My goodness, I’m busy this week. Homestuff, family stuff, workstuff, all desperately needing to get done. I am cramming in some continuing education this week, to avoid facing the predicament I faced a couple of years ago when it was time to renew my head shrinker’s license. I need so many hours of continuing ed every year, in order to remain “legal” in my profession. I have always had waaaaay more than the number I need, so have never paid too much attention to counting my hours. Two years ago, we moved (our home) and I moved (my office), and there were health issues and work issues and yaddayaddayadda, and it got to be the end of the year, time to send in my license renewal info and I had a HOLY CRAP moment when I realized that I needed four more hours! To shorten the story, fast forward to me sitting in a crappy hotel conference room in a D.C. suburb, listening to a topic that I don’t quite remember at the moment, except that the presenter made a rather compelling case for diagnosing both Bill and Hillary Clinton with Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and she told a kickass story of “Mr. Johnson,” a client who showed up in her office in running shorts that exposed his, um, little Mr. Johnson. Oh, and did I mention that this was on December 20th?! Everyone in the room, including the presenter, knew that the ONLY reason anybody was sitting there was because we had F’ed up on counting our CE hours. The presenter, God bless her, would have been quite interesting, I suspect, except that no one was really listening, because we were all making last minute gift lists, and grocery lists, and writing out Christmas cards, and napping . . .
All that storytelling to tell you why I have no time to tell you a story! So I lifted this actual email from my personal email box, which I had already lifted to put in my little journal, where I had already added the “UPDATE.” (I sure hope you all are making more sense than I am today.)
Lulu. Please help me. You are the only girlfriend who is available at this moment. (You might not be available either, but I can pretend you are.) This is what I did: I got ready for work this morning. I was going to wear a black sweater. I put on a black bra. So far, so good. Then I changed my mind. I decided on a pale pink cashmere sweater. Nice. And I forgot about the black bra. I went to work. I went to the grocery store. A lot of people in the grocery store looked at me. I thought they were lovin’ my pink cashmere. No. They were shocked and horrified at my BLACK BRA screaming out from under my PALE PINK sweater. Did anyone tell me? No. I didn’t know until I got home and for some reason finally heard, with my own ears, the SCREAMING of the black bra under the pale pink sweater. Oh, Lulu. Oh, oh, oh. Did you ever have one of those days? I’m going to bed now.
UPDATE: Lulu CALLED long distance (cell phone, but still . . .) to help me through the undergarment incident. She offered that I probably started a trend. I kinda thought the whole whitetrashion thing was Britney’s domain. But don’t you know, the next time I was in Foodtown, EVERY daggone frazzled, forty-something chick in the place was wearing a SCREAMIN’ dark bra under a fluffy pastel sweater. I am SO all that. Whitetrashion ROCKS!
Certain names were changed to protect the guilty. In my reply to Lois Lane’s comment yesterday, I explained how blogging had grown from my overemailing friends my little stories. This is a small example. I think my friends are so grateful that I have my new blogfriends on which to inflict my tales You can read more about Lulu and me in the Archives, March 9th and 11th (one of my very favorite posts). Oh, if you read them, read in date order.