My friend John from work is leaving his job. This depresses the hell out of me. John is definitely the funniest person at work; he's the Mutt to my Jeff. Two Muskateers. It's gonna suck chocolate salty balls without him there. The good thing is that he's going on to do something really cool - teach design and advertising at Long Island University. If you get a chance, take one of his classes. He's awesome.
My job in general is pretty cool; like I said, it's not a career, but that's fine with me. Careers feel funny. So limiting. It's like, the cosmos would just never say to me, "OK, Deanna, I know you're only 20, and you have a good 60 years to live, but choose the ONE THING you're going to spend most of your time working at until you're done." Not gonna happen. So, right now, it's all good. I like the people I work with, which is why it's such a pisser when someone leaves. It's like, we finally get a good, happy balance going, and then someone's gotta go and fuck it up. Ah well. But the other people still left, I dig them. These are people you can go out and drink with, and have a really good time doing it. We just did it last week as a matter of fact - we went out for a company-wide happy hour. Oh my. Rule of thumb: Always eat the appetizers when they're ordered, because if you don't, you'll have a problem keeping up. One of our newer account managers, Lisa (there's your name, too, bitch!) learned this the hard way. The beer, daiquiris and cosmopolitans flow like the River Nile at these functions. It's a blast. But let me just say, whoever replaces John better know the lyrics to both "Dancin' in the Moonlight" and "Hungry Like the Wolf." That's the bottom line for me.
I was at my family reunion a few weeks ago, which was an absolute blast. Make no mistake - I am actually thrilled to go to this function every year. No sarcasm, either. It's a riot. In any case, this year I showed up with my bright-ass red hair, and at first, my mom wasn't really happy about that. Surprisingly, she preferred the deep purple color to the current fire-engine red. So, she took me around the whole picnic (around 85 people) and asked people what they thought. Most of them were totally into it… which surprised me. The best response, though, came from my Uncle Ernie. He's a very soft-spoken, very gentle, and very intelligent man of around 72 years. My mom asked him, "So, Ernie, whaddya think of the hair?" He paused for a moment, and smiled. In his usual quiet demeanor, he looked at me and said, "The thing is, you can take away her hair, or her clothes or her boots or her jewelry, and underneath, she's always still Deanna." I don't know why, but this touched me to no end. It's truth in a pure form, spoken from a man I love and admire greatly.
So, I just went bra shopping. I always know exactly what I want, but … guess what? I have some beef about the whole experience. And it's not what you think, either. It's not the whole "we shouldn't have to wear a bra" thing that a lot of feminists feel. (Not that there's anything wrong with that. To each her own in the boob department.) No, no, my bitch is far more superficial and irritating. Let me begin.
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