quack

It's been a very exciting, if unproductive, morning here at GFD HQ Internat'l.

In the park, my totem animal.



In the toaster, a fire.


That's right, a fire! That piece of toast was actually on fire! And that's not a metaphor meaning the toast was doing a great job or winning a race, it was literally on fire! It had to be put out! By me! Using a wet dishtowel! (Note to Dad: I unplugged the toaster oven first.) I contemplated baking soda but that seemed messy. I also contemplated grabbing my camera to try and get a photo of the actual flames, but ultimately that would have been messier.



Do-over:

i'm still talking about the sunburn -- it's THAT BAD

If I had the kind of job I could call in sick to, I would have called in sick today. But I don't. So I didn't. Instead I went in and waddled around the office. That's right, I waddled. Because my knees are so sunburned, I cannot straighten my legs. So instead I walk like a duck -- knees bent, butt sticking out, tiny steps. A duck with a limp, in fact. A matronly, splotchy duck with a limp who sits at her desk with ice packs balanced on each thigh and groans audibly when forced to lift herself from or lower herself into her chair.

I would like to tell you more about my fascinating life as a matronly, limping, groaning duck, but I just got home from work and still have to finish a freelance job. Tomorrow I hope to post something about (a) the yachtsman's strawberry shortcake (the dessert, not the doll), (b) the pros and cons of reading trashy mystery novels, or (c) my plans to begin referring to myself in the third person as "the duck." But the duck is not making any promises.