Y'all Should Totally Fire Me from This Blogging Thing

If I were to call each one of you personally to get caught up on my life (which is, among other things, what this blog is for) it would sound a lot like this: Hi,Can'ttalk,workcrazy,missyou,loveyou,bye!

People, I left my house this morning at 6:30. SIX THIRTY. In the morning. With no stop at the gym, just straight to my desk. Mine was the third car in the parking lot, for which I think I deserve some kind of prize. Or at least a nice cup of coffee. Delivered, please, as I don't have time to go get it myself. (Grande nonfat misto, one Splenda, please. Maybe with some white powder from the vanilla shaky thing. If you're procuring this for me, I won't worry about using my personal cup. Paper will be just fine.)

The day was going mostly according to plan, right up until lunch, when a glob of guacamole jumped into my lap. No, it wasn't Chipotle guacamole, it was homemade (thanks, Mom!) from the fajitas I made the other night. (Yes, I cook! Amazing!) Anyhow. Guacamole + lap = bad news. Naturally, I swore. And then thought of my father, from whom all things klutzy emanate (thanks, Dad!).

[Aside to my unborn children: I AM SORRY. Please accept my many apologies for all of the entirely-avoidable klutzy things you will do, or witness me do, in your lifetime. I know firsthand how mortifying such moments are and I swear to you, I am trying to select for you a father whose genes do not bring with them such a liability, but I've got to be honest, the list of requirements right now is pretty long and there don't seem to be that many qualified candidates, and at some point something's got to give. So, while I place a high premium on grace, agility and general non-klutziness, those might not make the cut over, say, no felony convictions. You might just have to get used to tripping over things, spilling food and drink, and the fact that you see the ER staff more frequently than your grandparents. In short, please remember that I'm sorry and I love you. PS--I do not recommend backyard flag football, as it is fertile ground for broken collarbones, but it is entirely possible to catch a softball with your face and come away from the experience with your nose intact. But I wouldn't push your luck.]

So, if any of you have a tried-and-true method for getting guacamole out of my 73% silk, 23% cotton, dry-clean-only dress, I'd love to hear it. Otherwise, I may have to ask my mother for help, and something tells me she's quite happy to be done with doing my laundry.

Finally, indisputable proof that The Wheels Have Officially Come Off: I'm filing for an extension on my taxes. Because, despite the fact that the IRS already knows it's sending me a sizable check and that my taxes have been 90% done for the past three weeks, there are these two little tiny pieces of information I need from the DC government. Which they will be mailing to me in the next week or so. Grand. Oh, and the fact that I haven't even looked at those pesky state tax forms. So much so that I almost had a panic attack when I realized I hadn't even opened the booklet and then immediately went to investigate how, exactly, one files for an extension on her state taxes.

Must work now, so I can feel less guilty when I leave at 5:30 tonight, after having put in a 10 ½ hour day.

UPDATE: I arrived home last night and was greeted by piles of clean laundry. MY clean laundry. So apparently I was wrong about that Mom-doesn't-want-to-be-responsible-for-my-laundry-anymore thing. Also, this morning I was the FIRST car in the parking lot. Ha! Take that, people who have more exciting lives than me!