Have you ever been a persona non-grata, dahrlings? I thought it meant i was ungrateful. And since that shoe fits, i uploaded a ‘gratefulness’ app to my phone.
Then I thought it was some kind of Italian cheese. “Would madam like sommah nonnegrata on her fedullini?” As tempting as that sounds, no.
Apparently, Pumpkins, being a non-grata means you’re not welcome. Not on the “A” list. Not even c, d, e, f, g list. A social pariah. Ostrich sized.The scum on the bottom of a cockroache’s little leggy things.
Do not weep for me, my dahrlings. One day you’re on top of the boardroom table flashing your fedullini and the next, no one’s dipping into your olive’s oil.
Travel’s a bit like Hollywood that way. One bad movie and poof, you’re Keanu. (Although I am liking the whole hairy thing he’s got going on.)
So I’m hanging low now, Pumpkins. (My surgeon says they’d need steel belted implants to get these puppies to sit up.)
Don’t expect some witty snoticisms about AC’s flaccid PSS. The onexing of WestJet. G’s endless search for their divine spot. Or even why an American is taking over Celebrity in Canada when we have plenty of qualified women, um.. I mean Canadians. Just sayin’. (If he’s handsome and clever, I’ll fold like a cheap sack of saline. This sister is tired of doing it for herself.)
Meanwhile, leftover dinkette is milking that little scrape of hers for all it’s worth. Honestly. You’d think no one ever had a hip replacement followed by emergency spine surgery!
I’m a persona non-grata for Pete’s sake!
