Today is Veteran's Day. When I drove into the parking lot this morning, it was largely empty (my office is inside a bank). When I got to my office, it was wholly empty, as were the offices across the hall. My boss is traveling all day. It's good to know that when the rest of the world takes a day off, I'm here to sit alone and pretend that there's even the tiniest sliver of purpose in my job. Leave, you say? Out of the question! What if someone were to call? Wouldn't the lack of an un-automated voice on the other end of the line frighten whoever it may be into firing my boss and taking their legal needs elsewhere? And what if, dare I say, I wasn't here to transfer my boss into his voicemail when he needed to check his empty mailbox for the eightieth time? No, no. My place is here, while I dutifully grow bitter and useless. Somebody's got to do it, people.
Plus, car payments don't pay themselves.
I've been watching the last season of Sex and the City this week, and I've discovered something very important about my love of the show: it's all based on my own justification of it. For instance, when Carrie (as she is wont to do) giggles or shrieks, I say to myself, "Oh, that's just Sarah Jessica Parker's fault. Carrie would never allow herself to sound like a hyenal porn star. I love this show!" Or when the plot in a single episode inexplicably finds itself centered around a dog show, I comfort myself by simply fast forwarding through it, so that I can get to the parts where Samantha and Smith attempt conversation. It's a lot of work, but it's worth it, unless it's the first episode of the last season, or if it's any episode involving Jack Berger or David Duchovny.
Annie recommends Pepsi Holiday Spice, which I'm sure isn't available in the red states. But I recommend Bubble Tea, because it involves ice, tea, and tapioca pearls, and because I've actually never had it. There's a new place called Lollicup downtown, and they sell Bubble Tea, and I'm sure I'll love it because I love anything involving sugar.
I love Thanksgiving. It represents the beginning of a month-long period where you are allowed to put anything into your mouth. And I mean anything. Once, my mom prepared the feast right after she had a hysterectomy (meaning she was hopped up on painkillers and guilt) and proudly informed me that the stuffing was "vegetarian!" I was on my eighth mouthful when my brother, after staring at me for a good five minutes, screeched, "That's not vegetarian!" and then he uttered the most horrific words of all: "Mom put the giblets in the stuffing!" Giblets. That's like eating somebody's underarm fat. If I were a betting vegetarian, I'd say delicate old Marmee did it on purpose, in revenge for the uterine cysts I'd obviously caused from all the kicking, and, you know, existing in her womb for so long.
My dad made me congratulate him on Bush's re-election. Congratulations, America. Hope you enjoy Iraq.