly squat. Oh no, wait, they checked the box that says "asthma". Thanks parents! I appreciate the 411 about your little delinquent. "History of violent behavior" would have been good to know. Although, I suppose there is no inhaler for that.