My 200th entry was not supposed to go like this. It was not supposed to be written at ten to ten on an evening where breathing takes too much effort, because I'm just more exhausted than I can ever remember being after a simple Thursday at work.
Ok? Ok? NBC was supposed to offer me a sitcom deal and a Lamborghini. CBS was supposed to offer me a Movie of the Week, based on The First Hundred Entries. Fox was gonna bring the cake shaped like my bottom, that said Congratulations Mare-Ingenii on 200 Entries (Not Pounds!)
It's all very distressing.
One thing of note happened between the work, the worry and the wishing I was somewhere else: I had lunch with 15 Piranhas today, without the security blanket of Angel and Felicity, the Very Cool Broads with whom I work closely. Me. Alone. With all those Piranhas.
It was a sight to behold. They didn't eat me alive, although there were times I wished they would have, if only to escape the drone of golf games and ski weekends and the merits of healthy eating. Plus, I have better table manners than they do, and it was all I could do not to slap one guy's hand when he held his fork a la toddler-full-fist.
Poppets, I want to thank you for staying with me for the last 200 pages of rants and giggles and weight gain and weight loss and vanity-driven breastal anxieties. You guys rock.
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