Friday, November 17, 2006

Gloomy and Doomy

Or was that glue-me and do-me?
Last night we had the luxurious opportunity to dine splendidly among clever company at a fancy restaurant that served excellent food, over the course of three hours. Dinner time is usually twenty minutes tops at our house, before folks are scattering to the winds or four corners of the house, but at the restaurant, it was only grown-ups--grateful to be resting and chatting--rather than small people with ants in their pants.
During the course of conversation, the subject of their common workplace came up, and the atmosphere there. I was the only one who had not, or was not, employed by a local technological behemoth with a worldwide operation, and hadn't been there in years. The woman across from me, remarking that it probably hadn't changed much, said, "Didn't you describe it as gloomy and doomy?"
Actually, I had described it as so depressing they should have coin-op prozac dispensers in the hallways. Everything was gray gray gray and it felt like institutionalization was only one bad day away.
But what I heard coming out of my dinner companion's lips was "glue-me and do-me."
Hmmm, I thought, what do I say to that?
Fortunately another tablemate heard the same, so I wasn't the only one searching my sexual imagination for imagery and explanation. He indicated there was a wall involved in the scenario he had come up with, and the need to shave prior was mentioned. It became a running gag all evening, and "glue-me and do-me" may go down in history as the only sexual act created at a Portland restaurant by mistake.
It was a great evening, not marred by the three phone calls from home: the first one to ask if the older kids could watch X-Men 3 after the small child was asleep, the second to say he was asleep, and had been saying he missed his "mommy and daddy" (that required some explanation at the dining table--see "How to Be a Lesbian Dad" on, and the third to ask, "When are you coming home?" because a three hour dinner is beyond the imagining of an eleven year old girl.
Good times.

On the easel: Blue the Weimaraner, almost finished
On the laptop: directions to a friend's cabin for the weekend
On the art table: sadly empty
On the nightstand: After the Funeral, by Agatha Christie
On tape: The China Governess
On my mind: A dear, brilliant, nearly lifelong friend who will be at Orycon this weekend to promote his webcomic and column


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