In Which Bunny's Horrible No-Good Day Ends not so Badly After All

Oh, Man, but yesterday sucked.



First, I dreamed that I was living in a one-room rat-infested apartment with The Man and Bossboy, only there were leaky pipes in the walls, so water was spouting forth from several places. Dream Bunny, of course, was expected to handle this. Nice.



Then, I hit the snooze two extra times before I could get up. Twarnt easy. I seriously considered just lying there and trying to disappear. I eventually rousted myself by asking WWADPD? ADP would get his perfect Italian ass out of bed and get it to training and if he ran into any fans, he would smile and sign autographs and not be a dick. That's what he would do. Thus, Bunny must also get up and get through the day.


Then, I puked. This is not terribly uncommon for days when I have to go to the office, but I really prefer not to barf, given the choice.

I decided to wear my Prince of Darkness costume (black pants, black top, and black sweater) except for these:










and a pair of shoes that may or may not be forbidden under our dress code. "Is grey area" as coach said in The Cutting Edge. (I know. Shit movie, but we love it.) These socks made me feel like John Belushi in Animal House, in the scene where he dresses in his cat burglar outfit and white socks to go spy on the girls in the sorority house.



I dried my hair. It came out uncommonly big:



because I always use too much or too little product. Boy do my highlights need a touch-up.



Since I was wearing the Prince of Darkness suit, I decided to go all out and wear the Raccoon eye makeup. Why not announce to the entire world

I AM GRUMPY

without even opening my mouth. Sometimes I do it this way:





That's Bunny Bitchface at an office Holiday Party. Guess who didn't want to be there? Guess who didn't want her photo taken?


So, raccoon. Problem, though, because I ditched all my old eye pencils, including the black one, and the new grey one is too subtle. I want a message that screams:

KEEP AWAY!

and a tasteful grey was not going to cut it. Bummer. I did, however, have a new sapphire eye pencil. Nothing subtle about that. So I drew great big smeary blue circles around my eyes, and then I added some glittery pink eye shadow and a dark pink lip gloss for that bigmouth look, and I put on my earrings that don't match (earrings are not covered in the dress code) and thus attired, all

BACK OFF. DO NOT TOUCH!

..I trudged off to Mordor via the Black Gate, I mean the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.




Everything is supposed to be magically better now because we have President Hopey-Changey, but I'm still fat and grouchy, and traffic is still crappy, and 17th Street was still partially blocked for the unending renovation of the Old Executive Office Building--now with cinder blocks 18 inches into the center lane in addition to orange and white striped traffic barrels!



But H Street is clear now that new POTUS-HC has moved out of the hotel and into the White House. They finished the renovations at St. John's church, so it was easier pulling over to let out The Man for his short walk to the Department of Bureaus, or whatever I call it. The AFL-CIO building had a giant banner facing the White House that said "Welcome Sasha and Malia!" and all the other union HQ buildings along 16th Street had new "Yay for Unions" banners hanging up.


And so I get to the Teeny Tiny Government Entity and I enter the parking garage and here are my first two thoughts:



1: The seat belt is pinching my boobs. Ouch. Ouch ouch ouch. I can't be the only person with boobs who drives. Can they not design a seat belt for people with boobs? Why? whywhywhy



2: And I parked in my usual spot that I choose because it's never blocked by the valet if I want to leave early, and the Big Banana has gotten there before me and taken the space next to mine and I recognize his car of course and I think: We used to be friends, but now he hates me.



That's right, people, my first work-related thought is an involuntary one about how Banana hates me. Great attitude. Not at all like ADP.


But I get up to the lobby and there's this:

New POTUS photo. That's good. And --Hey!-- my plants didn't die over the long weekend when I forgot to water them. That's good. But I have trouble making coffee and end up with a mouthful of coffee grounds. And then I see one of my many therapists and get a most unwelcome lecture about how I don't eat enough protein.

And stuff happens at work. My last draft was only mostly perfect, not completely perfect. I, naturally, go all Diva all over the place. They hate meeeeeee! They are trying to crush Dirtbunnyeeeeeeee! Bossboy handles this pretty well, because, as eggs go, he is a good one. But Bunny has to finish sulking before she can comply with her marching orders.

So she tries to stop sulking. But she can't. She is too worked up. Too pissed off. Protein, my ass. Grump grump grump. Plus, way too much caffeine today.

Dirtbunny puts in the IPOD ear bugs and starts blasting music of insolence and alienation, and she takes one of her emergency back-up happy pills for those times when she is irrationally worked up and can't clam down by herself and she stomps around in her tiny little office pretending that she is crushing people under her feet, and gradually, she feels a little more powerful and a little more clam and then she thinks,

"If only Banana would love me again"

and that thought sets off another wave of self-hatred. Oh. My. God. I. Am. Such. A. Whore!

But it also shocks me into a get-over-yourself sort of place. Come on Bunny, try a little. And I get over it, and I do what I am asked to do, and I do it well, and I move on.

Ok, then. I am good at my job. I am Pinturicchio. I turn the IPOD to my bagpipes playlist. Bagpipes always make me feel like kicking someone's ass, so I commence to kicking ass by finally, finally, finally, finishing a case in a box that has been NO FUN. OK, then. I am Pinturicchio.

And that, my friends, was a full fucking day, so it was past time to go home, and I went and watched the replay of the Coppa Italia game that the cable ate yesterday, and Daniele De Rossi is growing out his hair and Alberto Aquilani got some playing time for once and Old Man Panooch didn't get to play but Big Swede scored another goal and Inter won but it's not a league game so it isn't bad for Juventus, and I eat some ice cream and clean Kirby's ears and all is well.

A Bummer of a Day

Some days, Dirtbunny has to fight to find any inspiration she can. It has been a slow day of bran not working. I meant BRAIN not working. See what I mean? Sigh.

We are seriously freezing here. The house is drafty and the heating system is substandard and around about now the winter has settled into the bones of the house and it will stay there until April. Around about March, we'll be opening windows at night to get warm. Seriously. My feet are never warm and my cheeks are always pink. Plus, usually I get off on firing people who really really deserve it, which is one of the things they pay me to do at the Teeny Tiny Government Entity, but not so much lately. Aaaaaannnnnnddddd......the cable keeps timing out so I can't watch Coppa Italia today. Grrrr.

Only one thing can cheer me up: CALCIO! And therefore, I bring you FC Dirtbunny. Today, Dirtbunny calls up Real Madrid striker and former Spanish international Raul. (Yeah. We can't do what are they called diacritical marks? on Blogger. Consider his name properly accented.)

Here are the reasons that I choose to share.


Reason Number 1: He is the all-time leading scorer in Champions League. Surely he is assisted in this matter by playing his entire senior career for a team that routinely goes to Champions League, but still. To paraphrase Kurt Flood, those other guys are major leaguers too, so give them credit. It's an amazing achievement for a guy who is only 31 years old.

Reason Number 2: Sometimes after Sergio Ramos scores a goal for the Merengues, Raul and Sergio kiss on the lips. Grown, heterosexual men smooching on the lips is not something you see much in American sports (nor would you want to, mostly, allowing of course that every pot has its lid, etc. [tangent: maybe someday I'll present to you my monologue on the homoeroticism of American Football. But not today]). The whole smoochy-smoochy thing has secured Raul the honor of an early call-up to serve his Dirtbunny.

Reason Number 3:




Who can argue with that? See? You don't need an offensive hairdo to stand out from the crowd. Understated class is the way to go.


And now off I go to try to salvage something from this big frozen waste of a day.

Futbol

The second member of FC Dirtbunny is Juventus defender and Swedish international Olof Mellberg.




We like that name: Olof. olof olof olof olof


Why is he on FCD? Because he's a lumberjack

and he's OK

Why has he been called up today? Because of this:

Despite the distracting royal blue of the rarely-seen third kit, those are Juve players. Juve played SS Lazio this weekend, and they were all asleep except our lumberjack friend, who improbably scored his first-ever Serie A goal to give Juve the draw and allow them to gain another point on Inter. Here he is receiving the love he deserves. You caress that beard, Alex. Caress it well.

By the way, another perfect Inter game. Inter did not win (allowing Juventus to gain on them in the table)? Check. Big Swede scored a goal? Check.

Dinner is in 20 minutes so let's move this along

ISSUE NUMBER ONE

[cue tranquil music]


Oh, Little Tiki. How cute you are. How sweet your little sleeping face. How soft your fuzzy little coat. How velvety your little beagley ears.


Just because it's wrapped up all pretty and hiding in The Man's closet doesn't mean it's for you.


This pretty lacquered box with elephants on it was a birthday present to me from The Man's mother. I didn't get to open it. Someone else found it first, pulled it out of the bag, dragged it halfway across the house, and opened it.




And tasted it, too, as you can see by the chew marks at the upper right, and the little droplets of drool that I'm sure were not there when this was wrapped for me back in December.

ISSUE NUMBER TWO

In other beagle news, we have a mouse chip somewhere in the yard. This is how I know. Kirby will snuffle around in the mulch, retrieve a large flat piece of what looks like mulch, and chew it. He will not drop it or respond to commands. It makes a nasty crunching sound that makes us realize this is not a piece of mulch, and it is not falling apart the way a leaf would. One bends down to take it from his mouth. In an instant, one identifies that this thing has wee little feet and one flings it away in panic. Yikes!!! A few moments later, one realizes that it is now back in the mulch, hiding, undetectable to humans, and waiting for Kirby to find it again. Repeat daily.

ISSUE NUMBER THREE

Announcing the first member of FC Dirtbunny: Gennaro Gattuso.





Rino is a midfielder for AC Milan and on the Azzurri. He is the heart of FCD because he's always on fire. He's always in it. He never gives up.





When everyone else on the pitch is playing like a bunch of losers, Rino gets angry and does whatever he can to fire the side up. He is the Dirtbunny on the field, and my indispensable player.

His superpower is that he can set things on fire with the fierce righteousness of his glare.

Also, he is a hairy, stubby Calabrian, just like my hairy stubby Calabrian ancestors (although some of them ended up freakishly tall).

AC Milan may have to play without him while he mends, but his contract with FCD will never expire.

Ways in which Dirtbunny and Pinturicchio are not the same

Armani is not asking (much less paying) Dirtbunny to pose in her underwear, or fully clothed either for that matter.

There is nothing on the interwebs devoted to Dirtbunny other than stuff Dirtbunny created herself.

No one looks at a sweaty Dirtbunny and thinks, "I must lick that."

Dirtbunny's eyes change color. Alex's eyes are brown. They're nice, but they don't change color.

Dirtbunny sucks at free kicks.

Alex sucks at Bluebooking.

Dirtbunny went to college.

Dirtbunny can't speak Italian.

Dirtbunny knows that golf is retarded. Alex has yet to be enlightened.

Alex almost certainly has a seriously cool sports car. Dirtbunny has a seriously jacked-up Volvo station wagon.

Fabio Cannavaro has not issued statements gushing about how wonderful Dirtbunny is (although I'm sure he would if he had met her).

Dirtbunny looks powerful and tough in short skirts with tights and boots. Alex looks effeminate and silly dressed that way.

There is no video compilation of Dirtbunny's best legal memos on You Tube.

Dirtbunny is a much better pastry chef than Alex. Much better.

No replays of Dirtbunny's last successful biscotti on the Jumbotron.

Dirtbunny's boobs are bigger.

Alex's sideburns are bigger.

Dirtbunny's feet are freakishly large. Alex's feet are freakishly tiny.

Alex=rich. Dirtbunny=not.

No one asks Alex for help interpreting the Hatch Act, and if they did, he would suck at it.

Alex probably never rode in an elevator with Ted Kennedy. (I know! Don't you wish you were me?)

Kirby is afraid of Alex and does not love him beyond all else in this world.

Dirtbunny can continue at the peak of her professional prowess well beyond the age of 40, if she wants to.

Dirtbunny never, ever, ever has to pretend that she doesn't think Marco Materazzi is a huge, enormous douchebag.

Paparazzi don't hang out on the street in front of Dirtbunny's house.

When Alex is at work and needs to blow his nose, he just horks it out wherever. Dirtbunny uses a tissue.

Alex probably neither squeals with joy nor does a little dance when he gets new yarn in the mail.

Dirtbunny doesn't get to wear shorts to work when it's warm. Dirtbunny doesn't have to wear shorts to work when it's cold.

No one has ever done a Google search for naked pictures of Dirtbunny. (If you do one now and actually find something, please let me know.)

Dirtbunny knows how to fold a fitted sheet. Alex probably doesn't.

Alex doesn't make his own socks or his own bread.

Alex is not an expert, unrecognized or otherwise, in the Whistleblower Protection Act of 1989.

A black tuxedo jacket sets off Alex's stubble nicely. A black alpaca sweater sets off Bunny's blonde highlights and rosy lip gloss nicely.

Dirtbunny has no tattoos. That you know of.

Shin guards and funny-looking knee socks are not part of the required dress code at the Teeny Tiny Government Entity.

Dirtbunny has no groupies. Except one, and he's not really a groupie and we all suspect that it's secretly her father and not someone who actually goes to fixtures at the Riverside.

Dirtbunny can make hollandaise without a recipe. Also, she can make Chinese dumplings, shrimp wontons, and chocolate truffles.

Alex can run up and down the length of the pitch for 90 minutes without falling down, puking, or dying of a heart attack.

Dirtbunny can knit in the dark or with her eyes closed.

Dirtbunny can go on vacation whenever she wants.

Alex doesn't have to take annual mandatory training on computer security, sexual harassment, or the No Fear Act.

Alex gets to go to wonderful and exotic places all over the world. Dirtbunny gets to go to a mandatory legal conference in Indianapolis.

Post-it notes are not terribly useful in Alex's line of work.

Alex won the World Cup in 2006. Dirtbunny won the Chairman's Award for Excellence in 1994.

El Futbol is back

Well, it is. And Dirtbunny has happily been following her favorite Italian teams and players, looking forward to the upcoming Champions League matches, and enjoying the decisive trouncing of Chelsea by Man United (this bodes well for the Bianconeri). Even the latest Inter game went perfectly. Inter did not win (meaning Juve gains on them in the table) but the Big Swede got a goal. She is constantly organizing and reorganizing FC Dirtbunny in her head and, when she is not doing that, she is imagining which of the Azzurri she would be inviting over for dinner. In contrast, she is completely uninterested in the NFL. I can't even tell you who advanced in the playoffs.



What a different world the footballers live in. Full of glory and money and glamour and not full of offices and fluorescent lighting and litigants who think "council" and "counsel" mean the same thing. So sad for Dirtbunny. Her life is so lame. And then it hits me.



In her crappy little world, such as it is, Dirtbunny is Alex Del Piero. It's true! Check it out:

• Dirtbunny and Pinturicchio are both the best at what they are paid to do. They are also the highest-paid at what they do.




• Pinturicchio has a "Del Piero Zone" from which no one can touch him. No one. Dirtbunny has a speciality too: great big case files with tons and tons of facts to sift through. No one can touch her on those cases. Most of our case files are three or four inches thick, but if it comes in eight boxes, who you gonna call? Dirtbunny. That's who.




• Dirtbunny and Pinturicchio both started out as dazzling young phenoms. Now they are the Old Masters.




• Both are tenors of approximately the same height and approximately the same amount of chest hair.




• Both pay someone else to clean the house.




• Both have hair that isn't quite what it used to be when we were younger.




• Both are underappreciated and frequently get dissed and passed over in favor of bigger flash. Pinturicchio is only #22 on Goal.com and was passed over for Azzurri team captain at Euro 2008 in favor of Gigi. Dirtbunny, well, Dirtbunny has had her professional disappointments too, but let's not go there or she may never come back.

• Both are married to otherwise attractive people who sometimes take problematic photographs (the one in the headphones is mine):

• Both of us can do some serious damage if we stomped on someone with our boots.
  
  
  
  

See? We are exactly the same!