My Special Agent

Today I drove Mrs. Big Boss and her partner in crime business to the airport where they flew to Dallas. It was a lovely day so we took Big Boss's little Bichon Frise doggie and on the 45 minute drive there we reviewed two press releases and a guide we are producing (never a moment lost).

Partner had the marvelous suggestion to go on a "Working Spa Retreat Weekend" We would go to a hotel, have daily massages, eat fabulous dinners and work like dogs all weekend. Because we usually work like dogs on the weekend anyhow, in addition to the regular fair, we would be getting spa treatments and eating out. I love working with these women! I dropped them off at the airport, unloaded their bags and made my way back to the office.

As I said, it was a lovely day and it was just me and the fluffy white dog in someone else's expensive car. I used Mrs. Big Bosses stylish sunglasses and reapplied my lipstick and - I assure you - I looked just like a movie star.

To extend the experience, I made an unscheduled stop at an exit promising specialty coffee and treated myself with a large java. Special Agent Cooper would have been pleased.

"Harry, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Every day, once a day, give yourself a present. Don't plan it, don't wait for it, just ... let it happen." - philosophy of Dale Cooper (Twin Peaks)

Hubba!

I recently found that some people think filling out the profile section of the blog is "emo" and "gay". To this I snort indignantly. I happen to adore the profile section because I actually came upon a smashing blog using the profile hyperlinks in my very own profile. Apparently we have a mutual interest in Civil Disobedience and Rumi. Whoa.

She says her name is Erica, but I think her name is really "Becky" - see "names that draw and repel" What a bombshell! Kaboom!

The Great Escape

This evening Mortimer escaped. That little fucker.

Mortimer The Cat

He is so affectionate and loving, who else has a cat who comes when you call him? He insists on spooning with me at night, and his fur is exquisite. He is an absolute darling. This being the case, I was very distraught when he went AWOL.

Somehow he figured out how to open the small doggie door in our apartment and realized it was a much easier way to get outside than his previous escape plans. He had been sneaking out now and then by positioning himself next to the door in the shadows and running his furry ass outside anytime someone would enter or exit.

Naturally, I figured the fiancé had let Mortimer escape, and I blamed the incident on his oversight when we realized the cat was gone.

It was getting dark, so we got a flashlight and looked all over the yard and into the woods for the beast. I crept down the length of our neighbors backyards with a flashlight; setting off motion detectors and dogs.

I had almost given up hope when the fiancé noticed the motion detectors again at the neighbors house when we far enough away not to set them off. And sure enough, there was Mortimer sniffing around the porch three doors down.

He wasn't too hard to catch, he waddled back toward our apartment just out of reach. Of course I stepped into a muddy ditch drain and fell, which really rounded out my mood.

I am so relieved and delighted to have that little shit back.

My weakness - edibles.

Bathe me in perrier, darling, and feed me small bites of brie cheese. Perfume my boudoir with the smell of your neck and your hair. Rub my feet with coconut oil and cream. Make me a bed of sage leaves. Open the door to the moonlight and let los lobos howl.

The Lesson

I decided to try swing dancing. It looks like fun, and it seems like a classy, sassy thing to add to my many talents.

Unfortunately I have no rhythm.

I should have suspected my lack of rhythm long ago due my disinterest in music, and that horrible, horrible incident in highschool band. See below for the cliff notes on how the evening worked out.

The Lesson
The Setting: A local college which is offering a none-too-cheap swing class once a week.

The Characters:
The Instructor - A tall, clearly gay man with a metal belt and cowboy boots. Exacting, apathetic of gaining the admiration of his students and orders formations with a booming voice.
The Partner - The fiance. Six feet four inches. Large. Clumsy. Tee-shirt, baggy pants and overdue for a shave.
The Dame - Played by herself. Curvy, dark and more accustomed to chatting in coffee houses than any sort of dancing.

After a solid 20 minutes of chanting "1 and 2; 3 and 4; rock - step" while fumbling with supposedly simple dance steps, The Instructor approaches the Dame and the Partner. He shoves their hands down and apart saying "No no no... like this. ONE and two. THREE and four, little step backwards and step forward again." He sighs and shakes his head at the unfortunate couple - white and straight, with not a rhythmic bone between them.

The Partner and Dame clasp hands again and desperately try to mimic The Instructor, who is watching closely. The Instructor shakes his head again and moves on, disgusted.

Stage goes dark - end scene one.