Good songs to have stuck in your head:
"Hooray for Hollywood"
Tonight Show Theme (Johnny Carson version)
Alien Ant Farm - "Smooth Criminal"
Bad songs to have stuck in your head:
Cindi Lauper - "She Bop"
I forget the name of the 80's hair band - "Sister Christian"
Any Carpenters' song
Incidentally, a therapist once told me that it is abnormal to always have a song or other thing in your head. If that's the case, I know a lot of abnormal people. Including me, of course. I've almost always got an inner monologue or song going.
Let's face it - elbows are unattractive. No matter how much you lotion and sand them, they're still wrinkly and dingy. I read somewhere that rubbing lemons on one's elbows can help, but lemons are expensive! Like two for a dollar or something. Limes are five for a dollar - I wonder if you could substitute limes for lemons, or if elbows can sense the difference.
My kingdom for a door on my little, humble workspace...
All I'd like to do is sit, undisturbed, while I think over recent events of the past, ponder the future, and wake up thanks to the chemical compound known as Diet Coke. To think, perchance to daydream. Undisturbed.
It's not that I don't like my coworkers - they really are the best bunch I've worked with. It's not that I'm not interested in Culture Club double CDs or the new season of Buffy starting tonight. I care - really.
It's not my fellow wage slaves' fault that my cubicle doesn't come equipped with a door. I am one step up on Nessman - at least my fortress of (un)solitude has walls.
Postcard copy: Fried Anchovies and Whitebaits
Behead the anchovies and season them as well as the whitetails with salt. Dip into flour and fry them well in oil. If you hook the floured anchovies together by their tails, five by five, the will form a fan arrangement.
So in the middle of the night, I stubbed the crap out of my little toe by walking into the ironing board at the end of the hall when I got up to adjust the A/C. (How’s that for a run-on sentence?) It’s all purple now – hey, at least that’s my favorite color. I better get used to it, wounds on my feet take forever to heal.
I’m not sure what type of clumsy I am. Am I plain old awkward clumsy, or clumsy because I have too many things on my mind besides walking? Of course, turning on the light might help…
Clumsy - that's a funny-looking word.
Buddy the wiener dog is dumber than a bag of doorknobs. Every time Jeff or I happen to be in the yard when Buddy is on duty, the dog barks his fool head off. Once you walk up to him and let him sniff you, he stops. You would think the dog would remember after several months of this same routine.
Buddy is a replacement wiener dog. The original apparently keeled over and died of a heart attack in the midst of a Super Bowl party. I wonder if the deceased was any brighter a specimen of dachshund. Wiener dogs were originally bred to hunt badgers by pursuing them into their underground lairs. I suppose that task doesn't call for a whole lot of smarts.
I've seen Buddy gazing with what I swear was homoerotic interest at my greyhound as he ran around the back yard. Buddy just stared and stared with inapropriate admiration at the greyhound's lithe and athletic body. That Buddy just ain't right.
Yeah. You're pwobabwy wight.
I'm sensing a trend here...
I discovered these versatile garments this summer, as a matter of fact. But CUTE?
Pheebs: I remember when I got my first paycheck. There was a cave-in at the mines and eight people were killed.
Monica: Wow, you worked in a mine?
Pheebs: No, I worked in a Dairy Queen. Why?
Karen:
Do not ever eat at Burger King again. You thought you could go back to eating there after a hiatus of a year and a half, didn't you? Crazy girl. Even if you think you really, really need a cheeseburger fix, do not go there. Yes, they're the only fast food restaurant close by your office, and yes, the siren song of a 99-cent value menu is tempting when your wallet's light. DON'T DO IT. And especially please do not EVER plop down the extra 99 cents for the onion rings. REPEAT: NEVER EAT THOSE ONION RINGS AGAIN, EVER.
Sorry, but this is the way it must be. Now you're down to two fast-food burger joints, Wendy's and McDonald's. The only reason McDonald's can stay on the list is because they're the only bastards that salt their fries. (Damn tasty McDonald's fries.) But I digress. No more Burger King.
Thank you in advance,
your digestive system
So I was minding my own business, walking up the stairs to the office, when the door to the second floor was flung open, leaving me face to face with the screenprinted image of a country music hick, er, singer. "Do you know who this is?" the shirt wearer asked. He was an older gentleman I'd passed in the hall before a few hundred times. "Uh...Travis Tritt? Dwight Yoakum?" I guessed, because those are funny names to say. "No, it's Alan Jackson!" "Oh, the Ford Country guy," I said, remembering only because I am very suseptible to remembering ad campaigns, even bad ones. I was walking to my desk, thinking this little conversation was over.
But such was not the case; The fellow seemed keen on loaning me his Alan Jackson CD. "That's really okay, I'm not one for country music," I said, trying to extract myself. "No, there's one song about September 11, it's very touching." And sure enough, 10 minutes later, the guy tracked me down and handed me the CD. "Thank you," I said, not really meaning it. Then he came back, another 10 minutes later. "I just realized I don't know your name," he said, extending his hand for a handshake. So we introduced ourselves to each other; he said he would bring me another Alan Jackson CD with the song "I'm In Love With You and I Don't Even Know Your Name." "Uh, OK.." I said, feeling a bit uneasy.
Great, I'm being office-stalked. Just what I needed. He caught me at the copier later. "Say, I started to tell you this but I could see you were talking with Chuck." (Thank you, Uncle Chuckie!) "My sister's married name is the same as your last name." I won't bore you with the details, suffice it to say we figured out that we were not related. "Yeah, it's really funny that everyone with the same last name isn't related," I said, wondering if subtle sarcasm would throw a wet blanket on the conversation. It didn't, but the sarcasm gave me a warm inner glow. I suppose next time I can try hiding in the ladies' room for eight hours if the stalking gets too bad.
By the way - Alan Jackson sucks, especially that stupid September 11 song.
Karel wrote:
"Correction: That stupid Ford-commercial song sucks, that gods-damned 9/11 song sucks, and Alan Jackson sucks most of all. Let's hear it for the suckitude of country-and-western music. (It isn't that anymore, of course... it's Country-Pop. Real "country" music has been squeezed clear out of the public consciousness. In a weird sort of way, I prefer the honest country music to the MTV/Nashville demonspawn we're subjected to nowadays. Blarg.)
This random email brought to you buy the letters Rainy and Day and by the number pi."
Jen from Very Big Blog also had a comment on the Burger King onion rings entry, with a request for a comment area. She's a blog authority, so I'm going to take her advice. My technical support person (Jeff) is going to set up commenting soon. Just keep it clean, you guys - my mom reads my blog!
Yesterday, Anastasia, our elderly Russian Blue, started throwing up. A lot. I don't remember seeing The Exorcist, but I'm pretty sure that's the movie where Linda Blair throws up green pea soup. Fortunately the cat's puke wasn't green, it was cat food. At first. Then consistency changed. It was especially startling when she was sitting in front of me on the coffee table and all of a sudden a gallon of viscous water poured out of her. She's not hiding like most cats do when they are sick, she wants to hang out like she normally does. Which means the mess keeps happening in the only carpeted room of the house.
I hope she's okay. Maybe it's just hairballs gone crazy, she's been having some allergy issues. Which is ironic considering I'm allergic to cats. It was a near disaster when we awoke to the sounds of her puking in the bedroom early this morning, and realized she was on the bookcase/headboard. Poor kitty.
Chuck, the avuncular engineer that I regard with a mixture of fondness and frustration, has returned from a month-long trip to Europe. His return was preceeded with the arrival of a box of his dirty clothes that he mailed to the office; somehow the box wound up in my cubicle for "safe-keeping", as if they were in danger of being stolen.
Anyway, he's back, but no souvenirs have been forthcoming. This is quite unusual. Perhaps it's because his wife still has jet lag one week after their return home. At any rate, I'm (mostly) glad to have him back.
Yesterday, he was walking around with ripped pants. We're talking a one-cheek blow-out of his work khakis. Linda the admin. ass't. got an eyeful of tighty-whitey, something she says is seared into her memory. Chucky refused to let anyone mend them or to call home and get another pair, he just walked around with a magazine covering his butt. Typical engineer behavior.
I just dreamt that my friend Lisa and I were in this satanic church (which was just like a regular Protestant church, only run down). They were conducting this evil church service, and the satanic minister was Carrot Top.
You know how in a lot of Protestant churches they have the little kids come to the front of the narthex or narve or pulpit or whatever they call the front of the church, and then the minister tells them a cute little story about Jesus? Well, in this satanic church all the ladies had to go to the front of the church. And then Carrot Top told us all about how to dial down the center for long distance. On the way back to our seats, Lisa declared that he was absolutely, positively in love with me. My reaction was, "Evil or not, he is so not my type. I'll try to let him down gently."
Analysis: I should not eat mint chocolate chip ice cream at midnight. Also, there are way too many Carrot Top commercials on TV.
I don't think that Carrot Top is evil - but he's definitely unfunny.
The Gray-Puff Marshmallow Cat is going to be okay. She's allergic to something and keeps eating her fur, which was causing the excessive puking. Hey, no-one ever said cats were super-intelligent. So now we have tuna-flavored hairball remedy to give her, and she got a shot.
Office Stalker has stalked me twice already this morning. First he barged into my fellow wage slave's cubicle where the two of us were comparing bargains at a big department store sale; he walked in as I told her that I only paid $14 for the dress I was wearing. "Oh, you never tell the price!" he exclaimed. Well, nimrod, it happened to be a private conversation. I gave him the withering look I use when I'm dealing with people I can't stand - he should get used to it. After he left my coworker said, "Oh, he's friendly...but not in a good way."
Then, 20 minutes after that, he barged into my cube. "Who's your boss, Karen?" "Ummm...Carol." "Well, I'm telling her to give you a raise so you can spend more on clothes." This cracked him up - he laughed and touched my shoulder which happens to be bare, as I'm wearing a sundress. GRRRRRRRR...I DO NOT like being touched by people I don't like/know.
It just so happens that Carol knows about this stalking situation and can do something about it. No one messes with her minions, especially right before Chuck-a-Palooza.
How would you pronounce the name Buby?
Heh heh heh ... you said "Booby"!
And the guy with this last name is running for local office.
Another strange name I ran across lately: a guy trying to sell me advertising space with the last name of Chalupa.
