Day 38. Why do you let these ladies get to you?- Brother Dan.
Because I'm human little brother. (Well, human-ish.)
If I were talented enough to write a song for Milton, I would.
I really would.
I mean, she’s been my inspiration for SO many posts that I feel I should write her a Sonata performed in my dulcet tones.
I owe her that much.
Since I’m just a talent-less hack, here is an open letter to Milton, asking the whys and wherefores of her peculiar behavior. Well, not so much "asking" as chronicling the oddness that is SHE.
Sorry guys, another long one. [jean knee-that's what she said!]
Today you spent about 2 hours looking up a phone number on whitepages.com. When I asked why you didn’t just call information, you responded the following, “They charge 40 cents for directory assistance. I don’t want the company to have to pay that when I can look up the number for free online .”
Dear dear delusional Milton. While I am NOT a math wiz, I can come to obvious conclusions such as:
If person “A” makes approximately $XX.00 an hour and wastes 2 hours doing something that she can spend 10 seconds doing while only paying 40 cents... well, this person is not only at the bottom of the stupid barrel, their accounting title should also be stripped and given to the homeless guy outside of Macy’s.
The final blow came to you when you couldn't find the listing and HAD to call directory assistance where they told you the number was “unlisted”. Now you have cost the company $XX.40.
I cried with you.
Then you stopped me as I was sleepily walking to get more coffee and we had the following exchange:
Are those blue slacks? I thought you said you only had black and brown!
Me: [drowsy, drooling]
What? When did I say that?
One time I was telling you about some socks I bought, you said “I have about 12 pairs of black slacks and 10 pairs of brown” you never said you had blue ones.
Me: [thinking I’m dreaming. Did I say dreaming? I meant nightmare-ing]
Uh… I’m… sorry?
Seriously? Should I send you a memo every time I buy a pair of slacks? How does that change the way I work? They were dark blue not light-powdery-sky-blue with puffy white clouds. They went from here to there like all good slacks and fit regularly. They weren’t short or too tight or leather with fringe nor did they have steer heads on the back pockets (as is customary in Texas) so why would it matter?
Still, our conversations are always entertaining. They keep me from wondering what it would be like to work with the criminally insane.
Then, before lunch, you gave me a stack of things you’d withheld from me since November and you made a face.
Why would you make a "cutesy" face when talking to me? I'm a girl, you're a girl.
I will not think "Awww she made a cute POUTY little face therefore I'll forgive the fact that she just doubled my workload and said 'Sawy'!"
No. Making a cutesy face only enrages me to the point of no return.
I’m “sawy” but I had to tell you. I’d feel remorseful if I didn’t warn you before I pushed you off a cliff. It might give you a chance to fight back, however un-suc-cess-ful.
To top off our day together, you decided to challenge me on the pronunciation of the word “Sherbet”. You just had to insist that there was a second “R” therefore making it SherbeRt. Why? Why would you do that if only seconds before I had told you of Andy correcting my mistake while we bought some yummolicious lemon raspberry SHERBET? I was trying to tell you I had it wrong all these years but instead you made it about us. You and Me US.
You went on to tell me how in 1921 (or something old) you used to go to Cock Robin (which made me giggle) and order the rainbow SherbeRt. I guess you were trying to tell me how old and experienced and never wrong you are. It finally came to a Google duel.
I slowly bowed my head and said “Google away for I have work to do.” (and by "work" I meant write this shit down so I could remember it later).
Unfortunately Wiki let you down. Here and here.
But! You did come to the conclusion that saying SherbeRt is an accepted form of saying sherbet.
Because it’s YOU, you can say it however you want. You can call it COLORED-FLAVORED-ASS-JUICE if you want and I’ll still support your decision.
Oh Milton you crazy bitch, and I mean that in the most loving of ways, thank you for the years you’ve given me and here’s to many more. Raise your COLORED-FLAVORED-ASS-JUICE. SALUD!
Yours in death.
Will you spare this girl a click?