I am not dead.

I am, however, pretty sure I know what a marathon runner's scrotum feels like. It's about 90 billion degrees outside, and were it not for that famed holiday we like to call "Fathers Day", I'd be safely tucked inside my (blissfully) air conditioned cocoon of an apartment, reading, sipping iced tea, and giggling at anyone foolish enough to be out of doors...

As it is, I whipped up a German Chocolate Cake and some salads, and treked out to the casa-de-no-air-but-at-least-there's-a-cool-basement, to celebrate the dude I like to refer to as dear ol' dad. Or something approximating that anyway. P & I celebrated "Thank goodness you're not a father yet" day earlier on, before he had to go to work. (He got salmon cakes, schmancy rice and a tomato lime salad)

Not much else to report, I got my "annual" review- and do, for all intents, walk on water- with a bit of a raise (but we're not sure how much) to show for it. Good deal. The one I work with seems to think she's moving to FL (where have I heard this before?) in the next 4-6 months- so I guess my next year's goal of "work as more of a team with the other secretary" will be a bit easier to obtain...

And other than contemplating savagery to encourage that oversized dorm appliance they're calling my "refrigerator" to meet its maker, so I can get a human sized one, things have been relatively quiet.

The G. Monkey front is under wraps at the moment, but suffice to say- she told her mom what happened, I still think she's the most vile woman ever, and if she lives out the rest of her days in agony, it still won't be enough to obliterate the fact that she knew (yes, knew) that G. was being abused, but "didn't know who was doing it" and took no steps to protect or help her. Bah.

And on that happy note, I bid you a fond adieu till next time.