crucible of ennui

Apparently you can’t sue God if you can’t serve him the papers.

Oh those crazy Huskers.

he peers intently
shadows nor dust motes be seen
he’s fucking with us

Asshat: “Have a wonderful Mother’s Day! Don’t drink too much.”

Me: …

Asshat: …

Me: “yeah. ’cause Mother’s Day is the biggest drinking day of the year.”

When I was little I would put a pair of Barbie shoes on the end of my fingers to get that far away perspective and pretend that Dorothy was being carried away by my evil monkey army. March 29th, 2003.

I’m glad to see that someone else felt the same way about Barbie shoes.  

And here. This one’s special because it’s to YMCA (turn up your sound) and the moonwalk mid video is not to be missed.

And here. And here. Here. Here.

But this one’s the best. 

Have you ever noticed how in an extreme corporate climate, it’s impossible to (may I be indelicate for a moment?) take a dump. Maybe it’s just me because I have a hang-up about using a bathroom other than the one at home, but it’s not like you can just saunter into the bathroom with reading material and camp out while you do your business.

The worst? If you’re in the bathroom, by yourself, confident that you have a few moments of private and someone walks in. Most of the time, I freak out and abort mission. ABORT ABORT. I really hate that. OR I have to play the “I’m-going-to-hide-in-the-stall-and-wait-for-the-other-person-to-leave-so-she-won’t-know-who-stunk-up-the-bathroom” game. But then I have to pull my feet up so my shoes won’t be recognized. So why bother? I’ll just drive home, thank you very much.

Last week I walked into the bathroom and there were two ladies involved in a stand-off, neither would leave before the other. I went in, took care of business, washed my hands, APPLIED LIPSTICK, and then left - I didn’t hear a thing: No breathing, shifting around, a little polite cough - anything. Actually - I think they’re still in there.

We’ve moved your cheese.

Frankly, I don’t remember asking you to touch my cheese.

My dear friend Flavia mailed me a photo this morning. Flavia is one of those persons who shows you how cool and fun everything is by the way she moves through her own life. The best part is Flavia has a son who is two days younger than me. Since he lives on the east coast, Flavia is in a way a surrogate mother for me.

Flavia by far is one of my most favorite people.

It’s raining buckets. And I so don’t want to be here at work. Way back in the day, Kristi (one of my oldest friends - I’ve known her since junior high school) and I would ditch class (in college) when it was rainy like this. We would head back to her condo, stop by Chan’s Wok on the corner for their tasty 2 item lunch special and camp out on the sofa playing Super Mario Brothers.

It was always fun over at Kristi’s. On days their poodle was scheduled for a groomer appointment, we would do something like paint it’s toe nails, give her a mohawk.

Before you call PETA, please note that this dog was well cared for. Maggie the Poodle lived quite the pampered life. I was over there around lunchtime one day and started poking around the fridge for something to eat. There was a tasty-looking little meatloaf on a plate under cling wrap, so I pulled it out, sliced off two pieces and popped it into the microwave. Kristi meanwhile was sitting on the other side of the breakfast bar just watching me put around their kitchen. I assemble what I think to be quite the meatloaf sandwich, with toasted bread, mustard and even a pickle spear. I am just about to bite into that sucker when Kristi looks over at me and says, “You know, that meatloaf is Maggie’s “special” food. The only people food in the house is popcorn.”

Stab her.

Which goes into another story of Kristi - the family ate lots of popcorn. All the time. Sometimes Linda would make a HUGE bowl of popcorn and that’s what they would eat for dinner. At Christmas time when everyone gave those big popcorn tins of flavored popcorn - sign that family up for 10. Heaven forbid if Kristi and her younger sister, Jenny, wanted the same flavor of popcorn. One would end up grabbing the bag and the other would give chase around the room until something got broke.

It’s all fun and games, till someone loses and eye. Then it’s a sport.

I’m cutting my hair tomorrow. I decided at the beginning of this year that I would grow it out one year and then get it cut, maybe even have 10 inches cut off to donate to Locks of Love, a place that makes wigs for children that loose their hair due to medical treatments for cancer, disease.

Hair cutting for women is different than when men get a cut. For women, hair conveys a vast array of messages.

Forced hair cutting in medieval times was done to shame a woman. Cutting and tearing hair are signs of grief in many cultures. Sometimes hair is hidden due to its many sexual overtones.

My favorite hair cutting story has to be a friend of mine, who in a blind misguided rage took scissors to her own hair. She had been arguing with her husband, went into the bathroom and emerged with horribly short hair. She was so angry that she wanted to make a drastic statement.

Wow. That’s some statement there, missy.

If I had more courage and knew I was going to get it cut short and styled… I’d totally try cutting my own hair. How bad could it be?!??!?

Inappropriate clothing alert!!

She was intentionally wearing white socks and black high-heeled shoes with her high-water black pants. I think she even had little christmas ornaments earrings

At least she not like hooker grandma who works at my office. She has to be at least 65, but wears the SHORTEST skirts with heels. Eeewwwww.