So Long, Farewell, Summer Fridays

You all know by now that I am not looking forward to the advent of autumn. And, like all those rain blogs-o-mine, I’m sure you’re not in the mood to hear another rant on how I hate having to wish summer, my (somewhat) fair-weather friend, goodbye.

My co’s think it’s funny, but I’ve seriously worn white every single day for the past couple of weeks. Dresses, pants, skirts, capris, cardigans - I would totes be ready to go the second Diddy invited me to his party.

Now I wouldn’t say I’m a firm believer in the “No White After Labor Day” fashionista rule. (Though it is kind of odd to wear a snowy sleeveless sundress once the sun starts a-settin’ at 5pm.) 

However, there is one legislation I’d love to lobby the shit out of: “No Tights BEFORE Labor Day!”

For reals, yo. I don’t understand what the goddamn rush is. I find it completely mind-boggling that people are breaking out the fall clothes already.

The nerve!
Right in my very own office, I spied with my very annoyed eyes someone sporting a TURTLENECK SWEATER DRESS. WITH TIGHTS. AND CLOSED TOE SHOES.

I’ve since seen two more dummies donning stockings.
It really is very confusing to my simple, summery mind. Sure, it’s not the ninety-degree weather of two weeks ago. But temps are still in the high-seventies.

Do these dipsticks dress in shorts and tanks the second spring is in the air? Methinks not. So what’s the big idea??

Perhaps I am just a bitter bitch and totes not over the NYU kiddies and their invasion of my hood. I said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m plain envious that they’re starting colegio while I’m stuck at workio.

And Miss Kelly Cobb! Fall Aficionado to the max. That sneaky little sheister sent me a Starbucks link saying the Pumpkin Spice Latte was baaaaack. I wasn’t happy - I was horrified. She thinks she’ll convert me to fall-icism yet.

Sure, I have been looking forward to Mellowcremes but my heart dropped at terminal velocity last weekend when I saw my mom had sent a bag to Cape Cod. It was AUGUST, BRACH’S. COME ON.

Ahh, I digress. Per usual. I think what the real reason I’m despising those summer naysayers and dreading that Day-o-Labor, that white-no-more doomsday, is because after next Monday, I’ll be working till 5pm on Fridays.

Wamp. Wampity.
I know, I know. I’m a ridiculously MAJOR brat who has no right whatsoever to complain. But we’re every single one of us (publishees, that is) whiners. We’ve grown accustomed to getting out of work at 12:30pm on Fridays.

They’re known as publishing hours (at least within the biz). I guess we’re super duper lucky ducks. Cause not everyone - well, practically no one - has such a splendiferous summa sched as we do. And all those peeps employed elsewhere, in other industries, haterate on us.
Rightly so. But little do you loathers know that we poor publishees have to work until 5:45pm during the week to make up for those missed Friday hours. FIVE-FORTY-FIVE! Can you believe it? Gah!

(I joke, I joke, I kid, I kid. I’m just a memba of that brainwashed brat-pack that thinks that’s late.)

No, no. Come Tuesday, all Penguin employees are gonna be a hootin’ and a hollerin’, shouting T.G.I.No-More-5:45!

And come Friday at 12:30, we’ll be stuffing our faces with Spice takeout, trying to console our hard-hurt feelings, attempting (and perhaps failing) to scare up some brain power, will power, work power - cause we’ll have four-and-a-half hours left to go.