In which I forget that posts need titles until after I’ve hit Publish

Hot-Weather-Malaysia.jpgIt is not as hot outside as I was expecting it to be today– which is to say, when I look outside nothing is obviously on fire.  That said, I have at least one customer out on the golf course at OtherJob right now who I am not entirely certain is going to survive the experience.  I’m comfortably ensconced in an air conditioned gameroom that hasn’t had many people breathing in it, so I’m doing fine– but I need to figure out how to get to my car at the end of the day without leaving the game room, which might be a bit tricky.

In other news, despite above-average caffeine consumption for the morning, I’ve been yawning for six solid hours and have formally taken next week off from OtherJob, meaning that my string of five straight six-day, 53-hour weeks is about to finally be snapped.  My day off yesterday featured taking my son to day care, grabbing breakfast, doing a competitive shop at a furniture store that I don’t work at (after waiting in the parking lot for 45 minutes because I couldn’t think of anything else to do to kill the time before the place opened) and then coming home and staring at a computer screen for two more hours before taking a three-hour nap.  Despite that, everyone in my house was still in bed before nine last night.  Needless to say, no fiction was written.  Once I leave here I have to go back to the other furniture store for a moment– I was informed that I had managed to miss a critical piece that we need to know the pricing of– and then off to my mom and dad’s for pizza with my brother and new sister-in-law, who I haven’t seen since their wedding.  I’m excited about it, but I also kind of wish I could find a way to have pizza and see family from my bed.

And then it will be Saturday, which is my Monday now, and everything will start over again.

c0a8349fee3c9bfe413e1bb453bcdf48.jpgIn other, entirely unrelated news: did anyone reading this post have a dad like this?  One of those “I’ll kill you if you touch my daughter” types?  I don’t know why, but I caught myself thinking about this type of guy (note: I do not have a daughter) earlier today, and it occurred to me that the way you treat your daughter’s boyfriends has got to be a reflection of the way you, yourself, treat and/or treated women.  I feel like it’s got to say something fucked up about you that you feel the need to go all alpha gorilla and shotgunny when some dipshit teenager comes near your daughter.

(The picture is probably a joke.  Almost certainly.  But we all know these guys exist.  Or maybe they don’t; I dunno, maybe it’s a stereotype that isn’t really real– the father of the only girl I ever really dated in high school was literally on another continent and I met very few dads in between her and the woman I ended up marrying.  Needless to say, by that point we were both grown and her dad very clearly understood that he no longer had any say in the matter one way or another.)

Any thoughts on that, anybody?


4 thoughts on “In which I forget that posts need titles until after I’ve hit Publish

  1. artistsruletheworld

    This is not a stereotype. My father, who has never been an active figure in my life, feels that it is his responsibility to know the details of my romantic endeavors. He said to me one day “Don’t go messin’ with them boys. They’re pieces of shit.” If his feelings towards my potential male suitors are telltale of who he is as a person, I’d have to agree with his sentiment. 🙂

    He also doesn’t know that I’m dating a girl. He is really bad at his job.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. My father was not that type at all, of course, my father didn’t get a chance to be one of those types growing up. Long story, but as a single mother, of a girl and a boy, I wonder how I will behave when they start to date. She is 14 and he is 10, it won’t be long now, and I’m not sure I’m ready. Yikes

    Thanks for the giggle.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. The greatest kindness my parent’s did me was to welcome and treat with respect the boyfriends I bought home, on the grounds that however strange they might at first appear (I was at Art college in London by the 70s), they trusted my judgement. I’ve tried to pass this on to our kids.


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