Hi everyone, I'll be back to regular posts no later than January 12. It's a combination of working to finish my non-fiction project and that I find myself in a bit of a funk at the moment. Talk to you soon.
This morning, I was asked to scan the following image for el presidente of the company.
you have an ominosity quotient ofsix.you are really ominous. |
For a recent SCA event, I prepared a 2 lb. venison roast. Twice, since I needed to practice the recipe earlier in the week, and then for the actual presentation of the roast, to accompany the unveiling of Project Non-Fiction. So now I have lots of leftovers. Last night we had venison with noodles, tonight it was venison stroganoff (okay, who just made the joke about 100 bulls in a field?), and tomorrow it will be venison chili.
If you've never had venison, let me assure you that it does NOT taste like chicken. The way I made it, it tasted more like pot roast.
I'm beginning to think that some people around here sneeze extra loud on purpose. They certainly talk louder when they're on the phone. What's up with that?
Why has the New Guy decided that I'm an excellent source of information for working the photocopier, locating technical papers, etc.? I haven't even been introduced to the guy, I just know he's "the new guy who's replacing Hugo the Peruvian".
And who is microwaving leftover fish?
Last night, the GLOM (Gorgeous Ladies of Marketing) took one of our members (who happens to be our Soup-ervisor) to a tres fancy steakhouse to celebrate her turning the Big 4-0. Actually, her birthday is December 25, but we chose this arbitrary date to celebrate instead.
This place was really something. For starters, the door handles were in the shape of alligators, a neat bit of synchronicity since I was wearing my alligator bracelet. You know it's a good steakhouse when the interior is dimly lighted. Our waiter had a pen flashlight to shine on the tray of raw meat he brought to our table to impress us carnivores. "Charley's has been rated number four in the list of top ten steakhouses in the nation," Todd proudly declared. "What, and you guys let me in here?" I quipped. He explained that since it's Florida they can't be too picky about their clientele. Good answer.
Soup got verklempt even before our carefully selected bottle of wine arrived. "You guys are the best group of people I've ever worked with!" she tearfully declared. The other GLOMs got teary, too. I don't usually boo-hoo at such occasions, lucky for me the moment passed. "We love you, too," said Linda. "You're incredibly anal, but we still love you."
It's so true, Soup will change text over and over, fine-tuning until you almost want to scream, "Stop picking at it, it's only a 1/4 page ad!" (I'll bet.) But that's not necessarily a bad thing, I think she's improved my copy-writing, not to mention introduced me to the em-dash.
I dread turning 40, though Mom has told me that 50 is worse. According to one advertisement I saw recently, the oldest you can be to sell your ova is 33, so that ship has already sailed. Too bad, I could use the extra $5,000, but I doubt anyone would want my eggs. I think they're scrambled.
P.S. - May I recommend the shiraz? Just like that Monty Python sketch, this Australian wine has a kick on it like a mule. Well, not that strong, but it made me feel nice and fuzzy and not at all concerned about how much I will owe Linda at the end of the month, as she put the tab for our festivities on her credit card.
I don't know if it was the shiraz talking, but one of the GLOM (Gorgeous Ladies of Marketing) made the following conversational foray during our very fancy dinner Thursday-"So, I was flicking around cable the other night, and happened to stop at one of the HBO channels, and there was this gay program on, and these two guys were doing it, only they were face to face...did you know they could do it that way?"
I mean, whatever floats your boat and all that, but I still don't want to think about that sort of thing. The wacky thing was, we all started trying to figure out just how that would work. For about a minute, and then thank Gawd the subject changed. I think that brief discussion was one of the reasons I had another glass of wine.
So here I am in Cubicleville, trying to write a press release about a product of ours that was designed the year I was born. (The fact that my birth year is considered a long time ago is not lost on me, by the way.) Why am I doing this, trying to get PR for a little tiny box that's hardly the company's mainstay? Because it's the owner's pet project, his electrical engineering 'wubby', that's why. I'm trying to use the phrase "outstanding in the field", so when I design the ad, I can put a cow in it. Much more eye-catching then a tiny gray box, but if my little creative impulse gets the ka-bosh, I still get paid. Fortunately I have other creative outlets.
This is the second company I have worked for that was founded in the same year in which I was born. The first one had stickers printed every year bearing their logo and their number of years in business, along with, for example, 1967-1995, and I every time I saw one of them I thought of it as my secret obituary. It might not have been so bad if it had been a more pleasant place to work.
Everyone is going 'crazy go nuts' here in the Tampa Bay area - hell has frozen over, the Bucs are in the Super Bowl! Even I have got a bit of the spirit, not enough to write a message with shoe polish on my car, though. Just enough to have a pleasant tingle of anticipation. I love the Browns, but I've lived here long enough to have a soft spot for the Bucs.
Soup's husband is manager of a Bucs paraphenalia store - there is a two hour wait just to get into his shop. She's taking shirt orders, I found a neat Bucs tie dye shirt, I finally broke down and asked for one of those as she was placing her morning phone call/shirt order to him this morning. Already at 9 AM, he's having crowd control issues, so we'll see if he remembers.
Speaking of tie dye - my brother told me that Kurt Cobain wrote in his journal that he would only wear a tie dye shirt if it was made from the blood and urine of Phil Collins.
I just slit my wrist. Not on purpose, mind you. the wound was inflicted by a print-out of a project we've been working on for months.
That's one hell of a paper cut. It's even bleeding!
