I have 70 lbs of shaking, drooling, clumsy dog trying to fit under this desk with my legs tonight. Who needs the weather man when you’ve got this guy?
I realized this week that I have been misusing (and misunderstanding) a common business term for about five years now. C-suite. Who knew it actually meant people whose titles start with “C”… CEO, CFO, COO, whatever. I thought it meant “C” suite. Like, not quite “A” suite, just down the hall from “B” suite. Like a C-list celebrity. A C-list executive. As in, probably drives a Taurus.
Fortunately, I discovered this on my own, prior to making an ass of myself, though I might have said, “aaaaaah!” under my breath in a meeting when my own personal lightbulb finally went off.
Also at work this week, the bug guy showed up in his poisonous metal backpack, wearing a tie with illustrated bugs on it. Dude. Way to get into it.
I picked Bird up from daycare and she wanted to show me her “ant hill”– a paper plate painted green, topped with a paper cup painted brown. I found the one with her name on it, sitting in a row of identical creations, drying and waiting to have fingerprint ants applied in the morning. Walking home, I told her I really liked her ant hill. “No, mama” she said, “Ant Heel.”
“Oh,” I said. “I always thought it was “Ant hill.”
“No. Ant Hee-Yull. Like the Hee-Yull of your foot. Hee-Yull.”
A. and I are Midwestern to our core, but that girl is all South.