Grr.

So I think somehow Bosslady found out where I am. She called my cell phone today, and someone (damn the fact that there is no caller ID here) has been calling the house all day. I blame Stoltz-a-ma-fus. She's probably been riding his ass about the event invites that should have been done 2 weeks ago. (Not my fault. She had the timeline before I quit. She could have planned ahead.)

I? Am not answering, the phone. Because everyone who counts, knows that G. Monkey is on vacation, and all of our friends have my cell phone number.

So I'm already entertaining paranoid fantasies about her. She's coming over. She was behind me in traffic. She's got the house staked out. Gaaaah. Fuckin' a. Damn mind.

And the continuing saga of the dealin' neighbors progresses. Apparently the cops are getting the list of license plate numbers today. Odie was a bit pissed off that the cops wouldn't pay him any mind when HE reported this a week ago. My father played the guilt card, apparently. He said to the female officer "Well, my conscience is clear. Even if you guys don't do anything and the toddler finds and eats their stash, and dies, my conscience is clear, because I told you guys. It's on you now. " So, we'll see what happens. I haven't gone home yet today,

The Muppet Show DVDs Odie gave me were most awesome indeed. Steve Martin, Gilda Radner, and Carole Burnett comprised DVD 1, and George Burns, Dom DeLuise, and Bob Hope comprised DVD 2. It was great to have a bit of my childhood back. And if I ever have any chillin of my own, they will indeed be raised on the Muppet Show. After watching them at this age, I now understand why my generation grew up as demented as it did. (And thank Elvis we did.)

So Diesel destroyed one of the pillows on the upstairs couch today. A throw pillow, ancient, from Ikea- so it's not excessively valuable- and I'm apparently going to have to take every single pillow-like object upstairs and stash it till her parents come home. (This one? She did while I was upstairs reading. Argh.)

Special shout out to my mom for making me think that I look like ass in every item I own, with her well-timed comment about one of my favorite outfits. Apparently said outfit, which has earned compliments from everyone I have worn it around, is "terribly unflattering" and is "makes your arms look like crap, and doesn't do your boobs any favors either". (mind you, she didn't say it in person, but in an email, when I mentioned my choices for interview wear) And when I wear my tall shoes I look "like an apple on a stick". Thanks for that, Mom. I'm considering a nun's habit or perhaps a chador, but they'd make me look wide as a barn too.

But I ramble, and I'm crampy, and I feel like I'm a giant walking blood clot, so that's not helping matters either. Pfui. I will go read more Rex Stout, and Calvin & Hobbes cartoons, and my crappy arms and my unfavored boobs will enjoy the remnants of today's portion of Toblerone, and sulk (all the while watching over my shoulder for insane former employers).