Unfortunately some of my clients are getting a bit needy and I’ve had to focus my time on the ole’ day job rather than this little electronic diary. Even more unfortunate, numerous factors prevent me from discussing the juicy details of my job. First, there is the attorney client privilege…blah blah blah…; however, I mainly worry about Short White Men & Cranky Unmarried Women LLP discovering the libelous posts and suing my fired hiny. I mean even the cast of 90210 The New Class can figure out who would win that battle. Long story short, you’ll have to buy a round of Patron shots to hear about my thrilling day in juvenile court with my shirt on backwards, or how I can’t stand the fact that people ask what’s in my candy jar even though it’s a clear, glass vase.
But, I don’t have to work tonight and I, like the majority of Americans, sit on my couch watching the Olympics, eating Chinese take out, and switching to Family Guy during the commercials (unless they are the ones with the Morgan Freeman voice-over – those almost motivate me enough to get up and get a napkin to wipe the duck sauce off my face – almost). Go USA!
While Lenzak pushes himself to Navy Seal limits to prove that a 32 year old American can swim faster than a pansy, trash-talking Frenchmen, I further indent my bum into my favorite couch cushion and challenge myself to finish an entire carton of lo mien before the gymnastics start. (After I realized that my calf is the same size as the waist of that mini Asian who is so small that her leotard is saggy, I decided there would be no eating during gymnastics.)
If I were really filled with the Olympic spirit, I would host my own veritable 400 IM and eat a piece of pizza, followed by a wanton, French fries, and conclude with German Chocolate cake. I suppose this also could be performed in relay fashion and I could train a team consisting of my college best friends who revere food as much as I do. (We have our Homecoming eating schedule determined and plan to dominate the Vermonster at Ben & Jerry’s on Franklin St.) It is a modern wonder that anyone in this group managed to land a husband and that the rest of us still occasionally make out with hot boys.
However, since most of my old college girls live in North Carolina and all the wantons are gone, olympic food relays are not in the picture. Instead, I settle for chasing Bijou around the coffee table after she snatches the fortune cookie. This ends in me taking her to the ground like a gay man on anyone who changes the channel from men’s swimming. With expert skill, I pry open her mouth and dig out the paper fortune. I watch as she sassily chomps on the cookie pieces and smirk because I wasn’t even going after the cookie. (But then I realize I’m smirking about outsmarting a dog so I stop smirking). I stand up; dust the carpet off my knees, and check to make sure all of my digits are still in tact. Kristy: 1; Bijou: 0. Guess we know who gets the Gold tonight.
I settle back into my cushion just as Phelps adds another gold necklace to his collection and some tiny American girl dominates the uneven bars. I open the fortune: “Your road to glory will be rocky, but fulfilling.” Amen, Fortune Cookie Gods. Amen.
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2 comments:
If you don't start updating this thing with more frequency, how can you expect to build a readership?
Check yourself!
Ignore this prick, KB. But definitely keep the writings coming, they are hysterical.
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