Today, I was coerced by a pushy coworker to PARTICIPATE in group “fun” activities. I think work fun activities should involve alcohol and the ability to watch people make idiots of themselves.
Well, I suppose I got half of that. We were “festive” and made gingerbread houses. Because what’s better at an insurance company than a bunch of accountants, underwriters, and IT folk making rickety-ass candy houses that fall apart and are generally unsound?
Did you know the “icing” is a LIE LIE LIE. Dear Gingerbread House Kit Makers: “icing” contains at least a modicum of sugar. That shit was PASTE, and tasted like kindergarten only without the stinky full-pants-kid sitting next to you at the arts and crafts table. I suppose that’s a plus of doing arts and crafts as a work teambuilding thing, right? No poop. Just paste.
FYI: the faucet in the kitchen at work was busted today. So everyone is covered in paste with no way to wash hands. Yeah. Awesome.
Anyway, my team’s house is here. Please note the red, sugar-tipped, askew and slightly sagging nipples. I did not put them there. But you can be certain I not only noticed, but immediately pointed out that our house is now Old Lady Sugartits Nipples.
|Is it cold in here? I think my pasties fell off…|
Personally, I think Santa would be a happier guy if his doorbell knocker was a set of knockers. Maybe perkier ones, though.
So this whole ridiculousness reminded me of a story I foolishly told the same coworker.
When I went to my first prom, as a foolish 16 year old dating a senior, I sat on my boyfriend’s lap in a big comfy chair in the lobby outside the DECC ballroom. I was cocky and feeling ALL THAT in my fancypants boob enhancing halter dress (and foofoo hair…let’s not forget the foofoo hair and makeup. It WAS the early 90’s, after all. There were bangs. Big ones. And I don’t mean the fun kind). Yeah. I was 16 and stupid: get off me.
Anyway, his dad had given him a crisp new hundred dollar bill for the occasion. Hey, we were teenagers in Duluth, MN of all places. Our lives weren’t terribly exciting in general, and neither of us had ever SEEN a hundred dollar bill.
I thought I’d be all smooth and sexy. Yes, I know…but just let me share the gravity of the failure there.
I put the hundred down the bodice of my dress, in my first-allowed-lingerie strapless bustier.
THE FUCKING MONEY DISAPPEARED.
We tore the goddamn chair apart. He freaked out and was livid at me most of the evening. The money never did turn up.
So basically what I’m saying here is: when I was 16 I discovered my boobs are apparently an interdimensional portal. I imagine that money is on the floor of some random space station warehouse along with somebody’s keys, all the missing socks from the laundry, and apparently pieces of people’s souls which go galavanting around without permission (remember the Soul Retrieval lady? Yeah, she’s in Duluth, MN too…WEIRD SHIT HAPPENS AROUND THAT, LAKE PEOPLE).
Um, just to be clear, I’m not saying socks, keys or souls get lost in my boobs. Just that single bill, as far as I’m aware.
Holy Christ, what might’ve been lost while I sleep?