Make Me Love You:
Public, Part One
Public, Part Two
Private

Hello.

I don't have much time nowadays. What with all the sleeping and working and laying around in my underwear, my time is pretty much full. I am not neglecting you, I just have. no. time.

However, my job ends when the Olympics do, and then hopefully my next job won't be like this:

Oh-good-moley-we-have-to-get-it-all-done-and-holy-crap-there's-that-too-we-forgot-to-do-that-hurry-up-someone-will-see-someone-will-know-we-didn't-do-it-why-aren't-you-running-around-if-you're-holding-still-something-must-be-wrong-someone-hand-me-a-Tums.

Hopefully.

But this is interesting, anyway.

An update on the non-registered car spotting:

I was beginning to wonder if everyone had registered their cars except me, because dammit I wasn't seeing any expired tags any more. I didn't want to be alone. Yesterday I saw a guy whose tags had expired in June. I felt instantly better.

Thank you, mister expired since June guy.

Also, my co-workers turn the radio on at work, always to a station that plays a type of music I don't listen to.

This is okay with me, whatever. It's not like they're stabbing me repeatedly. Now, that would suck. Let me tell you.

But no. Still, there is this one song that plays on that station an ungodly amount. I have no clue who it's by or what it's called, but I'm assuming the title is I Hope You Dance, because that's what the chick sings, over and over and over and over and over.

I don't like this song.

Also, I'm sure it's supposed to sound tender and shit, or at least that's what I'm assuming, but to me it sounds mostly threatening, like she wants this person to be killed by electric shock or by one of those bad guys in the old movies that shoots at your feet and orders you to "Dance!"

I guess it's also because it reminds me of what my father used to say to my high school boyfriends: "You and me, we're gonna dance."

No, my father is not a hillbilly. He's a very educated man - a college professor as a matter of fact - but he does have some interesting threats.

Ah yes, my father. He also always asked my suitors if they read Michener.

"So, do you read Michener?"

For the record, none of them ever did.

He scared them. They didn't like coming over to my house. But, I suppose that was his job. And most of them deserved it.

I thought it was funny, anyway.

When I dated a skate kid briefly, Dad was always asking him what "gleaming the cube" meant. (How do you like that obscure eighties reference?) This kid did not know what gleaming the cube meant. He worked in the grocery store and he was so terrified of my father that he would hide from him when he saw my father heading into the store, just because he didn't know what gleaming the cube meant and he was paralyzed at the thought that my father would ask him about it.

That's some funny stuff.

I miss my father.

Well, there you go. I hope all of you haven't fallen by the wayside. Here, here's a hand back up. I missed you too.

See you soon. I'll make you some goodies.

-Mlle R