Son of a Bitch

So, this little son of a bitch: is peeking his disgusting mouse head out from under the closet door in my living room. It's roughly 4 feet from where I sit and type this. The supersonic mouse ridders I bought are not working -- I did read the instructions today, however, and learned that I need to move them around periodically. I'm planning on moving one right up the ass of the next mouse that shows its ugly head.

I hope that will work. But, FYI, what doesn't work? Is seeing the mouse and saying ala Charles Bronson in any of his stellar movies, "I'll kill you". Of course, I say it with that gravel-filled voice, and use a baritone that makes my chest hurt, but what happens next is not the "I give up, hit me with the broom because I deserve to die" action that I expect. Rather, the asshole mouse turns around and runs back in the closet ... for 3 seconds, and then runs out again so I can say, "I'll kill you" again. Ass. Boo. Crap. I feel like this blog, originally intended as a means to communicate with far-flung family, is turning into a record of my descent into madness. Perhaps I'd feel better if I did some online shopping. I'll let you know. Later - j.

Big Papa

This is for you:

And, here's a (an?) haiku to accompany it:

Velvet Rose, Classy
Please give me one some time soon
I'll festoon my car

I'm that good. Later - j.

Boo hoo

Math is hard! Hard!



Thank you, ExplodingDog.com. That is an accurate representation of the difficulties of math.

So, my boss? She's pregnant. This wouldn't matter, except I like her and want to make a present for her. Why did I tell everyone else in my office that I was making a quilt for her? Well, because I can. Why did I show them the picture of what I planned to make? Because I am a Fool, Fool, Fool. I cannot do it. I have a B.A. and M.A. from the University of Chicago. I have an MBA and a JD from the University of Virginia. How come I cain't figger out how many squares I get out of an 18 x 20 fabric quarter? Boo. Sad.

Maybe I shouldn't drink while I'm kalkyoolatin' and cipherin'. Hmm ...

Fergot

How could I? Yesterday -- thanks be to Aimee -- I was sent on a pitch meeting for work in Cherry Hill, NJ.


So, I drove with Big Papa -- well, he drove .. sometimes scarily.

I think that I'd probably get fired if I wrote about the pitch (and someone at HQ was actually searching these things ... doubtful), so I won't write about it, but I will write about the lead up and ending:

To wit, it was a brilliant idea to ride in the car with Big Papa -- no stress, no rehearsing, lots of screaming at traffic, and a couple of times I thought I'd wet myself:

Imagine that picture as a black woman in the passenger seat. I just have to say that they really don't teach the whole merge/allow to merge lessons very well in driving school, because there was a time on Rt. 70 that I thought I would die. The sad thing about that was, I was really cooncerned about how messy my apartment was. Many people have reported the "life flashing before the eyes" phenomenon when they're super-scared. Me? My messy, disorganized apartment flashed before my eyes, along with an image of my friends and family rooting through my things saying, "Good Lord, she lived like a pig. We're glad she's gone." Um-hmm, it was that messy. If I have to fly somewhere for work or whatever, I always REALLY clean the house before I leave because I'd hate to die, have people sad over it, and then have them further saddened when they have to sort through my things. From now on, I'll clean it up every day.

Par Avion

My sister arrived last Wednesday, flying in from the wilds of Detroit to revel in the pastoral goodness of New York. I'm in the red since she's been here -- Boo. I've met so many cool people since her arrival (Kevin, Keena, Darren, Remy <-- I spell as best I can, all of you) -- Yeah.

I love her a bunch, and she has been quite thoughtful about helping me since she's been here -- I can stay at work as long as I need to, because she takes Lou for his meander (I've stopped calling it a walk, because that is just not accurate). She swept up piles of dog hair last week, and it's generally nice to have someone around to make witty quips at whatever pap is on the telly.

The only downside?



That's what my sister used to do, and so did her friends. Beautiful and lithe, all. Me? Not so much. So, not only do I have to go to work and hear people who met her say, "Wow. That's your sister? She must be much younger than you. I can tell she was a dancer, she has such a beautiful body." Read: "And you are a fatty, fatty, boom-ba-latty." Whatever. It's nice to have her here, because we compliment each other well. She? Drinking the rice milk, eating organically, loving fresh fruit for breakfast, and SMART to boot. Me? Marginally intelligent (note that there are relatively few spelling errors in these postings, thank you), drinking whole milk by the gallon, eating cheese exclusively, and planning to throw out all the wholesome crapola she's filled my fridge with when she leaves! Har. Boo. Sad.

Is it wrong to hold out for a pill that will melt the fat away and make me scintillating and brilliant at the same time? I say, "No! Get on it, Pfizer! Jeez!" In the meantime, I'll have the gruyere soup, cheddar casserole with swiss cheese sauce, a side of bleu cheese, and CHEESECAKE for dessert, please. So bad.