It’s My Party

/ posted in: HorsesWork

Today is my last day at my old job.  Officially I was supposed to work from 2 to 6.  I had a massage and sewing day in the morning.

At my massage I found out that Prize went to a horse show this weekend and took first place in Leadline.  Yes, thousands of dollars spent at top trainers so she can rock the leadline circuit.  Leadline is just what it sounds like.  Kids 6 and under get led into the ring on their horse, walk a few laps, and line up.  I’m not sure how it is judged other than falling off is bad.  But, my massage therapist’s other horse and other grandkid took 5th so the girls are now arguing over who gets to show Prize next.  Prize probably loves not having to work so hard at shows!

Then I went to sewing where we had ice cream sundaes.  My one friend kept squirting whipped cream into my mouth.  When we finished sewing she drew up straight flashed me a Vulcan salute and said, “Live long and prosper.”  We are such geeks.

Then I had to go to my work party.  I’ve been the party planner for the 12 years I’ve worked here so I’m not shocked they were rusty on the details of planning one.  I found out about it yesterday when I noticed that 12-2 was blocked off for my party.  I questioned if I was invited because as you may remember from the first paragraph I don’t work until 2.  The party was also being held at a clinic that I don’t work at.  Did they think I would just magically appear if they forgot to tell me?  I was sewing at that time so I told them I could only be there by one.  Point two of party planning – ask if the guest of honor can be there.

I got there and they were very pleased by the cake.  It was an ice cream cake with Batman on it because the one with the shark was too small.  Obviously.  Because they are random like that here.  There was pizza and I got my very own veggie one because no one else will eat healthy stuff. 

The clinic owner’s brother died.  (Not at the party.  He died last week.)  They had a card for everyone to sign.  But one person obviously was confused and thought it was a going away card for me so he wrote,  “Get Out!” and signed his name.  My boss said that his brother had already gotten as far out as was possible.   

To finish off the cluelessness my boss asked if I knew how long it took to drive from my new house to the clinic.  “I mean, have you ever done that?”  Twice a week since January.  Four hours roundtrip.  That’s why I’m doing a happy dance when this commuting is over tonight!