This song. Is fantastic. So fantastic I almost wish for a cheating husband just so I can send his mistress this song as part of a very threatening mixtape. Almost.

And speaking of husbands: I just got a top secret phone call from a fellow secretary. As I’ve said before, our local newspaper is edited by a fellow who goes to church here. This fact makes my life somewhat terrible because 1) I can’t write tartly worded rejoinders to his ridiculous right-wing editorials and 2) it’s profoundly awkward when I want to express my displeasure with the advertising department. He thinks I am, variously, “a cute little firecracker,” “sassy little so-and-so,” and a “funny sparkplug.” I’m pretty sure that last one is just something he found in a completed MadLibs. Or I hope it is, because it really seems to imply something not-so-nice about my figure… which I’d rather he’d neither notice nor comment upon.

Anyway, his office manager is an old friend of mine, and he’s been trying to get her to induce me to go out with his son, a fellow a decade or so older than me with poor posture and an ex-wife. She periodically calls me to update on Editor’s fix-up attempts, and I suggest she mention one thing or another about me that will surely dissuade him. He, inexplicably, is untroubled by my ragged cuticles, student loans, and liberal politics.

A minute ago she called to say that he’d just told her how much he wishes she’d hurry up and get me to go out with his son. I would, Editor said, make his son a very fine wife. Neither one of us, he also pointed out, is getting any younger.

Why do I see a truly awkward situation in my future?
———

The old people’s Bible study is meeting. The old lady who brings cookies to Bible study brought me a cookie and said she remembered it was my favorite kind. I must’ve been too polite the last time she brought these cookies to have given her this impression. I took a big bite, discovered that the cookie in question was clots of nuts and coconut held together by sheer awfulness, and spat the half chewed cookie in my trash. I hate coconut and I’m no fan of nuts in cookies. Then I remembered that her husband is the one who empties my office trash, so I dug the moist cookie chunks out of the garbage, wrapped them in a plastic bag, and shoved them inside an empty coffee cup. I’m chewing gum, but my mouth still feels all coconutty. Blargh.

For the record, I am not ungrateful for the cookie or her kind attentions. If I were, I’m sure I wouldn’t have dug half-chewed food out of my trashcan, a task as gross as it sounds. She’s a fantastic cook and very nice lady–who just hasn’t seemed to notice that coconut tastes like hair taken from a corpse and then smeared with sunscreen.

I wish I could return my coconut-fouled mouth to the store and get a new one. Ick.

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