The cat’s away…

* Executive Producer Wendy is taking the rest of the week off.  She didn’t tell me, but the rest of the newsroom seemed to know.  Hmmm… is she freezing me out?  Maybe she’s planning a surprise birthday party for me.  I mean, it’s very early for her to do that, but it’s the only logical explanation for her disappearing without warning.

* When Wendy’s gone, the newsroom tends to have a very casual vibe.  Case in point, one female coworker started talking about yesterday’s story about the best sex lasting 13 minutes or less.  (She will remain nameless for reasons about to become obvious.)

This woman went on to say that she couldn’t wait to get married, “So I can roll over and it’ll be right there.”


Yes.  That “it.”

The married women in the newsroom spoke like a Greek chorus, telling her that after a year, the sentiment becomes, “Oh, it’s still there.”

At this point, a young woman who’d recently become engaged insisted that such thoughts would never run through her head, and that she and her beau would maintain the magic throughout their marriage.

The married women in the newsroom laughed.

And with that, I resolved never to get married.  Thanks, bitter, married female coworkers.

(Update: Now a male coworker is telling me you don’t have sex when you get married.   That clinches it.)

* If you’re a man who loves Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and The Who, chances are, you’re going to vote Republican.   I was excited to share this news with Executive Producer Wendy, who only listens to Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd and The Who, but she was off today.  This makes me wonder if Wendy will vote Republican, but I don’t know her political views.  She loves guns, but she’s also a feminist.  Those seem to cancel each other out, so I think she’ll skip voting altogether and listen to 1960s rock tunes on Election Day.

* Genius Illinois lawmakers propose a ban on texting or talking on a cell phone while crossing the street.  Really?  How about a ban on running people over?  That seems to make more sense.

* Kanye West unveils the worst celebrity-endorsed product ever:  Pathetic.  It’s basically just Orbitz with two of Kanye’s album covers on top of the site.  Who’s going to turn to Kanye West to book a flight?  I wonder if he’ll include special packages for fans who want to go to the MTV VMA’s and protest when he loses every year.

* As I continued to rail against baseball today, Rob told me to lay off, suggesting that sun, beer and baseball was as good a combo as you can get.  I told him that sun is not exactly a draw for me, as I burn within ten minutes under its skin-melting UV rays.  I then told him the heartbreaking tale of my last baseball game. 

I went to see the White Sox in August.  The sun hung angrily in a cloudless sky.  And I, ever-mindful of the pain of a sunburn, applied a liberal dose of sunscreen.  Unfortunately, I did this while standing up.  What I didn’t remember was that when I’d sit down, my shorts would ride up, exposing my unprotected knees to the searing sun.

And so, after 7 or 8 hours (or however long a stupid baseball game takes) in the tanning bed that is U.S. Cellular Field, my knees became a bright lobster red.  Observe:

Forwarding this picture to Rob had him and Zoraida doubled over in laughter.  That’s right.  Laugh at my pain.

“Why do you have a picture of your knees?” Rob messaged me.

I told him that I still had my camera after the game and when I sat down, I felt the need to document my lobster-like physique.  What was really fun was every time I stood up and took a step, as those shorts scraped against the raw skin. 

Tragedy + Time = Comedy.

Comedy + Me + The Sun = Melanoma.

I hate baseball.

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