The first Sunday of every month, San Francisco pug owners gather at a local park for Pug Sunday. Imagine dozens of wheezing, perplexed pugs romping, sneezing, and peeing on anything immobile. They aimed blankly at purses, picnic blankets, each other, their owners’ legs. The best part is that someone brought along a border collie, who proceeded to herd the gasping pugs into a neat little writhing circle as their owners called out, “Prudence! Prue! Come away from there!” “Winston, don’t pee on that nice lady!” “Remington? REEHHHMINGTON? There you are! Oh, no. Wrong pug.” Aaaaaag!

2:44 p.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: Modern dance.

From: A college friend.

Excerpt:

“Dance is the bomb, and I don’t need to tell you that! I wonder what Jenny Smith [college choreographer, whose name has been changed to protect my ass] is up to these days. I still think it’s the funniest thing that she would always be Miss Purity, but all her dances would totally be about sex. She’d be like, ‘It’s not sexual. It’s SENsual. Now rub your chest and roll on the ground.’”

4:45 p.m.

My friend Sean posted an almost comically offensive Black History Month lunch flyer that he found in his office. Can you believe that this was produced last year?

9:57 a.m.

EMAIL MOMENT!

Subject: A fellow editor finds reason to celebrate.

Excerpt:

“after this deadline is over we should have a ‘we have jobs’ party.”

4:25 p.m.

So we had an earthquake drill at work today. I was across the street (coincidence) getting tea (sheer coincidence) when a piercing siren indicated that my coworkers should crawl under their desks and shield their necks and heads with their arms.

Now I’m concerned. Having missed the corporate drill, I fear that I will have no idea how to get under my desk and cover my head when the inevitable earthquake occurs. I will surely stand in the middle of my cube shrieking, “What shall I do? What shall I do?” as the ground opens to swallow me.

1:36 p.m.

I have now been humming Janet Jackson’s “Rhythm Nation” for 24 (waking) hours. I am near the breaking point. If my self-destruct feature kicks in and I stop posting suddenly, blame Janet (Miss Jackson, if you’re nasty).

1:37 p.m.

Annie articulates the new feminist battle cry:

“Somehow, just somehow, I must stop Jennifer Love Hewitt.”

10:40 a.m.