Last week I had to get up earlier than usual was late to work because I had to scrape frost off my windshield. This week…I’m wondering if I’d get fired for taking off my pants.
Seriously.
I’m hot. And not sexy hot. I’m sweaty hot. And not glistening sweaty. I’m I-think-I-just-wet-my-underoos-no-that’s-just-sweat sweaty.
That’s how hot it is. I don’t even care how embarrassing it is to share with you that my thighs have soaked my undies. To dry them, I’m sitting spread-eagle at my desk…in a dress. Classy.
My legs scream “Open for Business,” but I don’t care.
While we’re I’m sharing, although I have a cold water bottle behind my neck, I really want to shove it down the front of my dress.
Apparently, switching on the AC requires a gazillion different approvals plus a dead body, so yesterday and again today we’re all sitting inside a 90-degree building….crying because no one would sacrifice themselves to the AC gods.
Ok, so maybe I was the only one actually crying. But only half of the time. The other half of the time I was begging for a Channing Tatum-look-a-like cabana boy to fan me.
Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I used to have an apartment where there was a small access panel (to the bath plumbing) in my bedroom. The first guy I showed it to swore that was where the trolls live. I never opened it, just to be sure.”—BluzDude
