I actually found myself letting out a little Lynnster hee! after I typed that title.
The Queen herself graced my blog with her magnificent presence the other day, then promptly chastised me publicly about the lack of recent posts. All because I casually mentioned that if she indeed reads my incoherent ramblings, she should let me know, just once in awhile.
So, I will update today by recapping my week, and my weekend. Please pay attention. A good, close, personal friend who shall remain nameless, (but her initials are Ginger Snaps) called me and asked if I wanted to earn a few bucks. I rarely turn down an opportunity to earn a little, so I said, sure, doing what? Her reply went something like this:
“Oh, nothing major, we are redoing the office, and need a new desk put together.” Now, what do you think of when you hear the word desk? I think, four legs, a drawer or two, and a flat surface to place things on, right? She went on to “mention” that I should bring a screwdriver. Of course, I thought, what idiot would show up to assemble a “desk” and not bring a screwdriver? So I agreed to do it, then hung up muttering about what a moron the Tart was for agreeing to pay me a hundred dollars to “assemble a desk.”
That was 8 days ago, and I am still not done. The “desk” turned out to be a U-shaped work station, with attached and detached file drawers you could hide a body in. Oh, it has a “hutch” too, with 4 glass doors (with straight AND off-set hinges) It has a curved top, on one side. It has moulding, and drawer pulls. I’m pretty sure it has a wet-bar.
What it clearly did NOT have, dear Reader, was instructions. Oh sure, it had some “renderings” I assumed were thrown in to give the “engineers” that designed it a giggle when they think of the poor sap that is tasked with assembling it, sitting there, alternately staring at the drawings, then staring at the 8000 or so pieces spread around the floor. I’m not exagerating here, there wasn’t a single line of text included, except for multiple disclaimers that should you at any point become unhappy with your purchse, DO NOT RETURN THE UNIT TO THE STORE. That struck me as a cruel joke, for two reasons. One, it came in like, 28 boxes, each one heavier and more unwieldy than the previous one, and it was purchased online and shipped from Canada. North Canada. I’m talking Bigfoot Canada.
I suppose I should have known something was up when I showed up to work, only to be told that before I could begin assembling the “desk”, the “old” desk would have to be moved to another office, 16 floors down. “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll help you.” she said, standing there in dressed in a skirt that could have only been wriggled into with the aid of vaseline, a silk blouse with a plunging v-shaped neckline that ended mid-thigh, fishnet stockings and stiletto heels. It was all I could do to keep from plunging my screwdriver into her forehead. (which would have had some delicious irony, in that the offices are staffed by lawyers representing those on Death Row.) Not to worry, though, I will finish this job in time for my vacation next July, so I am spending today gathering up the necessary power tools and I will report to work on time, and dressed appropriately.
The weekend was much better. As much as I was looking forward to having a drink with the Queen herself, I was secretly more excited at the prospect of meeting Mrs. Wigglebottom. See, dogs and children instinctively like me, which is a good thing, since perky 19 yr olds instinctively do not. So, when the Queen threw open her door, I gave a perfunctory nod to the lump on the couch that was, I was later told, the Butcher, and I made a bee-line toward the dog. She ran up, all wriggly, tail wagging, and just begging me to take her outside. I asked the lump where her “leash” was, and he looked up momentarily and lazily pointed to the hat tree. The “leash” turned out to be an enormous leather and chain contraption that had to come from the Hustler store. I mean, it would have made the Marquis de Sade cringe. Apparently, she is used to it, because she stood there compliantly, while I affixed this death strap around her neck. When the door opened, I was immediately grateful for every metal spike it contained. I weigh in at around 185, yet Mrs. Wigglebottom had me airborne in one quick tug. “Oh”, I thought, she must really have to pee or something. Nope. She had, apparently, remembered where she hid her outside bone, which was roughly the size of a Louisville slugger. She grabbed it up between her enormous jaws, and just stood there. “How cute”, I remember thinking, she wants me to play with her. Except that she really didn’t. She wanted to just gnaw at it, but see, I didn’t know that, so I reached over to get it from her…
After the E.R. at Vanderbilt re-attached most of my fingers, the Queen was gracious enough to accompany me to dinner and a meeting, but I was distracted all night by Mrs. Wigglebottom’s atrocious manners. As I said, children and dogs LOVE me. I’ll win that beast over one day, if it kills me. (which is entirely possible.)
Saturday, I got hopelessly drunk.
Oh! I almost forgot! Back to the title of my post. I am in search of a coyote-themed header for this journal. I am taking submissions immediately. I don’t want a photo of a real coyote though. It should be something that captures the lore of those mysterious and wonderfully dangerous tricksters, possibly wearing a serape and sunglasses. The person that sends me the best one gets a free weekend stay at the Coyote Creek B&B, a pot of tamales, and enough tequila shots to make you feel invincible. Get crackin!
