I sat in a meeting for 5 1/2 hours. On my butt. Compressing my spine. Depressing my head. Distressing my hangnails. Confessing my sins to my knee.
I was THIS close to leaping over the table and shoving a couple of those guys out of their chairs and kicking their ribs.
I'm sorry. That was inappropriate rhetoric.
Next time I'm gonna tease my hair, pee on BOTH my hands, whip out my license and scream about THEIR FAULT in my shrinkage and subsequent weightage just before the meeting and then I'll get put in a happy place and with soft blankets and kitties and creamsicles.
Honestly, 5 1/2 hours. I'm gonna go shrink myself behind the wheel and be one of those "You're driving like a bat outta hell!" fogies.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Beast. Slouching. Bethlehem. Like that.
No, not the unrest that is manifesting itself in fabulous chaotic swirls throughout our planet.
I'm talking about the fact that I HAVE SHRUNK ONE INCH. I'm not lying. That is wrong and criminal.
Shit, I had my yearly physical this morning; just the once over type-the indepth whatevers are later (you ladies know what I mean) but they measured me and I've lost 1/2 INCH THIS YEAR ALONE. I think their floor is faulty. The nurse was probably drunk and mentally deficient. The building must be on a fault lending error to any physical measurements like that.
Then I peed all over my hand trying to fill a 1/4 inch worth in that stupid cup.
But, then, THEN, I bought a chorizo sausage burrito at Jack-in-the-Box and it was heavenly.
That will deflect all sorts of slouching beasts.
I'm talking about the fact that I HAVE SHRUNK ONE INCH. I'm not lying. That is wrong and criminal.
Shit, I had my yearly physical this morning; just the once over type-the indepth whatevers are later (you ladies know what I mean) but they measured me and I've lost 1/2 INCH THIS YEAR ALONE. I think their floor is faulty. The nurse was probably drunk and mentally deficient. The building must be on a fault lending error to any physical measurements like that.
Then I peed all over my hand trying to fill a 1/4 inch worth in that stupid cup.
But, then, THEN, I bought a chorizo sausage burrito at Jack-in-the-Box and it was heavenly.
That will deflect all sorts of slouching beasts.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Toiling toiling over the bounding brain
It’s a cornucopia of delights here. I spent fifteen minutes switching between “list” view and “icon” view in my Windows Explore window. Then I closed it down, reopened it and copied a file to another folder. Then I opened Sharepoint—
Have I mentioned how much I hate Sharepoint with the searing, eye-peeling acid blast of a Guillermo del Toro/Chuck Hogan’s vampires’ stinger thingie hatred? Have I?
Then I decided to compose something for my blog, since the end of the week will be a bitch what with getting another unread-by-the-yahoos book ready to send out on Friday during which my co-worker and I will wheeze, cuss and mentally box about fat ass cheeks due to “Oops. I’m sorry I’m so late with my memo, bleh bleh bleh,”
I was going to use the metaphoric blam blam blam, then thought that’s entirely uncivil and possibly read as a violently rhetorical device, when all I meant was POUND!POUND!POUND!
Also, blamblamblam has “blamb” in it! That’s soothing like fluffy bunnies and chirpy chickies. Right?
Mary had a little blamb, little blamb, little blamb;
Mary had a little blamb it worked to smash peeps’ toes.
Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went;
Everywhere that Mary went the blamb was sure to go.
Until it backfired on her, knocking one of her silicone implants out, blinding the muffet-squatter.
Therein ensued a large to do and uproar with various rhyme inhabitants choosing sides, dispensing of several with extreme prejudice (Hansel/Gretel omelettes-though the king’s men enjoyed that but they would have been even tastier with jalapenos.)
Have I mentioned how much I hate Sharepoint with the searing, eye-peeling acid blast of a Guillermo del Toro/Chuck Hogan’s vampires’ stinger thingie hatred? Have I?
Then I decided to compose something for my blog, since the end of the week will be a bitch what with getting another unread-by-the-yahoos book ready to send out on Friday during which my co-worker and I will wheeze, cuss and mentally box about fat ass cheeks due to “Oops. I’m sorry I’m so late with my memo, bleh bleh bleh,”
I was going to use the metaphoric blam blam blam, then thought that’s entirely uncivil and possibly read as a violently rhetorical device, when all I meant was POUND!POUND!POUND!
Also, blamblamblam has “blamb” in it! That’s soothing like fluffy bunnies and chirpy chickies. Right?
Mary had a little blamb, little blamb, little blamb;
Mary had a little blamb it worked to smash peeps’ toes.
Everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went;
Everywhere that Mary went the blamb was sure to go.
Until it backfired on her, knocking one of her silicone implants out, blinding the muffet-squatter.
Therein ensued a large to do and uproar with various rhyme inhabitants choosing sides, dispensing of several with extreme prejudice (Hansel/Gretel omelettes-though the king’s men enjoyed that but they would have been even tastier with jalapenos.)
Monday, February 7, 2011
A Reverie
It's good to work with skewed people.
Once upon a time, in a hypothetical workplace in a hypothetical, um, place, there toiled some people. And those people had to produce a regular accounting of what they did the previous month so someone could read it somewhere and say,"Why, they did something!" But, before those someones could read that the information had to be relayed to the appropriate department to get all spiffed up and pretty and worthy of peoples' reading.
And once upon a timeI, a hypothetical grunt sent some information about a hypothetical new worksite that required hypothetical renovations before all the hypotheticals could move in. Like that.
And then two hypotheticals had the following conversation after ruminating on the "what they did last month statement" of "Got some peeps approved to spiff up the existing weirdass hypothetical worksite."
Her: "Can I sit next to you (in the new place)?"
Me: "Yeah! We could be the bad girls cubicles! I'm ready. $*!*#@#$ A!"
Her: "Wear leather every day."
Me: "With big honking studs in inappropriate places."
Her: "Have Hell's Angels pick us up on their bikes every day for lunch."
Me: "Or just bring us lunch and stay there out on the patio."
Her: "Drinking beer."
Me: "I'd rather have wine, but beer's more Hell's Angelsy I suppose. Smoking stogies."
Her: "We could learn to smash the empties against our foreheads."
Me: "I have SO wanted to learn how to do that. You realize breaking a bottle might be easier, if not bloodier."
Her: "And then we could scare people with it!"
Me: "Yes. We'll just wave them around as if we're gesticulating and they won't realize it's scary, we'll just look all weird and Hells Angelsy so we can continue working...when we want to after we've had enough."
Her: "I can't WAIT to sit next to you!"
Me: "It will be so awesome. Especially if we can table dance."
This is hard work, folks.
Once upon a time, in a hypothetical workplace in a hypothetical, um, place, there toiled some people. And those people had to produce a regular accounting of what they did the previous month so someone could read it somewhere and say,"Why, they did something!" But, before those someones could read that the information had to be relayed to the appropriate department to get all spiffed up and pretty and worthy of peoples' reading.
And once upon a time
And then two hypotheticals had the following conversation after ruminating on the "what they did last month statement" of "Got some peeps approved to spiff up the existing weirdass hypothetical worksite."
Her: "Can I sit next to you (in the new place)?"
Me: "Yeah! We could be the bad girls cubicles! I'm ready. $*!*#@#$ A!"
Her: "Wear leather every day."
Me: "With big honking studs in inappropriate places."
Her: "Have Hell's Angels pick us up on their bikes every day for lunch."
Me: "Or just bring us lunch and stay there out on the patio."
Her: "Drinking beer."
Me: "I'd rather have wine, but beer's more Hell's Angelsy I suppose. Smoking stogies."
Her: "We could learn to smash the empties against our foreheads."
Me: "I have SO wanted to learn how to do that. You realize breaking a bottle might be easier, if not bloodier."
Her: "And then we could scare people with it!"
Me: "Yes. We'll just wave them around as if we're gesticulating and they won't realize it's scary, we'll just look all weird and Hells Angelsy so we can continue working...when we want to after we've had enough."
Her: "I can't WAIT to sit next to you!"
Me: "It will be so awesome. Especially if we can table dance."
This is hard work, folks.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
The Ice Box
Those of you who are old enough to remember the term "ice box" or have lived in regions that still use that term (other than 3/4 of the U.S which is currently an actual ice box)' although I suppose if someone still really uses the term ice box they are just being weird, but I ramble, as usual, will know that I am describing the refrigerator.
Who cares, one may ask? I DO! I do, because after reading about creepy crawlies infecting people I decided it was time to remove the bloodlike splatters that would greet me each time I opened the fridge door. Of course, Mr. Froth's credo is "It's refrigerated! You can eat it forever! It's been cooked!"
To which I reply, "Dead bodies in a morgue are refrigerated. Would you eat them?" And, I know, surprise, just because something has been cooked doesn't mean it will last forever. Look at Keith Woods. QED
So, anyway, even though my right arm is still aching like a bastiche from playing Wii bowling, I manned up, put on my gas mask and lit up the acetylene torch and started dislodging the bigger chunks. Our fridge is old and the doodads that support the drawers and shelves are haphazard, so once you remove them you have to have someone expert, like Mr. Froth, reinstall them. That's the easy part. That doesn't require you to slog through strange fluids, crispy bits and fuzzy shit.
The grapes in the bottom crisper appeared to have been marinating in turkey juice. (Mr. Froth is smoking a turkey today in honor of it being Sunday. Or, because it was thawed or the Super Bowl or something. The smoker smoke awoke me and I thought I was Bambi.) But, the grapes. Eh. I washed them off. They've been refrigerated!
Do you know we have approximately 15 different salad dressings? All open. I didn't detect any living organisms on the containers so I kept those. I mean, you know, they've been refrigerated.
Somebody was definitely kilt in that fridge. And put up a struggle during the process. I don't know whom to accuse.But, if you see anyone with Bloody Mary flank steak marinade on their hands, avoid that person.
Did you know we have approximately 27 jars of pickles? All open. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The piece de resistance, however, was the opened can of Mandarin oranges. Cunningly accessorized with a spoon. In the back. Behind the crushed pepper flakes and grits. WAAAY behind. Behinder even than the pudding cup leftover from the youngest Frothlet's ninth-grade year. In fact, I believe he may be responsible for this grotesquerie.
The contents of the can were black. Like ebony black. Congealed black oranges. No mold. They'd jumped directly to horror film. Mr. Froth started with the "But they've been re..." I steadily aimed the torch and he stepped back from the fridge and threw them away. They're in the sewer drains now. I'd watch my back if I were y'all.
Most everything else was easily identifiable-pea soup,chicken hearts and livers-I sense a certain morbid trend in this description. As if life is, indeed, imitating art and what I'm reading is incorporating before my eyeballs...
except for the mustard yellow mass in a sealed plastic container. I really don't recall making any mustard yellow masses recently, but I know the elder Frothlet works in a DNA facility wherein they produce a peanut-butter consistency e-coli mush to create vaccines. I'm hopeful they didn't ask him to bring his work home.
It smelled like mustard but it obviously had a hidden agenda somewhere because it was ALIVVEEE!
It joined the oranges in the drain, so it is conceivable that there is a mustard yellow black orange mutant slithering down to your local wastewater treatment plant. I don't know. I just live here. For now, at least, until they seek revenge and return via the toilets.
It's clean now. It sparkles. Ready for the next death match.
Who cares, one may ask? I DO! I do, because after reading about creepy crawlies infecting people I decided it was time to remove the bloodlike splatters that would greet me each time I opened the fridge door. Of course, Mr. Froth's credo is "It's refrigerated! You can eat it forever! It's been cooked!"
To which I reply, "Dead bodies in a morgue are refrigerated. Would you eat them?" And, I know, surprise, just because something has been cooked doesn't mean it will last forever. Look at Keith Woods. QED
So, anyway, even though my right arm is still aching like a bastiche from playing Wii bowling, I manned up, put on my gas mask and lit up the acetylene torch and started dislodging the bigger chunks. Our fridge is old and the doodads that support the drawers and shelves are haphazard, so once you remove them you have to have someone expert, like Mr. Froth, reinstall them. That's the easy part. That doesn't require you to slog through strange fluids, crispy bits and fuzzy shit.
The grapes in the bottom crisper appeared to have been marinating in turkey juice. (Mr. Froth is smoking a turkey today in honor of it being Sunday. Or, because it was thawed or the Super Bowl or something. The smoker smoke awoke me and I thought I was Bambi.) But, the grapes. Eh. I washed them off. They've been refrigerated!
Do you know we have approximately 15 different salad dressings? All open. I didn't detect any living organisms on the containers so I kept those. I mean, you know, they've been refrigerated.
Somebody was definitely kilt in that fridge. And put up a struggle during the process. I don't know whom to accuse.But, if you see anyone with Bloody Mary flank steak marinade on their hands, avoid that person.
Did you know we have approximately 27 jars of pickles? All open. Lather, rinse, repeat.
The piece de resistance, however, was the opened can of Mandarin oranges. Cunningly accessorized with a spoon. In the back. Behind the crushed pepper flakes and grits. WAAAY behind. Behinder even than the pudding cup leftover from the youngest Frothlet's ninth-grade year. In fact, I believe he may be responsible for this grotesquerie.
The contents of the can were black. Like ebony black. Congealed black oranges. No mold. They'd jumped directly to horror film. Mr. Froth started with the "But they've been re..." I steadily aimed the torch and he stepped back from the fridge and threw them away. They're in the sewer drains now. I'd watch my back if I were y'all.
Most everything else was easily identifiable-pea soup,chicken hearts and livers-I sense a certain morbid trend in this description. As if life is, indeed, imitating art and what I'm reading is incorporating before my eyeballs...
except for the mustard yellow mass in a sealed plastic container. I really don't recall making any mustard yellow masses recently, but I know the elder Frothlet works in a DNA facility wherein they produce a peanut-butter consistency e-coli mush to create vaccines. I'm hopeful they didn't ask him to bring his work home.
It smelled like mustard but it obviously had a hidden agenda somewhere because it was ALIVVEEE!
It joined the oranges in the drain, so it is conceivable that there is a mustard yellow black orange mutant slithering down to your local wastewater treatment plant. I don't know. I just live here. For now, at least, until they seek revenge and return via the toilets.
It's clean now. It sparkles. Ready for the next death match.
I am really too old to
participate in the idiocy that was Friday evening. I am a delicate flower needing rest and healthful nourishment, yet what do I/we do?
After eating our semi-grilled hamburgers, which afforded some FUN the next day, we all thought it would be a grand idea, nay, inspired, to play Wii bowling. I love Wii bowling. It's almost as good as real bowling or maybe better because your thumb doesn't die and you don't have to pay for the beer. Or wine.
Eldest Frothlet and his fiancee and I persuaded Mr. Froth to play for awhile, but he wussed out at about 9:30 and went to bed. Pussy. We, on the other hand, stayed up until 1:30. A.M. 1:30 a.m. We drank 835 glasses of wine and 752 cans of beer and discussed the merit/demerits of current rap music versus Miley Cyrus and then compared those to rap music of five years ago.
I'm such a rap music expert.
I had a couple of good games; the fiancee broke 200! Bitch.
Yesterday was a tad slow. I love Excedrin and water. I was very hungry and tired. We didn't see fiancee til around 5 p.m. so you know it was too late even for young peeps the night before. And to get my blood flowing I began The Strain, by del Toro and Hogan. It's AWESOME. Creepy. Part of a trilogy. Creepy creepy with crawlies and bloodsuckers and impending and descending doom. I'm 2/3 of the way through it. And, I've ordered the ebook of The Fall, the second book.
Nothing like uplifting literature to dispense with a hangover.
After eating our semi-grilled hamburgers, which afforded some FUN the next day, we all thought it would be a grand idea, nay, inspired, to play Wii bowling. I love Wii bowling. It's almost as good as real bowling or maybe better because your thumb doesn't die and you don't have to pay for the beer. Or wine.
Eldest Frothlet and his fiancee and I persuaded Mr. Froth to play for awhile, but he wussed out at about 9:30 and went to bed. Pussy. We, on the other hand, stayed up until 1:30. A.M. 1:30 a.m. We drank 835 glasses of wine and 752 cans of beer and discussed the merit/demerits of current rap music versus Miley Cyrus and then compared those to rap music of five years ago.
I'm such a rap music expert.
I had a couple of good games; the fiancee broke 200! Bitch.
Yesterday was a tad slow. I love Excedrin and water. I was very hungry and tired. We didn't see fiancee til around 5 p.m. so you know it was too late even for young peeps the night before. And to get my blood flowing I began The Strain, by del Toro and Hogan. It's AWESOME. Creepy. Part of a trilogy. Creepy creepy with crawlies and bloodsuckers and impending and descending doom. I'm 2/3 of the way through it. And, I've ordered the ebook of The Fall, the second book.
Nothing like uplifting literature to dispense with a hangover.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Micicles
I believe Merv is outside searching for potential micicles. You know, mice that will be rodent gelatos on a stick soon because of the weather. Or, he'll make them mice on a stick.
Move fast little meeces. You're soon to be a dessert item.
Move fast little meeces. You're soon to be a dessert item.
Does anyone know who
The Bollingers are? They may live in Spring. I ask because I found a card with their name and several addresses, including the Congo, Florida, London and Texas, that had fallen down from a kitchen drawer to the miasma that was underneath the stove island. See, this weekend I cleaned out that area, cupboards, closet and dresser drawers to fill bags to give to Am Vets. They would have stopped this morning to pick up the 532 bags and boxes of shit I removed from our house, but that wicked storm that is terrorizing everyone else now traveled through here with thunderstorms and wind and now cold miserable temps (for us) this morning and the bags still live in the garage.
So as I was pulling out FIFTEEN old phonebooks I found address lists, pencils the kids had bought or won or something from 15 years ago and the Bollinger card. It had a lovely oil painting on the front of it that, I think, is the Mrs. Bollinger. But, it's all a fog. We probably met them on a cruise and you know how that is. You become fast friends with strange people like yourselves and promise to get together and write and exchange Christmas cards (oh sure) and then you promptly forget about it within two weeks of arriving home.
Ooh. I also found a pizza stone and corn griller and fajita skillets that we'd forgotten we had. Now they're clean and put away with more space around them, so we can forget about them again but I know there's more space around them so if I DO remember them I can get to them easily.
I tossed table cloths, napkins and placemats that date to the Mesozoic Era. Plus an horrendously ugly punchbowl and cups that I guess I used for some shower I hosted for somebody or other 20 years ago. Where did those come from? I didn't buy them. They're truly godawful.
My closet now contains all clothes I actually wear and shoes I actually put on my feet. My sock drawer is thinned out which is just stupid because I rarely wear socks so I should have dumped them all. But winter seems to thwart that desire right now.
It was a productive weekend all around. But who are those Bollingers?
So as I was pulling out FIFTEEN old phonebooks I found address lists, pencils the kids had bought or won or something from 15 years ago and the Bollinger card. It had a lovely oil painting on the front of it that, I think, is the Mrs. Bollinger. But, it's all a fog. We probably met them on a cruise and you know how that is. You become fast friends with strange people like yourselves and promise to get together and write and exchange Christmas cards (oh sure) and then you promptly forget about it within two weeks of arriving home.
Ooh. I also found a pizza stone and corn griller and fajita skillets that we'd forgotten we had. Now they're clean and put away with more space around them, so we can forget about them again but I know there's more space around them so if I DO remember them I can get to them easily.
I tossed table cloths, napkins and placemats that date to the Mesozoic Era. Plus an horrendously ugly punchbowl and cups that I guess I used for some shower I hosted for somebody or other 20 years ago. Where did those come from? I didn't buy them. They're truly godawful.
My closet now contains all clothes I actually wear and shoes I actually put on my feet. My sock drawer is thinned out which is just stupid because I rarely wear socks so I should have dumped them all. But winter seems to thwart that desire right now.
It was a productive weekend all around. But who are those Bollingers?
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