Special Sauce

A mish-mash of twisted thoughts from a fevered ego. Updated when the spirit moves me, contents vary and may have settled during shipping. Do not open towards eyes. Caution: Ingestion of Special Sauce may cause hair loss, halitosis, and a burning sensation while urinating.


It's Monday. I'm Boring.

June 28

That sums it up, actually. The weekend was amusing, as far as weekends go. I worked Saturday at the Codger Corral and got to swap "Good God, do you remember THAT whackjob resident?" stories with the Admin on duty. I have successfully avoided gross pink lipstick kisses for 2 weeks now, and consider that a record.

Sunday I picked up the official coffee mug d'Special Sauce, and glazed a rather large fish. I'm rather hoping it comes out well. Today I'm reveling in having 2 whole days off in a row, before I go to the office tomorrow.

Crafty Accomplishments this weekend:

1. Picked up and put a moss-stitch border on the bottom edge of the ground chuck sweater, will also do it on the sides of the back/fronts, because I like the way it looks (and coincidentally will make the pattern a tad wider because I am a moron. A lazy moron at that. I think it will work to my advantage however.) The bottom still rolls a bit, but once I have the thing finished, I will put a ribbon facing on it and that should cease.

2. The big ol' fish chimnea.

3. A quilt square that probably has a name, but since I didn't bother using a pattern, shall remain nameless. It looks cute, and not bad for a first effort. Consider me amazed.

House News:

I'm not dead yet.

Work News:
I haven't killed anyone yet.
G Monkey and I had a delightful conversation on Friday night, after Cheddar Theater. We've come to the conclusion that she cannot deal with the Big Boss indefinitely, and I will not deal with the Big Boss without Monkey. So, we're going to work harder on our escape route, so when this organization pulls a Hindenburg, we've got something to fall back on. (There's always the black market for human organs.) The whole topic is rather depressing, in a very "you don't need to be subjected to my whining" kind of way, so lets move on to...

Cheddar Theater News:

The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra was absolutely priceless. (Although it did leave Monkey saying "It was good, but I could do it better") The T-Shirts were a hit, the cookies were delicious, and we've got some wicked good ideas for some side projects.

All told, perhaps not as boring as I had thought, then again, maybe you just had to be there.

More to come.


Asbestos Ceiling Tiles Don't Kill People, People Who Have To Hear Incessant Whining About Asbestos Ceiling Tiles Kill People

Friday, 6/24.

Short post. Have to go to work in a few minutes. BB is freaking out because our creepy construction guy thinks the ceiling tiles we knocked down have asbestos in them. (Highly unlikely, given the date of the previous remodel, which we can pinpoint to October of 1983.)She has declared Hell's Half Acre a no-entry zone till she gets the tile tested. Great. But for all her freaking out, we have already inhaled the fibers (if they are in the air) so the damage has been done. And, if they do find asbestos in the house, she's going to have to hire someone else to clean it up, at great cost to her.

Had she not dragged Papa Sauce in the fray, I'd probably not be so pissed. However, when she asked Monkey "Why didn't Papa Sauce TELL us there was asbestos in the tile?" When he wasn't in the house till it was taken down, I got a little irritated. (And if I have to hear today, about her friends with asbestosis just one more time, I'm going on an asbestos induced strangling rampage.)

Honestly, I think the jackass contractor we hired is just trying to pad his bill. He's a condescending creep, and I have a hard time with anyone who tries to get all "oh, look at what you GIRRRRRRRRRRLS did..." in that, "oh, next you'll want unicorns and rainbows, and a special place to put your Scott Baio shrine" tone of voice. Thanks to Papa Sauce, I am reasonably knowledgeable when it comes to construction, and so is G. Monkey. We're not "dumb girls" about construction. (car repair, yes, but construction, no.) Even after I did my walk through with him, and explained what we needed done, (and he saw how much of the demo work Monkey and I already did!) I swear this jerk was going to pat my head and ask "oh, and what MAN told you this needed done?" Grr. The electrician, however, treated us like we had brains in our heads, which was a refreshing change.

Lesson here: Just because I have breasts doesn't mean I don't have a brain. In fact, I have a spare in a jar under my desk.

Work beckons.


It could always be worse...

Well, it was a Tuesday. 6/22/2004

That's about the only thing I can really tell you about today. I'm spending tomorrow in the office, getting caught up on the boring shit that I didn't feel like dealing with while in the thick of the HHA overhaul. We convinced the Big Boss that contractors are good, and paying someone to do things faster and better than we can do them is even better. Yay.

Highlight of the day: discovering the hideous carpet in the top floor wasn't covering linoleum. Underneath the eyeball popping carpet we found a gorgeous cork floor in nearly pristine condition. This made up for the bookshelves and random pieces of wood that were put up with nails just slightly larger than the ones used to attach Jeebus to the cross. (I fear the original work was done by people whose parents were also siblings...)

Looking forward to Friday's installment of Cheddar Theater. Not sure what we're watching, but we'll make something appropriately disgusting for a treat. One of these days when I get enough time, I'll whip up a delicious meat head for zombie night. G. Monkey and I have already planned out this year's Halloween party, and will start making bodies, limbs, and other repulsive delights. Ah, sweet, sweet gore. How I love thee.

On that note, off to work on the Ground Chuck Sweater.


Monday, bloody Monday.

June 21

Actually, it started out as a fantastic day. The Big Cheese likes what we've done with Hell's Half Acre (HHA) so far, and seems duly impressed. (As she should be, we busted our asses on that place.) After grabbing some lunch, G. Monkey and I decided it'd be a good day for a field trip. (Mondays are supposed to be our days off anyway.) So, while we were out looking for lights and crown molding for HHA, we decided we needed ice cream. Mr. G. Monkey's birthday is Wednesday, so of course, we needed to find him a present, and somehow ended up at the glaze-your-own-pottery place. We found Mr. Monkey a few other goodies as well and called it a day.

Then came the bad news...

My parents came out to look at HHA tonight (oh, how lovely it is to be related to a contractor, and a woman with impeccable taste!) The front room passed muster, but there is a lot more work that we didn't take into consideration that Papa Sauce says will need to be done. *sigh* If we have any hopes of getting into the building before our lecture series, we're going to have to do one of the following:

1. Find brawnier interns (plural). Cute little lit majors aren't usually equipped to hang drywall.
2. Let the forces contained in the basement take over the entire house, sucking it into some sort of evil vortex. (Preferably on a Monday, when G. Monkey and I aren't in the building.)
3. Break down and hire some damned contractors so that G.
Monkey and I can try to wheedle donations out of the community. (and work on the journals, and try to sell ads and finalize the lecture series, and plan the exhibits, and get some publicity going)
4. Work around the clock, learning the finer points of carpentry, drywalling and city code as we go along trying not to breathe too deeply so the mold spores don't kill us, and drop dead from some sort of house fungus before our opening date.

I'm hoping for option three (although option one isn't bad either.)

Oh, and before I get further into this thing...

The Special Sauce Glossary.

(Eventually to be prominently put somewhere or other.)

G. Monkey- my cohort, and quite possibly possessor of the other half of my brain. She's the smart one, and is the one who lured me to work for...

The Fabulous Imploding Nonprofit Entity (FINE) The ittybitty organization I work for. If I told you what it was, I'd have to maim you, or not. Perhaps I'm just hiding my true identity from...

The Big Boss- the other person who works for (and runs) the FINE. Swell person, but the linoleum curled a long time ago, if you get my drift. The one who decided the FINE was moving to...

Hell's Half Acre- the historic building G. Monkey and I are trying desperately to remodel. The people who turned it into a law firm did some of the worst half-assed construction I've seen in a while (They stopped short of using duct tape and brown paper bags to patch the holes). Their descendants should be cursed with short thumbs and rashes that are impolite to scratch in public. Also: Has mysterious blood-like spots in several places, probably lethal mold/lead paint and one super-creepy basement. For the record, I shamelessly stole the name "Hell's Half Acre" from a column the incomprable Paul T. Riddell used to do. With all the current events, it just fits.

More definitions as I see fit. Stupid Stupid house.

Off to work on the Ground Chuck Sweater.

Pardon Me, Is That Extra Lean?

Ah, another joyous night at the Codger Corral. Having nothing to do except answer the phone and look pretty is something of a novelty. I've been bringing my knitting to work on, and several residents have commented on the fact that my yarn looks like hamburger. Henceforth, the sweater (which may take until fall to finish) shall be termed the "The Ground Chuck Cardigan"

For those of you who care about this kind of thing:
The sweater is knitted from Encore DK that does bear a striking resemblance to hamburger (Scroll to bubblegum twist) Am making a fairly basic cardi, similar to the "matches everything" cardigan in the Stitch & Bitch book Originally had planned to make it for the meat locker they call our "office", but the impending move to Hell's Half Acre has made this not nearly so pressing.

Side Note: Hell's Half Acre is a beautiful house built in 1824, converted into 3 units in 1890, and remodeled in the late '60s. It was blighted with ugly carpet, disgusting drop-ceilings, thousand-year-old linoleum, and a whole lot of suspsiciously blood-like spatters in odd spots of the front rooms. We (My co-conspirator G. Monkey and I) are the slave laborers who are attempting to redecorate with some semblance of taste. Our boss is back from vacation tomorrow, and will see what we've done so far. Cross your fingers that she doesn't have a coronary. (Although if she does, G. Monkey would be in charge. I can think of worse things.) End Side Note

At any rate, more as I see fit. Yes, there will be funny. Eventually.


Inaugural Whing-Ding

Ok, everybody else is doing it, so why not? Of course, I can hear my first grade teacher's voice in the back of my head "If all your friends jumped off a bridge...?" Then again, she's the one who called me stupid, so Elvis only knows why I'd bother listening anyway.

No, I don't have a clue why I'm doing this. Call it some sort of ego stroking, or perhaps a space that will eventually lead to bigger and better things. I doubt highly anyone will read this with any great regularity anyway. Most likely, this is just an excuse for me to screw around on the internet, and ostensibly work on writing. (And quite possibly kvetching, kvelling, and the occasional bit of venting too.)

Oh, the excitement.