And then when I got to work and started guzzling my eight glasses of water, I noticed that even our filtered stuff tastes like what you’d imagine Dick Cheney’s underpants smell like after a long day of drinkin’ and huntin’. So I’m thinking it’s an all-Chicago thing—though I don’t want to bring it up with anyone for fear of developing a Mr. Tinklewhiff reputation.
But that was just the beginning of today’s adventures. Because apparently it’s Bring Your Distracting Pet To Work Day. I spent the morning in an emergency meeting … with a dog. Don’t get me wrong: I love it when people bring their dogs to work. Seriously. It happens pretty frequently, and the dogs seem to fit nicely in our funky-casual office environment. In fact, when we moved into the building two years ago, there was a friendly old yellow lab that used to wander aimlessly around and visit everyone all day. But he disappeared after a couple weeks. We think he got promoted to the corporate office.
The dog today, though friendly and cute, really needed a bath. His smell was so pungent, in fact, that someone else in the meeting actually apologized because he thought he must have stepped in dog poop on his way to work. (I selfishly declined to mention that I’d showered in urine this morning. Again: Nobody wants to be called Mr. Tinklewhiff.)
But! The cloud o’ canine was soon eclipsed by the realization that we had a bird in the office today as well. And it wasn’t just any random pigeon that flew in through an air vent. No! It was a caged bird, which an employee consciously decided to bring to the office as if this were a good idea. And the goddamn thing has been chirping all day.
The animal drama doesn’t end there, because apparently a 250-year-old turtle in some remote zoo died recently. And my boss, who is certifiably
Speaking of getting old, I also got an email inviting me to my 20-year high-school reunion this summer. And even though only old people qualify for 20-year high-school reunions, I’ve known this dark specter of imminent death was looming on my horizon for quite some time now. ’Cause I’m pretty good at math.
Which is one of the reasons I totally revamped my workout and drastically reduced my crap-food consumption in January.
Part of my new workout came in a box of tiny brown gross-tasting pills I got with a 20% coupon at GNC almost two months ago. And today was my last workout on those pills. They’re called Endothil™, the Musculogenic Cell Recruiter™ that promises accelerated muscle recuperation* and growth*, increased body strength*, and greater muscle mass and circumference*. And if you say Endothil out loud, you sound like a total circuit queen. Or Cindy Brady. (That last joke is used without permission from my hunky friend Keith.)
*And when you read the fine print, you discover that not only have these statements not been evaluated by the FDA, etc., but that “to experience the full results of Endothil, the muscle groups must be exercised to exhaustion.” Which is pretty much what you need to do to see any growth in the gym anyway. Which makes me $47.99 (plus tax) poorer but not much wiser.
But it does make me (so far) nine pounds heavier! My chest and shoulders have really pumped up over the last two months (two trainers at the gym have even noticed!), and my quads and butt are slowly thickening to man-like proportions. I credit my progress to the workouts more than the Endothil, but I'm really more focused right now on the fact that I seem to be growing a butt. I’ve never really had a butt, so I’m not sure what I’ll do with it if I actually get one.
But I know what I’m doing tonight: having dinner with a friend from college who’s here on business. It’ll be kind of a pre-reunion reunion. Except it hasn’t been 20 years. And it’s not high school. And she’s six months pregnant, so I won’t be taking her to get punched by Brad Pitt and Edward Norton under the highway, like I usually do on Fridays.
So, to recap: Pee. Dog. Bird. Turtle. Nine. Butt. Pregnant. And, thankfully, not a single Mr. Tinklewhiff.