Dripping sarcasm

A. was sick last week. She didn't care. She still came in to work, all loogified and dripping from her various head holes. She had absolutely no concern for how her terrible malady might affect anyone else, meaning me. She hawked and breathed on me, as if to say, "If I'm going down, you're going with me." No, she didn't say it -- but I know she was thinking it.

For three days, she couldn't speak. It was beautiful. Touching, really. Around Wednesday, I started making plans for her demise. It was inevitable, as far as I was concerned. A small send off at Chuckie Cheese, followed by bowling and scattering her ashes on Dane Cook. But by the afternoon, she was actually feeling better - she even called me after work to announce she regained her voice. Again, just flinging my plans all over the place without even considering what was on my agenda.

Now, this week, she's back to the healthy, bouncy, insanity-laced scheme of things. Thanks a lot, A. Now what do I do with all of these kazoos?

Tabled manners

Today A. forked, spooned and Splenda'd me... it's not as erotic as it might sound. The fact is, she threw a fork, then a spoon and then some Splenda packets at me during lunch. No, no, no -- there didn't need to be a reason. Lunch was over and it was just A.'s way of driving the point home. To that end, it's a good thing she didn't have a knife. In the free-form jazz assault genre, A. is freaking John Coltrane and she was merely vamping in the zone.