And That to Me Ladies and Gentlemen, is LOVE.

When I met MacGyver 7ish years ago, I had the best wardrobe ever. 80% of my clothes came from the Army Surplus store, Goodwill, and the men's section of Target. The rest was tank tops. That's the part of my wardrobe that clued him in to me being a girl. They were my sartorial salad days, and I miss them. If I had my choice I would wear cargo pants, a tank top, trailrunners, and a hoodie every day. But no. I answer to The Man now. The Gestapo has the strictest and retardedest dress code I have ever been oppressed by. When I started my job I had to hit up my sister for free clothes from her professional days, before she was popping babies out every time she lost the pregnancy weight. (That's how I knew she was pregnant this last time. I said "Sis? You're looking hot again. Shouldn't you be pregnant soon?" She said "I'm four weeks along. You weren't supposed to know.")

I have about 7 different shirts and 2 pairs of pants that meet the code. I would have more, but I hate shopping with the intensity of a thousand fiery suns. Since I lost two pounds my pants and shirt don't exactly meet, so I have this swath of flesh showing that could get me fired. I technically shouldn't be too worried, since this one chick sashays into cubicleville once or twice a month wearing Come Fuck Me boots and a skirt with a slit up the BACK that is an inch shy of her vagina. I call her Vagina Skirt Girl. In comparison my outfit resembles a burkha. Why am I worrying about this pink swath when Vagina Skirt Girl shows no remorse about her code shattering habits? Oh, right. I'm neurotic.

Since I abhor shopping so, my best friend VBG displayed an act of compassion rivaling Oskar Schindler circa 1939-1944. She bought me long, dermis-hiding shirts. My brain puddles and my blood sugar plummets and I generally break out into hives when I enter the mall. I once called my mom from Kohl's, sobbing, begging her to teach me to sew pants because I couldn't find anything without stretch material which was invented by the antichrist. I'm fairly certain the Hebrews were less appreciative of their manna from heaven than me of my shirts. (Two Jew references in one paragraph! I'm on fire!)

Otherwise things have been normal. MacGyver and I had a private cave tour last week, we saw bats and pounded on a rock formation with a rubber mallet. Don't worry, it was sanctioned pounding, no stalagmites were harmed. No sightings of giant African land snails (thank God!) this week, instead I was treated to the ultrasound of a Malaysian turtle AND I got to hold a tiny Eastern Box Turtle that was roughly the size of a quarter. I will love him forever.

I finished The Devil's Teeth and The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way. Devil's Teeth was informative and entertaining, my kind of book, my only complaint was too much time talking about boats. I loved the history and science and Great White parts, if I reread it I will skip the boat parts and focus on the sharks and the Farallones and be utterly happy. Bill Bryson wrote Mother Tongue, and I have enjoyed his books for years. It fed my fascination of etymology and I recommend it to all geeks like me.

I am through half of It's A Dirty Job on audiobook by Christopher Moore. It is the carrot that gets me on the stairmaster for the duration of a CD. As a result I have been muttering "Like bear!" in a mangled Russian accent for the past several days, apropos of nothing. It just makes me laugh.

In one day I advised Brain Damaged Lady NOT to flush a wad of paper towels. Then I taught her how to use a plunger when she did anyway. Then I fixed her stove and her remote and did emergency case managing to maintain her pension benefits. I so rock the social work world.

The docs had to give mom 5 pints of blood this week. If you've ever thought about donating blood, this might be a good time to better your karma.