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.


get'chya' drink on.

Or something like that.

G. Monkey and I went out for our "one in a blue moon drinkathon" last night. Too bad it ended really, really early. G. Monkey must have started before I got to her house, because she can normally drink my ass under the table with her liver tied behind her back. This time she got riiiiiiiiiiiipped, and fast.

Lucky for us, she's a funny drunk.

A funny drunk wearing really slippy shoes.

A funny drunk wearing really slippy shoes who fell off her barstool.

A funny drunk wearing really slippy shoes who fell off her barstool and very nearly got us kicked out of the gay bar after she spilled her beer.

Oh, and refused to use a fork on her hash browns at the Waffle House. And kept stealing bites of Stoltzfus's burger, after she finished her own.

And kept. Losing. Her. Shoes.


Good times last night. A bit of shameless flirting too, because I could, damnit, and (if I do say so) my hair was feckin' perfect, and stuff. Heh.

Before we got to the falling off seats stage, G. Monkey told me that, apparently, FBD was on NPR yesterday morning. We both missed it, but her friend Doc (yes, a real doctor) caught it. Doc called her and said "damn. I knew you said she was crazy, but I had no idea! That woman's clinically disturbed. Seriously." heh.

See, FBD taped an episode of Desert Island Discs waaaaaaaaay back in November. (For those not in the know, DID is a show where they interview someone moderately interesting, or at least breathing, and ask them what music they'd like to have with them, were they to be marooned for an indefinite period of time on a deserted isle.) I don't know if they changed format because she was on, or not, but apparently, they also asked FBD "What book would you take?"

Now. One would THINK that this woman would take something interesting. Or she'd take that stupid "Life of Pi" book that she raved about for months (ok, everybody's raving. I thought it sucked, hard.) No. What does my former benevolent dictator take with her on a desert island?

"Well, my aunt gave me this golden book of fairy tales when I was a very little girl. I do believe I'd take that with me."

The hostess of the show couldn't help herself, apparently. "You're the director of a literary guild. Don't you want to take SOMETHING TO READ????" (Sure, a kids book is a nice sentimental idea, but c'mon!) She also said she'd ask for the New York Times to be delivered to her every day. (You're stranded on a desert island. WHY the NYT, and frankly, if they're delivering, you're not stranded. Freak.)

We're going to try to get a copy of the show, to listen to, because apparently the woman sounds like a total weirdo- they couldn't even edit it to make her sound like less of a doofus. Hee!

In other news, FBD thinks I stole her "Secretarial procedures" manual, the night that I was in there "Looking at the guild's financial information with (my boss), before the open house." That's the latest one she came up with for G. Monkey.

It took me a while to wrap my head around that one, for oh, so many reasons. G. Monkey DID set her straight, though. Including:

1. I was there, FOR FREE, because FBD asked me to go over quickbooks with the ACCOUNTANT.
2. (My Boss) wasn't there at all that night. The person the volunteer saw was the accountant, and even introduced herself as such.
3. We couldn't even get Quickbooks to open, because the program wouldn't work.
4. I had no need to steal her procedural manual because I. Wrote. It. Myself. And the information in it? Is in my head.



Reason #41,489 why Alton Brown is a God.

Sure, Rachael Ray has her "You won't be single long vodka cream pasta" recipe, and you know what? It's not that great. I served it once, and got dumped shortly thereafter. Not a big dude magnet, that stuff. However, Alton Brown's Meatloaf Recipe?

With a few minor tweaks, every dude I've served it to has raved, and offered to marry, or do other kinky things to me. So. without further ado we have...

AB's Matrimonial Meatloaf

(note. This does not mean Sauce's gettin' engaged. It does mean Sauce is into the alliteration.)

P.S. All measurements are approximate. Measuring's for sissies and pastry chefs.

2 pounds ground beef (I use a pound of 90%/10% and a pound of 85%/15% because I HATE greasy meatloaf.)
2 slices Rye Bread (With seeds!) cubed and yes, it has to be rye bread.
1 regular to largish yellow onion, small dice
2 eggs
3 Tablespoons Red Wine Vinegar
1 Tablespoon Worcestershire Sauce
1 teaspoon Paprika
3 tablespoons Ketchup
1-2 cloves garlic, all whacked up finely
1-2 pinches red pepper flakes or a good dollop of hot pepper sauce
1 1/2 Teaspoons kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper

Sweat your onion in a frying pan, when it's almost all cooked, throw in the garlic, that way you don't kill your dinner partner.

Once that's done, mix up your egg, and dump that into the ground beef, bread, salt/pepper, red pepper, paprika, vinegar, worcestershire sauce, onions & garlic, ketchup and, well, everything really... mix it together well with your hands.

The first time you make it, keep the pan you did the onions in handy, and take a little piece of the mixture and cook it in the pan, to make sure you like the seasonings. If it's to your liking, whip it all into a loaf pan, and bake it for an hour and fifteen minutes at about 350.

WARNING: This meatloaf throws off a LOT of liquid. Seriously. It's not all fat, but it does shrink up a lot. Be sure to put your loaf pan on a rimmed baking sheet so your oven doesn't hate you. after the meatloaf sits for a few minutes I kinda dump the liquid off off and let it go from there.

It's not the sturdiest meatloaf in the world (it's a little crumbly when you cut it), but as Mr. Baltimore said yesterday, it's in his "Top three of all time" for meatloaf, and kept ALL of the leftovers. I'm pretty feckin' proud.

Serve it with potatoes that you've mashed with a carton of reduced fact sour cream, fat free cream cheese, dried onions, a little bit of celery seed, and a beaten egg (they'll be really runny for mashed potatoes, till you bake it for a half hour-45 minutes till set and hot in the middle.)




Damn, guys, I got nothin'. I just wanted to reassure you (all four of you) that I'm not deceased, and I haven't been pushed face-first into a snowbank.

Ellen and I "worked on my scarf" (coughcoughupdatedmyresumecoughcough) last night, and it's ready for presenting to the county's "fashionistas". Lets hope someone loves it lots.

I'm making dinner for Mister Baltimore tomorrow night. On the menu: Alton Brown's Badass Meatloaf (which genuinely is the BEST meatloaf I've ever made or eaten), My mashed potatoes of doom (plain mashed potatoes, mashed with cream cheese and a little sour cream, onion, and an egg, then baked in the oven), steamed broccoli and whatever looks swell at the italian bakery by my house for dessert. Hee. I haven't actually cooked for a date in... forever. I used to cook for Rob-the-cokehead all the time.

Should be fun. :)

Also, either the sky is falling, or we're going to get some snow today. I forget which, but the local newscasters are practically wetting themselves in ecstacy about something. I think it's the snow. Saves 'em from having to cover waterskiing squirrels, attack turkeys and other stupid stuff, I guess.


Mmm. Samoas.

With the mild winter we've had, I have lost track of time. I had no idea Girl Scout Cookie Season has come (and sadly, it looks like, gone too). This is what I miss about working with other people. Wolfgang Candy orders and Girl Scout Cookies (and occasionally Theo's pizzas). This would also explain a few things about me, but that's beside the point. (Oh hell, I buy for my family, it's not like I could eat an entire box of chocolate covered animal crackers in one sitting. Not that I've tried, anyway...) Anyway...

I was a Girl Scout until 6th grade. Then I moved to a new town, and into a new district where the girls were so thoroughly evil that they informed me that their girl scout troop had a waiting list to get in, and I couldn't join. Stupid me. I did like being a girl scout, but I hated 2 things.

Thing 1- Camping. I do not enjoy camping unless I'm in a cabin, preferably with a toilet that actually flushes. Toilets that are a hole in the ground, covered by a cardboard tube with a toilet seat mounted on it, are not actually toilets. I do not "do" tents in the middle of the woods, where serial killers, bears, malaria-infested mosquitoes and fire ants can get in. Sorry. No. Maybe a tent on a beach, but woods? no.

The night I made my mom come get me, because the older girls tried to scare us is pretty classic in my house...

Thing 2- Selling Cookies. The village I grew up in (yes. Village. It said so on the state-provided signs) had about 15 girl scouts. Not all of us lived right on top of one another, but it was pretty much a race to see who was getting the people on your side of the highway first. If you had good neighbors like I did, they always bought a box from me, and from the other girl down the street.

Mostly, I think the people who bought, got them out of pity. See, Girl Scout Cookie Season doesn't take place in the spring, oh no. It takes place in the dead of fucking winter. And in my neck of the woods, that means snow. Lots. And lots. Of snow. If a seven year old is trudging through snow up to her waist and there is no sidewalk just to get to your house and sell you some cookies, you can't say no, or she will burn your house down. (I said I didn't LIKE camping, I didn't say I didn't learn anything there- starting fires I remembered.)

And my parents always adamantly refused to take order sheets to work with them. If I wanted to sell them, I had to make do with relatives, and setting out in the dead of night to get to my neighbor's house by say... noon, and pushing other girls into snowbanks to get to sell my whopping 70 boxes of cookies.


Ah, sweet sweet scouting memories. Our troop leader for a few years was known (in my house at least) as the "Mad Biter". She was a bitter, evil woman, whose daughter was in my troop. (her daughter was a bit of a whack-job too.) She also had the great fortune of babysitting Odie and me. I'm five years older than Odie, so at the time, he's maybe 2 years old? Her kids are similarly aged. One afternoon, Odie, who was still at the biting age, bit one of her kids. Kids bite each other, shit happens. You tell them no, you sit them in a corner, you move on. What you don't do, as a grown-up, is bite them back. And if you DO bite them back, you certainly don't do it hard enough to leave a bruise. Because if you do, my mother will come flying at you like a banshee, and tear your face off, and you'll never be allowed to babysit us again.


However, when you're on your own medical leave, because you're crazed, it's perfectly acceptable to attempt to duct tape your 12 year old son to a rocking chair because he's driving you even crazier than you already are. (Yeah, that was a fun afternoon, and no, she didn't succeed at duct taping him down. but not for lack of trying.)



Let My Puppies Go...

Lesson Learned.

Ample warning, boob talk ahead. Again.

When the "4" in your bra size is no longer the second digit, and sometimes you see letters twice, there are certain rules you have to follow.

1. When you go to the gym, unless you're going to only work on the weight machines, and not even walk around just a little, much less get onto an elliptical, for the love of all that's holy, wear a sportsbra. If you don't, and you think you can cheap out and wear the ratty old cotton underwire bra that doesn't quite fit right anymore, you would be wrong. Very. Very wrong. And you'll nearly lose an eye. And it will hurt. A lot.

2. After you've made your boobs hurt by not wearing the proper support, don't expect to magically waltz into Lane Bryant and find the perfect bra. You should actually expect that their entire bra design department has been taken over by the marquis de sade.

3. Those sweet bras with cute little insertable air packs to totally boost your cleavage may look ever so fucking adorale on the rack. However, they will look like two tupperware lettuce crisper bowls when you put them on. (and they will be roughly as sexy too.

3.a. Those tupperware things will also make your upper arms & shoulders look like you're wearing football pads, even if you're nigh on topless.

4. Don't go shopping for bras when you're feeling excessively bloaty, and hate your body even more than usual. Because when you look at your shirtless self in profile in that gigantic mirror, with the horrendously unflattering lighting, you will wonder how someone manages to contain their lunch when they see you naked, because... DAMN, you look like a cross between quasimodo and recently punched down bread dough.

5. If you do have to do any of the above, at least do it on President's day, at 5:00, when the mall is deserted, so you can run the chance of getting a very bored salesgirl, who will devote a lot of her time to helping you find a bra that doesn't make you want to cry. And she will give you coupons, and even find 2 on clearance for 10.00 and make you want to marry her.

6. Once you've found 4 bras you like (thus guaranteeing that they'll be discontinued tomorrow) you (and by you, I mean me) should go ahead and shop for shoes, schedule a dentist's appointment, go to church, have your coochie checked out and have a physical, because if you're going to do one unpleasant thing, you should really do 'em all at once.

And I'm really bummed I can't wear my "Death Before Unconsciousness" Uncle Duke shirt to work tomorrow. Stupid committee meetings. Stupid pictures being taken for the website. Bah.


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety Fuck.

I was at the gym this morning, and saw Hunter S. Thompson's face. The sound was off, but I knew this wasn't good. Sure enough, he was in the Sandra Dee clip. The "Today's Dead Celebrities" clip.


Hunter did himself in.


In a way, I'd expect nothing less. I don't have the words to articulate it right now, but I can't picture Hunter in a nursing home, or languishing in some hospital bed. I don't think he'd want to either.

But damnit, some selfish part of me always wanted to be able to have him around, putting out new stuff. Savagely attacking sports and politics. Just... being around.


Go out, and read some HST today. Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72 is a masterpiece of political writing. Hell, all of his books are masterpieces in their own way. Often imitated, rarely matched. Shit, this is going to be a bad day.


I Heart Target.

And yes, today's post will be all about spendy stuff, because it's not often when I look in my checking account, and expect to see a little money, and find there's a whole hell of a lotta money in there. (And makes me seriously consider going to Key West for 2 weeks and saying fuckit, but that's not the fiscally responsible thing to do, free abode notwithstanding.)

Mamma Sauce decided she wanted to go to Target, which is in the next county over, so we got to make a morning of it, and hit our favorite deli too. Fun weekend for sure.

I was remarkably restrained in my spendyness. No clothes, unless you count socks, (but I will be taking a trip to the local lane bryant to buy some cute, I-beam-constructed-yet-ever-so-attractive make the twins sit up on my shoulders perk-inducing bras, because it has been so... so long.) (OK minor ranting, probably have done it before, and menfolk, feel free to ignore this. Why is it that if a girl is a bit on the chunktastic side, unless she spends an assload at Lane Bryant, she's stuck looking like your aunt mildred on a carnival cruise to Mexico? Seriously people. I know part of it's my own fault because I should be passin' on the cheese plate, but for the love of christ, I shouldn't be stuck with battleship-inspired undergarments, shapeless muu-muus and prints that make clowns cry. I know what looks good on me, and quite frankly, Bright Orange Capri Pants that give me Cankles paired with an Oversized Wrinkly Cheesecloth Shirt With Dinnerplate Sized Hibiscus Flowers isn't it. I have curves, people. I have a fabulous rack. I have cute hips. My thighs... well, there's a reason why I wear skirts, people. I do not want to look like a sausage about to burst from its casing, but I want things to Hug. My. Curves. And more importantly, I want them to be cute. I am a cute girl, for the love of Elvis! I want to dress that way. Arr! And I don't want to have to sell a kidney to look nice either.

Fucking bastard fashion designers. Yes, putting the fork down and hitting the gym is one thing that will help, but not all fat girls should be punished with ugly-ass outfits either. Looking good shouldn't just be for pre-teens with zero body fat. Sewing your own doesn't help either. Most commercially available patterns are for stick figures too. Unless you want to invest time in learning about customizing fit for a fuller chest, or wider waist, you're farked. Trust me, fat girl patterns are few and far between, and most of them suffer from the clown mentality too. The designer that comes up with attractive, stylish clothes- readywear or patterns- for fat girls who don't want to dress like ho's will make a fecking mint. /rant)

Where was I?


Yeah. No clothes except socks, and you'd think, given the doughy build of the average person who lives the next county over, you think they'd have more than 2 racks of fat clothes. You'd be thinking incorrectly though.

I did, however, find a gorgeous bedspread and sheet set on clearance. It's the "True Blue" collection. The website doesn't quite do it justice, because it's much more of an Indian sort of look, than bed and breakfasty. But I am lurving it, and have some good ideas for bedroom redecoration once I'm able. Best part? Stuff was marked down a good 20 bucks each so... huzzah!

And I got to go to the big Borders, and saw that at least 4 people I worked with at my old store still work at this other location. I had 4 years in when I quit 5 years ago, and these guys had worked there bfore I had started... that's... well that's just sick, y'know. Although, it's very easy to see how you could get in 10 years, they used to be really good to work for.

Anyway, swell weekend. Evil's peeing a little more, finally, and is being sociable again, so I think the worst has passed. We shall see.



Well, for the moment I am still employed. After Wednesday's meeting, Thursday's complete and total assholishness, and Friday's snippy email, I thought for sure I'd tell her to shove it after she signed my paycheck.

Surprisngly enough, she was well-behaved on Friday.

Doesn't mean I'm not updating my resume this weekend, and looking for something else, but it means my Friday wasn't as bad as it could have been.

And I can't even really describe what was so bad about her behavior on Thursday, because unless you were there, no amount of text will describe the snitty, bitchy behavior that is fine if you're a teenager, but unacceptable in an employer. Combine that with expecting miracles, for free, from someone you've screwed over in the past, and insisting on sitting there and watching him complete the task, regardless of his own schedule... and you have just a very bad scene all around.

I ended up not going to Baltimore yesterday, because I was exhausted, and I know I'd be shitty company. Insert Alanis-irony here- I wanted to go home and curl up in a blanket cave and lapse into a coma. I ended up not falling asleep till 1 ayem, and still was up every hour or so, because silent bob's in her "i want a little friend" phase and is practically humping chairlegs, and the dog is itchy and noisy about it, and Alice, when she's not licking every scrap of fur off of her belly, and feet, is growling at Evil, and Evil, while still not peeing much, does like to skritch at every piece of paper within skritching distance, Mooj is so fat she wheezes, and amlette was dancing the tarantella on my kidneys and they ALL wanted to be in my room...

At least the lades at the codger corral liked their craft (foam rainbows, with streamers of shamrocks to hang on their door), and I'm going to take a sweet little nap this afternoon.

I may also pretend I'm about 7 again, and read the rest of the Little House series that I won on Ebay. (I got 9 of the books yesterday, and immediately read Little House in the Big Woods, Little Town on the Prairie and These Happy Golden Years- the first one, and last 2 in the regular set. Now I need to finish the rest and read the later ones.) I forgot how much I really liked those stories when I was younger, and they're still pretty enjoyable. Now I will have to read some Sinclair Lewis to follow up.

(Note- Sinclair Lewis is one of the coolest, now practically unheard of, American Authors ever. A lot of his books are still out of print, but Babbitt, It can't Happen Here, Main Street, and Elmer Gantry are simply wonderful. Then again, I also really like John Steinbeck, so I may not be the best judge... His level of detail is rich, without being too much, and there's a lot I can identify with. And if you really want to freak yourself out, with the events of 2000 and 2004 in mind- read It Can't Happnen Here. Scary shit, and that's all I will say.)

Have a swell rest of the weekend!


The time, she draws near...


I had a great post all put together, and the sumbitch ate it.


The longevity of my present employment depends wholly on how this morning goes. As it stands, everything I brought into this place is in my totebag, ready to go home and never return.


The events of last night still make me shake with rage, so I will not detail them until I cool off a bit, but lets just say that I've NEVER left a job without another one in place, but there's a first time for everything. I could be making more money temping, and probably have better stability.


Evil is still not peeing, but is more like her old self, she was yammy as ever this morning at the computer, and declined to sleep in my room last night. I don't know if she's drinking or not though. If she's not "normal" by Monday, she goes in for X-Rays. Mamma Sauce is keepin' an eye on her today, ready to whisk her to the vet if necessary.


The Grateful Dead, American Beauty. It has a soothing effect.

Till the morning comes, it’ll do you fine.
Till the morning comes, like a highway sign,
Showing you the way, leaving no doubt,
Of the way on in or the way back out.

It's snowing! (OK, Flurrying, but that makes it sound like it's dropping crappy ice cream from the sky, and... um, no.) And I'm enjoying a real, caffienated, full sugar soda, and didn't go to the gym this morning (I can't be up and working at 5, and not expect to fall asleep at the wheel at 1:30 in the morning). I feel so fucking decadent. All I need is a semi-clothed someone feeding me bonbons or something.


Have a swell day.


Things that fucking rock, and some that don't.

Rocking thing #1. ET's back!

Not so rocking thing #1. G. Monkey's in Philly today, so I can't vent to her, but she'll be at the gym tomorrow. Yay.

Rocking thing #2. Pappa Monkey's coming to town on Friday, and he rocks bigtime. He's like my extra dad, and he is, apparently, coming bearing valentine's day surprises for his children (surrogate and otherwise, hee!!)

Not so rocking thing #2. Evil is still peeing just a few drops, but now it's not bleedy looking. Pappa Sauce is taking Dogger (official brainless canine of Mamma Sauce) to the Coolest Vet On Earth today, and I asked him to mention this. We'll see what CVOE says.

Rocking thing #3. One of the reasons CVOE is the CVOE is because he has some kind of Pappa Sauce fetish. Every time I see him (the CVOE that is) he asks about some facet of Pappa Sauce-dom. "Did he build that wall in front of the house? I really LIKE that!" or "Did your dad get a new truck? I thought I saw him in a new red one the other day!" I think pappa sauce has a stalker. We did advise him that if he lets the CVOE sweet talk him a little, we may get reduced vet fees, so he should suck it up... Hee.

Rocking thing #4. Blueberry yogurt and "nutty nuggets" (grape nuts for the budget conscious)

Rocking Thing #5. Having the first phonecall of the morning be from someone who thinks you're swell, and is so glad you're on the planet. (Namely Marian One from the Codger Corral, who is quite possibly the most genuninely kind and friendly person on earth.)

Rocking Thing #6. Knowing that I have 2 Kirkland chocolate cookies in my purse. Not necessarily eating them, just knowing they're there in all of their brownie-like glory.

Rocking Thing #7. Actually having work to do today. And on that note, off I go.
I'll keep you posted on the Evil Front, thanks for all of the well wishes, and prayers. I know it's a cat, but she's my furry little offspring, and I am great at worrying.

Welcome back, ET! Still crossing fingers!

Musical interlude: Joseph Arthur- In the Sun


How to make your only employee feel like shit

A public service announcement from the effective boss's league.

1. Force them to come to a meeting on their own time "because you take better notes than I do." But don't tell them what the meeting's about, or why you're having it, and definitely don't ask if they had other plans.

2. Be sure to ignore them throughout the entire meeting, pointedly, if possible. In fact, be sure to make your husband sit next to her, although you do run the risk of her not minding this because your husband is actually a pleasant, thoughtful guy, who simply has horrendous taste in women.

3. When asked about things you should already have done, be sure to fob it off as a side effect of not having the right frame of mind, or because you just don't have the right person to bounce ideas off of. Make sure you purposefully don't look at your employee during this dialog.

4. Be sure to bring up, at least once, that you don't mind being the hardass boss, because "People need to realize that they have jobs because of ME."

5. Take extra pains to not include your employee in any of the conversations, and instead, center non-work-related chatter around your expensive jewelry, your children's school, etc. Involving her in the conversation means that she's part of the group, and it's bad enough you have to pay for her half portion of spearfish.

6. Whenever someone offers you a suggestion, be sure to completely disregard it, and continue yammering about whatever you think is important. Be sure to blatantly miss the point too. Why should your employee be the only uncomfortable one at the table?

Yeah, those will definitely get you on the way to having your employee crying the entire drive home. Sure, she may just be stressed out and she just really needs a hug. Ok, a hug, and maybe a beer. And the closest set of arms she'd like to be comforted by are an hour and a half away, which makes her feel like a gigantic loser in and of itself, but y'know, your efforts will definitely go a long way to making her feel like a total piece of shit. Maybe she's overly worried about her cat, because she looked up the symptoms the cat has online, and anytime a diagnosis includes the phrase "potentially fatal", it's not all sunshine and roses. Even if she knows that she has tried to get you to do many of the things suggested to you this evening, but can't control you, and can't tell you to sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up for five minutes, because you sign her paycheck, she'll still feel like a total piece of worthless shit thanks to you. Good for you, effective boss.

Fear not. You'll be able to find that "special someone" to bounce your ideas off of really soon, and they can be eternally grateful to you for providing them with a job (just don't promise them health insurance, 'k?), because you won't have to sign my paychecks for much longer.

I had been toying with the notion of staying on to get her through this event, but after we add "made me cry" to the list of shit that is unacceptable (and I am so not a fucking crier, not even duckie), the scales just tipped overwhelmingly in favor of getting out. Now. So, um, good luck with that replacement, crazylady.


Well, not exactly like the guy who jumped the Grand Canyon

More like the cat that peed in the laundry basket.

I am pleased to report that Evil was actually much better behaved than I thought she would be. Not only do I have my limbs still attached, but I managed to escape unscathed. Either she's sicker than I thought, or she's mellowing out in her old age.

She went into the carrier without incident, but she did make these horribly pitiful mraaaaaaa's at me. (Mostly because she was !gasp! outside, which she hates. Smart kitty.) She didn't want to come OUT of the carrier either once we got there, but she didn't snort, and freak out, and crap all over the carrier like some of the cats we've had used to do) Now she has her own amoxicillin, and if she's not better by Thursday night, I'll have to get a urine sample.

How DOES one get a urine sample from a cat? You can't very well tell her to pee in a cup, and she'd probably chew through a pair of kitty depends... Lets hope I don't have to find out how this works.

Now I'm going to go convince her that she doesn't have to stop speaking to me because I took her to the vet. He didn't even poke or prod her in her delicate bits, or take her temperature, so she should be VERY thankful. (As am I, because she'd probably smother me in my sleep tonight if he did that)

Yet another open letter-

Dear You-know-who,

Do not call me all "Are you working on the Auction Program?" and react all "Why NOT!!!??@!111WTFBBQ!!!???!!!" and condescend to me that I need to be working on the program right this instant. I assure you, this program is not complex, despite what the people at last year's event may have evidenced. Honestly, a brain-damaged quadruple-amputee chimpanzee could operate this program. And I? Am not a brain-damaged, quadruple-amputee chimpanzee. It's data entry. It's not rocket science.

And oh, by the way? Data Entry? That means I have to have DATA. To. Enter.

If I don't have any information, like what the tickets cost, what the value is, what meals are available, how many tables we'll have, and how many people will be seated at them, and what types of auction items we have... I can't very well fucking enter it, now can I?

Right, because all that information is going to be decided in the 1 hour meeting on the 22nd? Today's the 15th. The 22nd is seven whole days away. So I don't think the world will end if I am not putting all 2 pieces of data I have into the program. Seriously.

Step off.

Special Sauce.

PS- if you think I'm coming BACK here after taking Evil to the vet, you're smoking more than crack.

PPS- Where's my motherfucking health insurance?

PPPS- Where are the bank statements and checks written since November 1?

PPPPS- Don't bitch at me if something's not in your palm, because you never bring it out here to synch it up. Besides, you should fucking KNOW where your parents live.

What makes an impropmtu bandage?

Cross your fingers. Evil (official eldest feline of Special Sauce) is going to the vet this afternoon. This could be my last post with all ten of my fingers attached to hands which are, in turn, attached to those things called arms, coming out of my shoulder area.


When I got Evil, seven (!!) years ago, she was a cute, teeny little kitten. Adorable. Plush. She purred, yes, PURRED the entire drive home. I didn't even need to use the carrier. Odie (official younger brother of Special Sauce) held her the whole drive.

Boy. That was the LAST time that ever happened. When I took her to the vet to get spayed, she pretty much screamed like the devil the entire drive. She doesn't do "carriers" or "outside" or "vets" or "not peeing on things left on the floor" very well. (surprisingly enough, this UTI has made her go for the box more often, as opposed to randomly peeing on MY stuff.)

And yes, she really is evil. In a cute way. Ok, in a ridiculously soft and plushy, "want-to-make-a-hat-out-of-you-with-your-feet-flapping-down-by-my-chin-if-you-don't-stop-yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhing-me" sort of way. Somewhere down the line she must be part siamese, for she has giant feet, a hulking profile, and is the loudest cat I've seen besides my aunt's Siamese kitties. She's also got this neat "I look gret in one direction, but sort of light brown in the other if you look closely" thing workin' for her too. And a strange way of scooting across the floor when you pet her, that probably has kept her from being turned into a Davy Crockett hat...

Anyway, cross your fingers that she goes quietly, or at least without turning my arms into giant heaps of bleedy hamburger. I should probably invest in welder's gloves... or suggest them for the Vet. (Who is indeed the coolest vet on the planet, and I love him.)


non-VD PSA

Hey guys.

I know you're a philanthropic lot. Here's my one time to be up on my soapbox for a second or three. Sorta.

You're probably sick of seeing people with little multi-colored rubbery bands on their wrists. Lance Armstrong's to blame, his foundation has sold something like 31 million of them, so there are plenty of imitators. Normally, I'd skip it with this stuff, but... the National MS Society is selling red bands for $1.00 each. They have "HOPE" on one side, and the org's website on the other.

My goddaughter's mom, "Most Perfect Mom Ever" has MS. She was diagnosed when she was 20 years old, when she noticed her feet getting numb, and her vision getting wonky. Women our age seem to be diagnosed more frequently than others, though it can strike at any age. MPME is lucky, the type of MS she has (relapsing-remitting)has responded well to medication, and she has been relapse-free for 5 years. Other folks aren't so fortunate.

Anyway. If you have a spare buck lying around this paycheck, and you can pick one up at the local grocery store, feel free. If not, consider ordering from your local MS Society chapter, and help fund research so that someday there will be a cure.

Happy V. D.

Syphillis... chlamydia... and for the gift that really keeps on giving... Herpes.

Screw the diamonds this year...

Oh, wait. Where was I?

Sure, it's a manufactured holiday, benefitting no-one but hallmark, chocolatiers, the rose growers of the world, and DeBeers, forcing you to corral your affections into trite sentiments expressed in three-lines or less on some shmaltzy card with a cutsey-wootise teddy bear on it. And if you need to have a specific day set aside to tell someone you love them, you've got bigger problems than a cheap-ass Russell Stover box of candies is going to fix. But I will say this. If I get flowers, a card, or a call today, I will be the giddiest motherfucker this side of the Mississippi.


Because I fucking can.

Truth be told, ANY day I get a call, or a card, or some token admiration of some sort, I am a giddy little schoolgirl. I'm an affection whore. I admit it. C'mon. If someone sends you fleurs, are you not walking on cloud twelve every time you look over at them (and you look often, with a big stupid grin on your face, because "SOMEBODY CARES! HEE! ABOUT ME!!")

Realistically, I know this won't happen today. But it doesn't mean that I can't be all squishy and happy inside anyway.

(And why do I know realistically? Because despite knowing that someone misses me, I am not quite sure what our relationship... IS.... not that everything in life has to be quantified. Things are nebulous at the moment- though I know what I'd like it to be. I don't want to freak anyone out, least of all myself, and get ahead of where I should be.. but hey...)


A Happy Valentine's Day to each and every one of you, with the attendant flowers, confections, and sweet-sweet lovin' that goes with it.

Now go on, before I lose my reputation as a cranky bitch.


Lest you think the terrorists have won...

Wow. Sorry about the day in the basement there, Friday was actually quasi-busy.

Thursday I got to live the "A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine", with a stupid non-work-related task for Bosslady. (Lesson learned: Bosslady has zero time management skillz, and color copiers take forfreakinever.)

Friday was movie night! In a departure from our regular cheddar theater screenings, we skipped horror and went straight for plain old terrible.

The backstory...

Right before G. Monkey got married, we bridesmaids decided to have a night out. It wasn't an obnoxious veil/condom/whory kind of night, just a "lets go to Baltimore, get drunk, dance, and have a really great time" night. Well, in the hotel, as we were getting ready, the movie PootieTang came on. We were mesmerized by its awfulness, and vowed that night to watch the movie on the anniversary of our girl's night out, every year. (we didn't watch the whole thing that first night- just a snippet, which is rather crucial.)

Fast forward two years. Every time we get together, we forget to rent the damn movie... so... last night, BiggieShortie, the maid of honor, came down to visit. I had some advance warning, and made some snacks, and rented PootieTang. The Professor and Horsty came over, and we watched a little Chris Rock (Never Scared, the official Christmas Morning Viewing at Casa De Sauce) and then... we watched the incredible pile of shit that was... PootieTang. It was funny, but boy... oh boy was it baaaaad.

We had a great time though. :)

Today I got called in to work at the codger corral (I couldn't say no, with my mother standing there, because I used to beg her to go in to work all the time, and the Administrator is someone you just can't bear to turn down). And, because it was less than 8 hours notice, I got weekend differential PLUS an extra dollar an hour. So basically, I got paid more than I do at my real job, to sit at the front desk, sew on plastic canvas hearts, for the activities department to turn into pins, and catch up with my favorite residents.

One lady is so sweet- she moved in right when I first came back. She was pretty depressed (a lot of the new ones are at first), and so I'd always make an extra of whatever craft I made that week, and take it down to her. (Bonus, she lives in the room next to the front desk) We hit it off well, and she comes down to crafts now too. She was thrilled I was in tonight, and even brought me a coke. :)

I got to see one of my secret elf ladies too(we all picked a resident or two to surprise at christmas time)- she stopped down and we talked for a while. Even the lobby ladies missed me. I was surprised! I haven't worked the front desk since before Thanksgiving, and even then I was just the fill-in. We had a great time catching up on the corral gossip, and cracking jokes.

I fear I've been rather boring the past few days, but...them's the breaks. I think I'm going to go up stairs and watch Anchorman, and snuggle a cat. Winter means that Amlette comes inside (she hates the other cats, but not enough to freeze her ears off)and sleeps in my room. I take full advantage of that too.

Hope your weekend is swell...


I declare this day...

"Fun shit from high school day" (In the spirit of Hank Williamses Senior and III day)

Because for whatever reason, I'm in a ridiculously good mood, and would probably whack off a limb to go back and chill in the art room. Boy, do I have some good ideas for a few casting projects. Heh. Anyway... All I need to complete the feeling is my traditional senior year breakfast of a bag of combos and a citrus-cooler gatorade.
Ok, and maybe my friend Terry to call and convince me to skip, and go hiking. That'd rock.

Won't happen, but it'd rock.

So instead, I'll settle for some Smashing Pumpkins, Nirvana, and REM on the old CD player, and pretend that my packed lunch is chicken nuggets and hot buttered noodles, and stuff, and email a few friends from back in the day.

(Of course, I will draw the line at the horrible body issues, going to work at the scary steakhouse with extra s's, and dyeing my hair black.)

More to come, perhaps.


You Rock.

Thanks guys. I didn't mean to be a total me-monkey yesterday. I know something will come up. I was talking with Pappa Sauce this morning and he's puttin' stuff into perspective too. (Ah, those father daughter moments when one has to take the car in to the shop... Way better than general foods international coffee moments.)

I'm in a swell mood today, thanks to a bunch of things...

1. You guys.
2. I kicked it at the gym this morning.
3. I did my taxes yesterday, and am getting back more than I thought.
4. Because of 3, I'm almost going to be able to cut one check and pay off the one big scary debt I've had hanging over my head for a WHILE.
5. I'm looking for a "real" job, and may be able to do some freelance stuff on the side too.
6. I have declared today Hank Williams Senior and III day. ("I take my shots straight out of a jug, and I like to get pure drunk in that Mississippi Mud...")
7. Because I've realized, like the well laid Ted Turner newscast "Huh. Everything's going to work out..."
8. The shoes. (With their memory foam insoles, they are like little oxblood clouds upon my giant duck-like feet.)



Must. Control. Fist. Of. Death.

You know, it still holds true...

If I tell you we don't have something, and you call me the next morning and ask if we have it, the answer's going to be no. If you call back and ask again, the answer will still be no. If you call back to ask if it's in the filing cabinet, I'm going to tell you no. When you grill me on how many we had, and who I gave them to, it still doesn't change the fact that we. Don't. Have. Any. More. Auction. Books. When you come out to my office, and look through the filing cabinet, you're not going to find anything, and you're actually going to really, really fucking piss me off.


Because I told you yesterday that we didn't have it.

I didn't magically make one in my colon overnight. I wasn't hiding them, and I wasn't just telling you we were out of them for the sake of seeing myself type. I also can't go back in time to last year, and put them into a safe place where you won't lose them. Part of being a responsible adult is not losing shit.

The Sauce. She is updating her resume tonight.

I think this place has a lot of potential, but as it is, there is no structure, and no hope of getting any soon.

I pride myself on the fact that I'm organized, learn shit quickly, and am pretty damned efficient and independent. I don't ask for something unless it's pretty feckin' important. I ask here, and I get nothing. Or part of something. Or I ask, and I'm told "I'll take care of it". And it manages to get put back on me, usually immediately before the deadline. I know. Welcome to the real world.

I hate job hunting. And I know right now the market is tight. I've got an assload of experience. I have always assumed more responsibility than the average bear at every freakin' job I ever had. I'm not stupid. I also know that not having a degree shafts me. (OK potential employers, while kids my age were getting degrees, I was managing a store, interviewing and training new hires, and opening new facilities. Oh yeah, and then after that, when kids my age were getting settled in at their jobs? I was getting promoted in 2 months from receptionist to admissions director at a retirement home, and was responsible for 70 residents, tracking their meds & doctor visits, and hiring and scheduling and counseling staff, oh- and touring and admitting new residents too. And somehow helped the administrator get a 100% deficiencey free inspection in there too. Among other shit.) It's not like I sat around at ate cheetos while everyone else went to college.

I also hate not working up to my potential.

Anyway. I'll quit whining, and keep you posted.


Brief 'n'Boring

Just wanted to say that if you haven't picked up your Girls Bike Club Shirt yet, now's the time to do it.

I will be the envy of all who survey me...

In other news, it's unseasonably warm, I have new Docs (surprisingly enough, not the traditional black. These are a pretty, dark, oxblood with diagonal stitch detail on the toe, and I lurve them), so my casual footwear needs are covered from here till doomsday. (Seriously. I had a pair of docs I got from a friend, she got them from another friend of hers- they were definitely loved, and I still wore those things nearly every day for four years, ditching them only when the leather wore through at the sides of my toes. I adored those shoes.)

of course, this means that I'll be quitting my job soon, and getting hired someplace where I can't wear deliriously comfortable casual shoes.

Whilst at Borders on Friday, I found a spiffy book called America's Women: 400 years of Dolls, Drudges, Helpmates, and Heroines. It's damned interesting, and a reasonably fast read.

Things on the half.com list to pick up this week...

The Villains Guide to Better Living, sequel to How to Be A Villain. The graphic design in this book is a scream, and it's so very evil... I love it.

And both Maria Righetti knitting books. Anyone who teaches sweater and garment design by forcing you to make patterns called "The Stupid Baby Bonnet" and "The Ridiculous Bootees to match the Stupid Baby Bonnet" is all right by me.
I've been decidedly un-crafty of late, and this has to change. The cards this weekend don't count, because... well, they weren't up to snuff.

Have a swell day.



Friday Night we were supposed to have Cheddar Theater, and almost succeeded. A passel of Art Students decided to "open a gallery" in the space above Horsty's apartment. Friday must have been the opening. Horribly bad art, and worse manners abounded. There's no plumbing upstairs (Not sure why not) and most of the inebriated gallery attendees decided it would be a good thing to pee off the fire escape. And for a while it was. Until someone dribbled on Horsty when he went out with the Professor for a smoke. Then it was time for fisticuffs.

Which is when G. Monkey and I made our exit because the movie was bad, the vibe was bad, and we'd both been up since five ayem.

So... yeah.

The birthday party rocked. I ended up not getting what I had thought I'd get. I picked up some Kevin Henkes mouse themed books (everything else seemed a little old, but she is STILL getting "The Day I Swapped My Dad For Two Goldfish" in a year or two, or a tad too... girly.) I'm getting senile- I can't remember what I have bought her- She needs some Richard Scarry, but I can't remember if she's got him already or not.. heh.

I talked to The King of Graphic Design, otherwise known as my goddaughter's dad, and he has some great ideas for publicizing/setting up a business based on my giftie baskets/boxes/assemblages. Heh. (The capper was the "Cake" I made them out of sleepers, blankies, and other necessities for their youngest daugher's shower.) I'm going to sit down with him and see what we can come up with, because I really like the idea of putting some things together for boutiques etc, and eventually becoming my own psychotic boss, instead of working for other crazy people.

Made some valentines today with G. Monkey, and whipped up my infamous zombie-brain dip for the game tonight. (OK, Spinach and artichoke dip, minus the artichokes, because the grocery store was out...) Huzzah.

Relating to nothing other than a conversation with The King of Graphic Design...
Apparently this guy I had a huge "thing" for, (who was the Best Man when I was Maid of Honor at the King of Graphic Design and Most Perfect Mother Ever's wedding)is moving back to town. Heh.

See, Catfish Man (so monikered for his facial hair choices)also seemed interested, but happened to have a slight problem. Namely, he lived in Ohio. With his exceptionally uberbitchy dramaqueen girlfriend. But we got along like a house on fire when he was around and she wasn't. (Not that we ever did anything inappropriate, when he came around to visit because, no.) Had he lived here, and wasn't dating her, something probably would have come of it. It's been probably... five years? Maybe closer to six, since I've seen him. It'll be interesting to see what happens when he gets back in the spring. (Though we have it on his mother's authority that he has indeed - a direct quote here from his mom- "Dumped that awful bitch". heh.) Who knows.

(Insert your own version of my rambling about how being single is good, yet after holding King of All Graphic Design and Most Perfect Mother ever's completely charming, and ever so round 4 month old, perhaps moving into the position where one of those could be mine, could be an intensely rewarding thing, all claims of probably being a horrendous mother aside. If nothing else, settling down would be rather swell.)

And on that note, I'm going to go make some chocolate dipped strawberries, and stuff, and get bitchy about valentines day.


Seriously, People.

People like this make me violent.

I am normally a very peaceful person, vocal outbursts and snarky blogging notwithstanding. Hell, I don't even much care for children, but damnit, if you're going to be a douchebag to someone, do it to someone in your own age/size bracket.
There is a special place in hell for people who abuse children, seniors, and the disabled, and it involves a very long trip down the cheesegrater slide (which is lubricated with a special blend of lemon juice, tabasco, and vinegar, and dumps you out into a vat of salt).

There is no way that you can blame this kind of abuse on "disturbed children" or "out of control behavior", because, No. Sorry. It doesn't work that way. Sure, I can get on my high horse, because I don't have any kids, but you know what? I don't have kids because I would be a shitty parent. I know it. I'm too much of a self-absorbed prat, who enjoys leisure time and quiet. But I also know that no matter how crappy a parent I'd make, I wouldn't pull my child's finger/toenails out with motherfucking pliers. I wouldn't starve them. I wouldn't shock them with electricity. Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick people, how could you ever, in a million years think that this was appropriate?

I hope to God that these kids get some heavy duty counseling, and a few cheeseburgers, and are kept the hell away from psychopaths like those people. And as much of a believer I am in law and order (and the TV show too...) I hope that the police don't find these parents. I hope a gang of angry biker types do. And they make their last days on earth miserable ones. Because revenge may not be the answer, but it sure would be what they deserve.


On happier child notes- Thanks for the suggestions! My goddaughter actually DOES need a monkey, of the sock variety (because they are inherently good, and, hello- sock monkey!) but I won't be able to whip one up between now and then. Maybe as a valentine's day gift. (And it may be a space monkey at that.) However, she is SO getting a copy of "The Day I traded My Dad For A Goldfish" because her dad and I used to LARP together, and he'd appreciate the art, she'd appreciate the story, and we'll all giggle. Heh.

The mouse cookie dough is done, I simply have to finish the shaping tomorrow, and load them into a shoebox with holes in it... heh. That's the best part.

Had to leave things on a happier note, because, damn...
(If ever there was evidence needed that humans are just a virus with shoes...)


There's a Wocket in my Pocket!

It's the morning after day 2 at the gym, and except for the nagging pain behind my right knee (stupid bike!) I am pain free. Freaky. Learned the important thing that going after work, while do-able, is not advisable, because it starts to get crowded, and if I wanted an audience to watch me stick my ass in the air, I'd change lines of work... I'll stick to ridiculously early mornings, where the only people there are the scary treadmill people.

My goddaughter (and yes, I am pretty much the worst. Godmother. Ever.) turns 4 on Saturday. Anybody know what to get a very intelligent four year old, who really doesn't NEED anything, because her grammy spoils her rotten? (and I don't mean she's ill behaved or bad tempered, she's VERY well mannered. She just has everything she could possibly want) I'm thinking a book of different versions of the cinderella story from around the world, and a batch of mouse cookies. I have to check the age range on the stories-

I am pleased to say, though, that her favorite book is one I got her for Christmas the year she was born- (Every new child gets the same gift from me-The "big three" Dr. Seuss books- There's a Wocket in my Pocket, I Wish I Had Duck Feet, and Oh the Thinks you can Think ) She adores "I Wish I Had Duck Feet". Muwaha.

Boss has been very quiet so far this morning, and yesterday too. She's having problems with her daughter, and it takes a lot out of her (that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it.) She did print out check copies for me, so I think I may just have a heart attack.

Yeah, I got nothin' today. I'm almost even in a good mood. What's up with THAT?


An Open Letter

Dear you know who you are,

When I've reminded you no fewer than 18 times about a meeting on Tuesday with G. Monkey and I at 5:00, and have confirmed that being there at 5:00 was not going to be a problem for you, don't call me at 3:30 to change the time. I scheduled this meeting at 5 for a reason, because believe it or not, I actually do have a life outside work. And G. Monkey had another job to work on that night.

When you called in a tizzy, I offered to email you copies of the postcard we were going to discuss this evening, and to reschedule to discuss everything else Thursday night. This wasn't good enough. So G. Monkey and I put our plans on hold for you. The least you could do was not show up to this meeting fucking high on strattera, or crack or whatever.

I know that you're under a lot of stress. Last year's heart attack proves it. It can't be easy running after 3 kids, all of whom are active in sports, clubs, and other activities, and try to get a new business off the ground. But you know what? That's not. My. Problem. Because I have tried to take the load off you, and you will. Not. Help Me. So now you can kiss my ass. If you don't give me the info I need, I'm playing fucking tetris all day.

And when you come in to a meeting loud, demanding a "Shot and a beer", and being completely hyperactive and spouting gibberish, despite the fact that it's a meeting in a good friend's home, it's mortifying. I may know you're insane, but everyone else didn't need to. And when you call contacts at another nonprofit and leave them a message that goes like this:"Hi Lisa, It's Boss. Ummm... Boss Lady...... Call me back! It's reallyreallyimportant that you call me backrightnow!......... The number here is ......... G monkey what's the number?.... ###.... what? ####... it's Bosslady................ Callmebackokit'sreallyimportant... ##...whereareweagain? ####. " and you do it all in your "outside voice", it's embarassing.

Also, when I tell you in the appointment on your palm not to wear anything fur, because it will freak G. Monkey's dog out, like the last time you showed up. That does not mean "Wear your sable, because it's fun to make the doggy bark". It means "leave that shit in the car" you stupid twat.

And when you pointedly ignore me, and will not let me complete a sentence, I want to strangle you. I may not have designed last year's packet, but I can come up with a tagline, and I sure as hell know what looks good. I spent three hours of my time at this meeting, which shouldn't have lasted longer than an hour. You wouldnt' take the hint when none of us said we wanted to order food, because we wanted you to LEAVE already. Your behavior was atrocious, even the most hyperactive 4 year old with an elephant-dick sized pixie stick and an iv drip of pure corn syrup would have been better behaved.

In short, don't fucking do that shit again.


Special Sauce

PS- Where's my health insurance, so I can get the fun drugs like YOU have?

PPS- if I have to quit this job, because you're on crack, and I have to wait another three months for health insurance somewhere else, I am going to be livid. I have 2 maxalts left. That will MAYBE last me another month, and my Rx is expired. I know it doesn't matter to you, because you're richer than Elvis, and can go to the doctor whenever you please, but we "little people" can't do shit like that.


Watch out, she's fucking pissed off again.

Yes, I do realize I spend a lot of time pissed off. And I do realize that some of it's my own doing. If I'd chose to let some shit just slide, I'd probably be a happier person, but damn my blog would suck. (well, more than it does on a normal day)

I ask you this, constant readers: is it bad form to ask your boss to refrain from coming to meetings high?

After tonight's (three hour, when it should have been an hour-tops) meeting (that actually could have been held via email)I now have not a doubt in my mind that my boss is on drugs. It wasn't coke. I dated a cokehead. It definitely wasn't pot. I'm voting speed, and probably some Rx ADD drug that she had a family member prescribe for her.

And suddenly, a lot of things are explained.

Tonight's behavior was absolutely inexcusable. She was rambling at 900 miles/second, incoherent, and couldn't remember something from five seconds ago. Thank god it was only with G. Monkey, who is working on design for our fundraiser, but she made 2 calls during this meeting, and at least one of those people didn't know she was this fucked up.

And I am actually so pissed off that I have passed the angry yelly phase and have gone straight into the quiet rage.

Now I understand why it has taken since November to get check copies from her. Why it takes 12 reminders to go to meetings, why I never see her, and when I do it's crazed. Why she calls me 15 times a day about the most random bizarro shit ever. Why she will never, ever get this thing off the ground, because she is going to burn through admins like so much kindling.

I shouldn't have to ask my boss repeatedly for the information I need to do my job. I sent her a really long email today, asking her again for the same shit that I've been asking for for months. Her excuse is that she's "really bad at 'that' stuff". Fine. You're bad at it. That's why I am here. "Enjoys Tedious Shit" is my Indian Name (please, no letters, I mean it in jest) I live for organizing filing cabinets. Imposing order on a checkbook is delightful. It's something I can control. I dig it. So stop with the slacking already, give me the financials, and let me do that voodoo that I do so well.

Maybe none of this makes sense. I just needed to vent, because if I don't I'm going to do something really stupid like punch something inanimate and with my luck I'd get hurt. Then I'd be royally pissed.

Also, an open letter to our accountants

Dear Accountants-

I am a salaried employee. I work in my employer's office, using her supplies, and I have a set schedule. I am materially important to the daily operating of the business (they don't call me the assistant director for nothing), and I derive the vast majority of my income from this one source. My employer deducts taxes from my paycheck on a weekly basis. How could you even fucking consider the possibility of listing me as a subcontractor and issuing me a 1099? I meet every criteria possible for a regular employee. Now take your shady, passive-aggressive, condescending heads out of your asses, and don't ever suggest that bullshit to my boss again.

And thanks for making sure we wouldn't get our tax forms until 3:30 the day that they had to be postmarked and returned to the state. I can't prove it, but I'm sure it was because Bosslady totally called you on the fact that you were full of shit on the 1099, and you lazy fucks didn't want to do a W-2 so you dragged your feet. I hate you, and I hope you're subjected to extensive IRS scrutiny. And Robin, I hope you have a particularly offensive bunkmate in jail, and he mistakenly believes you're a pedophile.

See you in hell,
Special Sauce