Hi Jared. Want to hug?

No, I did not just eat M&M's for breakfast. Don't look at me like that.

Also, I don't really even like this music so much. It's just that . . .



I just want to watch him put on eyeliner. Is that weird?

At least I didn't mention the part about how I want him to, without removing his gloves, grab me and smear my red lipstick across my face.

I'm not sure if that would actually be sexy, it's just something that happens in movies or goth-y music videos sometimes and seems like it should be sexy. Actually now that I think about it, I'd probably get really antsy about having lipstick all over my face. Like, I'd be really uncomfortable and instead of focusing on whatever was supposed to happen after the lipstick smearing, probably some kissing or something (which I can't imagine he would want either, what with the chance he would also get red lipstick rubbed all over his face - cause that's how I kiss, by rubbing my face all over someone), I'd have to rush off and wash it off as fast as I could. Screw Jared, I gotta get this off my cheek before it stains! Who has the key to the bathroom?! Anybody? Sir. . . can I use your water bottle?

You can all blame my sister for this. She excitedly showed me the video, and it was a rare moment where she mentioned that a boy was cute. That is until I said, "Yeah you're right. Kinda sexy." She stared, "Oh, wait. . . no. I don't want to have sex with him. Ew. No. Definitely not." We watched some more, and then B said, "I do want to watch him kiss his clone though." "Oh, absolutely."
Don't we all Becky. Don't. We. All.

You Might Think....

...that cracker and cheese sausage would be bad in a breakfast sandwich. You know, the kind of sausage that you buy from Trader Joe's with the intention to put out for your holiday guests alongside some fancy cheese and crackers, but then you end up "trying one slice" and before you know it you're so in love with those thin little circles that you've eaten the entire thing and now won't be able to sleep because you have a pound of spicy meat product in your stomach, and it didn't exactly get up and throw a party when you decided half a bottle of red wine might help soothe what you just put in yourself, which was really stupid now that you think about it and just a drugged-by-meat theory that alcohol burns calories and is a good disinfectant, even though that's really just rubbing alcohol and doesn't apply to pinot in the same way, but what's done is done.

You might think that kind of sausage wouldn't work well with scrambled eggs and toasty bread. . . and it doesn't really. You might have been right. It wasn't bad though, you can tell from the picture below.


But I think what's more important is that someone at my work actually took the time to make breakfast sandwiches for everyone in the office.

That is awesome.

Love Has No Bedtime

So, before the rain woke me up this morning, I had another little fun surprise. At about two a.m. I started dreaming about Alanis Morisette, which was ok because I don't hate her. I actually really like her first album as well as the acoustic version released ten years later - and no I don't hate men. Nor have I ever.

Unfortunately though, I wasn't dreaming. Some girl was screaming "You, you, you outta know!" At the top of her lungs while walking past my house. I was pretty sure she was drunk and this was her way of whistling herself home, but she stopped at my neighbor's house and proceeded to sing THE ENTIRE SONG. And then . . . she started it over again, this time with feeling.

A neighbor must have opened the door because all of a sudden she stopped and cheerfully said, "Oh hi! Uh huh. Yes I was just lajfasld ahldfkjaslk. .. " her voice faded so I couldn't really hear what she was saying, but after the brief conversation she got in her car and drove away honking.

And I hope, oh how I hope, that the real story is that she had just gone through a break up with my neighbor and decided that through the unholy hour and clever lyrics of a one, Miss Morisette, she could accurately convey the emotions she was feeling all night long.

Because what else could it have been? It definitely wasn't a sweet serenade I can tell you that much. Now I just need to figure out which neighbor it is and perhaps introduce myself, because he's gotta be pretty awesome to get someone so fired up.

I Know, I'll Get My Camera Fixed So You Don't Have To Look At These Horrible Cell Phone Pictures Anymore

I just found out we have petty cash at work. I was totally excited that there was money floating around waiting to be spent. So, I asked where it was because I wanted to buy the office something petty, and this is what they showed me:



"What? Oh, you want some money to buy the office something and then get reimbursed for it later. Here, open this drawer - Who wants a soda? Anyone? How about some stamps? You could probably get some stamps with this change."

"But you told me to buy a new toner cartridge and lunch for everybody."

"And?"

"No, you're right, I'll just sort through all the pennies and see if we have enough to cover a three hundred dollar bill. Maybe they'll take the paper clips as payment. People still barter right?"

"Shut your smart mouth."

"Ok, but can I use the petty cough drop to do it?"

Two Things

1. There's nothing I love more than walking past my boss's office and seeing her combing her hair, and feeling her way through her make-up application while Carrie reads her important messages. In the middle of an email from a mad client, my boss will stop her and ask, "Is my face on straight." *sigh* "Yes. Should I finish reading?" Our boss stares at her blankly, "I didn't tell you to stop."

No she didn't Carrie. I think she just asked you about her face being straight.

2. Except I might love these phone calls more than the morning primping:
*ring*
Me: This is Amy.
Boss: Hi. Bundle? Bundle right?
Me: I'm sorry?
Boss: *muffled speech from a mouth full of food* Isth thish bundle breaf?
Me: Are you . . . are you speaking english?
Boss: Gosh. You're so . . . doesn't anybody's brains work anymore?
Me: Apparently no-
Boss: -BUNDLE BREAD!
Me: Mundle bread?
Boss: Oh, is that what it's called?
Me: Yes.
Boss: When did he drop that off?
Me: Did my dad make it? I don't know. I think maybe my mom had breakfast with him this morning.
Boss: Oh, that's right. Today is a day.

Yes. Today is a day. Thank you for that.

Happy Broken Holidays

My friend "Asian" and I were discussing the whereabouts of our holiday gatherings, when I pointed out that we would be spending Christmas together. (He’s dating my cousin S, and so now he comes to all family gatherings. Another one of my best friends is dating my sister so she comes to all the family stuff too – it’s like a big weird incestuous group, but I loves it.) Anyway, Asian was talking about how he was going to be in a bunch of different places all day because he has a broken home and so does S. And I felt bad for him. I comforted him, saying I was sorry, and then thought about all my other friends and their broken homes and felt sad for them too. Those poor downtrodden souls.

*sigh*

That is until about a full five minutes later when I realized that I now come from a broken home too! WHAT?! How did I forget that? It just slipped my mind, like something small – Yeah I forgot my keys the other day, and sometimes I forget my school ID number, oh yeah. . . AND THE FACT THAT MY PARENTS GOT DIVORCED.

They did. Thank god, because all my friends’ parents were divorced and I don’t want to be the only one who still had married parents. Ew.

Lucky for me my Dad is Jewish.

No double Christmas duty for me.

So I’m still sorry for all you others who don’t come from a mixed religious home where the parents break up, but instead just come from a one religion home where the parents break up. That must really suck.

Maybe this will cheer you up. It’s for all seasons.


Seriously.

Dear Becky, Aren't You Excited You'll Be Moving Home Too?!

Mom: How come some words I say come out straight, and some come out . . .not?
Me: 'Sup alchy.
Ed: Cause you're drunk baby.
Mom: Some are crisp and some . . . they're ah-blahgal;akjfoiaf.
Me: Mom. . . are you crying?
Mom: *gasp* I can't stop . . . laughing. The ice cubes fell all over the floor! Bwahahaha. I think we need something on this wall. Blahahaha*snort* AH! You hahaha made me snort!
Ed: Baby, maybe you should be quiet. She's gonna write all this down.
Mom: Don't write that. Are you sending that to your sister?! hahahah. Don't show anyone! It's been a long day.
Me: Ok, I won't. Mom, you have a little something on your chin.
Mom: Oh, that's glitter. Listen, that's what I get for having a daughter that's a wriging merger.
Ed: Haha, a writing major! Baby! You're crazy!
Me: Wow.
Mom: Hahahaha.
Ed: Hahahaha.
Me: . . . This has been fun, but it's 9:30 and apparently I have to go to bed.
**I sneak off to my room and leave my tipsy (but happy and that's all that matters) mom and Eduardo, giggling and cuddling on the couch with the sounds of a Tivo-ed Oprah in the background**

I Don't Even Like Christmas Music But This Is Like A Sweet Kiss From Jude Law In The Rain While People Pour Money And Liquid Chocolate Over You

I’m not even kidding. I love Harry Connick Jr.’s Christmas CD - a lot. (Thanks to Grady for forcing me to listen to it.) It reminds me of When Harry Met Sally, and that reminds me of my Mom, and she reminds me of how nice it is to be loved by someone so incredible you only hope you can be half as cool as her one day, and that reminds me of how much I have not yet accomplished because I’m 26 and I (muffled speech) movedbackinwithmymom (end muffled speech), and that reminds me of my friend who is married and owns a house, two cars and a puppy, and that reminds me I really should try to pay off my credit cards more than just the monthly minimum amount, and that reminds me that I’d rather watch a happy movie than think about my bills so I turn on When Harry Met Sally, hug my Mom, and forget about it all.

For at least 125 minutes.

It's Your Birthday Lisa, Happy Birthday To You

I love the Simpsons. But more than that I love my baby brother and sister. I love them more than you love your little brother and sister. Well, today is their birthday and they're trying to tell me they are 25, but I see right through them. I know that they're still three and want me to squeeze and cuddle them as much as possible. Because if they were 25 it would be awkward that whenever my sister walks into a room I coo, "Hi Bubby pancakes! I love you little Bubbt face! Look at your cheeks, I just want to squish them like this." But it's not weird, so obviously I'm right. They're three.

Happy Birthday Sugarbutt and Bubby Pancakes*



And also Happy Birthday to the other twins born today, D&D :)

*And no, you guys will never be too old for me to call you that.

An Open Letter to Munchies

Dear Flaming Munchies,

I love you so much it hurts. Yes, that could just be my stomach's reaction to having you for breakfast - but I don't care. I would eat you any time of any day. And I will continue to do so until my body reacts so violently I am unable to walk to the store to buy some more. I love you and your firey goodness burning up my mouth, and boring a hole through my stomach lining. My fingers are stained orange, and it will not wash away no matter how many times I scrub them with Lava soap. And I love it.

Sincerly,

Amy

A Warning

If Gige offers to let you sleep in her fluffy, pillow-y guest bed, don't fall for it.

It's an evil trick to make you feel like Quasimodo*.

*For those of you who don't own the soundtrack and cry every time you hear "God Help The Outcasts":

How can you not want to love this guy with every ounce of your poor non-hunchbacked heart?

Who Vacations In Fresno?

Alex and I do. But only because this girl lives there:


Otherwise the only reason we’d have to go there is to bask ourselves in K-Fed’s hometown water supply to ensure that when we caught a virulent strain of Herpes Simplex II, it would be his strain.

Nobody wants an STD unless it’s famous.

Anyway, the weekend didn’t turn out as planned given the knife fight that took place in Tiana’s kitchen, and the emergency shots of someverycomplicateddrugname that Bryan was doling out at 3am. The knife fight yielded about four bloody shirts and the 3am occurrence only left one throw-up-y shirt. Tiana was doing a lot of laundry at her party.

We took only two pictures in Fresno. This one, showing the giantness of Gige’s bathtub, which I sat in for a good two hours watching the straight girls do their hair:


(Yes I am straight too, but I don’t take that long to do my hair. Because it hurts my arms. And cause I am not to be trusted with things that get hot-hot for long periods of time.)

I’ll call picture #2: “We just saw some people get cut.”


Despite all the chaos Alex and I were tucked snugly into bed by 4:30am, giggling hysterically and confirming one thing over and over again, “Tiana and Bryan are really good people. Like really good people.”

The have hearts the size of all of Asia, Europe, and Africa all put together. Except maybe minus Georgia (the country, not the state) because it’s a little creepy that Georgia is the name of a country, especially one that borders the Black Sea; because the Black Sea is also a little creepy.

Work Got You Down?

Sometimes clients bring you bags of stuff instead of just the information needed.


Sometimes they also bring a box.


Sometimes a few bags, a box, and a bucket is necessary.


Although rooting through other people's mail - no matter how spider ridden it all is - usually seems like fun, today it wasn't on my top ten list of things I wanted to do.

I just double checked it.

Chicken Bones

I don’t usually get very upset at work. When my boss says something like, “Look around your nest and get the one uh . . . and print with the record and changes to the note – Pat can you fax this – so holler if you have any questions. **click-click-bang-smash. . . dial tone**” I just shrug it off. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and because of that I like to assume she was complimenting me, or praising me in some way.

Today though, I walked in to find Carrie in hysterical laughter at the front desk. While crawling under our boss’s desk (don’t ask, we do lots of weird things that cannot be explained in the normal world) she found a chicken bone. A CHICKEN BONE. That’s not that unusual or upsetting, that’s normal – what was upsetting was the fact that while Carrie was telling me about this, my (pretty much blind) boss buzzed me and yelled, “I didn’t have an appointment with them! Stop doing what you’re doing this is HOT. God damn it . . . I need to yell at everyone today.” and then hung up on me. That wasn’t complimentary or praise in any way. I’m still not sure what it meant, but I’m picking up some signs that it wasn’t good, because when I walked past her office a minute later she was crumpling up any stray papers she could get her hands on in a very angry way. “I can’t do **crumplecrumple** everything by myself **crumplecrumple** I should just fire them **crumplecrumple**”

Grady decided that showing me what I looked like when I was upset would make me laugh. This is his impression:



Apparently I have huge ears and puff up my cheeks like a scared owl when I get upset. No one gets to make fun of my ears except for my mom, so he’ll definitely be hearing about that part.

In the meantime, my Mom just walked past and said that she loves me more than Becky, and that Grady looks more like this than me:


But it did sorta make me laugh, so I went right back to happily ignoring all crazed chicken-bone-y-nail-filing-while-trying-to-calculate-depreciation calls.

She can take it out on the paper.

May Be Inappropriate For Children Under 17

I have a friend whom I'll call Mr. Belson, for anonymity's sake. Mr. Belson is creepily good at finding anything and everything on the Internet, especially if it has to do with people we went to high school with who are now doing anal porn (Hi! You know who you are!) So when Alex and I heard there were Britney ya-ha-ha shots out there it took about 2.3 seconds flat (As opposed to 2.3 seconds round? Why don't I know what that means?) for me to whip out mah ceeeeeell phoooooone and get him on it. So to speak.

Three minutes later - there's vagina in my face.

It looked like this, but without the bikini:


As a side note, if I ever had made any "home videos" which I'm not saying I did, I'm not a whore (Not that being sexually open enough to make a video makes you the same as a dirty slut willing to suck dick for coke or anything, I'm sure many married people with good wholesome morals that make sexy videos to spice things up when the kids go to sleep, and that's ok with me, you want to put a strap-on on and do your husband while watching reruns of I Love Lucy because you like Desi's accent, you go right ahead, who am I to judge?) I would have destroyed them and all video equipment and computers within a ten mile radius in an exploding ball of a gasoline-lit fire because I'm pretty sure Mr. B would find them and spread them to the rest of our friends in a mass email with the subject reading: "Amy. Naked."

It's not a very clever title, but in this dream, Mr. B gets right to the point.

Anyway, he's that good at finding things. And Britney was very normal in the downstairs which I was glad to see. Alex was also glad, and so was A2, and Becky, and Justine, and Grady, and Harry, and anyone else I made look at it.

Why she was so spread out and unaware her hoo-ha was exposed to cameras three feet away from her makes no sense. I feel it when someone looks in that general direction from across the room while I'm fully clothed. But if she wants to get flashy with the paparazzi, let her. It gives Mr. B something to do, and makes my day a little spicier.

Landscaping My Ride

My car window won’t roll up.
I’m tempted to leave it in south central for the night, but I have a sinking feeling it wouldn’t be touched with a ten foot pole. Thug-like-car-stealing-people would take one look at it, see the frozen yogurt stain, the window that doesn’t work, the dead grandpa stuff still in it and keep on walking. I’m pretty sure Justine showered twice after the ride I gave her last week. Which is totally understandable considering someone (me) is scared to wash it a lot (ever) because she’s crazy, and afraid she’ll wash her granddad’s essence out of it. Not that dead people usually hang around the car they didn’t drive for years, and as a matter of fact, if my granddad ever did reveal himself to me in our car I’d probably pee my pants while passing out and screaming, “Holy cow fuck pants!”

You’d think it couldn’t get worse until the landscapers start laying vingar/poo manure in front of our office and “accidentally” get some IN MY OPEN WINDOW. I’m a fan of flourishing plants, but I don’t really see how showering my passenger seat with soggy manure, that actually takes on human-like qualities and jumps onto my clothes with incredible accuracy, helps the plants any.

But what do I know? I’m scared to wash my dead granddad out of my car.

Conversation With My Mother

A: Who was that?
M: It was Eduardo.
A: Why did you ask him if he was in the hospital?
M: Because when I asked him if he was ok, he said, "Not really", but I wanted to finish my coffee so as long as he's not dying or bleeding on my carpet, he can wait ten minutes.
A: Mom!
M: Oh my gosh, you're right . . . we don't have carpet anymore. That's good.
A: . . .
M: *sips coffee*
A: You are so tender.

Two Things

1. I will not give into this:

Tapered jeans were God's ugly gift to the 80's. There's no room for them anymore. I don't care that people are wearing them again. I absolutely refuse. There's absolutely nothing flattering about them except for the fact that you will eventually have to get out of them, that is the only possible highlight about them, that one day, they will have to come off, and then you will be pants-less, and that might not be so cool - depending on the weather, place you happen to be when they come off, and the amount of exercising you've been doing.

2. I appreciate the seasons just as much as anybody. I got all gooey and weepy listening to Harry Connick Jr.'s Christmas CD this morning while writing a letter to a client that described why it was they had to pay $12000 in fines and a Happy Holidays to you. But that may have also been due to hormonal changes since I'm pregnant. Anyway, the point is, seasons are good. They remind you to do things like celebrate Chanukah and start tanning for Catalina, buuuuuut . . . I'm from southern California. To me the seasons change when it drops from 72 to 68. That's break-out-the-winter-clothes-and-find-me-a-hoodie weather as far as I'm concerned. So when I woke up and it was 60 degrees inside my house, and 45 degrees outside, I almost cried. I had to wear sweat pants on my run this morning. I hate wearing pants to run. (sidenote: putting me in tapered pants and making me run is the equivalent of killing my puppy and leaving it burning on my doorstep where I have to stomp it out even though I think it's flaming poo and then cry myself to sleep when I realize I just stomped on my burning dead puppy.) Iciness is expected in New York or even Fresno, not in the South Bay. But I am prepared to make the best of it and am building a snowman out of construction dirt in front of our office. He will be wearing sweat pants to keep him warm.

Why I Love Work Seminars

Because when I looked around the room, this is what I saw:

A gruff, very judgmental man, scolding me with judging accounting eyes of fire and judegment at the mess I made while eating my sandwich; my supervisor dabbing up hot coffee she had just spilled on a John Wooden autographed basketball; a silver haired Asian guy who laughed to himself every time he took a bite of his cookie; my co-worker who was finishing off his third jumbo bag of potato chips because instead of being able to order on his own, they ordered him a sandwich comprised soley of guacamole and olives; and my (pretty much blind) boss intermittently falling asleep then jerking herself awake - wherein she would immediately start jotting down notes (over pre-existing notes) while nodding in the general direction of the speaker.
It looked like this:

Irish Showers

It's amazing people in Ireland reproduce at all considering it's too cold to ever get naked inside, let alone outside on the green hilltops where I used to imagine lots of sexy frolicking took place. Fantasy about windblown Irish sex with leprechauns skipping by in the background = ruined.

I almost considered leaving my clothes on for the shower but changed my mind when I remembered I had been in them for forty two hours straight and fourteen of those hours had taken place while sitting on a plane in a row next to a farter.

Taking a shower there makes you colder. Not because the water is cold, if you wait long enough it eventually gets hot, but because the amount of water that comes out is like bathing under a sink faucet so that the rest of your body is exposed to the icy air. You have to constantly be moving around like someone doing an interpretive dance to Ace of Base in the shower so that it's not wetting just your left shoulder. I enjoy having a clean left shoulder as much as the next person, but c'mon. I have a lot of other body that needs to be cleaned.

Flushing the toilet is a whole other experience I don't even want to get into right now. Instead I will keep it hush, like (my future husband once he realizes he's not really gay he just needed to find the right woman) David does:

Happy Thanksgiving. . . Sort Of

One of the benefits of having a Grandma who thinks her way is always the right way, is that sometimes she decides to fly you out to Ireland for Thanksgiving because that's how it should be. Naturally, we should be spending the United States holiday in a different country where they don't even sell Turkey for food. HOW COULD THAT BE WEIRD?

Said Grandma is already tucked away in her Irish cottage, but calls me daily to remind me to bring cranberry sauce, and to remind me that she's sent a neighbor out to rent a pumpkin colored tablecloth that I am supposed to bring with me. Last time she rented a tablecloth she promptly gave it to a friend to cut up and make into napkins. The RENTED tablecloth.

My sister called to ask if she could pack her coat in my suitcase and when I explained there would be no room due to the festive tablecloth she screamed, "DOES SHE REMEMBER THAT SHE'S BLIND AND CAN'T SEE THE DAMN TABLECLOTH IN THE FIRST PLACE? What, does it feel orange?"

But I'm bringing it. Because I get to go to Ireland. I'm not ungrateful.

I spent the whole morning saying goodbye to the office, because even though it's like being stuck in a 1970's rehab center, I still kinda like it here.

Goodbye jungle tree:


Goodbye weird alien thing that somehow managed to survive all the jackhammering:


Goodbye lone water bottle that the receptionist decided to keep outside because she wanted one bottle in every room "just in case", and no, outside does not technically count as a room in the office, but she didn't really want to hear any of that nonsense:


And finally, goodbye for a few days Carrie - the only one in the office who would let me drape her in tablecloth magic:

Safe Drinking Water

I almost peed my pants this morning when the Sparkletts water guy knocked on my sliding glass door at work and waved violently to me. When I cautiously grinned and waved back, he made the international sign for "Open the door (so I can come in and rape you)". Naturally I got up to let him in, but even though he's about a foot smaller than me I'm still always afraid of the freakish happiness and enthusiasim with which he delievers water, so I said loudly, to no one in particular, "The water guy is here. I'm just gonna let him in! Ok? So if I go missing it's because I was trying to do good and hydrate you all! Ok, unlocking the door now. . ."

The receptionist sat at her desk ordering the Sparkletts guy to move the bottles from one end of the office to the other, in what I hoped was an attempt to tire him out so that he wouldn't have much energy to attack. Turns out she couldn't remember where the water cooler was. Which is always fun. You know, when the woman who is supposed to be running the office can't remember where we put water.

Miss Havisham distracted me with tax talk for a while, until I got tapped on the shoulder and screamed "DON'T CUT ME!", probably a little too loud for office talk. "Oh sorry, hahaha, didn't mean to scare you there," he said, "I just wanted to wish you a Happy Thanksgiving." "Oh. Of course you did." He proceeded to talk my ear off about football on Thanksgiving and did I watch football, and when I said yes as a matter of fact I watched Ohio beat Michigan this weekend, he went off about how glad he was Ohio won. We bonded a little bit then because I love Ohio, and here's why:

Those two on the left . . . Ohio, everybody!

I still wanted him out of my personal space and not sitting on my desk anymore, shifting papers like he was Julia Roberts saying he's never been on a fax before.

Not cool Mr. Water Guy. Not cool at all.

It's A Jungle Out There

The jack-hammering has stopped and those “dang mexicos” are gone. Which is sort of making me sad ‘cause now there’s no one to whistle at me when I walk into work in the morning. It's not every day ten muscular men whistle and call me baby before my hair had settled into an ‘ok’ state after blow-drying, since it takes about an hour after styling before it’s actually calm and reasonable, up until then it looks like I licked the end of a fork and gingerly stuck it into a light socket while holding onto frayed electrical wires with my other hand.

On the plus side, the door-slamming from my co-workers has stopped, and hysteria has subsided to a dull roar. Aside from the hourly, “Oh, sugar. I broke it! I broke the printer again! I didn’t even touch it. I don’t know what happened” from Miss Havisham, most of the yelling has stopped.

I’m sort of pleased with the rugged look our office has taken on now. Without any cement surrounding the building it kinda feels like we’re in the woods. Like we had to set up a make-shift accounting office suddenly, in the middle of battle, to make sure we filed all the extentions properly! Forget hot water and food and saving lives, what this war needs is taxes to be done damnit!



P.S. I'm making that face because Jungle coffee is gross.

Classics Shmlassics

You know when you say, “Hey have you seen that new show?” and your friend who is inherently better than you because she is married, owns a house, has a dog, doesn’t still work for her grandma even though she has a college degree, and knows how to correctly set up the address section on a business letter which is totally ridiculous because they teach you that in like third grade and why in the world does an eight year old need to know how to properly send a business letter, if the kid is so smart they’re conducting business they can look it up their damn selves. Anyway, you know when that friend responds, “I’m way too busy with real life stuff or reading the Classics in gold-leafed, leather-bound books to bother with mindless t.v. shows”? Well, f her. While she’s real-life-ing her way through the horror that is trying to decipher Chaucer in Old English, or “paying her bills”, you can be all cozy on the couch with a pint of coldstone, and your phone on vibrate near your down there while you make sure that they save the cheerleader so they can Save The WORLD!

I don't know if you all have caught on to the magic that is the show 'Heroes', but if you haven't you should. You should stop your working right now, drive over to my house, I live here:


You can meet me there and watch every episode I have tivoed. I will even fix you snacks. Who wants some snacks?!

Any show where a girl can get a tree branch stuck in her brain and then wake up and walk out of the coroner’s office so she can make it to school in the morning is real life enough for me.

I’m just sayin’.

This One Goes To Eleven

They're jack hammering right outside of our office today. And by right out front I mean two feet from my window. Which is gonna be really awesome for morale.

In an office where people freak out when management buys the wrong type of candy for the candy bowl, or send each other into mass hysteria at the thought of taking their lunch break five minutes later than usual, the fact that the office building is literally shaking from a swarm of husky Mexicans with power tools is, I'm pretty sure, going to be the psychotic undoing of at least half of the staff.

Already this morning my (pretty much blind) 81 year old boss shouted, "Goddamnit it's 8am. SOMEONE'S GONNA GET SHOT!" and then felt her way back to her desk where she sat down and rooted around for, what I can only imagine to be, an antique pistol she keeps hidden amongst the melted mints and bags of pennies.

The very pretty gal down the hall stood in my doorway shaking her head and proclaimed, "You'd think with all that shaking they are doing with the jack hammering, they'd be a lot skinnier." Which is extremely appropriate from a girl who once said, "I don't like all the Orientals. They make me claustrophobic." Why? Because they throw you in confined spaces and don't let you out? Damn those sneaky Orientals!

A fellow co-worker, as well as also being one of the three people under 60 years old in the office, took this cell phone picture to document the construction:


Now picture five more of them pounding horrifically as if my speaker was turned up to eleven. Then pour yourself some coffee, and relax into your swiveling chair, where the only thing drowning out the noise from construction is the screams of confusion from the receptionist who hit the construction truck because it "isn't usually parked there".