My agency is having our fabulous, fantastic annual celebration next week. Twenty-seven seminars and luncheons and dinners and networking events and tea parties. Okay, not tea parties, but still…. I’m coming in early and working late every day. Even as I am scrambling madly trying to get the last details nailed down, everyone I work with has decided the best way to help is to drop by my desk and badger me about details:
“What should I wear to the big kick-off event in City Hall?”
“Will we have name badges?”
Yes. They will all say Leroy.
“All the seminars say Registration Is Required. Do people really, really have to sign up?”
I’m going to kill you now, with my bare hands and teeth.
Muscato wrote recently about his glam workaday life of embassy balls and Barbara Pym-like rummage sales. I, on the other hand, am trapped in a road show version of The Office, as staged by Our Lady for Prompt Succor School for the Mentally Defective. It’s so unfair.
Houseboys are worried. It's possible Mummy might just be a tiny bit too distracted to address my blog duties. Bear with me.
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