I’m a somewhat homely, mild-mannered file clerk. By day, anyway. By night, I’m a sexy voluptuous video vamp. The girl who pouts her lips and whips her hair around in rock videos? That’s me. It’s just a matter of taking off my glasses and putting on the wig…Yeah, you’re right to point that out. There’s not much call for my line of work since the 80′s. Hence, I have to keep the file clerk thing on the side.

It’s not such a bad gig, really. The files are color-coded and I file them numerically. I know my numbers pretty well, so it’s never too challenging.

But, while on the surface it might appear that I am barely surviving a boring, seemingly meaningless existence, in reality I’m doing the most important job in the world. I’ve been trying to keep it hush-hush, but we’re all friends here. I feel I can tell you.

I am the time-keeper for the universe.

It’s a lofty title, but it’s not quite as glamorous as you might think. What it boils down to is this: Every fifteen minutes or so, I check my watch to make sure time is moving along the way it should. If it is, great. If not, we’re in big trouble. So far, so good.

But, here’s the bad news, folks. I’m not trying to alarm anyone, but I don’t know what will happen if my watch ever breaks, and the odds of that happening are probably rising exponentially with each passing hour. The truth is, the watch only cost $8.99 at Target when it was brand new, and that was almost a year ago. I just can’t be sure how much longer it’s gonna hold out.

I suppose I could get a new watch. I guess it’s kinda silly not to, when the fate of humanity hangs in the balance. On the other hand, it seems frivolous to spend $8.99 on another watch when the one I have seems to be working just fine.

Decisions, decisions…

Where was I?

Ah, yes. The main thing I want to convey to you here is that there is no need to thank me for keeping you and your loved ones safe from the collapse of the space-time continuum. You needn’t send elaborate gifts to show your gratitude for my taking on this monumental responsibility. No, no. It is reward enough for me just to see the happy faces when five o’clock rolls around.

Sometimes I have to stare really hard at my watch to get the day safely over and done with for all of us, but in the end, it’s worth it.

Me – Swans will stay in one place as long as they have a mate, but if they lose their mate, they travel.

Michael – Aw. I bet they are looking for their mate then. Like, “Where did she go?” That’s sad.

Me – Yeah.

Michael – And it’s romantic.

Me – Yes, that is romantic.

Michael – If I ever lose you, I’m gonna go looking for red-headed hoes.

Me – I know, honey. That’s romantic.

My apologies if you’ve tried to comment recently and your post didn’t seem to show up. For some reason, all comments have been going to moderation before they show on the blog. I have no intention of leaving it this way. I promise I’ll try to figure out what’s going on, and if necessary, I’ll have my geek love-slave fix it ASAP.

Lately, I have been getting much more spam than I deserve karmically, so it may be that Michael did something to the template in an attempt to keep the freaks away.

In other unrelated news that likely falls into the Stuff Nobody Cares About But Me category, I finished making my very first scarf, and it doesn’t look stupid. Yay! In that same category, I officially hate baby yarn. I may end up making my first pair of booties with sport weight yarn instead… How bad could that be? This is not a rhetorical question. Fellow knitters, I ask you, if I were to do such a thing, how funky would they turn out? Say, on a scale of 1-10, with 10 being the ugliest and weirdest?

The last time I attempted to call my husband at his office, I got someone else.

What clue, you may ask, finally revealed to me the fact that I was speaking a complete stranger? And that I had somehow managed, in this briefest of intervals, to refer to the stranger as “baby” on at least two occasions, maybe more?

It wasn’t the depth of the voice. It wasn’t the change in the pacing of the words. The static on my cell phone was fairly thick, so those things didn’t come across too clearly. No, it was something far more fundamental. It was the words themselves.

The deep voice, who must have been as confused as I was about to whom he was speaking, seemed to be saying that he was at the grocery store “picking up a few things.”

My real husband had not set foot in a grocery store within the last five years. So, naturally, that clued me in. I realized my mistake, apologized to the impostor and quickly hung up, somewhat disappointed.

Damn! Just when the dialog was getting good, I had to go and ruin it by being the wrong woman.

And that was that.

Well… sort of.

Ever since that conversation, I catch myself fantasizing about a handsome stranger I like to call “Grocery Man.” I don’t really know what he looks like; I’ve only heard his voice. But, in my mind’s eye, he’s always tall with golden brown skin and a firm physique.

Thing is, due to some glitch caused by my practical side, I can’t quite picture his face. In my daydreams, everything above his shoulders always seems to be obscured by the large, food-laden paper bags that he’s carrying for me.

“Oh yeah, baby, you know what momma likes. Grab that case of sodas for me. Do it slow.”