I hate driving

This morning while driving to work, I saw a drug bust in action. I hate driving, especially in the morning and especially when I'm headed to work. I hate road-raging jerkfaces who cut me off - I am chronically nervous about destroying my car because then I would have to ask my mom for rides and then I would have to move home and then I would be alone and have a hundred cats and never leave the house and become a hoarder like the people you see on TV...

So anyway, the drug bust; it was pretty anti-climactic to be honest. Just a couple of police officers walking their dogs and knocking on doors. And handcuffing. Whatevs.

I wish I could teleport to work and never have to drive. Unless teleportation hurts or something, in which case, I'd probably still try it at least once.

Food projects are the best kind of projects.

My sister had to do some art thing for school a while back and it was awesome beyond reason. I helped. We made a delicious bust of Aristotle. This is how it went:

We made his tasty little shoulders out of rice krispies. We had to start over because we ate the first shoulders - these are the second shoulders.

We formed a head-like structure. That thing sticking out of his head is actually a chopstick. Unfortunately, we didn't have a better plan to keep the head on. The chopstick remained where it was until Aristotle's 'demise'. (Sister took him to class where he was graded, admired and ultimately, eaten.)

Then we slathered him with delicious white frosting. That is my sister's hand.

We temporarily lost focus and did this.



We finally stopped eating the frosting directly from the container long enough to make this fondant! It is made of: marshmallows, powdered sugar and love. :)

Then we covered his cute little krispy head with fondant and began sculpting with whatever we weren't eating.

Smoothed out the lines and added facial features. I like to think that he's a carefree, jolly type of guy.

This is the final product. And my finger lovingly picking his cute little fondant covered krispy nose.

 Needless to say, we are culinary geniuses. Obviously.

'Special' like, 'short-bus'?

I am getting fat. I sit in a spindly chair all day and talk on the phone to the socially retarded people who scream at their neighbors or whatever while on the phone with me. It’s strenuous labor, I swear, but I’m pretty sure it is making me fat.



This is the box currently sitting on top of my fridge.

I refuse to accept it. I keep telling myself I’m going to go on that G-D awful “Special K diet” where you only eat cereal and ice cubes until you gradually waste away into nothingness. (Sexy, right?) But everytime I stand before the cereal asile in the grocery store and resolve to do it, I look at the cereal and I see that woman on the box. The girl on the box obviously has no responsibility in life other than to look happy and well fed while she goes about her daily activities such as stretching, excercizing slowly while counting out loud and smiling in a benign fashion. She looks beautiful and mentally delayed. I don’t trust her to peddle me anything more interesting than beige colored excercise socks.

Apparently, if you eat the cereal, you will be thin and benignly happy like this woman. (This can’t be right.) I stand there looking at the box for a bit, debating. Do I want to be thin and healthy? Sure. Do I want to smile the smile of a carefree beautiful person? Absolutley. Can I get all that from this box of cereal? It’s possible. Then snap out of it and laugh like a maniac all the way to the crap asile where I load up on sugar and empty carbohydrates. It’s a vicious cycle.

Recently I finally broke down and bought a box. For the longest time, it just sat there on top of the fridge, unopened. Judging me. Eventually, I opened the cereal and tried a handful directly from the box.

Meh. It’s like cardboard bits coated in splenda. Nothing exciting that makes me instantaneously lose ten pounds and want to go for an eight mile run. I think the folks at Special K may or may not be using their product for packaging. Oh, the duality.

I called to verify and Boyfriend promises to love me no matter how much I weigh so I think I’ll pass. The box can just sit up there on top of my fridge and judge me.

I may be certifiably insane. Man, I hope this doesn’t interfere with my career goals.

Yesterday one of my coworkers almost stepped on a snake that was lying on the concrete about a foot from our office door when she came back from her lunch break. There is only one door to this office. The solution is clear: I can never go outside again.

Just to clarify; I am scared of nothing on this planet except for snakes. In fact, just typing the word creeps me the hell out. I can’t look at pictures of them, I can’t see them near me. I do not want to “work on that”. I have long since coped with my fear and the possible handicap it poses on my future life. One time, I saw one in my front yard and I refuse to this day to walk in the grass in front of the house. Yes, I am probably crazy. I will take a leigion of zombies anyday (bring it on!), but I won’t open Webster’s Dictionary For Kids, With Pictures!  to the S section.

So anyway. My coworker calls her sister in rapid spanish to tell her all about it. When she hangs up, she turns to me in her spindly chair and says “Oh, my sister said that that is good luck!” (Her sister must be on crack. Stepping on any animal, creepy reptillian or not, is going to piss it off. One thing leads to another and it doesn’t end well.) My coworker then went on to smack her forehead against something solid, trip on nothing and get the most vicious looking papercut I’ve ever seen in my life. So obviously, almost stepping on that thing didn’t really do her much good. Regardless, I am now terrified of the perfectly manicured foliage just outside of the office door. Wonderful.

This morning I deliberately woke up early, dragged myself out of the house and went to work about 20 minutes early. I did this so I could park directly in fron to the building and lie in wait in my car until the office door opened. (Our office door has a keypad and you have to sit out there and press buttons for a minute before you can get the door to open.) When I saw it swing open, I ran like a freakin’ gazelle from my vehicle, flew inside the door, down the hall and into my office where I jumped up and down a bit to make sure nothing got on me. (Unfortunately, the jumping up and down part was involuntary.)

Now I am curled up akwardly on my spindly chair so that no part of me touches the ground. My coworkers think I might be taking stimulants. Fantastic.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, set me up with your friend.

My longterm boyfriend (hereafter referred to as "Boyfriend"), mentioned on the phone (read: not within hitting distance) last night that he thought I would have made a good match for his best friend, had Boyfriend and I never met.

I don’t know how to feel about this.

Once upon a regular work week...

Today when I got to work, the doors were locked and no one was there. I mean, no one except for myself and my office-mate, J. As we stood around outside well past 8am, wondering where in the hell our co workers were, the creepiest co-worker in the entire office rolls up in his creeper-mobile. This co-worker, aside from being the scariest creeper I’ve ever seen, has no key to get inside our building. So we were still locked outside.
Now, office-mate J and I like to call this creeper ”Yes/No” because of his strange ridiculous haircut. (Perfectly groomed, triangular shoulder-cut but completely bald on top. Think, really overzealous mullet.)

To be fair, this man is not solidly in the creeper category by sheer haircut alone. This is a man who will quietly sneak skulk from office to office, getting as uncomfortably close you as possible, then whisper in your ear: ”would you…like…some candy…?” Effectively scaring the crap out of you. No lie, this is a regular occurance.

Anyway, Yes/No pulls into a space that happens to be within stalker distance from us and rolls down his windows halfway to better listen to us and possibly to stick out an arm to offer us candy from the car.
At this point, I am madly texting my boss:

Me: “Just so you know, B (aka “Yes/No”) just got here. We’re locked outside. Together. It’s like the beginning of a horror movie.”

Boss: “LOL! I’m so sorry guys, I’m on my way!”

We waited another few minutes with the tense  hope that someone, anyone would let us into the damn building  before the creeper tried to make contact. Nothing. Just when I was sure that Yes/No was going to leap from his car in one swift movement and throw us into his trunk, it dawned on me that Chic-Fil-A is across the street. The lightbulb went on. Office-mate J and I jumped into my car and drove across the street to the Haven of All Things Chicken. As we were pulling into the drive thru, we saw the owner of our company, chicken in hand, meandering out to his car. (So this is where they’ve been hiding? I should have known.)

Moral of the story:

1. Yes/No is super creepy.
2. When in doubt, escape.
3. Chick-Fil-A is across the street.
4. Turns out, the owner of our company likes chicken for breakfast too.

You see? Everything worked out wonderfully. Office-mate J and I are now enjoying chicken in our office and Creeper Extraordinaire “Yes/No” is safely back in his cubicle under the watchful eye of our boss.

And we all lived happily ever after.

Someone's gonna get bitten. And not by a sparkly vampire.

Why are all Museum guests bad listeners?

It says very clearly on the informative information paper to “show up 30 minutes early for your party”. It DOES NOT say “show up as early as you want, we wait around for you people all day”. WHY CAN NO ONE READ? We, your staff show up exactly one hour before you do to set up. When you show up early, don’t whine to us that the room looks empty and not set up. Because guess what? It’s empty, and it hasn’t been set up. BECAUSE YOU SHOWED UP TOO EARLY.

Also, when there is a sign on a door that says “closed for maintenence”, “closed for private party” or the like, that is not an invitation for you to go in anyway and see what’s happening. In fact, we should booby trap the whole place and put up these signs to make examples out of all of you. (At the end of the day, it’s natural selection.)

You know how there are signs that say don’t feed the animals? Don’t. Feed. The. Animals. First off, because you will probably make them sick with whatever nasty straw you are shoving in their faces. Oh, and also because basically every animal we have bites. (Anything with a mouth can bite you!) Most of our animals have been subjected to the ear peircing sounds of your kids screaming non-stop since the minivan doors slid open three hours ago. Even I, a human, I would bite you. (If I wouldn’t get fired and subsequently sent to a psychiatrist for evaluation.)

High schoolers don't dig facepainting.

Today I worked outside in the freezing ass cold for 5 hours. By “work” I mean I wandered around waiting to be told to do something at an off-grounds Museum event. They had me there to “do face painting” which is rediculous because I am about as talented at face painting as a dead squirrel is at dodging those oncoming lights. Whatever. The people at this event were all high schoolers who wouldn’t come near us and our lame array of paint even if Justin Timberlake was dancing naked on the table throwing out hundred dollar bills like confetti and looking for a prom date.

(As a side note, please enjoy this image I found of said Justin Timberlake. If you are Justin Timberlake, I apologize, and please don't take it personally, but you look freaking rediculous.)

Lame.

Now I’m sitting around trying to suck up every second of the non-working weekend I can before I find myself pounding my forehead against the computer monitor in my office on Monday, yelling at it for outsmarting me in my attempt to open my email.

I love my job. (No, really, they bring us snacks.)

My 'beef' with kitchen shows.

For some reason, TV has gone crazy-stupid over cooking shows. They’re all like “Kitchen Hell, Kitchen Nightmare, WORST COOKS IN AMERICA! Bring me elimination based reality TV! And some really big knives!” This is a bad idea. And here’s why:

1. People aren’t emotionally secure enough to be told how bad they suck at things and have a normal existence afterward. Hasn’t anyone watched Tyra Banks’s self obesessed ANTM? They are all “I love you Tyra!” until they are eliminated and then they need psychiatric care.
2. There are too many elimination-based shows flooding the viewing market. “Who is going home this week?” Who even cares? Eventually, all but one goes home. Wait a while and watch the last ten minutes of the last show. And there you have it.
3. People need to stop enjoying watching people hurt themselves with knives. It’s unhealthy.