In slow motion, my graceful index finger ever so gently brushes the paper-thin skin ‘neath my eye socket region. And by “ever so gently brushed” I mean launched my fist into my brainsocket.  This rapid, most swift movement catapulted into a violent series of events wherein my own worst fear came to fruition: there was a contact. lodged. behindmyfbombeye.

I wince with excruciating pain. Razorblades, strychnine?  Nothin’. With each blink, a sharp sting pierced, plunged, and plundered its needley way deeper into my eye.

[ This is Where I Daydream (Day...mare?) ]

Coming to terms with loss of vision and eventual brain damage, I picture my family visiting my sad hospital bed. My entire head, bound and bandaged.  Aaaaand for whatever reason, my arms rendered immobile.

[ End Daymare. ]

I cover my wounded ocular vessel, and one-eye it home. My tear-stained face no longer presentable, must now go mano a mano with the ol’ magnifying mirror.

The contact? She eventually showed herself, but not without consequence.  You better believe I’m not penetrating my eyeball again. At least not until Sunday.

Not only was I slightly horrified at the Amazonian length of this woman’s arms, but was intrigued by the fact that she is even a real person and not a Photoshopped variation of Queen of Lifetime Television for Women, Meredith Baxter Birney (see below).

Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to battle it out with this lad-ay to the left in a strangling contest.

*[ Cue Random Tangent. ]

So speaking of tube socks? Apparently they are totes out of style now thanks to the Intern at work who’s way younger and blonde with eyelashes and reminds me I’m aging and recently let me in on the news that tube socks have been out o’ style for the entire last decade. Oops. (Okay, so I didn’t quite wear the violent sexy pair to the right, but mine were approaching the calf muscle. I know.)

So how could I have missed that memo?

And did I really seriously work out at Pure Austin in Katanka’s yoga pilates pretentiousy kayaking class with effing tube socks?  Sweet Mary and Joseph.  There I was red-faced, determined, and doing the plank completely unaware I was trapped in the 80′s. Oblivious!  I know for a fact that sweaty Kevin Bacon and Kyra “These are My Lips” Sedgewick have worked out there.

OMG.
What if Kevin Bacon had seen my tube socks?
Would he have taken that as a cue and begun to punch-dance out his rage?

[ End Tangent. ]

So back to my oh so interesting girlish dreams that my red curly tendrils are pinned in a messy bun with a pencil as I adjust my oh so dainty glasses pensively and cross my long, modelesque legs. I stare in the distance at the Eiffel Tower, and feverishly scribble brilliant, innovative thoughts.

But then it dawned on me that I will never become the next great American novelist sporting a faux French accent with long modely legs (sans tube socks) if I don’t at least write a teensy wee bit every once in awhile.  And grow about 2 feet more.

LindeBlog, I dust thee of thy cobwebs and vow to update you way, way more.

Seriously?!
I don’t care who you are.
Or how too cool for school you and your handbag may be.
That price is ree-dih-kew-lee.

Even J. Cu shares my disgust.

Total spelling fail.

So logically, that meant I was going to wear these to work today. All reason flew out the window when I rationalized that… hey (!),I am at my desk all day. It’s not like I have to actually walk anywhere.

But then there was an Official Board Room Meeting Like The Kind You See in The Movies with the long wooden table and the business suity peeps.

And I had to walk across the building to get there.

I wound up shuffle-ball-changing across the walkway and praying for sweet mercy on my feetsies.

So it’s lunchtime now, and I am ready to violently hurl them from my feet and into the fountain on the first floor  where they will drown and die and go away.

But they are cute, aren’t they?!

Though that’s not what Mr. Demi Moore sounds like really, is it? Forget I mentioned that slightly dated pop culture reference because I am no longer in the loop of Cool Things, and I have absolutely no shame in admitting that.

The tunes currently rotating in my automobile music box are spandex sporting Erasure. Oh stop judging, you know you love it.

[ This Is The Point. Sort Of. ]

As far as the job?
It seems I’ve found muh callings.

Thinking about how we’ve clicked reminds me of those Childhood Saturday Morning Quadrupled Stack o’ Golden Perfect Pancakes mom would make:
1. Slathered in the mapley yum syrup
2. Sliced into perfect little squares
3. Buried in copious amounts of drippy buttery butter

Oh pancakes, I miss ye so.

I am Jackie O.
Totally Gwynnie P.

BUT (!)
On the inside?

If you can’t even turn ON the computer without the password within the training manual you fully intended to bring with you on The First Day but totally forgot to because you were so excited that you rushed out the door and due to sheepishness opted for black pants instead of the skirty illustrations of giddiness pictured in the post down under?

The above graphic pretty much describes the synapses firing.
What if they come in and I haven’t even turned on the computer yet?!

Thank the Lord The Mister answered the phone sleepily and relayed all mandatory info.

Post spontaneous combustion?  All was golden.