This month, I am a banker. Not a financial-type banker, like Milburn Drysdale, seeking out hillbilly millionaires with an oil fortune, and a strapping country boy to dally with my secretary, Miss Jane.
No. I am more of a Newman-type banker, allowing Kramer to store his blood in my freezer inside Jerry's Tupperware, after Kramer had a falling-out with his blood bank over a rate increase. Thank goodness I don't have a friend named George who left an X-acto knife on the counter after filleting some pudding-skin singles.
I have been storing up posts for next Tuesday and Thursday, when I will be staying late for parent conferences at school. Where else would you expect us to hold parent conferences, anyway? I always feel stressed on those nights. I don't get home in time to do anything. I feel beholden to my blog(s). It makes me resent them. And those poor innocent blogs didn't do anything to me. They just exist. Because I created them.
So now I'm banking four extra posts, scheduled to auto-publish while I'm away. In the event that something goes haywire (but not as haywire as a borrowed car overheating, and me refusing to turn off the air conditioner because my Tupperwared blood will boil before I get it to the new blood bank, resulting in steam pouring out of the radiator, and my blood the only liquid available to pour into it and save the engine), I will still be home later to push the "publish" button.
Perhaps I should dress for success. A monocle might be in order. And some spats, a top hat, a coat with tails, a bow tie, and a well-groomed handlebar mustache. Yes. I'm bending my gender. Because no way do I want to be Ruby Deagle, the villain in Gremlins, who wants to put Billy's dog to sleep. Except I agree with her that Billy shouldn't have brought Barney to work at the bank.
Yep. This month, I'm a banker. Will butcher, baker, and candlestick maker appeal to me in the future? Who knows. I'm not exactly Morgan Spurlock. Even 30 Days of banking would be too much for me.