promises, and the keeping thereof

I am a great big slacker, and would like at this point to apologize to Rebecca for not writing for days. And days.

No matter that I've been working 800 hours a day, am trying to clear off my desk before the next person starts doing that job, and maybe trying to get some quality "pulling the heads off Barbies" time with my daughter, lest I be shunned (and if you think you've ever seen shunnin', you should be shunned by my daughter. It takes it to a whole new level).

Should I trot out any of these tawdry excuses to Rebecca, her response would be "take your kid to the office and run all of the paperwork through the shredder while your daughter sits at your desk and pulls the heads off the Barbies and then come home and write my blog, you lazy bitch. I mean, it's not like they can fire you, is it?"

Any excuse-making would be futile.

I know this because she and I are, apparently, the same person. From the minute we started talking this became abundantly clear. I've never heard of twins separated at birth and who are also ten years apart in age and of different nationalities but hey, anything can happen (and, in this household, often does). We're so alike that a close friend of hers, having read my blog, actually thought it was her posting under another name.

(This is, clearly, an offensive suggestion as my writing is far better than hers, but I digress.)

There are a number of differences, naturally. She is a fine example of how a woman can have a good career; I seem to have chosen the "dreadful warning" option rather than the inspirational route. We both enjoy a good beverage, but she's more of a martinis and single-malt kinda gal, whereas I am the "beer out of a can" type. (That's an aluminum can, I hasten to add, not a confession that I do most of my drinking in the lavatory.) She has a better sense of fashion; however, although I often dress in clothes that the Salvation Army would be embarrassed to hand out to the homeless (I actually don't even know what I look like most days), I have a sense of balance.

I think in the long run this will stand me in better stead.

We will not discuss the hot-tub incident in which I ended up with 12 stitches in my ass, k?

To conclude, apparently I am the low-rent version of our dear ItGirl, and nobody should be even slightly surprised at my slackery, and should get off my case.

I think I'm going to start mailing her religious tracts in the morning.