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Requiem for a Weekend

Well, here we are again — just another few hours left in the weekend, before we have to throw the yokes back on and get back to the grind.

(Yeah, I’m sure I’m mixing metaphors in there somewhere, but frankly, I’ve never been yoked nor asked to grind anything, so I can’t say for sure whether the two are mutually exclusive. Maybe you can ‘yoke and grind’; I don’t know. Sounds like something you’d want to try with some Barry White playing in the background, actually, but that’s not really the kind of ‘grinding’ I was going for.)

Where the hell did this weekend go, anyway? I mean, they always end too soon, but this one just evaporated — soon, there’ll be nothing left of the weekend but the sweet memory of loafing on the couch, and a little puddle of Sunday spittle on the pillow. Kind of brings a tear to your eye, doesn’t it?

(Oh. No, sorry, that’s just drool on your cheek. You might want to turn the pillow over before you rest your head there again. That’s nasty, man.)

Actually, I’ve got it pretty damned good in my office, compared to many of the work-schlepping schlubs out there.

(Or is that ‘work-schlubbing schleps? I’m always getting my ‘schl-‘ words confused.

Well, except for ‘schlong’, of course. Now there’s a word you only accidentally use in conversation once. Seriously, I wanted my boss to know his report was something meaning ‘inferior or shoddy’, but I never meant to call it ‘schlong‘. That was not a particularly pleasant project meeting. Really. Not at all. Almost as bad as when I asked for a ‘Christmas boner’. I’ve really got to read my dictionary more carefully.)

Anyway, I don’t have it so bad. My office doesn’t have a dress code, for one thing. No ties, no dress shirts — I can even wear sneakers, if I want. In the summer, I’m thinking of pushing for ‘pants-optional Tuesdays’, to see where that goes. Partly, I think it’ll help keep us cool. But mostly, I just want another excuse to show off my cool man-thongs.

(Okay, okay, I can’t back that up. Er, so to speak, that is. The truth is, I don’t own any ass-floss of my own. Still, the idea of a pantsless office makes you wonder — how many of your coworkers are wearing those crack-catchers, anyway? And can you guess which ones? And perhaps even more interestingly, how would you figure out whether you were right?

Sorry. These questions just sort of pop into my head. I think I have whatever horrible, debilitating mental syndrome that Jeff guy from Coupling has. Or am I just being paranoid? Are other people spontaneously struck by the thought that ever person in the meeting with them was completely naked only hours before? Or that every pair of lips in the room has, at one time or another, been locked in squirmy, wanton embrace with another person’s lips? Or… other parts? Am I the only one who gets through meetings like this? And for the love of lacy panties, is there a cure?)

All right. Where the hell was I, anyway? Seems like I was talking about work, somehow. It was probably something about the relaxed dress code, or the flexible hours, or that they let me juggle at my desk between meetings. And no, ya guttertramps, that’s not some sort of sick, twiddly euphemism. Not this time, anyway. But keep your eyes open — you never know when these things will change.

But all this talk about work is starting to get me all, you know, floppy inside. As relatively cool as my workplace is, it’s still an office, and therefore not something I really want to have on my mind on a Sunday night. I’ll be shuffling my sorry ass in there soon enough tomorrow morning, so I’m gonna wrap this up and get the hell to bed before my Sunday slobber runs out. It’s just not a weekend without some drool on the old pillowcase, right, kids? And tonight, it might just be mine. Bonus! G’night, now.