So, I turned 43 last Wednesday.
(Yeah, yeah. Happy birthday to me. Whatever.)
(That ain’t what this is about.)
I received the best cards, most phenomenal hugs, most gorgeous flowers, best ever Facebook comments and just more love than I deserve.
However, I did receive something a bit odd.
HELLZ YEAH I DID!
It’s been years since I’ve even thought of that stuff.
I whipped that little red egg out of the plastic casing, popped that puppy open and well…didn’t really know what to do at that point.
I just looked at it for a while. Shifted my head to the left. Then to the right.
(Yes. It’s been that long.)
(No. This ain’t about my love life.)
Rolled it around in my hands.
And what do you know?
I kept rolling.
Then a longer weenie.
(Still ain’t about my love life. Move along.)
I am completely wrapped up in the stylings of this weenie.
Then I hear, “Yo, what’re you doin’?”
(THE BOSS. BEHIND ME. IN MY SHE-CAVE. SHIT.)
Me: “Uhhhh, just rollin’ a weenie…why?”
Boss: “Did you ever send those frames out like said you’d do?”
Me: “Yeah. Last week.”
Notice how he never questioned or asked about me rollin’ a weenie.
A boss who knows how to pick his battles? That, my friends, makes for a brilliant boss.
(Or maybe it’s the fact that, me rollin’ a weenie, ain’t really all that odd to him?)
I continued working on the weenie.
Re-sizing. Re-shaping. Lengthening. Shortening.
Because really…as much as I’d like to make a full-blown foot from my new toy, I’m not 4.
Therefore, my capabilities are limited.
To a weenie.
And to, apparently…the finger.
More than once, I tried to hand that thing to someone.
When they’d ask, “What is this…what are you doing?”
My simple, straight-faced response?
“I’m giving you the finger.”
Might I suggest (should you ever do anything I ever suggest…you’re totally on your own), that you run to the nearest kid-infested toy store and buy yourself some Silly Putty.
Totally worth it.