Working between the holidays. Means reading far too much of this and putting off doing my friggin TPS reports. But please, how can I not? Allow me to indulge you with an exchange between the TGIF and his coworker:

Coworker: "I think our department will be changing from the Windows XP Platform to the Windows XP Professional since it appears to be a more stable operating system with a user-friendly interface."
TGIF: "Party."

Other than that, I've been able to render myself giddy with personal emails. A few snipets:

"I was re-gifted several times this Christmas. I wanna say: give it someone who needs it. Take it to the homeless shelter or the Salvation Army. Do I look like I need old chocos and Bon-ami smelling candles?"

"What if we didn't tell them, and you & I disappeared only to resurface moments later dressed in our glittery, clumsy ***HOLI-DEBUT!!!*** costumes. We'd never really get our eyes to line up with the mask-holes, so we'd always been leaning way back, people having to look right up our noses. Muffled, with big smilin teeth partially visible: WHAT? ITS HARD TO HEAR. YES! I LOVE EGG NOG!"

"I can hardly smell that perfume now, I over-doused myself with it. It reminds me of my dankdank little apartment and constantly staying out late trying to woo the likes of surly Irish drunks. The bottle was often a little sticky and collected lint."

Whitney used to work with Shirley, an energetic, curvy black woman who many times a week would appear unannounced in her office. She was there on business, Whitney's personal business, that is. With one hand on her hip, she'd try and understand why this cute, shiny-haired girl wasn't hitched yet. Her drop-bys of this nature began to increase, Shirley's sheer bewilderment turned into frustration, and not long after, into action.

Troy Ragland was a facilities manager at their office with a thick mustache and surly demeanor. He was long-legged and drove a Camaro. Any exchanges with him left Whit feeling prickly and condescended toward. She started calling him Rags. The tales were hysterical, "So, I ask freakin Rags like six times, right..."

At once, Rags started showing up in her office, but not about any maintenance issues. He took Shirley's place, leaning against the frame of the door, but not really making eye contact and shuffling his feet nervously, trying to work up a good teasy-spar, his method of flirting. This kept up, these forced ribbings with a trying-hard-to-be-nice-and-fun Rags.

She'd pull out a good convo-ender, like "Well, yeah, don't we all", and he'd turn it into a little fight-fun, "Yeah- I mean, what dya'mean? Heh-heh. Don't we all what? Heeyyyy that sounds like ya' up ta' somethin...eh, eh? I don't know about you-- you're trouble! Soooooooo...goin ta' the Christmas party? Heh? Heh?" It hit her: Shirley was behind this. She flew down to Shirley's office to find that she indeed had taken it upon herself to make it clear that Whit was hot for Rags, to Rags.

Why this cracks me up, I don't know. Every now and then I ask Whit to please recount the story of when Shirley sent grouchy Rags a-courtin. So bold. I love it.

Working on advertising projects if kind of like running track. The kind with hurdles, but maybe with a finish line that is hardly visible. It just keeps going.

I've been slaving away on an recently-won account and finally got some approvals on a very cool looking design, far more racy than I ever thought they'd go for. I came back to the office, truimphant, giving everyone the play-by-play, practically high-fiving everyone only to turn around and nearly collide into the next hurdle. Heh.

Creative concepts to client: 1/4
Production: 1/14
Launch: 2016

A lot of folks are out of the office, making for a quiet, dark December afternoon. Only keyboard tappings could be heard along with the gentle swishing of the nearby kitchen dishwasher. Industrious.

At once there was a sonic blast: KA-BLOOM! Klang, klang! It sounded like a large truck had just exploded on the other side of the kitchen. I jumped up, along with around 8 other alarmed coworkers, and raced over to find an IT fellow crouched over a small mountain cube-detritus: a dart board, large books, etc. Apparently he'd knocked off a heavy metal shelf. He hurredly picked it all up with his combed hairs and rosy cheeks, while the company gang stood around asked [slightly irritated] "Are you alright?" This was his first day here. His shirt was tucked into his work pants. Things like that absolutely crush me. I am too soft. I want to go buy him a tall beer and tell him jokes.

Still being somewhat new here, it was hard to believe that Saturday night we had a conflict: two holiday party invites. One, a large, festive one out in the country, and another a dinner hosted by two close friends, the wife is a great cook & perfect hostess. We opted for the second, knowing we were guaranteed a funny, more personal evening. These folks are always fun.

I was ready! I made a dessert (not exactly, uhm, characteristic of me, but may demonstrate my holiday zeal) to bring and a nice bottle of wine. The night was crisp, the stars were out, my hairs looked nice.

We ambled up to the door, to be greeted by our dear friend in sweats. Everyone, namely the hostess, had partied far too much the night before. 'Tis the season, I suppose.

I poured myself a glass of wine (making the hostess wince) and followed her to the large, perfectly decorated living room where everyone was glued to a football game. I shifted gears and took a seat on the comfy sofa by the fireplace, with Bo next to me. Conversation was slightly strained due to the general air of discomfort.

"Uggh, never again", she shuddered and sunk far into her armchair, tucked underneath a blanket. Seconds later, the loudest, most "productive" fart broke the silence from her general area. I was floored. No one said anything. She looked over at Scott and me, eyes wide. I had to say something, there was no ignoring this colossal eruption. "Oh!" I said, "Those things happen", I chuckled nervously, my cheeks flushing.

Damn, if she didnt get me with ol' whoopie cushion gag. So completely unexpected, and so brilliantly executed. Damn. We all had a good laugh. Namely, at my super cheezy "everyone loses control" response.

OK, now my blog is all about poop. This is bad.

On a non-toilet note, my 2.5 year old neice is hands-down the cutest thing. She has more personality than anyone I know. Yesterday, while thoughtfully "sweeping" me with her kiddy broom, she told me very definitively two times with her slight Scottish accent: "Auntie Holly, today is not Halloween."

A friend threw her first dinner party for me, Scott, and her somewhat-new boyfriend the other night. I offered to bring a vegetarian item, as I learned the main course was a very sophisticated dish of braised ribs. Scott must have asked me five times what braising was. I was impressed, way to aim high for a first effort!

We all filtered in, feeling festive and toasty. She thoughtfully had made the house immaculate, had delicious candles hurning, and I noticed a new braising pan box in the kitchen.

The braising experiment was taking some wierd turns. The hostess stood wiltingly in her boiling hot kitchen, hovering over the super-dark, shiny ribs. "Its supposed fall off the bone?" She whispered to me, closing the lid on the bubbling brown mass. I hurredly served up the homemade black bean soup I had made from a wonderful new cookbook, along with the corn muffins I'd baked, providing a solid distraction from the molten braising activity.

"Where are you?" The hungry boyfriend became inquisitive after another half hour had passed, spent entertaining Scott & me as the pots clanged in the kitchen. I felt my dear friend growing slightly exasperated, but not losing composure, she prepared each plate lovingly. The meat was indeed falling off the bone. Done. The three of them tucked right in.

After dessert, we said our goodbyes and headed home. Two steps out the door, I was stricken. The full effects of my legume-extravaganza. Having some work to finish, I conveniently mosied upstairs to the office and left Scott to his own downstairs. Moments later, he called up to me, stating flatly: "I have the pops. Bad." I laughed hard into my monitor.

I dropped my friend an email the next day, asking her if she & the gent suffered any specific ailments after dinner. She repsonded immediately: YES, in fact, they had and it was "a long night", what with the newish couple embarassment and with his lamenting over her gas-producing braisin' ribs. Not romantic.

I was quick to tell her that no, no, it wasn't her fancy ribs, it was my soup. I cannot stop laughing over this. Nice friend I am, I like the way I came to her impress-the-beau dinner party only to give everyone lethal gas. Maybe that could be my signature. I am having them over this Friday, I told her the menu consists of braised prunes and raw broccoli. Would people still come?