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NEXT TOPIC: HOTT IRISHMEN
2005-12-09, 12:15 p.m.

NEXT TOPIC: HOTT IRISHMEN

We sold one of our properties to a group that is comprised solely of HOTT Irishmen. A contingent of said HOTT Irishmen came to the office this morning to have a meeting in which (1) I stared dreamily at the cutest, youngest one, wondering whether I should have removed my wedding ring beforehand and (2) we discussed wrapping up an outstanding matter that crosses the line from one owner to the next.

I swear to you all right this very second: were I not married to my beloved DishWasher, I would hit it, and I would hit it hard. And often. I’m all aglow.

After they left, our receptionist came into my office, giggling and hugging herself, and screamed “WE HAVE GOT TO SELL THEM ALL OF OUR PROPERTIES!!!” I showed her my agreement by nodding as I popped my wedding ring off my finger and into my mouth. I honestly have chills running up and down my middle-aged spine. I haven’t been this flummoxed by cuteness and an accent since the 80s.

I’m shallow, and I’m a slut. What do you all expect out of me? You think I do this job for the philan-..philan-....philan-…er, good-deed-doing opportunities? The kindness of my heart? A social justice bent?

Hell, no. I do it so I can get laid.

One other upside of this new relationship with the HOTT Irishers is that these guys have properties in San Antonio AND in Ireland, and they have offered me a place to stay if I ever travel to Ireland, and heck, ya know? That’s one place I’ve always imagined traveling to with DW one of these days. And they were serious, because they were quite taken by my beauty and my boisterous, eager-to-please attitude. And my pheromones. They REALLY want me to come stay with them in Ireland one of these days. Really. DW and I will fit right in, because we are the Little People (cue Irish Leprechaun jig).

DW will be the beneficiary of all these HOTT Irish-induced hormones I got going here.

AND THE NEXT: COLLEGE FOOTBALL

We’re going to a football game tonight. Apparently, Texas State University, fka Southwest Texas State U is kicking ass and taking names, and we are lucky enough to have friends (to have any friends, actually) who scored some much-coveted tickets. Who the hell knows who they are playing? We don’t care! We’re taking a flask, and driving this evening to go see some small college chingasos. CHINGASOS, I say!

AND LAST: CHRISTMAS SHOPPING

I went to the mall last night, and it was surprisingly, delightfully empty. There were folks there, but not enough that I had to touch any of them, and not enough that I stood in line anywhere. I got the following fuckers crossed off my shopping yesterday: mom, crazy-ass mother-in-law, DW, Sister, and Lil Guy (all except the freaking trampoline. Yeah. A trampoline).

And in addition to a successful shopping trip, I got to hear the following line spoken, by a grown man, at one of those mid-mall kiosks selling God-only-knows-what: “Do you have any with, like, glitter on ‘em?”

I FORGOT – ONE FINAL THING: I LEARNED SOMETHING NEW

DW settled in on the couch last night and made the mistake of asking ME to find us a movie to watch. “Oh, look! Dirty Dancing!” He said he has never actually seen it, and I said that was a good thing, because it would be very, very gay for him to have made a point of watching it without having a wife to force him into it.

As we watched the final scenes of the movie, where Johnny and Baby are doing their big dance number, and Johnny runs his hand down Baby’s armpit and upper ribcage, DW remarked “Ooooh! Johnny got him a little side meat there!”

“Side meat? Is that what y’all call it?”

Yes, apparently, that’s what it’s called when your not-quite-breast is accessed by somebody in an unauthorized, surreptitious manner. Gettin’ some side meat. In fact, I have a fibroadenoma in my side meat. And I fully intend to call it “side meat” next time I go to the doctor and she’s mashing around finding little knots and bumps in there.

Hello, my name is Laura and I have fibrocystic changes in my side meat.


Side meat!

And now, I leave you with a question, as we head off toward our weekends: do you have any with, like, glitter on ‘em?

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