Banana World Blog: December 2004

Thursday, December 30, 2004

And things were going so well!

Today was another day, except for the fact that I capped it off with a trip to the cinema to catch Blade: Trinity with Patterson and one of his old friends from work, name withheld to help me preserve my own dignity.

Now, when I was on the phone with Mark and he told me that whatshisface was coming, I naturally assumed this was the whatshisface that I met who was a bit older, with salt-and-pepper hair, who insisted I say grace at the dinner we all had (WTF?), and who didn't necessarily leave me with the best of impressions. However, when I met up with them at the theater, this was an entirely different, younger, cuter whatshisface, so, well, game on!

I'm sure I was mighty impressive with my pigtails and ill-conceived outfit (hell, I thought it was the other dude so I didn't think I had to impress anyone). And my wit, as always, was rapier-sharp (when he handed me money to pay me back for purchasing the tickets, I exclaimed "Ooh! I didn't even have to dance for it!" Side note: he laughed heartily). Besides the smoking thing, he seemed like a nice enough person to talk to.

After the movie, the three of us walked to the parking lot, and we got to my car first. He did that little stretch thing where guys probably just stretch to show off their not-bellies. It was semi-acceptable (the stretch thing, that is... there was no detectable belly).

Now, as some of you know, my beloved brother affixed those vinyl Albert the Alligator stickers to my back passenger windows some time ago, and they have lasted for at least two or three years. Well, upon seeing the sticker on my car, this jackhole pulled out his lighter and put an open flame to Albert!

Needless to say, even though he was joking around, and I jokingly slapped at his wrist, yelling, "Cut it out!" this was a problem. Add to that, he started doing the fucking whorechant! I retaliated with "Uh, 20-13?" He came back with "The Choke at Doak." I quickly reminded him that was "ten friggin' years ago," and that 20-13 is "now," and "UF is undefeated at Booby Bow-down Field."

"Okay, who attempted to besmirch UF's good name? Who wants some?"

I clearly had accepted the gauntlet and thrown it back at him succesfully, but the damage was done. Before this guy could even garner enough interest from me to get on the short list, he was crossed off it.

And things were going so well. Crap!

I am off to the kitchen, ISO comfort food. And my eyelids burn.

"I will tell tales of your compassion!"

Earlier this evening, I headed to the Blockbuster closest to where I was at the time to go rent the third and fourth DVDs for the first season of Alias, as Dan and I kicked the first two DVDs in the ass yesterday (along with almost a whole tray of veggie lasagna, which tested my gastric fortitude later in the evening). The only reason I'm renting is because I lent my first season out a bit ago, and I didn't want to ask for it back, knowing the borrower hadn't finished it yet. Besides, it was free because of that whole "Blockbuster Rewards" deal. Sweetness.

Anyway, I was there, at a Blockbuster far from my home store, dealing with this rather eccentric cashier (he kept talking to himself, then asking me if I wanted to renew my "Rewards," then commenting on his register computer's idiosyncracies as if I gave a crap), when I heard my name being called quite loudly from the other register. It was one of my clients, with his entire family.

The thing is, I had spotted his folks in the aisles a few minutes previously, and managed to duck past them to avoid notice. I was a sitting duck at the register. Fahk.

It's funny about the rules of confidentiality and whatnot. I can't tell anyone else personal details about my clients or their families as a general rule; however, clients have the choice to tell (or not) others anything and everything they choose. I've had several children, even parents, just out loud tell the general public about how I'm their therapist, and what they say in session, blah, blah, blah... Which I guess shouldn't really bother me, since it's not me breaking confidentiality, but sheesh, I have to stand there stupidly while they talk about deeply personal things in public for all to gawk at or ignore.

Anyway, there are some families that you don't have to worry about, because they seem to understand tact and diplomacy and all the other social graces. There are also those families that you pray to your higher power about, begging for the mercy to never encounter them in a non-work setting. The weird thing is that it's those families that always seem to like me the most. Dammit.

With this family I encountered this evening, the kid is socially competent. The bad thing is, his parents aren't so great with that. I'm glad the kid was the one to call out, and not the mom. He just looked generally startled to see his therapist out in the world, as if at the end of the day, we don't go home, but are put away in our hyperbaric chambers for the evening to recharge for the next day. It was kind of funny. The part that made me want to run was when the Mom came up to me to compare rentals, and suggested that I rent from their family, because they have over 350 DVDs now. This mom reminds me of the one that called me a couple of weeks ago to talk about how she thought of me often, and was hoping to run into me in a work capacity, and why is it unethical for us to hang out socially if her kid isn't my client anymore? Sheesh.

Anyway, I grabbed my Alias with Jennifer Garner-like stealth, wished them a Happy New Year, and high-tailed it out of there like... well, I can't think of something clever. Shit.

Speaking of Alias, I am geeked that the new season starts next week! I told Dan that he needs to catch up on the first three seasons before the premiere of the fourth season next Wednesday. He may have muttered something rude, but I probably chose to ignore it.

In preparation for next week's happiness, I have been updating Danhole on the series, walking everywhere in stealth mode, and watching the third Elektra trailer. That comes out on the 14th, and she hosts SNL on the 15th, so next month will be chock-full of Garner. But, what I'm really excited about is the return of my boys!

The future Mr. Julie M. Johnson. Or so she thinks!

I know it's small, but I thought it was hilarious.

"You want to go out sometime? No? Okay." Marshall's so awesome! I mean, do you know anyone else who can speak Endor?

Ah, Sark. You've been naughty. Which is why you can hang out after, if you want.

I know I promised someone that he could play the Messianic in the movie, but if he pisses me off with that Bridget Jones shit one more time...

Anyway, I think I am going to think up different designs to spray paint on my laptop. Suggestions welcome.

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

I need a new job.

I've been on vacay for three days now, and all I can think of is the next weeklong break I have, coming up at the end of January.

Mind you, I never take vacay, and it's about time I did, but just the fact that I have no desire left in me to go to work is a bit frightening. Never mind that someone who predicted I would get the job I am currently in said to me a couple of days ago that she didn't see me being at my present job for much longer; I am in need of newness.

Couple that need with the depressing thought that I slugged my way through grad school in one of the top programs in the nation for what I do, and slugged my way right into a lifetime of debt, just to realize that this line of work doesn't pay much more than peanuts, and you've got a delightful vacation, full of empty hours to think of such nonsense.

I need to get off the Depressio Train. This is too much.

Ah. That's much better.

Best three dollars I spent all day.

It's late, and I probably should be sleeping. But, I'm not, because I'm quite excited about the purchases I made this afternoon before heading to Danhole's for an Alias mini-marathon.

See, I made a pit stop at the Bargain Basement, where you are likely to find out-of-date over-the-counter medication and all kinds of other stuff. I was fully expecting to just get some hair elastics, and possibly a couple of Care Bears composition books, if I was lucky. I did manage to find a planner and a bandanna, but I was not prepared for what waited for me at the end of the last aisle before checkout.

Like a beacon in the middle of the afternoon, I saw it: the Care Bears Magic 8-Ball.

Best. Idea. Ever.

If there was ever a toy that sounded more like a street drug, I have yet to hear about it.

Of course, I had to get one. Problem was, I only had ten dollars until payday, which is this coming Friday. What a conundrum!

"What was I to do? How was I to proceed?"

I picked one up and looked at the price: THREE DOLLARS. Well, shit, in that case, I was buying one for me and Kris! Woot!

So now, I'm going to bed, with $3.58 to last me until Friday. Oh, hell. I'll be broke, but at least I'll be fuckin' entertained!

Sunday, December 26, 2004

How did this happen?

So, I'm sure most of you know the story of why I have "bananawhirled" instead of "bananaworld" in my blogspot address. For those of you who don't, let me give you a quick summary.

When I signed up for this blogspot loveliness, my first choice was obviously "bananaworld," shouting out to the old web page, the original computer, Bloom County and whatnot.

The most important men in my life, from the ages of seven to now.

Well, much to my chagrin, I discover that someone else already has http://bananaworld.blogspot.com. And according to the title of the page, that motherscratcher apparently has trademarked it (?!).

It doesn't look like this fellow, whose name is apparently Eustace, is going to be giving up his blog address any time soon. Apparently he's some kid from Singapore in some sort of Army officer training over there. Feel free to browse his site if you like, but here is an unedited excerpt from his thoughts on the movie Alexander:

Alexander. The flick was kindna er... Maybe it was too intellectual for me. But their English was super Power man... More Powderful than powerful man..

It shows how Alexander grew to his throne. His obession about his overloving Mom (Angelina Jolie), how he conquered Persia until India, his gay partners and straight partners and many others. Yup... He IS gay. Apparently i think its because of his obessive Mom, it makes him quite difficult to believe in women, so he turns to GAY! [So beware women! Don't LOVE your boy-children too much, otherwise they turn gay...] And the show actually shows a woman bearing her breasts!

*gasp*

I'm still quite immature at this. But apparently i'm not so comfortable watching nudity on movie screens just yet...

I have something to confess online now. I think i'm really man with no confidence.

Wait. Listen... Do you hear that? Somewhere, in the confines of this county and within viewership of this page, a gay man is fainting. Will someone please be kind enough to help him back to consciousness!

What would Opus say about this travesty? Better yet...

What would Oliver, original owner of the Banana Junior 2000 Computer, say?

I have so much to say on this, I just can't find a starting point, for fear a deluge will occur. I just wish I had the blog name I intended to have. Oh, well. Maybe this is better.

Accept no substitutes! For absolute mediocrity, this is the place to be!

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Nothin' says "Yuletide" quite like Jennie Garth!

Wouldn't you agree? I mean, for crying out loud, her middle name is, literally, "Eve"! Can you ask for a more seasonal blessing?

If I was a smarty, I'd post a picture of Shannen Doherty, circa 1991, and have the caption "Ho, Ho, Ho!" But, I'm not, so I didn't.

I think I'm a little slaphappy from all this Holiday Cheer. Just typing all that above has me thinking of rewriting the tale of the Christ Child's birth with Brandon, Dylan and Steve as the Three Wise Men, bringing gifts of Mustangs, Porsches, and Corvettes. Andrea would play the role of the Virgin Mother, while... So this is what eating too much good food at once does to you.

Just be glad that I didn't start thinking of the previous scenario with the cast of Alias. My head would have probably exploded.

Moving on. Please.

"Hey there, Mr. Hinduist, Merry f***ing Christmas!"

"In case you haven't noticed, it's Jesus' birthday. So get off your heathen Hindu ass, and fuckin' celebrate!"

That's one of my favorite songs to play during Christmas dinner at my house.

This holiday is going quite swimmingly.

I've been excited all week because my Little Brat Sister is in town, and I've had a few opportunities to harrass her. Yesterday, we spent the afternoon snacking on some "whores do-overs" with family and friends (did I mention Kid Smartypants makes a mean peanut chutney?). Then, last night, my brother and I took shifts sleeping in the car before Midnight Mass. After Mass, we ate dinner and opened presents (Riley really cleaned up this year). Fabulously, DJ Rumpshaker and I got to sleep in longer than I anticipated. Right after I rolled out of bed and took her out for a quick constitutional in the rain, we ate a crazy-ass Christmas lunch, honey-baked meats courtesy of my Aunt in Jersey. Stocked for hibernation, we managed to catch a quick catnap before spending the rest of the afternoon watching movies.

Now, Perla is working on cooking up dinner, and I'm planning on opening up two of my other four stomachs to accomodate. And do you know what else just tickles me? It's Saturday night, and even though it's Christmas, they're still airing the weekly hourlong episode of Cheaters! Rock out with your cock out! 'Tis the season for yuletime WT! Woot!

Thursday, December 23, 2004

"I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be..."

Yet another long day full of nothing. I worked until eight tonight, and had nothing but four kids showing up. Wonderful. At least I got two intakes knocked out while I sat on my ass waiting for kids to not show up.

I knew from the go that it was going to be one of those days. I even stopped at Publix before getting to the office so I could grab some eats to last me through the day. I knew I was getting desperate when I saw the spray cheese on sale and thought it would be a good idea. I knew I was finally at desperate when I actually bought a can, along with a box of Ritz crackers. I knew I had to seek my own professional help when I sat at my desk ten minutes after getting to the office, bored to tears, and took out the crackers and cheese and spelled, with each letter getting its own cracker, the following:

I AM SURROUNDED BY A-HOLES!

I then proceeded to rearrange letters to spell silly things. I felt like I was doing the word games in the Sunday Parade or some shit ("How many words can you make with the letters in 'a-holes,' kids?"). And it took me a hell of a long time to finish eating those crackers, as they were surprisingly dry and I ran out of soda quickly.

All this happened in my first half-hour at work.

The rest of the day went similarly slow. My last client of the day, who I sometimes would like to smack with a raw fish, didn't bother showing up for her appointment, but somehow convinced her grandfather that she would "meet him there" after she left the house to meet up with her boyfriend. And since he showed up for the appointment, I had to wait at least twenty minutes to see if she showed up before I could send Grandpa back home. And of course, in that twenty minutes, Grandpa regaled me with tales of hand surgery and workman's comp woes whilst his punkass grandchild ran wild in the streets (note to J.Co: please refrain from singing Bon Jovi right now).

I felt like re-creating my Ritz cracker message at the front entrance to the building by the time 8:00 rolled around.

Maybe tomorrow I will post what happened after work. But for now, I am exhausted. I still have a few hours before I have to go at it again, so I'm going to spend them sleeping next to a snoring DJ Rumpshaker.

Sunday, December 19, 2004

Musical residue.

I have been sitting here at the domicile, doing anything that is the opposite of doing actual work. I decided to listen to some streaming audio whilst surfing the net. Usually, its' a nice distraction and easy way to fill up the quiet of a room that contains a dog napping next to her new Nylabones.

This evening, however, is a different story, as what only occasionally happens to me occurred again, but with much brute force: I got a song in my head, and am having a hell of a time getting rid of it.

Normally, I wouldn't sweat something like this, but the main problem here is that the song was Mr. Big's "Be With You." I will refrain from posting lyrics here, as I don't want you loyal viewers to suffer my same fate. Hell, some of you may already be singing the song in your head, and are thusly affected. My apologies.

The friggin' song won't go away, and I've tried all the usual tactics: playing a slew of other songs (I even played "Vienna" three times in a row, but that didn't work); I tried to distract myself with other things (hence I now have five new ringtones for my cell); I even scooped up the dog and drove over to PetSmart to finish up her Christmas shopping (resulting in previously mentioned Nylabones for her and a cone from Marble Slab for me). This can only mean one thing, my last resort:

Debbie Gibson's Greatest Hits Album!

As real as it may seem, it was only in my... oh, forget it.

Well, it's either that, or hunt down plugins for Trillian. Let me think on that one for a sec.

People are funny. Disgusting, and funny.

I think that my people-watching quotient has gone all kinds of wonky. I've been in situations in the past month that lend to nothing but watching others and not getting my work done. Even when my goal is to do non-work things, I can't help but find myself mired in the observation of fellow humans. This crap has got to stop.

This morning, I found myself at a Waffle House, trying to eat at least 70 percent of my All-Star Special, when I witnessed the lady seated next to me bitch at the server because she didn't hear the server order her "seven minute waffle," then proceed to pour about a cup of sugar and four coffee creamers into her bowl of grits. Eww. Eww. Eww.

It was all I could do to not throw chunks. I can't imagine how those grits tasted, but it looked horrible. I had to just keep downing glasses of water, not look at the lady, and remind myself of all the money and delicious food that would be going to waste if I spewed.

Fast forward to an undisclosed shopping location (kept secret so as not to give away the site where I might have purchased a certain anonymous someone's Christmas present,) where I witnessed some high-pitched woman screeching at her significant other that she needed "This, this, and this," all whilst piling very expensive accessories into his arms. He, of course, dumbly accepted the heap and paid for everything. I can't wait for the day I can be that scrawny, privileged, high-pitched woman doing the same thing (note intense sarcasm).

This is too much. I'm going to go and not have a bowl of grits right now.

Friday, December 17, 2004

"The sky is blue and all the leaves are green..."

"...Dan is as cheap as a baked potato!" Oh, wait. That's not how it goes. Sorry.

Dan is making me watch The Last Starfighter from somewhere in the middle of it. I could punch him in the eye.

We tried taking more Christmas pictures of DJ Rumpshaker today. She looks evil in almost all of them. There is no truer testament to her being mine.

Okay, back to the salt mines.

"That's the smartest thing that bitch has done all night!"

I'm telling you, that Hufflepuff is a damned riot. The above quote, of course, came as we watched the conclusion of Center Stage a couple of weeks ago. As a reward for her wit, I have not commented on the status of her turn-out since then (unfortunately, LoLo has taken the brunt of that).

Chocolate croissants are bad news. I mean it. I'm ensconced here at Panera again, but this time, I'm at one that has consistenly fresh-tasting chocolate croissants. One thing I still don't get, however, is why they insist on putting your napkin on the tray for your food, under the greasy/sticky/otherwise non-dry food itself. It's an enigma, and it's pissing me off.

It's slim pickings at Panera today, what with all the ladies with small children and the elderly couples. Looks like there will be no shit-starting today for me. Sigh.

DJ Rumpshaker went to the groomer's today, and came back with Christmas bows on her ears. She looks friggin' adorable. I'm supposed to go by Danhole's this afternoon so we can take some more pictures for Riley's Christmas cards. In fact, I just got an IM from him that simply said "you ready for doggy pics?" This, of course, coming from a man who sent me the first set via an e-mail entitled, I shit you not,

Pics (Doggy Style).

I mean, seriously.

I'm getting tired of this Panera Holiday Music. There's never any words to the mofo's. I think I will surf around for a live feed, then get back to this. After a refill on my Diet Pepsi, that is.

"Oh my God, I'm gonna die. My cheeks hurt!"

That's what one of my favorite kids said to me today after we laughed hysterically for twenty minutes over stupid shit. It's rare moments like those that make me semi-quasi glad that I work for a non-profit organization. It was worth it for her to go from her cheeks hurting, to saying her lungs were going to pop, to saying her brain was going to erupt.

Luckily, none of the above happened. I could just imagine the look of disappointment on her Mom's face when I would have to tell her that I just broke her kid.

Balls.

I really should be getting to bed soon. I have to take DJ Rumpshaker to the groomer's tomorrow for her Holiday Hosedown, then have to finish some insane Christmas shopping. However, I still find myself in front of this blogdoggery, typing away and listening to the latest episode of Mauryplaying in the background.

I swear, if it wasn't for my DVR, I wouldn't watch even a fraction of all the WT glory that I do. Nor would I get to watch all those Golden Girls episodes in rapid succession. I heart my DVR.

Okay, I'm getting out of my tree now. Going to bed, and praying I don't wake up with a furry, slobbering canine hat in the morning.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

MORE "More than a Feeley."

More chuckles, from ESPN.com's Page 3:

A.J. FEELEY, Miami Dolphins
On occasion, I'll look to the sky and ask, "Why is it blue?" Or maybe I'll look wistfully up at a basketball rim and ask, "Why wasn't I born to dunk?" In sports bars, I frequently hear, "How the [expletive] is A.J. Feeley dating Heather Mitts?"
In the event you're out of the loop on women's soccer here's the skinny on Mitts: As a member of the U.S. National soccer team and Page 2's Hottest Female Athlete of '04, Heather Mitts is one of the most desirable female athletes on the planet (apologies to golf's Next Big Thing, Natalie Gulbis). Mitts, she of the cover-girl looks and disarming smile, has attracted many a suitor, namely ex-boyfriend, Pat Burrell (overrated Philadelphia Phillies outfielder) and actor John Cusack. A newspaper report in June of 2001 alleges Cusack attempted to kiss her after taking her to dinner in Manhattan, but she responded with the pullback. Ouch.

Feeley, 27, appears to have won her heart. Back in October of 2002, a newspaper spotted the couple cutting a rug on the dance floor at a club in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Three months later, things got quasi-serious, as they attended the Super Bowl together in January of 2003. By March, they were Philadelphia's cutest couple (meanwhile, Burrell privately stewed and had the worst season of his young career).

Many predicted the relationship would go kaput when Feeley signed with Miami. Not quite. Word on the street is the 26-year-old Mitts has moved with him in Florida, and of all the quarterback couples, these two appear to have the greatest staying power.

Okay, some things:

Lately, when I see media coverage of the Heather/AJ machine, I hear Fozzy Bear in my head. I'm not even kidding.
In sports bars, I frequently hear, "How the [expletive] is A.J. Feeley dating Heather Mitts?" This statement can most clearly be heard at the Gator Goal Getters booth at the Beard, as well as at The Swamp Restaurant, the Gainesville Ale House, and walking towards Concordia Condominiums on a sunny, autumn Sunday afternoon.
A newspaper report in June of 2001 alleges Cusack attempted to kiss her after taking her to dinner in Manhattan, but she responded with the pullback. Ouch. Haven't I always told you Mittsy was a smart girl? And to think, back in 2001, she didn't even know about Cusack's personal odor or his traveling "herbologist." Smart like a Gator!

More on this later. Because of the Holiday Eats at work, I have reached Critical Mass.

Saturday, December 11, 2004

Always fun on a Saturday night.

In an effort to take a break from all the cleaning and chore-like things I've been doing all day, I decided to leave the domicile for a couple of hours. After a harrowing half hour at Wal-Mart (and don't worry, I will never need to be reminded to stay away from the WT Capital of the World during the Holiday Season ever again), I find myself at the Panera that I believe is closest to my domicile: the one in Oldsmar.

There seem to be a lot of families here this early evening. And since this area is ripe with young professionals and their SUV-inhabiting offspring, there seems to be an unusually pungent aroma of... dear God... is that Red I am actually smelling? Do they still make that stuff? The last time I smelled that perfume on purpose had to have been ninth grade, and even then, it had a negative connotation in my mind. I think I'm going to have a flashback!

Oh, never mind. A kid in the booth next to me just started crowing like a buzzard. I think I'm okay now.

This post brought to you (unwittingly) by The Man in White!

I call this one, "Buble in the Bubble."

There is nothing better than camping out on the bed with your favorite pooch, catching up on this season's episodes of Las Vegas. The only complaint I have so far is that they have one of those jackballs from 7th Heaven trying to woo the LV girls by telling them he's dying of cancer. And I think he's trying to do that whole slightly-scruffy-yet-clean-cut thing that Josh Duhamel already does so well. Sorry, Mr. WB Castoff, but there's only one Danny McCoy at the Montecito Hotel and Casino! That's right! Tad Hamilton's a-gonna kick your WB-lovin' ass!

Isn't he dreamy?

Sorry. Lost myself a bit there.

I've got a little one here to tuck in, but before I go, let me leave you with an exchange that just exemplifies why I love this show (and why I'm glad the first season is coming out on DVD in January):

Nessa (Watching Danny and Mike playing a fighting video game): Two men, fighting half-naked in a bathroom. That's not gay!
Mike (Never taking his eyes off his game): Gay like a fox, baby!

Comic gold, I tell you! Goodnight!

Friday, December 10, 2004

Grant tells the Best. Jokes. Ever.

I promised myself, after telling ten million people this joke that Grantasm made up a while back, that I wouldn't beat it to death, but I just have to post it:

Q: What happens when you combine Bilbo Baggins and Bruce Willis?
A: Old Hobbits Die Hard!

Will somebody Photoshop these mofo's already?

Thursday, December 09, 2004

A naked lady walks into a bar with a poodle under one hand, and a two-foot salami under the other.

Love that movie. And Judd Nelson is "fucking harsh!" in it.

So, I again find myself eating a French Toast bagel and pondering the possibilities of life. I was pretty productive at work today, except for that instance late this afternoon when I was so exasperated that I collapsed in a heap in the middle of the front office floor. I seriously wanted to scream at our newest clerical hire, but resisted great temptation and dropped to the ground instead. I don't think she realized I was upset with her, because she kept trying to joke around with me as I lay in said heap.

"When the front desk tries to get at you, drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot... When the newbie cops an attitude..."

Sorry. Went away for a little bit. There is no "Roley" on my arm, and the only thing I'm pouring any time soon is another glass of root beer. Moving on.

Yeah, overall, productive day. I did spend most of it trying to keep my mouth shut in front of authority, and trying not to call my snottier teenaged clients jackballs to their faces. I also resisted the urge to yell at one of said snotty clients to get her shitty attitude and trashy self out of my Beastie Boys sweatjacket, even if she was "freezing." Little runts.

And I probably drove poor LoLo nuts when, after she would say something, anything at all, I would mutter, "You're not very turned out. And you don't have good feet. And although you are very pretty..." I'm probably going to pay for that in some karmic way in the near future. Possibly by having to call the Death Star using 1-800-CALL-ATT.

It's free for you, and cheap for Anakin!

Being at Panera at this time of the evening sure is interesting. After I finish this update, I'll pack up and head home, but the eye candy this evening is too startling to deny. I've always found powder blue dress shirts interesting, but this time, I am having an even harder time looking away. This gentleman is pleasant to look at, all right.

Wait, overhead call for an order pickup... He got up to get it. Now I know his first name is Stephen.

Wow. I should probably be rapped about the knuckles for that last one. If anyone wants to identify the pop culture reference used above, be my guest, and get a prize!

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

"So what are you waiting for, America? Someone to hold YOUR boobs?"

It's been a long day in the world of not-for-profit mental health, and I am just happy to be sitting here with my playful little pup at my feet, updating the old Blog.

For the past few minutes, I have been checking my e-mail, trying to convince someone that they shouldn't be drunk dialing anyone on this evening, and trying to pick the burrs out of Riley's coat (her foolish-ass grandfather let her frolic in the brush this evening, then dumped her in my lap and said, "Here," before rushing off to the other end of the house).

Oh yeah, and I've also been trying to download that episode of Saturday Night Live with the skit where Britney plays Barbie's kid sis, Skipper, and finds out that Barbie really isn't her older sister, but her Mom. One of the best parts of that skit was when Barbie reveals that Skipper's father isn't Ken, but a Han Solo action figure, and an incredulous Skipper says:

"He's not even our scale; what kind of slut are you?"

Ah, good times, good times!

Today, kids were just getting to me. They've changed the code on the security doors in the building, and the miserable little buggers were spending all day trying to figure out the new code. This would be no problem for me, of course, if the friggin' keypad didn't beep nonstop from their incessant attempts and codebreaking.

By early evening, the codebreaking responsibilities fell to a trio of towheaded boys who reminded me of The Village of the Damned. There are two security doors that one can go through to get to the therapists' offices, and every time an adult walked up to one of those doors, these boys would be close behind, trying to catch a glimpse of the code.

LoLo and I got so sick of it when they were practically climbing on our backs to see the code, that we told them to go back to their seats and wait for their parents (who, ironically, were nowhere to be found when all these shenanigans were going on).

They asked us if we could tell them the code. We told them that of course, we couldn't. They then proceeded to stand at the noisy keypad and hammered away every code they could think of for a few minutes. Lori told them to go sit down again. They pointed at each other, blaming each other for touching the keypad. I threatened to call Santa a couple of times. I seriously thought of taking out my cell phone and pretending to put in a call to the North Pole, when I realized that it would be much, much better to rat the little hellions out to their mother.

So that's what I did. I asked them where their Mom was. They all froze.

Those little crappers couldn't escape my wrath!

"Uh, she's not here. Uh, I don't know." Suddenly, the little shits didn't know anything.

"That's okay. I'll find her." Total silence. Those kids were shitting themselves. Luckily, I knew their Mom was talking to Randal, and let her know what was going on. Randal didn't seem at all surprised. Mom looked like fire was going to shoot out of her eyeballs. She had that low, controlled voice when she laid eyes on them after I narc'ed. Oh, to be a fly on the wall of that mini-van on the ride home!

Sorry, but if I've had a crap day, sometimes making children miserable is the only way to right things.

Oh. My. God.

I'm coming off an Urban High, and then I have to come across this:
Karate Kid, The Musical

Take a moment to view it, then cry, just a little.

"Must be my birthday!"

Okay, so two jackelopes have a birthday today. Let's get this knocked out before I head to bed, shall we?

Happy Birthday to Jaz and Grantasm!

Old Jackball Number One.

Old Jackball Number Two.

I shall not divulge ages here, as that would probably result in my sound thrashing and utter humiliation. Oh, wait; that would happen anyway. Damn.

If you see either of them, wish them well, and don't forget to give them their birthday whacks. Okay, more later. I have to sleep. Kisses!

Saturday, December 04, 2004

Passed out flat on my ass in Pinacoladaburg.

I'm sitting here at Dan's House of Pain, updating the Blog from my brand-spanking "New To Me" laptop. Yes, folks, you heard right. My dear family decided to surprise me with it today, and I tell you, I'm loving the hell out of it. It's not a brand new machine by any stretch of the imagination, but it works, and it's mine, dammit!

So, I've already come up with a name for it: Urban Sprawl. Yeah, you know what I mean. If you come up with anything more genius, let me know.

And now, for something that makes absolutely no sense:

Right-o. Moving on.

Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)