hotdogs, “deorderant,” the circle of life

The bad thing about Doing Nothing is that it’s harder to go back to Doing Something
It felt strange to put on something other than pajamas this morning. I spent the entire weekend in my PJs – never even left my apartment. Utterly pathetic. Wretched coughing.
Also, I think it should be known – the way Entertainment Weekly writes about music is much more musical than the actual music. Kind of disappointing.
Convincing your boss you DO NOT use narcotics to sleep
The great thing about working late these days is my desk-mate. We’re both usually sleep-deprived and hilarious. Take it from me. HILARIOUS. While another paper waits on a review she’s writing, I narrate her writing process via e-mail to the other paper, including her shoelessness. I finally send on the review, forgetting to delete the subject she’s given it: crap. Do we want to go with that for the headline? She suggests an acrostic that spells crap.
Somehow all of this segues into reminiscing about the hotdog factory, which all things do, and must. And shall. I tell her I knew scary dough-faced manchild was flirting with me when he put a hotdog in my boot.
Shortly thereafter, my big boss, who Michelle refers to as davedavedave, tells me I’m going to be pulling an all-nighter because I’m drinking Mt. Dew.
"Oh, I’ll find a way to sleep," I assure him with a weird giggle.
Oh crap (great headline), he’s going to think I take drugs to sleep!, I think.
"I mean, I’ll just take some melatonin…"
Thank goodness he interrupts me before I can go on to tell him the riveting story of how my doctor suggested it to help me sleep, the kind of story that would segue into a steroid-shot-in-the-ass story, which, of course, would segue into a story about a hotdog in my boot.
Emma can’t say "swim" without making swimming gestures
That little minx coerced me into getting into the freezing-cold pool with her. She batted those long eyelashes and made that swimming gesture, and I knew it was already a lost cause.
We put my iPod on, of course. I sang along to Elton John at the top of my considerably deeper voice (sinus infection) until Emma sang too. I floated on a chair almost as big as the pool while Emma pretended to be a talking turtle, occasionally screaming and flying out of the pool at the sight of a "bug," which usually turned out to be lint.
She chased me around the very small pool, holding onto the back of the floatie while I yelled (like a ‘tard, my mom says) and flailed my arms. We sang along to "Three Little Birds" and as soon as "For Emma, Forever Ago" came on, her face lit up.
"Whose song is this?" I asked her.
"My song," she said with that grin.
The long foam floatie is excellent for shooting water into the face of an unexpecting swimmer by blowing on one end. She learned this from Lane, I discovered later. I was quite surprised when she shot water into my face. Then I prevented her from doing it again by making her laugh. She would concentrate as hard as she could on shooting water at me, but you can hardly put much force behind it when you’re giggling.
When I got closer, as she would put her face to the floatie to blow water at me, I would just point the other end into her face at the last minute. Boy, did she find that amusing. We laughed a lot for two swimmers suffering from hypothermia.
Donations needed include:
I’ll be sure to put "deorderant" at the top of my shopping list. I can find that next to the "vertarmins," right?

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