December 08, 2008

Care To Go Postal, Anyone?

Yes, please, I would love to go postal. OK, so if my employer found out I said that I'd be roped and tied and fired and every other bad thing they could think of. Especially as I work for the...government. But I'll tell you what. You'd fucking die if you knew what went on around here. Fucking die, I say.

I've been employed by the same agency for almost thirty years, and I'm just here to say, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the clients, I'm sick of the coworkers, I'm sick of the superiors, and I'm sick of the administration. I'm sick of driving in every day. I'm sick of driving home every day. I'm sick of having to do everything twice because no one values efficiency like I do. I'm sick of handing out free money to gang bangers. I'm sick of watching really needful people get turned away on a technicality. I'm sick of the ass-kissing and I'm sick of the fear people have around here of speaking up about things that are important.

Boyfriend is of corporate employment. He hates it to no end. I don't blame him a bit. Everything about corporate employment is fake. You have your little fake friends. You give your fake smiles. You nod your fake agreement to whatever the boss says. Fake. There's nothing I hate worse than fake. But check this out - where I work, in a government agency, the administration is faking being corporate! And they want the rest of us to fake corporate with them. We're not public servants anymore, we're Corporate America wannabes. I ask you, what is worse, the fakes of corporate, or faking the fakes of corporate? Hmm, that's a tough one.

Okay, and then there's Moo D., who just booked herself a trip to Meredith's Hell this afternoon with her snide comment. She's got her fat arms undulating all over the damn place while she's pretty sure she's smarter than Einstein, and when I point out something she needs to do differently, she commences to publicly berate me out of the embarrassment she feels for having done something wrong. Moink, the boss, spends her entire day day trading in her office. Yes, you heard me, on taxpayers' money she's playing the stocks, and therefore has no time to take care of the things a manager should be tending to. And don't forget that raging red-headed dyke who thinks she's the Queen of France; she's taken away every piece of office equipment I need to effectively do my job. Have you noticed that all the people of whom I speak are women. Yeah, that's another thing. I think we need some testosterone around here or I'll lose my flippin' mind! And not that wimpy, sensitive kind of testosterone found in the likes of that one guy who wears socks and sandals and smokes with his pinky out. He's not gay, by the way.

Sick of it, I say. I'm ready to quit. After nearly thirty years I've had enough of public service. I've had enough of being a cog in the great machine we call government. Of course I'm way too big of a chicken to just up and quit, what with the pension I've got coming and all. So I come to my little blog and just scream my little lungs out. Hey, maybe I'll turn into the next Dooce. (Does anyone still read her, by the way?)

So the next time you're talking about government employees being slackers, watch your back. There are plenty of them who are, but then you've got the likes of me, who are trying to do the job we were hired to do in the most efficient and effective way possible but are prevented from doing so because of red tape and big egos. I'm through taking abuse from the public and from my employer. It's time to let my little light shine!

October 30, 2008

It Don't?

Remember the song It Don't Matter To Me by Bread? Who doesn't, right? It was only one of the best make-out songs in history. Not that I've ever made out to it. It came out in 1969 - I was eight years old. But I've always been a classic rock kinda gal, and usually listened to radio stations that played has-been music. So when I was listening to KDWB in 7th grade, It Don't Matter To Me was playing all the time, and I thought it was just the best, most romantic thing to ever come across the airwaves.

I heard the song on one of my
Pandora stations the other day and couldn't believe my ears. Lovely melody and everything, but what's with those lyrics? I heard the song from a whole 'nother angle with thirty-five years of experience under my belt. What a delightful study in emotional and psychological development.

So, for your enjoyment, I present a little music video of It Don't Matter To Me by Bread. Beware, this isn't the original recording of this song.  I'm pretty sure it was recorded last year when they were performing at an Indian Casino, their old voices barely able to hit the high notes.  While you're listening to it, scroll down and read the lyrics, complete with commentaries by 12-year-old Meredith and 47-year-old Meredith.

It don't matter to me
If you really feel that
You need sometime to be free
Time to go out searching for yourself
Hoping to find time to go to find

12-Year-Old Meredith: I wish my parents would listen to this song. Maybe they'd give me some time to be free and search for myself.

47-Year-Old-Meredith: How nice. What a great guy, giving his girlfriend some breathing space. There's nothing worse than a needy boyfriend.

And it don't matter to me
If you take up with someone
Who's better than me
Cause your happiness is all I want
For you to find peace your piece of mind

12-YO Meredith: How dreamy! I want a boyfriend who will be understanding and realistic enough to know that he might not be the best boyfriend in the universe. Then if I want to be with someone better than him he won't get all icky and cry or something.

47-YO Meredith: What?! Let me get this straight. It wouldn't matter to you if I went out and found someone better? What's wrong with you? It should matter to you because I'm your dream woman. You should be crushed! But thanks for being so considerate of my happiness and piece of mind.

Lotta people have an ego hang-up
Cause they want to be the only one

12-YO Meredith: What's an ego?

47-YO Meredith: The '60s and '70s were a time of free sexual expression, consider the era. Monogamy was a hang-up. AIDS didn't exist.

How many came before it really doesn't matter
Just as long as you're the last

12-YO Meredith: He wants to be with me forever!

47-YO Meredith: Are you implying that I'm some kind of slut? That you are? Does anything matter to you?

Everybody's moving on and try to find out
What's been missing in the past

12-YO Meredith: Wow. This guy is really a poet. I want to be with someone this talented.

47-YO Meredith: What?

And it don't matter to me
If your searching brings you
Back together with me
Cause there'll always be
An empty room waiting for you
An open heart waiting for you
Time is on my side
Cause it dont matter to me
It dont matter to me....

12-YO Meredith: I'm going to get a boyfriend just like this. He's just so...romantic!

47-YO Meredith: OK, you've got to move on already. By now I've found someone "better than you" and you're still holding your breath for my return? He's better than you! Why would I want to come back? Turn that empty room into gym. Get over it.

October 27, 2008

Letter To A Lover

Dear Solitaire,

Be you traditional or Spider you are evil incarnate. You thwart my good intentions. You make me hate myself.

Solitaire, you disguise yourself as a means to a sharp mind. You claim to be able to make me think, to use reason. But you’re set up to beat me most of the time, making me feel stupid, or worse, determined to beat you with another game. And another. And another. You keep me playing with your bright colors, fun clicky flippy noises and cheerful ringing sounds. Until there are no more plays left for me. You did it on purpose. I must try again. And again. And again.

If defeating me weren’t enough, you provide statistics. The number of tries I made. The number of failures I had. The number of games I’ve played. The number of minutes I’ve wasted. And the minutes translate into hours. I hate you.

For some you are a more potent hypnotic than television. Like with my friend Ruthie, who you also woo. She won’t take on the NaNoWriMo challenge because it might cut into her time with you. Instead of sharpening our minds, you turn them to mush.

You are the ultimate tool of procrastination. You masquerade yourself as a short time-out when you are really a time sucker, an energy sucker. You keep the laundry hamper full and cause dinner to be late. You push the actualization of dreams so far into the future I feel hopeless. You prevent me.

I’m just letting you know, I vow to keep you hidden deep within my computer, at least for the time being. I have things to accomplish. Dreams to pursue. I have a life to live, damn it. So save your flashy kings and queens for someone else. I’m not going to let you steal my soul.

Except maybe just one more game…



October 20, 2008

An Important Message From A Relatively Unknown Blogger

I'm not one to advertise my political views, I can't resist in such an important election as the one we'll be having in a few short weeks. Really, get serious. The change referred to by Sarah Palin has nothing to do with moving forward. She's a scary, scary person. Oh, she's not up for president you say? Doesn't matter, as VP she could very well become president in a blink of an eye.

Yeah, Vancouver is a lovely city...

October 15, 2008

An Example For Ruthie

I'm writing this post for my friend Ruthie to inspire her to join me in undertaking the NaNoWriMo challenge. She's afraid writing a 50,000-word novel in thirty days will take away from her TV and Solitaire time. I'm trying to convince her the challenge involves straight writing and no editing, which of course is a challenge in itself. She doesn't think she can do it. Free flow, man. That's the secret. As her mentor I've assigned to her the task of writing now, two weeks prior to the commencement of NaNoWriMo, not the novel itself, but as practice in writing without editing. One-half hour a day. With this post I will demonstrate how this type of writing turns out. It isn't pretty. If you want to read something of sense, I advise you to look at another blog. Ruthie, this is for you, an example of how one-half hour of unedited, unstructured writing looks like. The time is 8:10 p.m. Ready? Go.

Tonight I'm sitting at my fairly new laptop computer in my specially designed room. The room is my own, not to be shared with Boyfriend unless he's invited. He stays far away. So I'm sitting here at my desk, which is situated by the window. Outside my window I can see a full moon rising over the rooftops. As I was driving home from playing tennis with Charlotte this evening around 7:00 the moon was huge and orange and a big contrast from the royal blue sky. The face of the moon was very distinct and I felt like it was peering into my soul. He understood why my day had been so bad, but gave me assurance that tomorrow would be better.
Tomorrow I'll be running around with tons to do, getting ready for a weekend at the lake. The fall colors will be in full force, with most of it laying on the ground waiting for us all to clean up. I'll develop blisters on my hands that will be nursed in front of the wood-burning pot-belly stove in the evenings. I'm looking forward to some hot cocoa, the first cup of the season actually. The air will be cold. I might even get a little rose in my usual pale palor. Boyfriend will be away for the evening for a couple of hours, so that will give me some time to bake an applesauce cake and to whip up some of my mom's delicious chip dip, which will be served with the Bugles Charlotte is bringing along. I've already prepared a beef stew, which I still haven't put into the freezer. I hope I don't poison everyone with salmonela.
Work is a bithc, and I hate most of the people in charge. My boss is all queer about the stock market and I'm tired of her pissing around about how the wold is coming to an end. She's just mad because she doesn't have a pot to piss in and she wants to retire. Well, don't we all. Too bad for her she's got a dolt of a husband whom she's left, and who is demanding half of the pension she's earned in the past 30+ years of State service. Can I help it if she married an idiot? A slothful, non-working, greedy idiot? No. So I don't want to hear about how her life is hell and she's vacuuming the floors of some raggity apartment building, now that she's become a caretaker since separating from her dumbass husband. I don't care.
Then there's Chris, that one who thinks she's the fucking queen of france in her underpants. She walks around like she's hot shit, and treats other people like crap. Too much poop reference in that last sentence. But poop is pretty much what I think of when I look at Chris. She's a dog, and I'm pretty sure she wants to be a lesbian. Not that I have anything against lesbians. It's just that I don't think people who are lesbians should pretend they're not. I know a few, and therefore know of what I speak. Those nuns I know are the same way. They joined the convent to escape the fact that they think they're freaks. Or they just hate men and thought the ocnvent was the best way to avoid them. Chris is from the school where authority keeps secrets from the pepole who actually do the work around the office. She wants to be the one with all the knowldge, won't give updates, and therefore prevents the rest of us peons from being able to do our jobs. I suppose that makes her look good? Like she's doing more work than the rest of us? I don't know. I just want to see her eyes gouged out, and as she's stumbling around looking for them I'll stand there and kick them to the other side of the room and not tell her where they are.
But why do I torment myself over the crappiness of my day job. (more poop references - I have to stop that.) The rest of my life is pretty dang good, except for when I have to share it with someone I haven't seen in thirty years. That's something I had to do recently. This guy I used to know. Ruthie helped me figurre out why the experience was so horrid to me. I don't like myself for what we came up with. What SHE came up with. But I have to admit she's probably right. Do I really want him to think of me as the one who got away? And why would I think the live I lead would disenchant him from still wanting me? It's all just really dumb and I wish the feelings of inadequacy would go away.
How much do I lvoe Diet Dr. Pepper? Way too much. I think the caffiene has made me immune, or else I'm just constantly jittery and don't even know it. But if you're going to drink diet pop, Dr. Pepper is the way to go. Either that or Diet A&W Rootbeer. That's a pretty good diet too. I don't like diets that taste like diets. But I can't believe I used to drink at least a 6-pack of Coke every single when I was young and skinny and wild. I'd go to work with my Coke and ciagarettes and smoke and drink Coke all day long. OK, now I have to confess that I've done some editing in that I keep typing Cock rather than Coke. I didn't think you'd want to read about how I drink Cock. Ish. That's just gross.

I like my little East Wing and I like my new computer. I can't reaally get the internets to work correctly yet, but that could be because I'm still using stupid dial-up.l I've got a router and am ready to switch to high-speed wireless, but I'm afraid. I have no idea how all that works, and even though I've spent the money on all the equpment and even a wireless card for our desktop, I'm afraid to take the plunge. I think I worry about the money it will cost to get a provider. Damn people charge so much for something evgeryone needs. I feel like I'm buying air. Air. Dumb little signals in the air.

And speaking of signals I saw a picture on the internets of all the garbage that is floating around the earth in space. It's scary. Garbage in space. Pieces of satellites and stuff. Maybe it was a hoaxy kind of picture, but it made sense to mee. Why wouldn't there be crap out there. There I go again with the poop. Do I have an obsession? Anyway, I wonder what will become of our universe. Remember when Mr. Henningsgaard told us that technology will advance exponetially? That was over thirty years go. He wasn't kidding. I can't keep up with it all. Those iphones make me mental. Kids texting. People talking on their cell phones in the car. I tell you the world is going to hell. And not because of the stock market. Or maybe the stock market is behind it all. I don't know. I just wish things were a little simpler. Except I do love the internets. I might be as addicted to the internets as I am to Diet Dr. Pepper.

There you have it. It is now 8:42. I've written 3 pages and 1,238 words in a half an hour. It isn't a cohesive piece of writing, but I wrote and wrote and didn't pay attention to typos or grammar. That's the secret to the NaNoWriMo challenge. I'm sure somewhere in that jumble there's a story. Can you pull it out?

October 02, 2008

Cheerleaders Are Trying To Rule The World

When I saw the similarities between these two women I nearly peed my pants, from laughter and from fear.


PETA Saves My Joyless Day

So, I've been feeling a little blue lately. You know how it is. Your job gets you down, your day-to-day life is a grind. The kitchen sink's full of dishes and the toilet is broken. Mundane tasks become mountainous, and you just feel shitty about yourself.

PETA, People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, changed all that for me today. They energized me. They made me see myself in a much more positive light. They saved me from the depths of depression because...they proved to me that I am not the stupidest person alive! Hooray!

PETA wants Ben and Jerry to adjust the recipe of their ice cream and replace cow's milk with human milk. Apparently trend has already begun in Switzerland. I'm totally not kidding. You can read the article
here. And for your convenience I've included the letter PETA sent to Ben and Jerry. I hope it makes you laugh as much as I did.

"September 23, 2008

"Ben Cohen and Jerry Greenfield, Cofounders
Ben & Jerry's Homemade Inc.

"Dear Mr. Cohen and Mr. Greenfield,

"On behalf of PETA and our more than 2 million members and supporters, I'd like to bring your attention to an innovative new idea from Switzerland that would bring a unique twist to Ben and Jerry's.

"Storchen restaurant is set to unveil a menu that includes soups, stews, and sauces made with at least 75 percent breast milk procured from human donors who are paid in exchange for their milk. If Ben and Jerry's replaced the cow's milk in its ice cream with breast milk, your customers-and cows-would reap the benefits.

"Using cow's milk for your ice cream is a hazard to your customer's health. Dairy products have been linked to juvenile diabetes, allergies, constipation, obesity, and prostate and ovarian cancer. The late Dr. Benjamin Spock, America's leading authority on child care, spoke out against feeding cow's milk to children, saying it may play a role in anemia, allergies, and juvenile diabetes and in the long term, will set kids up for obesity and heart disease-America's number one cause of death.

"Animals will also benefit from the switch to breast milk. Like all mammals, cows only produce milk during and after pregnancy, so to be able to constantly milk them, cows are forcefully impregnated every nine months. After several years of living in filthy conditions and being forced to produce 10 times more milk than they would naturally, their exhausted bodies are turned into hamburgers or ground up for soup.

"And of course, the veal industry could not survive without the dairy industry. Because male calves can't produce milk, dairy farmers take them from their mothers immediately after birth and sell them to veal farms, where they endure 14 to17 weeks of torment chained inside a crate so small that they can't even turn around.

"The breast is best! Won't you give cows and their babies a break and our health a boost by switching from cow's milk to breast milk in Ben and Jerry's ice cream? Thank you for your consideration.

Tracy Reiman
Executive Vice President"

And thank you, Tracy Reiman, for shamelessly letting your little light shine!

September 09, 2008

Introducing...The Brat

As most of you have surmised, I am a much better reader of blogs than I am a writer of blogs. Even though I realize how difficult it is to turn out a good blog (as I try and try to no avail), being an avid reader of blogs gives me carte blanche to criticize what is out there in the blogosphere. OK, not really. But if you are a reader of many blogs, you know there blogs for every interest. Mommy blogs, daddy blogs, news blogs, political blogs, Hollywood entertainment blogs. The list goes on and on.

And because I have my little hole in cyberspace to freely state my opinions, I'd like to say that one of my favorite blogs to read are the craft blogs. Not only do I get lots of good ideas on how to make things and thus label myself an artist, I find lots of craft blogs very easy to make fun of.

This entry has got to be my favorite of all time. I don't even remember the name of the blog, but the creative person behind the blog decided she would like to recycle her old shoulder pads from the '80s. First of all, I can't relate to removable shoulder pads because I'm built like a linebacker and have no need to make my shoulders any broader than they already are. Second of all, why would you save something like removable shoulder pads for twenty years? Third of all, why would you be compelled to recycle them instead of just throwing them away. It's like recycling your stinky underpants. No one does that. Except maybe this person.

So she gets the brilliant idea to transform her shoulder pads into none other than...hats! Beautiful cocktail hats! Check it out:

Very stylish, don't you think? Like something out of '20s Hollywood. She should be smoking a cigarette from a long holder. The hat should have a net veil over the eyes, don't you think? Oh wait, she decided to make another one with fringe on it:

How can she even see through that thing? Is this woman for real? I don't get it. And here's the thing that really escapes me. She embellishes shoulder pads that, in their original state, look very much like the cups of an underwire bra. See?

So I've decided to go into the millinary business myself. It's a bra, it's a hat. It's a Brat!

Look for them at finer department stores.

Go ahead. Make fun of this blog. I deserve it.

September 05, 2008

Holy Rosaries! Has The World Gone Mad?!

I think I just had a little stroke. This video completely freaked me and my Catholic upbringing right out. So Fr. Monk looks like he could belong to ZZ Top, but doing the index/pinky pointy thing with his hands in the robe tied with rope is just wrong. Gregorian chants be damned, I guess.

August 25, 2008

I Think I'm Better Now

I've been away partying with the African animals. We had a lovely time, as you can see. I'm back, but with a kick-ass hangover.

February 21, 2008

Benny Lava

I want to sing this song to Faux Ma and watch her head explode.

February 08, 2008

Let's Make Fun Of Names

One of the most fun things about working for a social service agency is the names you run across in the clientele. I can't imagine what some of these parents were thinking when they named their little blossoms of life; perhaps that they would be blessed with the most unique name in all of the universe, and therefore would actually amount to something. But let me tell you this: no kid is going too far if s/he can't even spell his or her first name. And it's always the first name. The last name is always something like Smith or Jones. Here is what I came across today:

1. Meretisa - OK, everyone is going to call this girl Mary for short, so why all the bells and whistles?

2. Marisha - sounds like the stereotypical Asian pronunciation of Melissa

3. Shawndale - makes me think of a breed of dog

4. Luvrahsheda - Is this pronounced Love-Ra-Shee-Da with the emphasis on the first and third syllables? Or is the emphasis on the second and fourth syllables? Was Mama drunk when she came up with this name?

I'm wondering if Thurston Howell, III's wife was named Luvrahsheda, hence the nick-name Lovie.

What's your name? Can I make fun of it?

January 30, 2008

Wiener Poopie

This story is remarkable on so many levels I couldn’t pass it up.

First of all, I applaud the Jesus thief. Not only is he a thief (and I say “he” for convenience, not because I naturally assume all thieves are men), but he will go so far as to hold a statue of Jesus for ransom. With a ransom note! Obviously he couldn’t put a price on Jesus, because A) how do you put a monetary value on our Lord and Savior? and B) Jesus is not the issue, the wiener poopie is. Jesus goes back when the wiener poopie is gone and stays gone. It’s absolutely brilliant.

Then there’s the victim. Jean seems to be so sad and hurt by the whole debacle. She’s sad and hurt by the missing Jesus. She’s sad and hurt by the accusations made against her. She’s sad and hurt that her dogs’ excrement was referred to as “wiener poopie.” She’s not angry that someone stole her personal property. She’s not amused by the ransom note. She’s not happy that at least her dogs are safe. She’s sad and hurt. And humorless.

Finally, that this story actually made it to the evening news is astonishing. Gang crimes and murder are everywhere. Drug activity has run rampant. For crying out loud there’s a war going on. But this station chose to run a story on a missing concrete Jesus from sad and hurt Jean’s front yard. And the reporter – how did he desensitize himself to report this story without so much as a snicker? How can one say the words “wiener poopie” without even a smile? This guy is going places. Or else he and the station he works for, like Jean, are completely without humor. Maybe there’s something in the water.

Eventually it was discovered the Jesus theft and ransom note were the work of a family member. Jean didn’t want to discuss any follow-up and stated it has become a family matter. Was this family member genuinely disgusted by the fact that Jean didn’t clean up after her wieners? Or could it be he was kidding around with this relative of his – that lady with the stick up her ass? I hope it’s the latter, because there’s nothing better than fucking with a mirthless Jesus lover with wieners and the little poopies they leave behind.

January 15, 2008

Aspic - Or More Aptly Named: Ass Pick

I can't really say it's the grossest thing ever eaten or will ever be eaten, but it ranks in the top ten. Aspic. Whoever the hell invented this putrid side dish should be drawn and quartered.

Wikipedia defines aspic as:

"...a dish in which ingredients are set into a gelatin made from a meat stock or consommé. When cooled, stock made from meat congeals because of the natural gelatin found in the meat. The stock can be clarified with egg whites, and then filled and flavored just before the aspic sets. Almost any type of food can be set into aspics. Most common are meat pieces, fruits, or vegetables. Aspics are usually served on cold plates so that the gel will not melt before being eaten. A meat jelly that includes cream is called a chaud-froid.

Nearly any type of meat can be used to make the gelatin: pork, beef, veal, chicken, or even fish. The aspic may need additional gelatin in order to set properly. Veal stock provides a great deal of gelatin; in making stock, veal is often included with other meat for that reason. Fish consommés usually have too little natural gelatin, so the fish stock may be double-cooked or supplemented. Since fish gelatin melts at a lower temperature than gelatins of other meats, fish aspic is more delicate and melts more readily in the mouth."

Congealed meat juice? I have to admit I've never had the misfortune of having to eat something as disgusting as gelatinous meat juice; however, Faux Ma has subjected me to one of her favorites, Tomato Aspic.

This slithery, slimy chunk of what she calls a salad ranks up there with one of the worst things ever invented for human consumption.

The first time I saw Tomato Aspic on Faux Ma's table I admit I was curious. Here was this red square of, I don't know, opaque jello, with little flecks of, I don't know, fleck material embedded in it. The red square was placed delicately on a bed of shredded lettuce. Of course when I put a forkful into my mouth I could immediately feel the bile crawling up my esophagus. It's like, tomato, I said to myself. I hate tomatoes. And what's this chunky stuff? These flecks...what are they? Oh my God, how am I going to eat this 3"X3" square of crap? I looked at Boyfriend desperately. "Could you please pass the buns?" I asked him. With every bite of aspic I took three bites of buttered bun, and managed to clean my salad plate with the help of a half dozen rolls.

Little did I know, Faux Ma had included the recipe for her aspic in a little cook book of Boyfriend's favorites, which she gave me at when we moved in together. She enlightened me of this after I gave the obligatory "mmm," upon the first bite. Boyfriend denies aspic is one of his favorites; in fact, he denies any of the recipes she gave me in that little cookbook are his favorites and asserts his mother was subversively telling me how to cook for her boy because she knows better than anyone what's good for him.

So, without further adieu, I give you Faux Ma's V-8 Aspic recipe:

"1 can V-8 juice (beer can size). "Beer can size." Yeah, like Faux Ma has no idea that's 12 ounces. 'Fess up ya little schweel hound. Heat and pour over one 3-oz package lemon jello. OK, right there I'm all, how much acid can one person take? Tomatoes and lemons? Yikes!Add a dash of Worchestershire sauce, 1 tsp vinegar or lemon juice, and less than one-half can of water. Less than one-half can of water? Would that be the "beer can size" can? And how much less than? Half again as much? A tablespoon less? What the hell, Faux Ma? Do you want me to make this stuff or not? A few finely chopped nuts, celery, and/or green pepper may be added. Ah, the mysterious "flecks." Chill until firm. (I refrigerate the aspic in an 8"X8" pan. When firm, cut into six pieces and serve on a lettuce leaf.)"

OK, gross. It's just icky and gross. And plus, she's makes it into such gargantuan servings. She makes her dessert servings 1/4 of the size of her aspic servings. Where are her priorities, not to mention her taste buds?

I've been lucky in that I've had to choke down tomato aspic only three or four times in the last eleven years I've spent with Boyfriend. I'll give it one thing, it's got the right name. Ass Pick is exactly what I would call it.

January 10, 2008

Show Us Whatcha Got, Boys

Meredith, fashion queen here. OK, not really, but I'd like to say a few more words about that subculture out there wearing those ungodly pants.

Today I was walking behind a group of young people. Please, will someone explain the baggy pants? They're not simply baggy, they really aren't pants at all as they don't even cover the underpants. One of the young men kept his pants from falling around his ankles with an extremely wide-based gait as the waistband was situated at his mid-thigh. It looks stupid, unless you're Bert the chimney sweep doing a dance with animated penguins in the movie Mary Poppins.

The style, apparently, is associated with gang toughness. If they aren't wielding the guns we all assume they carry, it wouldn't be hard to escape their gangster clutches - just pull the pants down to their ankles, push them over, and run away.

Tough guys, take my word for it. Girls like the bad boys and have since the beginning of time. The thing is, you gotta look good. Wrapping yourself up in what looks like old burlap bags isn’t sexy. Walking like a penguin isn't sexy either. Come on boys, show us your real weapon. Girls want to see the whole package.

Here are some eye-catching bad-boy pants:

The Dancer

The Biker

The Cowboy

The Hoodlum

My personal favorite, The Rock Star

Yum, huh? Show us what you’ve got, boys, unless you’re actually out for a jolly holiday with Mary.

January 07, 2008

Corporate couples make me uncomfortable.

Maybe corporate couples wouldn't make me so uncomfortable, but I work in the public sector where outright indications of adultery are, well, uncomfortable. We as government workers in an extremely liberal state are supposed to be politically correct, are we not? Isn't committing a sin against God politically incorrect? (Maybe I'm getting my two wings confused.) Plus, people in the public sector lack the polish and panache of those stereotypically found in the private sector. In other words, corporate couples are much more attractive than government couples.

Take, for example, Bed Head and Mouse Mouth. Both are married to other people, although for the life of me I can't figure out who would have either one of them. Bed Head hasn't washed his hair in three weeks and walks around with a Leatherman attached to his belt loop. He's big in the union. A loudmouth. A dirty loudmouth. Mouse Mouth also has a hard time remembering to wash her hair, although I think she may get around to it every three or four days. She has the lips of a rat. Bed Head and Mouse Mouth have been seen at one of the dingiest bars of the whole city, making out with each other over lunchtime cocktails. I wonder what the union guys would say if they knew Bed Head was schweeling on company time?

Then there's Oompa and Clark. Oompa is really long-waisted and short-legged, taking on the appearance of an Oompa-Loompa, except she has ginormous boobs. Clark is a suave and handsome IT guy. Oompa and Clark meet each other around corners and in closets. They don't exactly hide, but they totally throw off the vibe that they are doing something wrong. Again, both are married to other people. Plus, one funny bonus is that Clark will not acknowledge any woman in passing when he is with Oompa, but will flirt shamelessly with them all when she isn't around.

Don't forget Tina and That Supervisor Guy. Again, both married to other people. Tina and That Supervisor Guy are shameless in the time they spend together, which makes me think there isn't really anything going on. However, if I knew my husband was spending so much time with one woman during working hours, I'd be a little miffed.

Throughout the years there have been many rumors floating about concerning the hob-nobbery of many coworkers in my department. I, for one, have never, ever been attracted to anyone I've shared work hours with. Yuck.

So when I see these little couples walking around the building or chatting over cubicle walls I get a little sick to my stomach. I just don't even want to think about the connections between Big Red and The Whisperer, two married women, inseparable at work.

Gag me.

January 02, 2008

2008? No, It's 1984

Here's something that happened to me today that caused a rant in me containing a burning anger of a thousand white-hot suns. E-mail quarantine.

I was writing a particularly gripping piece to my sister today on the concept of the collective unconscious. It's a theory developed by Carl Jung and proposes that not only do we have an individual unconscious unique to our own experiences, but also a collective unconscious shared by every human being since the beginning of time. I applied that theory to receiving messages from dead people through dreams.

As you might imagine, the note I wrote to my sister was quite complex, containing detailed theories regarding the human psyche, the afterlife, and the paranormal. It took me quite a long time to articulate what I was trying to convey. Finally I was able to click "send."

Within seconds I received a message from the e-mail quarantine center stating my message was deemed racially discriminating and it was not only quarantined but obliterated completely.

Now I can understand if my employer doesn't want me writing personal e-mails on work time or on the work e-mail network thingy. I was in error doing that. I will punish myself for not being more sneaky. But to take a piece of writing, copyrighted merely by its creation, and not only block it from its intended recipient but completely destroy it on the basis of a keyword which may have been construed as racially discriminating? That's out and out censorship. Even if my subject matter had been racially discriminating, I think it's wrong for anyone or anything to delete it from existence - well, my existence at least. Reprimanding is one thing. Being the judge of all things written is another.

So I'm pretty down on Big Brother today. I'm down on the fact that nothing is private. I'm down on the fact that my intellectual ramblings are deleted by my employer, and yet the dozens of people who can't/won't do their jobs aren't being fired. Where will the line be drawn? When will people be able to express themselves as themselves without being censored by political correctness? When will the people of the world just lighten the hell up and leave each other alone?