"So I got 50 texts about Michael Jackson dying," the text read.
"Just wondering how that's supposed to affect my life."
Yeah, you and me both, as it seems.
Really, dude? Really? The most momentous event of a world in the past three weeks is that a former chimp-owning, kiddie-diddling alabaster-skinned habitue cacked it? REALLY?!
Well, fine. I will acknowledge that my own attempts to glamorize [the] hoi polloi have resulted in nil, of late. I am willing to accede a recent skirmish with my dress size, which I (both humiliatingly and definitively) lost. I may even, under duress, acknowledge that I am a bit of a cynic. But C'MON, PEOPLE. Really?
My little sister called me today. "Hey, Michael Jackson died," my boss announced, moments before.
"Yeah? Were you just on the phone with my little sister?" I shot back, only to have the receptionist interrupt.
"You have a phone call," she said, and Emily Mr. Beaned it across the room. "That's your sister, calling to tell you Michael Jackson died," she said, and I mugged at her and answered the call.
"Michael...Jackson...is...dead," my sister intoned eerily.
"Hey, Whit," I said, ignoring the greater sin of ruining her news; "Michael...Jackson...is dead."
The entire assistant pool cackled uncontrollably.
"WHAT?! You already KNEW?!" Whit howled.
"The boss told us."
"I will never forgive...you tell him I can't...I have to go!" She shrieked, and hung up on me.
The boss only cares about Lance Armstrong ("LA"), to be sure; but since he absolutely has to know to the very second what ounce of pressure LA is exerting at any given time, he's ascribed to Twitter and never mind the fact that each update (read: Nugget of Joy, heavy on Facetious Intonation) is heralded by a 'ping' seldom heard outside of the soundtrack for Hunt for Red October; each ping might mean that LA has exceeded all previous expectations that he will pedal faster than a mongoose in heat at the Mongooses for Potential Mating Extravaganza bazaar. And only a cad and a bounder would fail to recognize this achievement as Top Drawer Stuff, By Gar.
I dunno. Life was certainly simpler when Whit would call me, and in tones enigmatic report "Heath Ledger is dead. Remember, you heard it from me first." and then hang up. And then it would be true.
As it is, life is far from perfect. I have planted all sorts of (and I quote) "easy to grow, prolific" plants such as zucchini and tomatoes, only to have them turn on me like rabid bastard plants. If I had known this was an option from such purportedly easy-going vegetables and fruit, I might have stuck with cross-stitch as an expression of contempt for modern society. (Okay, not really.) Extensive internet research tells me that I may or may not have aphids, beetles, some sort of sucking bug, or a lack of appropriate soil in which to plant my zucchini. If it had powdery white mold, I'd know what to do, because EVERYBODY IN THE EFFING WORLD seems to come down with powdery white mold on their zucchini; however, this shilly-shallying is indicative more of a reflection of my personality, and everybody knows that a mirror is annoying as shit if it means it doesn't leave you at least 10 pounds skinnier in its reflection.
At least my latest gadget for cheese-making is scheduled to arrive sometime before the next New Moon. Hormones notwithstanding, I and those I love most might never make it past the coming four days if I didn't have the hope of draining, aging, and cagily manipulating the fate of several gallons of milk currently residing in my fridge.
Viva la cheesemakers!