Love, Jimmie

This isn’t really an ode seeing as how it is not in verse format.  But “Novella to Freddie” sounds stupid.  And “Random Musings about Birthdays and Cake and Freddie”, while accurate, sounds lame.

First, a bit about Freddie.  She was an unexpected surprise that came with my newest job.  I had worked loosely with Freddie on an ongoing volunteer project for about three years.  She was kind of on the fringe of it so when I changed jobs to come work at her firm, I didn’t really know what to expect of my new co-worker.  She had always seemed nice but I guess I just didn’t expect to connect with her so well and so quickly. In short, she’s awesome.  Let me tell you why. 

She’s open and warm and funny and when I have a bad day, she puts pictures like this on my desktop:

When I am indignant that someone changes my desktop Clive Owen picture to a desktop Hall and Oates pictures, she  changes the Hall and Oates picture to this when I go to the bathroom:

When we send emails that say “I’m in a funk” we know that “I’m in a funk” really means, “Today I hate people. Go away and know that I still luff you.  And while you are at it, keep the annoying people away from me or I can’t be held responsible for my actions.” 

When I have a birthday she makes me a red velvet cake like this:

Isn’t it pretty?  It looks so professional. 

And now about birthdays and cake.  Birthdays are special.  I have a philosophy about them built over years of celebrating.  On your birthday, you get your favorite cake.  You get the meal of your choice.  You get presents wrapped in birthday paper.  And married people get uh . . . other stuff, stuff that we don’t talk about here. 

Yesterday was Freddie’s birthday.  She’s young.  I made her a cake.  I picked a new recipe for the icing titled “The Best Icing I’ve Ever Tasted” and the instructions included the directive to “beat the hell out of it.”  Who in their right mind wouldn’t pick that one?  That is just a recipe for awesome, right?

I’m telling you now, don’t pick that one.  Sure, it tastes pretty good.  Really good in fact. But beating the hell out of it to me means standing in the kitchen with a book in one hand, mixer in the other, mixing away for 10-15 minutes until your hand gets numb.  In my world, that should be plenty.  In the real world, it isn’t. 

This is what happens when you don’t beat the hell out of it:

Happy Birthday, Freddie!  I’m so happy you make pretty cakes.  Wish I could do the same for you . . .

And randomly, I have two funnies for you. 

An email exchange between Jimmie and Quan:

Quan:  I would recommend you buy frozen peas instead of canned – much less sodium. 

Jimmie:  You are the second person this morning to suggest the frozen peas to me, which are actually my favorite.  Hilarious!

Quan:  Seamus will be much friendlier when he isn’t bloated. 

And a conversation between Jimmie and her boss:

Boss:  I need a band-aid.  You don’t want to know why.

Jimmie:  I-

Boss:  You don’t want to know why.

The End.