This is the time of year when people who work in offices hate their days slightly less because there are baked goods and someone always – ALWAYS – brings Baileys. And with the knowledge that the end of the word was (definitely not) upon is, I defaulted almost immediately to gluttony.
Here’s an email chat between M and I.
J: This week is taking too long to be over. Even the Baileys the secretaries snuck me from their stash for my coffee isn’t helping. I’ve eaten so many cookies today that I had to unbutton my pants.
M: Starting a three-hour drive now. I don’t think I even packed pants with buttons….Mmmm I do miss office Christmas treats. That was the closest I came to throwing up at work that wasn’t related to a pint of vodka.
J: I made cheddar zucchini loaf for my office potluck. Three loaves, actually. It sounds like a lot but I polished off an entire loaf on my own before 11 a.m. My chin is busy growing a pimple so big it’s forming its own Mayan calendar….Too soon?
M: No way! I have a zit beside my nose that is challenging the Earth’s gravity. We missed being responsible for Whitney Houston by thismuch. Let’s not Swayze the apocalypse***.
***M and I feel slighty responsible for the death of Patrick Swayze. We know that he had cancer (oh and FUCK CANCER by the way) but we were singing ‘She’s Like the Wind’ from Dirty Dancing one night and one of us (we can never remember who) said: “Oh god. We’re terrible at this. We should stop. I don’t want to be responsible for killing Patrick Swayze.” And the next day he died. So that happened. One night a few weeks later we started to duet to ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’ but quickly caught ourselves. I can’t have the blood of Bette Midler on my hands.