Friday, June 26, 2009


Yes, it's Friday, and you know what that means, right? Fajitas--pronounced fah-JI-tahs. Though we had "flat-iron steak" (which I am pretty sure is flank steak) on the grill last night along with the gorgonzola penne that only Chance (the dog) and I would eat. Chris wrapped his up in a tortilla and drowned it in sour cream, so I think we should re-institute Friday pizza night.

I was wondering about the memo my employer sent out before my 2 week time out, informing me that my paycheck would be a day late; my poor German colleagues won't get paid until the 3rd! They said not to worry, it's not a sign of insolvency or anything. It's just that they will save millions of dollars, or euros, by deferring some blah blah blah, but everything is okay. It made me think of all those women who go on Maury and swear that this guy here, he's the daddy of my baby. I am positive, I just know that he is. And you know what? He never is. I watched a whole hour of this garbage and not once was this guy the daddy. No matter how much she swore he was. I'm afraid Hippe, or whoever repalced him, or the guy that replaced him, is blowing smoke up my you know where.

And, no, I don't usually watch Maury Povich. But it is summer break, and it tends to be on in my house every afternoon. And it's like a car wreck or something. I just can't look away. There seems to really only be 2 kinds of Maury show--who's my baby's daddy and is this pretty woman male or female. I know! But I can't help myself