I gleefully added our phone number to Canada's brand-spanking-new "DO NOT CALL" registry this morning.
And then immediately set to work editing a telemarketing script a client sent me.
Because, it seems, I am a conscienceless whore.
I Kissed a Girl has now replaced Jeremiah was a Bullfrog on my mind's inner play list.
Over and over and over it cycles through my brain. I kissed a girl and I liked iiiiiit!
What's worse is that I don't know most of the words (something about cherry Chapstick - or maybe it's cherry cola), but I sing it loud and proud just the same.
It seems like a perfectly reasonable anthem for a 38-year old married woman who lives in the suburbs and makes turkey chili while she edits telemarketing scripts.
This is the first telemarketing script I've ever edited, by the way. I swear.
Please don't send hate mail...
I bumped into a girl I knew in high school the other day coming out of the post office. I haven't seen her in probably more than 22 years.
We fell into an easy conversation almost immediately, and when I commented on her gorgeous four-month old baby she said softly, "It took us five years to get her."
I understood the love and pride in her eyes as she gazed at the evidence of her hard fought victory.
And I was happy.
Later I caused those eyes to fill with tears when I told her my own battle story, but she was kind and understanding. And not afraid.
When we parted she said she was going to say a special prayer for me, and while I'm still hesitant to believe that prayers of this nature do anything at all, it gave me a lot of comfort.
Part of me almost believed her prayer might be answered.
We had a painter in last week to do our living/dining room. It has a vaulted ceiling and we figured it was best to leave that job to a professional, what with my fear of heights and My Beloved's fear of painting.
He wasn't in the house 15 minutes when I caught myself singing "In the Ghetto" up here in the office while doing some invoices.
Clearly I'm alone entirely too much. And have a lot of issues with that stupid inner play list...
I have already answered two telemarketing calls since I started writing this blog.
Divine retribution, I suppose.
My Dad's colonoscopy has still yet to be scheduled. My parents seem to be taking comfort in this - as though the delay means that they should somehow be less worried.
Me? I just worry that the delay is going to cost us in the end, and that the reason for the holdup is that they just don't hustle a 78-year old cardiac patient into a costly test procedure when someone younger and healthier might benefit from having it sooner. I think he just keeps getting bumped in favour of people they think deserve it more. From a this-is-an-old-guy-who's-living-on-borrow-time-anyway standpoint, I mean.
But the good news is that he has gone through the first three treatments for his macular degeneration and the doctor who gave him the first of three needles in his affected eye (eeew) said he's hopeful that they'll be able to reverse some of the damage.
No guarantees, of course, but hope is always welcome. Sometimes somewhat warily, but welcome just the same.
My toothless feline has pretty much fully recovered from the trauma of her recent dental work. She is as delightfully insane as always and is currently curled up on the pajamas I neglected to hang up this morning after I took them off.
Nothin' like kitty love. And furry jammies.
My Beloved is finally able to take some time off. After more than 9 straight months during which he's had just one day off (not counting weekends - although he's worked through a lot of those too, including almost every single long weekend of the summer) he's got a week off starting Friday!
We have no concrete plans, but sometimes a planless week off ends up being the very best kind of vacation.
I predict lots of lazy mornings, drives to see the changing leaves, day trips and just general guiltless slothfulness.