Because she just told me that I look like I've lost weight. She's insane, but I will miss her almost as I will miss Josh and not Michael.
I will also miss the mysterious black man down the hall, the one who smells like my grandmother's old jewelry box. The one when asked and sometimes when not says he is "bless-ed, jest bless-ed", the same one who wears shiny red shoes that match his shiny red ties and gold filigree glasses, the one who says to me "Well HELL-O gawww-geous" when I wear black pants, the one whom I recently found out is the slimy lawyer's part-time receptionist/part-time private investigator, and the one who gave me this check that I couldn't cash.
But I won't miss Michael because he never reads my blog or goes out and gets hammered with us after work. Hint hint.
Speaking of that.
We're taking my bestdamnbrotherfriend Scotthead out for his birthday. We wanted to surprise him and knew he liked casinos and boobie bars, but since a fair percentage of us didn't really want to go to either, we figured we'd strike a happy blend and take him to Cafe Samovar with the belly-dancers and Nyquil-strength cordials, and we're bringing along an Oreo cookie ice cream cake. I guess we can bet on how long it will take us to get him absolutely 150 proof legless. That can make up for missing the casino part.
One thing about maybe-Lebanese-I-thought-this-was-Russian fare is key to remember: If one person eats the baba ganoush, you all have to eat the baba ganoush, so you won't notice the after-reek of too much raw garlic. Handy tip for eating: Spread on pita triangles, and try not to notice that it looks just like cat puke. Also, if you drink too much flavored vodka shots and get sick, you won't feel as guilty yakking baba ganoush as you would, say, prime rib.
Much like the many things in my life as a humanoid experiment, this post has also taken a turn for the worse. Oh well. Bring on the vodka, the bellydancers, and the cake!
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