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.


And for those inquiring minds...

G. Monkey got the job!

Apparently she was offered on the spot, which is awesome. I haven't had the full details yet, but I should know more tomorrow.

I envy her copywriting, salary doubling, mentally stimulating, benefits providing new job, and know she will rock most mightily.

Go G. Monkey!
And thank you, guys, for keeping your fingers crossed!

In other news, Bosslady was up my ass all day today, probably to make up for the fact that she's going away all day tomorrow to register her kid at a snooty prep school. The resumes, they are going to be a-flyin' again.
The latest amusement is that I'm going to be research-lackey for her sister-in-law, who is a 3rd year law student. She's doing a project (at Bosslady's suggestion) on minors with disabilities, and legal issues for their parents (or somesuch). All I know is that I get to look up shit for her, and put together some sort of overview for a group of 60 law students.

Now, I know I bitch because I don't get the stuff I need to work on my job, therefore I have a lot of "down" time (I don't mind the down time, but I feel guilty about it.) However, I didn't mean I wanted to fill my time with crap that doesn't impact our actual projects. I meant I wanted the information I need to do the job I was hired for. "To provide organization, and structure to the nonprofit. To be the 'nuts and bolts' person, and to keep Bosslady on track with what needs to take place in our business." *eyeroll*

Am I going to go to hell if I ask that if God's going to recall the Pope, can we maybe work out a deal where Falwell goes too? I don't ask for much, honest. It would really go a long way to improving stuff down here. I mean, the Pope didn't do much in the way of being a jackass, but Falwell? C'mon.

Photo Fun!

As promised, here are a few pics from the past. I may put in a pic from the present, if you're good. They're running in reverse, but I think you'll be ok.


From left to right we have a local TV personality, 2 really nice committee members, the co-chair, bosslady, the really nice woman who runs the organization we're donating to after the event, me (hiding), another really swell committee member, and the bitchy little man who makes my life miserable.

This is from the really NICE cemetery downtown, one of my favorite stones is down there, but I didn't bring anything to scan. I'll get some fresh shots of that later.

This one I think I took on an easter sunday (when it was later in the year) a few years back. I like it with the wildflowers. This one's in Maytown, PA.

One of the first cemetery pictures I ever took, in my old hometown, in the cemetery my grandparents (mom's) are buried. I love this stone.

Ah! This is my very first sort. Bobby G. Fleetwood (in the pimp hat) is on the top of the ladder, and I'm drawing a total blank on most of the names here, I know that man-stealin'-christine's on the bottom left, I'm on the bottom right (in bitchin' racing striped overalls) and the Stephranger is above my head in blue. Trainers, Represent!

Ok, they actually did a good job hiding my caterpillars. This is before I started dying my hair, back in... 94 I think this was taken. Aiee! This was the Senior Picture everyone got, but not the one in the yearbook. Oy. How young I was!

This is the trainer dinner (an infamous one). No, the guy in the back is NOT "The Dude". I'm the first one on the right of NotDude, and Stephranger's next to me. The guy in the white sweater with the big grin is Tom Arnold. No, not THAT Tom Arnold.


Springy New Look!

Ok, a new look for spring! I want to change the hideous orangey box, but other than that, I'm pleased. There are also some new links to explore, and I fixed the Knitting Curmudgeon, and Fug Blog links.


Bring on the tulips!


Yes. I am in a freakin' awesome mood. It's 9:30, and I've been awake
for almost 4 hours. (rather, it was when I wrote this, and Blogger wouldn't let me post, d'oh!)I shouldn't be in a good mood, but I am. Why,
you ask?


It is actually going to be nearly sixty degrees farenheit today. 63
degrees, even. I am positively delerious. I'm not wearing any polar
fleece, my hair is damned cute, my eyes don't have huge bags under
them, and I broke out my sandals. Sandals! SANDALS!
(And I would have broken out my capri pants, but my ass is still too
big for 'em. Grr.) Tomorrow... I may voluntarily wear a skirt
too. Woo!

All the windows are open, here in the cabana, and I can hear the birds
chirping. I can smell spring flowers coming up. As I was walking
into the office, I also smelled one of my favorite smells. Dried
tobacco. Not like a box of cigarettes, but the smell of tobacco
leaves in a barn somewhere, or what I always imagine it smells like.
Smells good.

I will admit it, I love spring. I do. One of the things I missed in
Florida was the changing of the seasons. The grass, when it turns
that "it has just rained for a week straight, and this is the first
day we can really work that chlorophyll thing" shade of emerald green,
can pretty much move me to tears. Damn if it's not one of the most
beautiful sights out there.

If the light holds, and I can find my camera, I think I may need to
head out this afternoon and take some pictures. (And I'm not trying
to be creepy here, honest) It's the time of year when caretakers start
to clean up the plots at the cemetery, and there may still be some
flowers out. And lest you all think I'm off my rocker- (Goldie, vouch
for me, will you?) I love photographing gravestones and statuary. The
carving is exquisite, and for me, it's sort of a way to give my
respects to those who are buried there. (It all goes back to the
"you're never really gone, if someone remembers you", and
photographing stones that maybe nobody has paid attention to in 50, 60
years, well, that's how I remember them.)

Of course, there are rules to this.

1. No stepping directly on someone's spot, if you can help it.
2. Thank the person
3. Never at dusk, or at night (the light's bad, and I do
believe in things that go bump in the night.)
4. Show some respect (clean up papers blowing around, etc)

It's peaceful there- and it is interesting to let your mind wander,
wondering about the life of the person whose stone you're
photographing. I've always gone alone, but there's one cemetery in
the really shady part of town (and I know i live in whitebread
central, but people get shot down there all the time) I'd really like
to go to, it's got some OLD stones, but I'm a bit hesitant to go
alone. I'll have to recruit someone for a Saturday afternoon

I haven't done this in a few years, and it's going to be fun to get
back into it. I'll keep you posted.

Also: Have finally figured out what to get my mother for her
birthday. (Seriously. Usually, I can get away with getting her
something I think is cool, but not so much anymore- "I don't NEED
anything. I don't want any dust catchers, I have enough clothes, buy
me an alpaca." ) She's been kvetching since I got back from FL
that she wants family portraits done. And as much as I like
photographing other stuff, I'd actually rather have my fingernails
ripped out, slowly, and then soak my fingertips in a bleach,
saltwater, and lye solution than get my picture taken.

So, I decided that I'd get pictures taken with Odie, by Stoltzfus-
master photographer- (Ma was thinking Sears. I'm thinking, No.).
This way, I know the pictures won't suck. Stoltzfus will do
something creative, it won't break the bank, and if she likes the
pics, I'll spring for family portraits for their anniversary. Woo!
Problem solved!

Now I've got 2 weeks to plan for dad. (Seriously. March 22 is odie's
birthday. 2 weeks later to. The. Day is Saucemomma's
birthday. Exactly 2 weeks after that, is PappaSauce's birthday. Then
comes Mother's day, their anniversary, and Father's day. Oy!

On that note, I hope the sun is shining wherever you are. And if it
is, why are you inside reading my dreck? GO OUTSIDE!
Get the stink blowed off ya.


Another Cat-Related Post

But it's a good one!

Evil has a thing for sleeping on my wool sweaters. I have a thing for wearing them without catfur on them thick enough to scrape up and form another cat out of.

Now, sure, I could be smart, and put my sweaters out of cat range. However, I'm a lazy bastard. So, I decided Evil would get her own blankie. And not being content to just find a wool blanket at the goodwill, I decided to whip something up on my own.

Back at Christmastime, I stocked up on some wool sweaters at Goodwill, thinking I'd felt them, and make them into projects. Well, I felted them, but never did much with them, other than turn the sleeves of one into a java jacket. (mmm. coffee.) So, to start this project, either comb your closet, or snag a few wool sweaters (and yes, they MUST be 100% wool) from the local thrift store. Then, throw them in the washer, on hot, with a pair of jeans or two. Yes. The point is to shrink them. You want the fibers to contract, and lock together, so that when you cut them apart, the stuff won't unravel. Throw 'em all in the dryer, and things 'll be swell.

Next, when your sweaters are dry, and sized for a toddler, snag a piece of paper, or manilla folder, cardboard, or a piece of tinfoil from your delightful hat. This is what you'll use for your pattern. I used a six-inch square, and that seemed to be dandy.

Next, put the pattern piece on the sweater, and cut out as many squares as you can. I used 2 sweaters, and made the piece 3 squares across and 5 squares long. I set it up so the patterns would be in a checkerboard setup. Now, the fun part-

Sew your patches together. You can use a sewing machine, but it only took me about an hour and a half to finish, sewing by hand.

Step one: Put your first two pieces together with the "right" sides matched up and facing the inside. Whipstitch along one edge. Knot your thread, and voila! you've put together your first two squares. Open them up, and prepare to attach the next square.

Step two: Pick one of the squares, and match the right side of the patch you want to add, to the right side of the already sewed square. Line up the edges, and sew across so that when you open up the next square, you've got a strip of three pieces.

If your piece is going to be 3 squares wide, you're done with that strip. Put it down, and do another strip. Keep repeating this until you've used up your squares.

Step three: sew your strips together! Match the right sides of a strip to the right sides of another strip, just like you did to put the squares together. (except you're sewing together longer "squares".) Try to make the corners match up as you sew.

Taadaa! You're pretty much done. You can finish the edge if you like, with a blanket stitch (which is th ebane of my existence, so I don't use it), a bit of seam binding, or whatever you'd like to use. The felting process makes it so that it won't unravel. :) Woo!

Evil loves hers. Your cat will too.

If I were LESS scrupulous.

I just discovered that there's a big. Happy. Shiny. Candylike. Bottle of Kahlua in the cabana fridge. (They use this as an auxilliary fridge, so there's usually all manner of interesting stuff in there, besides my lunch.)

If I wanted to make this the ideal day, I would sit back with a large bottle of chocolate milk (or coffee)and an equally large measure of kahlua,(really, really large, because...well...) and kick it with the boss's cat, and get happy.

And by "happy", I mean drunk.

I will settle for Soul Coughing on the radio, some really good "healthy" puffy corn (think cheez curls, made with healthy shit, and formed like popcorn. The bad for you ones are the food of the gods, especially when partially stale. These aren't bad though), and the cat.

Here's hoping your day is just as spiffy.

Superbonbon, superbonbon, superbonbon.


Fuzzy Feets.

Evil, of the luxurious pelt (even the vet remarked about it) had her vet visit today. She has a weird spot on her thigh that started out being about the size of a dime, no fur, I just figured she got in a fight with Alice or Amlette and got a chunk of fur torn out. But it's been a while, and the spot has actually grown to the size of a quarter, and it's quite ugly looking.

That started out being the reason why she had the appointment.

Then I found the easter egg in her belly ruff (she has always had a saggy belly), and last night I noticed she's peeing pink again. So thank goodness she was scheduled for 8:30 this morning.

Remarkably enough, she got into the carrier on her own- walked right into it, and was reasonably quiet on the 3 second drive. (She really, really hates "outside".) The vet poked at her scabby place, and didn't like the looks of it, especially with the matching easter egg. So, he checked bits of it under the microscope, and decided to opt for a biopsy. So I won't know what the lab has to say till Thursday or Friday. It could just be an infection that is draining into something inside her, hence the egg, or it could be something more sinister. I'm not going to freak out until I have to. In the meantime, I came home with Clavamox, and gave her that with a spoonful of canned cat food (because she was so unbelievably well behaved, and didn't bite me, or even make a noise when he was poking her, and because she has to eat with the antibiotics) and I've got my fingers crossed.

She's still active, (especially in the middle of the night, then again, sleep is for the weak, right?)and her normal wacky self, so I'm not going to worry too much till I hear from the lab.

And so this doesn't turn into one of those Cat blogs (not that there's anything wrong with them, and if I wanted to,I could find something on each of the five fuzzballs for every day, but... then I'd be inching even closer to becoming a crazy cat lady.)
I present: a recipe!

Resurrection Soup
(sure, I should be making this on TUESDAY, but... if I wait, I will peel back the tinfoil, and find nothing. The ham will have ascended to heaven, leaving its worshippers marvelling at the miracle, because each of them will deny having eaten the last slice.)

(Yes, I'm going to hell.)

Leftover Ham (however much you feel like sacrificing for soup, leaving some left for omelettes, sandwiches, and salads) Diced. Remove the cloves, if you used them.

Leftover Taters
(preferably mashed, preferably made with my "mashed potatoes of doom recipe- with sour cream, cream cheese, and an egg) (Whatever didn't get thrown in a frying pan for breakfast the morning after)

Whatever veggies you have left over from dinner
(green bean casserole? Bring it on. Plain beans? Woo! Carrots? The more the merrier)

Corn Frozen or canned, but not creamed, because that stuff is disgusting.

Chicken Broth one box, or so.

a bay leaf or two Use one if they're still new-ish, 2 if the bay leaves are a bit older.

an onion Optional. or half of one, diced up.

OK. Whip your diced onion into a stock pot with a little butter or oil, and cook it till it's almost no longer raw, or skip this step, and just whip in some dried onion toenails when you put the stock in. Whatever floats your boat.

When the onion's almost done, put in the diced ham, and let it get all brown and tasty, and leaves yummy brownness on the bottom of the pan. P

our in a little of the chicken broth, to get all the bits off the bottom of the pan. When the stuff is good and up, put in your taters, and get them warmed up a bit- they're easier to mix in with the rest of the broth if they're a little soft.

Put in the rest of the box of broth and the bay, and mix with the taters. You may need more broth- go until it looks like soup (thin, and runny).

Toss in the vegetables, heat through, and season to taste.

If you really want to clog your arteries (though you should be in decent shape if you used fat free cream cheese and sour cream) you can top it with cheese, or some cut up hard boiled egg.

Note: I wouldn't recommend using scalloped or au-gratin potatoes and expect to get the same thick results. They could turn out a very interesting soup, but it won't be chowder-y. Also, remove the bay leaf before serving it to others, you don't need your friends choking to death on you. (Of course, if your friend is named Judas, and he just told you three times that he didn't eat the last peanut-butter egg, even though you saw him do it, feel free to feed him the bay leaf...)



"Oh look mum! A goldfish left lincoln logs in me sock drawer!"

"That's the story of Jesus, honey!"

Happy Easter for those who celebrate it, and a happy "candy is half off day" tomorrow to us all.


I own a hot glue gun, and I'm not afraid to use it.

And I've got the blisters to prove it.

Thanks for the limericks, MWN! Hee! Evil was prompted to provide a haiku (or 2)in return.

Special Sauce asleep.
Ah, she looks so peaceful there.
Must pounce on her head.

I have a plush pelt.
It is so very fuzzy.
I will make a fine hat.

Thanks for all of your good wishes (and "bitch, PLEASE"s to my boss.)

G. Monkey came over last night, and we enjoyed snacky food, and watched SVU and Kojak (Love Mr. Rhames, thought 2 hours was about an hour too long for the pilot, am pissed they're moving it to Sundays at 10pm, because I'll never get to watch it) and called it a night. Then we went out for breakfast and hit the craft warehouse.

I love the craft warehouse. It's like an airplane hangar, with ginormous specialty sections (10,000 square feet of nothing but scrapbooking and rubber stamping stuff!)a candle room, bathy stuff, a space that's bigger than the scrapbook area of baskets, wreaths etc, and a positively HUGE floral department (to say nothing of the regular aisles of craftage.) Upstairs they have reasonably priced jewelry, decor items, and a "Christmas year round" place. And candy. We didn't even make it upstairs this time. We ended up getting stuff to redo her front door wreath, and make something for her Mother In Law's 70th birthday tonight, and some other fun stuff. I got 2 jewelry kits (domino earrings, and a neat orange and blue beaded bracelet) for 1.30 each, woo! But the coolest thing was the project we did. The blister raising one.

We ended up making "Loch Ness Monster Wreaths", which sounds way more strange than they were.

They (the people who do flowers) make boxes of just rosepetals, for people who want to do cute things with them- usually I've only seen them in Red, White and Pink. We had some red ones left over from another project, and were going to cover a round styrofoam form in them- hang with a ribbon, and be all cutesy. Then we found the NEW COLORS...
pretty pale green (you'd never see a rose that color, but more like a hydrangea kind of color)
Pretty pale yellow and a neat purpleyblueylavender color that also looked more like a hydrangea petal.

We both snagged the green ones, and ended up covering a wide foam wreath form with them- and they're a little reminiscent of fish (or loch ness monster) scales the way they overlap, but damned if they didn't turn out great. So, her mother in law got one, and my mom got an early easter present (matches her green bedroom). I am definitely whipping up a few more of these, because it only took about an hour, hour and a half from start to finish (including the gluing on of individual petals, and burning the sweet fancy elvis out of my fingers, bcause I'm a dork like that)I may do some pink, or lavendery ones for my aunt and cousin- I'll have to take pictures of the one I did for SauceMomma, so you can see what I mean (because I realize the description means jack...) Suffice to say, it was cool. And relaxing (despite the burning)

Then, I did Easter eggs. FYI, the Peeps easter egg dye? Eats it. Stick to PAAS, and vinegar. Since the dye was crap, we ended up painting them with gouache, instead. (It rocks having a mom who's an artist.) I did a pretty nifty one with a tiger lily, and one with some hibiscus (hibisci? Heh) and a beachy one... Fun to paint but I kept getting fingerprints on them. *L*

Oh, and I ignored my boss's call today, because all it was was "You did a great job on the docs, and I have minor changes to make, call me when you get an opportunity to go over them." And I'm thrilled she likes them, but I was BUSY today, and tomorrow's the holiday, and her big whingding, so it can wait till Monday. When I'm, you know, actually IN the office. Though, if Evil needs to be opened up then and there during her appointment, my day will be restructured.


And I may be the only person to ever be elated about it, but... I got a questionnaire for jury duty in Philly. Woohoo! I probably won't get asked to show up, but it's federal court, so it will likely be something SEMI interesting. We'll see.

(Then again, is it really fair to let 12 people who couldn't get out of jury duty [or didn't want to] decide the fate of another person?)




Dear Bosslady,

It's Good Friday. Easter's in 2 days. You know, that holiday where Jesus rose from the grave, saw the easter bunny's shadow, and managed to slip some bottles of Iron City Beer into my basket of eggs. Even my brother, who works at a factory, has today OFF. I thought I'd not push my luck, and ask for a half day, especially because you're leaving for vacation today. You ignored me.

In fact, you just called me and asked if I would "be around this weekend" because you need me to do shit for you that's not related to work. And the Press Kit, and press releases you've been up my ass to do since Monday... the ones I've had done since Wednesday, and were ready for your review (you know, that thing), you STILL haven't edited yet. So now, you're going to take them on your trip, and call me from the airport tonight, and make me do the changes over the phone. To say nothing of the fact that your parents are renewing their vows this weekend. You've known for at least 3 months that it was happeninig. You volunteered to assemble the scrapbook for your parents. YOu can't fucking start that 2 days before you leave, and expect to finish. And when you tell me that you need me to "perhaps" put what you write into a pretty format, so you can finish it on Saturday, I am going to be really, really fucking pissed. I have plans for tomorrow. Just like I had plans for this afternoon. I'm not waiting at home by the phone for you to call.

And lets get on to the other thing you called about.

You know what, it is really hard to run your own business, and keep your family life straight. However, crying at me that it's "so hard" and telling me that you want me to take more "ownership" isn't going to cut it. I'm NOT "taking ownership" of this place for $10 bucks an hour and no health insurance. I know that your strengths are schmoozing, and it's "really hard to write, when I've got all these other responsibilities", but you know what? YOU ARE THE EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR. YOU HAVE TO DEAL WITH THIS OTHER SHIT TOO BECAUSE THIS ISN'T. MY. BABY.

It's not like I'm asking you if I should use 4 squares of toilet paper to wipe my ass, or 8. I'm asking you legitimate business questions. Because. You. Are. My. Boss. And if I ask you how the business plan is coming along, and you ignore me, I'm going to get pissed. I think your ideas are wonderful, but we have. No. Structure. And I have seen what happens in a nonprofit when there's no structure. It fucking collapses, and it's not fucking pretty. When I ask you legitimate questions about how you want things done, don't give me the "ownership" speech. Because I am not as vested in this as you are. And I'm not GOING to be, untill this thing is stable, because I don't want to waste my fucking time.

If this is going to be a business, fucking act like it. If it's your hobby, or your way to make yourself feel good - so you can say "oh look, I'm helping people with disabilities"- when you're not doing a fucking thing, You need to tell me. Because I want a job, not somebody's fuckin' hobby, OK?

One fucking pissed Sauce who wanted to dye easter eggs, bake, go to the gym, and get some groceries this afternoon with her Saucemomma.


Insert James Brown-ian Scream Here

For no good reason, other than it seems like a good idea. And I'm not editing this, so it may not make sense. It's more of a brain-dump than anything else.

So, if you'd like to learn about what I've been working on lately, check out L'Arche in Washington DC and Chicago. And I've been mulling something that I'll probably have to be talked out of. Though I may do a good enough job at getting this out of my system on my own.


I thought about this before, but always had a car payment, or other bills to pay. I'd need to give it about a year before I could join. (Or pay to get out of my phone contract early, and some other things) Of course, I may just be insane, but from where I am sitting at the moment, it's not a terrible idea.

I've been thinking about what exactly I believe in, and what I want to get out of my life, lately. And I keep coming back to one of the main principles that I *liked* about growing up in the Church of the Brethren, and that was service to others. (Their stance on other issues is ultimately what made me stop going- I lost some respect for church elders when I was told by someone I respected very much, that I should treat my friends of different faiths differently than I would my Brethren friends, and their stances on homosexuality and choice were, at least in my community, pretty dark-ages.)

I'm having one of those "for the love of Elvis, you're almost thirty. THIRTY. You've accomplished nothing. You didn't go to college, you haven't changed anyone's life, and for the love of fuck you can't even get a partner to stick around for more than six months. You work at stupid, pointless jobs that don't actually DO anything except line someone else's pocket, or occupy your day for 8 hours. You're not happy, and what do you plan on doing about it except bitch and moan." periods. And maybe, just maybe this is the "easy" (if by "easy" I mean, not even remotely easy at all in practice) way to feel a bit better, because I'll be helping someone ELSE.

And at the same time it's making me a bit uncomfortable- It's a change, (and this is way, WAY oversimplifying) to see an org with a religious affiliation that isn't about beating people over the head with turning them to THEIR way of thought, rather, acting in the way that I always thought you were supposed to act, when it came to Christianity. Being decent, helping those who are less fortunate, not taking advantage of others, and not trying to do things for your own gain, but rather the good of the community. And it seems to be working.

That's what I never really got from GOING to Church. Blame the messenger or the receptacle, I don't know- but I never saw it being practiced. Which is probably oversimpifying again. But to me, the church I went to was more about "what can you do for US" as opposed to "how can you grow, spiritually" and more "look at how great we are" instead of "We've accomplished so much, now how can we continue doing good?". Maybe it was just the one I went to- the members there...

I think I need to do some more thinking. The whole thing is either a really, really good idea, or one of the worst I've ever had. Only time, and a big old chunk of scrawling is going to tell.


Happy Birthday Odie!

A big ol' shout-out to Odie, official younger brother of Special Sauce. He turns 23 today.

You grew up into a pretty decent and responsible adult. Who'd have ever imagined it? And yes, you should be thrilled that we didn't really name you Alfonzo Garbanzo Bozo, so it would all rhyme with our last name. And I probably wasn't totally serious when I offered to sell you to Grandma for a penny. C'mon, I was five. I'm sorry I flung you "hammer" style into the screen door when you were 6, (though at the time, you probably deserved it) and your revenge is that you're a good foot taller than me, and hold a far, far better paying job. Good on ya.
Just remember the times that I used to wait for your bus after school so I could kick the shins of the little bastards who picked on you, whenever I'm selling my plasma for a few cans of cat food, and help your sister out. :P

Happy Birthday!

P.S. You have to share your copy of Napoleon Dynamite, or I'm tellin' Mom.

ETA: Nothing sucks harder than realizing you're turning into your dad, and completely fucking up people's ages. Odie's 23 today, not 22 as I so crackheadedly put before. (I chalk it up to the fact that I wasn't home for the past 2 birthdays, so my timleline is skewed.)

Bizarre Dream

So this morning I woke up from a fairly odd dream. Odd both in subject matter, and the fact that I remember what it was about. Usually when I remember them, it's relevant now, or will be shortly thereafter, so...

This one started out with me in my old high school, with my friend John. We weren't high-school-aged, rather our current selves, and I was pop quizzing him on what he'd been up to since we had our falling-out. He was snarfing down half a toasted loaf of french bread, and some sushi. Strange, but not the strangest part.

Then, somehow, I'm in a resort town with a decent mall, and am somehow on a date with Hunter S. Thompson. Not the really old HST, but the HST of the late '70s, early '80s (when he was older, but still unbelievably good looking). I was still today's age, but he was younger (make sense?) and we started out at my house, then a really nice restaurant, then to the decent mall (?). HST was really swell, and had apparently checked with all these people who knew me first, so he'd know exactly what stuff I liked and didn't. And we were having a fantastic time together. Lots of laughing.

Then he said he wasn't feeling well as we went to a cineplex. And somehow, he shrank, (kind of like those "incredible growing dinosaurs" you'd put in hot water, and they'd absorb the liquid and get huuuuge over a few weeks, but in reverse, and rapidly.) - and then he shattered, and I kept trying to pick up the pieces and keep them together because I knew that if I could just get him home, and keep him warm, he'd be ok, and he'd become normal again. And somehow, in the hallways of the cineplex I had all the pieces together, but was tripped by a drug dealer. I freaked out, and the drug dealer's friend helped me pick up the pieces, and gave me drugs to give HST. And somehow, I got the pieces back together, and they were still small, but alive and starting to talk to me. Then I woke up.



The Obligatory Schiavo Post

Ok, this story has dominated the airwaves all weekend, and has been a major story for a while. And the recent turn of events has made me, admittedly, a bit unsure. On one hand, Terri said she didn't want to "live that way", but what does "that way mean? The wish wasn't in writing, and all we have is her husband's word to go on, and as much of a creepy dick as he appears to be in all his interviews, he is technically his wife's legal decision maker.

Her husband also insists that she's in a persistent vegetative state, and she'll never, ever get any better, and that the feeding tube should be removed, and she should be allowed to die with dignity.

On the other hand, her parents are convinced that Terri isn't in a persistent vegetative state, is capable of responding to stimuli, and feel that they've been shut out, and haven't been allowed to use the data their doctors have come up with to support their case. They're willing to care for their daughter for as long as it takes, and don't want to let her starve to death.

Both sides are fervently convinced that they are the correct party, and refuse to give even an inch. They paint each other as uncaring assholes. And now Congress is involved.

It intrigues me that the government, which is overwhelmingly Republican run, and should therefore be in more of a "states rights" kind of frame of mind, is jumping in. It also disturbs me, just a bit. And the cynical part of me says, "what if Terri was short for Terecita? Would the government be so quick to step in if Terri was black, or hispanic or middle eastern?" Methinks not. And I also wonder how this will then be parlayed into tighter anti-abortion regulations. (But we'll still kill criminals, because, well, fuck'em. Not sayin' it's right, just sayin' it's the way they're going.)

Personally, I think that starving to death is a horrific way to die. A feeding tube is not the same as being on life-support. I also think it opens the door to a whole host of other disability rights issues, that quite frankly, give me both a headache, and the overwhelming urge to cry. And it cements the fact that you need to put your wishes in writing. Simply telling someone isn't enough. Living Wills aren't hard to come by, and are simple to complete. This way you don't have to rely on someone else to make the decision for you.

(For the record, if there's no hope, I don't want heroics. Parcel me out, and whatever is left, cremate, and sprinkle me someplace pretty. And yes, it's in real writing too.)

Weekend Roundup

I fear it's been pretty boring in Sauceland.

I have no crazy bosslady stories (though the day is young). I can't even make the saga of my crazy redneck neighbors interesting, it's just kind of sad, now. And I'd really like to just go back to bed. I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, and perhaps that'll give me some fodder for fun.

If you're at all interested, the current issue of Rolling Stone has a lot of great Hunter S. Thompson content. I was surprised at how much I enjoyed the piece by Johnny Depp (I almost forgive him for the stupid Disney Ride movie) and there's even one by Jimmy Carter (yes, that Jimmy Carter) that was really neat. G. Monkey hooked me up with the extra one that comes to their house, and it's excellent.

Otherwise, I got nothin'. For now, anyway.


Will wonders never cease?


I was perusing one of my little-used email accounts this afternoon, and lo and behold, I have an email from Cokehead Rob.

Apparently, the statement "I never want to hear from you again, ever. Don't call me. Don't email me. Don't randomly show up at my house. Don't text me. Don't stop by where I work 'because you were thinking about me'. Don't bug my friends. Don't frequent my bar. Don't ever contact me, for any reason." actually means "Go ahead and give it a year, and then try to reach me, because by then I probably will have stopped wanting to kick something when I see your name."

Believe it or not, I don't want to kick something, just someone.

I know it's juvenile. I know I should drop it. But this is typical him.

He used to pull that shit all the time when I was still in KW. He'd show up at work at different times, after we had "broken up" because he "missed me" or "was thinking of me". Well, you shouldn't have started fucking that girl from The Limited then, and you could have done that shit more often when you were fuckin' me, bra.

I guess I'm just residually pissed because I was way, way too nice to this guy (surprised him with breakfast, often, when he was getting off 3rd shift at the hotel, cooked for him all the time, watched motherfuckin' STAR TREK with him) and shit was just NOT reciprocated. (And those pictures. Those god-awful fucking pictures that I didn't even want to be in, that looked like freakin' engagement pictures. -long story- BLEAAAAAGH. My parents actually burned his half of the photo off, afterwards) And when he dumped my ass (oh, because "he needed time without me in his life, so he could figure out if I should be in his life") to fuck some girl from the Limited (who undoubtedly dotted the i in her name with a heart. gag.) he thought he could just waltz back into things whenever he wanted.

Sorry. Nope. Doesn't work that way.

Only one guy I've ever been dumped by has ongoing friendship priveliges, and you, Cokehead Rob, ain't him.


Well, at least this gives me something funny to talk about tonight at "Millie's" (dive bar name changed to protect the semi-innocent.) with G. Monkey.


I. Am. In. Love.


Craft Corner Deathmatch.

I have never, ever wanted to be on TV before. Then I watched Craft Corner Deathmatch.

Think Iron Chef meets Martha Stewart meets the Daily Show.

(And Frank DeCaro is a judge! Yes!)

You're pitted against another crafter in timed segments. You're given the materials, and a theme and your work is judged. The winner goes against the "Crafter of Steel" a professional crafty person.

Do you know how I would so OWN this show? Today they did wind chimes from kitchen implements, iron on accessorizing of a pair of jeans, and the final battle was a hot glue watch (using sparkly, and colored glue sticks, cooled). I would seriously whup some ass.

Now I have to figure out how to stay up till 10:00 on Wednesdays (or be home at 2 something on Fridays.) because this show fucking ROCKS.

In other news, Odie had his wisdom teeth out today, and seems to be doing well. Apparently, he was administered the anesthetic, and was out pretty much instantaneously, woke up in another room, and wondered "why they hadn't fuckin' started yet." They were done. He then offered to take everyone out for beers. He beats me. I don't remember anything after telling them "Make it fast, I hate needles" and counting backwards from 10. (I got to 6, I think.) I came to in my mother's minivan, wondering how the hell I got out there. Heh.

G. Monkey aced her first interview for becoming a Copy Writer (which she rocks at), and has a second one on Wednesday. A temp agency I sent a resume to last summer called to offer me a position- I'm going to check in with them, and see what the job IS first. Bosslady mentioned that she's trying to get donated office space today. I don't have the heart to tell her that she should go ahead and, um, wait on that one.

Anyway. That's what's new over here.

Thank you Saint Sudafed!

For you are truly wise, and wonderful.

Your shiny red goodness, so misleadingly tiny, is something to behold.

It was you. YOU who permitted me to sleep for 4 consecutive hours last night. Four.

Four glorious hours of sleep.

Now if you can just open my nasal passages while I'm here, upright, at my desk.

Hear my plea, Saint Sudafed.

"I've got calls to make.
Grant me the ability to pronounce consonants,
and not sound like a knuckle-dragging mouth-breather.
Allow me the opportunity to breathe through my nose,
and allow my chapped lips to heal.
And if you can do something about the fish-scales around my nostrils,
well, that'd be a bonus, St. Sudafed."


Not Dead Yet.

But if I was, I'd probably be better rested.

This cold is kicking my ass. Claritin D, Contac Cold & Flu, Regular Contac, & some form of tylenol liquid have all failed me miserably.

G. Monkey had an interview to be a copywriter at an agency that would double her present salary. They'd be stupid not to hire her, but cross your fingers anyway.

I'm still working on being able to breathe and sleep simultaneously. Once I have that figured out, I'd like a medal. Or perhaps a cookie. Probably the cookie.

Go check out the current Girl's Bike Club if for nothing other than the phrase "a Christmas Tree of pubes."

That is all.


Trainer Tales

Note 1. See if I pamper Papa Sauce again when he's got the galloping plague.
Note 2. Claritin is worthless.

And now, I present to you....

Trainer tales!

I started working for Borders right when I turned 18, and worked up to trainer when I was 20, I was stoked. I loved the store, loved my co-workers, and couldn't friggin' WAIT to open stores. And it didn't hurt any that 2 of my favorite co-workers at my store moved into trainer jobs at 2 neighboring stores- (I declare that shit AWESOME) and we got to go to the Trainer conference together. Where I met Stephee from Newark (by way of Bear). She was my roommate at that infamous conference (Steph, I still have the little photocollage cube from then!)and she was cool as shit.

I sorted with Stephee twice, once she was my roomie, and once she was my cohort. In Frederick Maryland, we made a pimp hat for the lone boy on our sort (Bobby G. Fleetwood) and matching Team Ho shirts (with a gemstone theme, I was Aqua, and I know we had a Ruby, Opal, Pearl, Diamond, and Spike and a few others). Somewhere I still have pictures, and I'll scan them for your amusement (see a youthful sauce, on her very first sort!)

Heh. That was back in the good ol' days, when I wasn't even old enough to drink yet, and was petrified I'd get busted at the hotel restaurant for havin' a few lemon drops.

And then there was Allentown. Or wherever the hell that was. Where we made the mistake of having the ritual Manager/Trainer dinner at a BYOB restaurant.

Now... what you need to know is that trainers, on a whole, are a drunken, ornery bunch. We busted our asses for 12-14 hours a day, 6 days a week, taking a store from bare shelves to opening day. Drinking was not an option, it was a requirement. Putting a bunch of trainers in a restaurant where you can bring your OWN alcohol? oh, that is such a recipe for disaster. We walked in with 2 cases of liquor (though one may have been Bass, I know for certain one was naught but booze). Lets just say that there there are many photographs of many, many of us drinking directly from said bottles of booze. And I learned that I will never drink Segrams Whiskey straight from the bottle ever, EVER again.

To say nothing of what happened with the store's GM, who got a bit tipsy that night...

And then there was Tom Arnold...
The shit we did to that poor guy, they probably should have made us all star in our own Trainer Sexual Harassment Video. Pete Hilsee, Corporate Trainer God, if you're out there, I'm sorry. sorta. But not really. Because, well... If you were there, we'd have done the same to you. (Perhaps even moreso, because... Rowr.)

And then there were the stores I sorted without Steph... New Orleans, which was awesome, but it was hurricane season. And it was a Fall Sort. I got sick at both my Fall sorts. I was so bad at one point, I couldn't talk. And somewhere there is a picture of me, passed out in a bag of packing peanuts. That was also the sort that I ended up fleeing in the nick of time- After a whole lot of crying, and a lot of trudging back and forth in the new Orleans airport, I managed to get a flight to Dallas on the last plane out before Hurricane Georges hit. The trainers that didn't either drive out, or fly out when they could, were stuck living at the store, sleeping on cardboard boxes for a few days till they could leave.

And Connecticut. Simsbury, Connecticut. My only Music sort. Where I had a SERIOUS crush on one of the guys in my training group. Massive no-no, but damn, he was cute. And he knew his blues. And he was cute. And Artistic. And smart. He left for England to study, and I made him a care package with a sock monkey (no, I don't remember why either, but doesn't everyone need a sock monkey?) and we eventually lost touch with each other. So Jared, if you're out there somewhere, I still have the shirt you designed for the sort. I refuse to get rid of it. (And I bet you're still cute.)

And speaking of Simsbury, Steph trained me for the music sort. My store didn't have music, and I wanted to learn. So the suckers LET me go to Stephee's store for a WEEK, and paid me to learn it. (muwahaha) That's the trip where we went to philly and I got my eyebrow pierced. That didn't go over so well when I called my ma. "Ma, I have a hole in my face" "Ohdeargod, did you wreck your car?" "No, I got my eyebrow pierced" *crickets chirping, continents drifting* "oh. *entire civilizations dying out* nice."

Eventually, I stopped being a trainer. I couldn't hack the stress at my home store- I'd get 6 trainees to teach, and would have to be floor manager at the same time. I was also getting migraines like a motherfucker, and had no idea what they were, so I'd take fistfuls of advil, and chase it with maalox, and decided that maybe that shit wasn't too healthy. I'd go back in a minute, though, if I had the chance today. Training rawked. (I checked, though, and they only have GM spots available semi-locally, and like Steph, I'd rather jab a spork into my left eye over and over till I poked through the back of my head than be a GM- they get all of the bullshit, and not enough thanks.)

Wow. This was a really long ramble, but it was a fun trip down memory lane (at least for me). I'll have to dig out the pictures I have, and scan a few of them. Those who are stalkerish enough can find me on my work website. Stoltzfus wouldn't photoshop me out of the committee photo, the bastard.

Galloping Plague

So, Pappa Sauce had the headcold from hades last week. To give you some idea, he was actually on the couch all day Wednesday, Thursday, & Friday. Pappa Sauce has had heart attacks, and not realized it, and kept working (mild ones, but still). He has fallen off ladders, catching himself by hooking his knee around one of the rungs, and limped like a bastard, but still worked. This cold kicked his ASS.

And I think I'm coming down with it.


Despite this, I OWNED the evilliptical this morning for a record-setting 50 minutes in. A. Row. Yarrrrrrr!

Also, I had an epiphany about what kind of employment I need to seek. Whee! And I asked Stoltzfus to put in a good word for me at the newspaper, since he knows someone high up there.

This week's episode of shit I love:

1. No Pudge Ice Cream Treats- never tried their brownies, but their ice cream cones are feckin' awesome, and only have 100 calories. The Cookies & Cream bar is huge, for 100 calories, but is just a little icy.

2. Migrastick- A little roller applicator of lavender & peppermint oils. Smells good, feels tingly, and does help a little.

3. Physician's Formula Retro Glow Mosaic Powder- cute compact, works well for my pasty wacky skin, and hasn't made me break out yet. Plus- brush, not puff. Hell yeah.

4. Magic Gloves- because they're thin enough I can still type with them on when the heat's fucked up in the office.

5. Puffs with Lotion- because they do. Really. Really. Do.

6. Jim Rome's impersonation of Michael Jackson in a bar fight- Because seriously, it's freakin' hysterical (and Brittney Spears is the one who suggested that option to him)

7. You guys, because you rock so hard.

8. Stephee, for reminding me of all the shit I loved about being a trainer. More on that later tonight- I'll share some of my favorite trainer stories. (And maybe, if you're good, I'll dig up some pictures)

Galloping Plague

So, Pappa Sauce had the headcold from hades last week. To give you some idea, he was actually on the couch all day Wednesday, Thursday, & Friday. Pappa Sauce has had heart attacks, and not realized it, and kept working (mild ones, but still). He has fallen off ladders, catching himself by hooking his knee around one of the rungs, and limped like a bastard, but still worked. This cold kicked his ASS.

And I think I'm coming down with it.


Despite this, I OWNED the evilliptical this morning for a record-setting 50 minutes in. A. Row. Yarrrrrrr!

Also, I had an epiphany about what kind of employment I need to seek. Whee! And I asked Stoltzfus to put in a good word for me at the newspaper, since he knows someone high up there.

This week's episode of shit I love:

1. No Pudge Ice Cream Treats- never tried their brownies, but their ice cream cones are feckin' awesome, and only have 100 calories. The Cookies & Cream bar is huge, for 100 calories, but is just a little icy.

2. Migrastick- A little roller applicator of lavender & peppermint oils. Smells good, feels tingly, and does help a little.

3. Physician's Formula Retro Glow Mosaic Powder- cute compact, works well for my pasty wacky skin, and hasn't made me break out yet. Plus- brush, not puff. Hell yeah.

4. Magic Gloves- because they're thin enough I can still type with them on when the heat's fucked up in the office.

5. Puffs with Lotion- because they do. Really. Really. Do.

6. Jim Rome's impersonation of Michael Jackson in a bar fight- Because seriously, it's freakin' hysterical (and Brittney Spears is the one who suggested that option to him)

7. You guys, because you rock so hard.

8. Stephee, for reminding me of all the shit I loved about being a trainer. More on that later tonight- I'll share some of my favorite trainer stories. (And maybe, if you're good, I'll dig up some pictures)


50 things

Because I'm feeling slightly egotistical, and because it's some sort of rite of passage or something (or was that trite of passage?)sort of like your first wedgie... I (probably not so) humbly present, the official 50 things about me list. Why 50 instead of 100? I'm a lazy bastard.

In no particular order, save the way they arrived in my brain.

1. I abhor beets.

2. The strangest job I ever did was "Substitute Pecker Painter"

3. I actually pretty much suck at painting.

4. Given the choice, I'd actually rather work with clay, or cast something than draw.

5. I'm usually known as "the quiet one" (no, really!)

6. I taught myself to read when I was 3, because my mom was really, really sick of reading "Goldilocks and the Three Bears".

7. I'm still embarassed about running around my kindergarten pre-tests saying "I'm smart!" to everyone I met.

8. My brother and I look remarkably like our maternal grandparents. (So much so it's really kind of creepy.)

9. I actually had a fan club at the codger corral, largely due to the fact that I can change a hearing aid battery faster than you can say "duracel".

10. I dated 3 people that my parents never knew about. (and still don't.)

11. I considered going to cooking school twice, and backed out both times because I was afraid I'd grow to hate something I love to do.

12. I am a morning person out of habit, not preference.

13. If I ever have a daughter, I'm naming her Aurolyn.

14. I love to knit socks, but have never finished a matching pair.

15. I love hats, but look ridiculous in them.

16. Along those lines, I'm an accessory whore, but tend to wear the same ones all the time.

17. I'm a mediocre seamstress, and have little patience for most patterns.

18. I love sewing purses, and long to have my own space to set up my machine so I can sew whenever I want, with my own patterns.

19. My mother and I were both born on the 5th of months that start with the letter A.

20. I hate calling people, and would do nearly anything to not have to.

21. I never went on a date in High School.

22. I was raised Methodist, and Church of the Brethren, but stopped going to church about 10 years ago.

23. A boy called me "stupid" in the first grade. He subsequently wet his pants during story time. I'd like to think I had a little something to do with that.

24. My first grade teacher also called me stupid, because I couldn't cut out a damned pilgrim collar. Unfortunately, she did not wet herself during storytime.

25. Proof that having the right teacher helps: I had a great teacher for pre-algebra and geometry, and had nearly perfect scores. I had a different teacher for algebra, and nearly failed.

26. I've done the following jobs: Salad Bar Attendant, Jewelry Lead, Shoe Saleswoman, Book Goddess, Bank Teller (twice), Temp, Phone Slave, Airbrush Stand Lackey, Editorial Assistant, Admissions Director, Activities Director, Hostess, Curbside Queen, Pharmacy Tech, Substitute Pecker Painter, Lit Guild Flunky, "assistant director".

27. Of the above, I liked being a book goddess and editorial assistant the best.

28. I love Football. Don't understand the minutae, but love the game.

29. Bananas are disgusting, and will always ruin a perfectly good fruit salad.

30. The classic fruit salad recipe (in my world) crispy apples (2) cut into large chunks, 1 can mandarin oranges (with the juice and all), seedless grapes, 2 fresh nectarines or peaches, fresh or frozen cherries, lemon juice, optional: strawberries, kiwi, pears, mango, pineapple, mint leaves, ginger. Whack up fruit, throw on lemon juice. serve.

31. My top 5 favorite authors are PJ O'Rourke, Joe Queenan, Hunter S. Thompson, Harlan Ellison, and Laurie Notaro.

32. One of the crappiest things about living in Key West was that the local bookstore didn't carry the New Yorker.

33. The other crappy thing was that cokehead Rob worked at said local bookstore.

34. I am so pasty pale that I practically glow in the dark.

35. I tend to freak out in crowds.

36. I enjoy having a routine, and when it's disrupted, I get a little agitated.

37. I've only had to threaten to call the cops on a customer once.

38. I've never been fired from a job before.

39. I don't read a lot of fiction.

40. I still get an easter basket and christmas stocking, although sometimes Mr. E. Bunny and Santa bring liquor instead of candy.

41. I want to go back to the Mutter Museum again this summer.

42. I get sea/carsick fairly easily.

43. I'm eagerly awaiting flea-market-season again, so I can find some old women's magazines and cookbooks.

44. I don't mind the sound of fingernails on the blackboard, but the sound of crinkling plastic grocery bags will send me to the top of a watertower with a shotgun.

45. I've never lived in a house without at least one cat.

46. Favorite body part? My eyes.

47. By now I think I probably sound like freakin' Larry King.

48. I've blocked out most of Junior High.

49. I collect Jackson China. My mom, dad, grandmother, grandfather, aunt & two uncles all worked for the company at various points. Ditto Brockway Glass (with fewer relatives).

50. I *hate* white underwear and socks, and make it a point to never, ever buy them. It squicks me out to see them on other people too.

Taa Daa.

The other 50 may come, eventually.



Looking for something interesting to read?

I humbly suggest Simon Winchester's Krakatoa. I'll admit, I wasn't a huge fan of The Professor and the Madman but that's just me. (Side note: a distant relative of FBD was also a major player in the creation of the Oxford English Dictionary. However, he was not the aforementioned "madman". That would have been far, far too easy.) Krakatoa is a well-written account of what happened on that fateful August day in 1883, with heaps of geological and other scientific backstory. I only wish he would have gone into more detail about the aftereffects of the eruption.

With the current rumblings of Mount St. Helens, and the recent Tsunamis, the book is made even more relevant/compelling.

Now I'll need to check out some of Winchester's other works.

I'm going to see if I can't book a doctor's appointment for the 18th, the day that Odie is having his wisdom teeth out. Once I get him back from that appt. I he should be fine for an hour or so. (I promise not to leave him alone with only hard candy, granola, triscuits and lemonade to subsist on...)

I'm a little cranked because I know full well the doctor's office is going to charge me an arm and a leg for a visit, because I haven't been there in about 3 years, (and since it's been that long, there's no way my doctor will just phone in the Rx). I will, however, kiss a lot of ass to get some samples (and since I have no insurance, I can take whatever they're giving- and there's a new drug on the market, which means there should be freebies) At least that will offset the atrocious cost of the stuff.

These stupid headaches do eat it. I don't have a specific trigger, it could quite literally be just about anything, especially the week I'm "ridin' the cotton pony". Caffeine, too little sleep, too much sleep, peanuts, hot dogs, cheese, perfume, cigarette smoke, barometric pressure changes, being out in the sun too long, converting oxygen into carbon dioxide, stress, orange juice, feh. You name it, it'll probably set me off if the moon's in the right phase. If it'd just be feckin' consistent, I could avoid the damn trigger, but it always changes. Bah.

And insurance. I've done everything short of saying "Gee, Boss, If I had the INSURANCE someone PROMISED ME when I started working here, I wouldn't have had to miss a DAY AND A HALF of work due to a headache I've had for A WEEK, because I could have taken A PILL on SATURDAY when this shit started, and nipped it in the motherfucking BUD." so, I'll instead hold out for the sunday paper again, and see who else is hiring with decent benefits. I did get an acknowledgement postcard from the newspaper, and I hope I'll hear from them soon. I really COULD do that job with half my brain tied behind my back.

HST rocks it, hardcore.

Belatedly- an anecdote from the HST memorial service this past weekend.

Shared by Don Johnson-


One day I asked Hunter what the sound of one hand clapping was. He replied "that's easy" and slapped me across the face.

I ask you, could you hold back from slapping Don Johnson? I don't think I could.


As giant a walking asshole as HST could be, the man could write like a motherfucker. We won't see his like again.

Counselor, indeed.

Also, blogger comments appear to be farqued at the moment. D'oh.



Well, the wannabe-migraine that I've had since Saturday finally came to a head (no pun intended) this morning, and left me incapable of doing much other than curling up in the fetal position on the basement couch this morning. After much napping, offering the felines up as sacrifices, and cursing my boss because I STILL have no insurance, the stupid fucking thing finally disappeared around 4:00ish.

So I have no good stories, bad stories, or amusing factoids to share.

But, in case you didn't hear, Elvis Twin's Middle Kitty made it home safely, and that is definitely cause to celebrate!


Cross your fingers

The extra ones that aren't crossed for MK's safe return.

I submitted a resume to the local newspaper, they need an HR assistant. I can do that job in my sleep- I did it for years at Borders, and at the Codger Corral, and trained new employees too. They have good benes (I mean, seriously- who still offers an employer paid retirement plan?) and free off-street secure parking, which is really effin' handy. They got the resume last night, so I should hear something soon.


Stupid Winter.

Why it that your car never acts like a dick when the sun's shining, the birds are chirping, and the weather's a balmy 75 degrees. Oh no. Your car knows when it's 11 degrees outside. It times things, it knows the sun won't even be up yet, and you will, naturally, be in capri sweats, and a light jacket, because you think you're not going to have to spend time outside.

And then, when you get to the service station, you will discover that your tire is really, REALLY flat, not the little bit low that it was last night, when you resolved to go to the service station to get air in the morning. Yep. And the air? It's not gonna go in, because you've somehow got the tire skewed off the rim. And you'll end up making the humiliating call to your dad, because despite your paean to womanhood and equality last night, you still have difficulty changing your own tires. Sure, you understand it in principle, but you can't very well change the damn tire when you can't get the nut holding the jack in it's protective hidey hole to so much as budge.

And your dad will drag his ass out of bed, before six ayem, with a head cold that makes him sound quite a bit like Darth Vader (Sauce, I am your father...) and you feel like a total shit, because he had just asked you that morning to snag him some Contac on your way back from the gym, so you KNOW he's really sick. (because he NEVER takes drugs, ever.) And he will change your tire, and you'll give him the coffee you snagged in the convenience store when you got change for the air machine. And everything will work out, probably.

Except it's really funny to try to go to the repair shop on your donut, doing well under the speed limit, because you really don't want to die in a fiery crash because the stupid wheel went flying off. And the repair shop won't find anything wrong with your tire, so they'll keep it, and send you off to work (luckily, close) with your donut. You'll be glad for the chance to not have to do extraneous errands till it's fixed, and while you're typing the entire escapade for the 3 people who read your silly little blog, you will notice 4 beautiful does in the yard, and watch them for as long as you can. And you'll suddenly feel a lot better for some odd reason.


International Women's Day

Yes, it is International Women's Day, and I'm about to go off on all things girly.

You have been warned.

I've started this thing three times now, lets hope this time is the charm. I've been reflecting on what it means to me to be a feminist, and why I'm proud I'm a woman, and getting a little angry too. Not about the IWD, but about the fact that we're forgetting things.

Well, not all of us. Not exactly, anyway.

This most recent election was supposed to be the "year of the single woman." You know, sort of like the "soccer mom" year, and all that jazz. Girls my age, my brother's age, this year's new voters- we have always been lucky. We forget. We don't know what it was like. Our grandmothers, our great-grandmothers, our great-greats many times over, they fought. They made their way in life, to new lands, forming households on foreign soil. They wrestled with "woman's work", back-breaking labor, simply to feed and clothe a household. They stayed at home, not dreaming of going to school, or away on trips. They raised children, canned vegetables, dreamed of a day when maybe, someday, there wouldn't be so much work. They worked in factories, making tires for planes, or later, dishes. Still, they raised more children, and in my family, they didn't take much shit from their husbands. They kept things together, somehow, and they always vowed things would change for the next generation...

Our mothers came along, things were different by then. They wore pants, they wore minis. They thumbed their noses at convention. They dreamed of college, of getting away. They got out, they got jobs, they discovered the pill. They picketed, they marched, they demanded equal rights. They saw their friends and the back-alley abortions, they fought for change. They saw victories our grandmothers had only dreamed about. They vowed things would never go back to the way they were...

Then we came.

We haven't had to fight, the stories about going to jail, or dying over an abortion are just that, stories. Women have always been professors, construction workers, CEOs and lawyers. We've never known anything different. Sure, we may make a few bucks less than Ted in accounting, and the boss may grab our ass every once in a while, but it's nothing serious, right? Feminists... they're those angry women who hate men, right?

It's frustrating.

We didn't turn out in large numbers this year, despite the pleas from NARAL, NOW, and those SMILE people. I don't think things had as much relevancy for my generation. We don't know what it was like, so we don't have the sense of immediacy. I'm not making excuses, but I'm offering an explanation: I think many of us are conflicted. I know I am a lot of the time.

On one hand, I'm a card-carrying, "no, really, I can get that door, thanks", get your laws off my body, "buck fushing" feminist. On the other, I love to cook and sew, I enjoy knitting, and some day, I'm going to make someone a really fucking awesome wife. I love beer and football and duct tape, but I'd also like to maybe stay home with a youngin' till they're in school, and do crafts and sew things, and have dinner ready when futurespouse comes home. And yes, some day, I do want to get married, I want to share my life with someone I love, but it's also not the only reason I exist. And it's hard to reconcile.

Sometimes it feels like you're a "bad feminist" or you're looked down upon by the previous generation for "fuckin' with their hard work". When really, what the whole point of feminism is, in my eyes, is the opportunity to do what you feel is best for you, as a woman. To be a "good feminist" is to stand up for the rights of other women to do what they feel is right for them. It doesn't matter if a woman wants to wear pumps and pearls while vacuuming the front room and baking chocolate chip cookies. If that's what she wants to do, that's her brand of feminism. If a woman wants to renounce the patriarchy, refer to herself as a womyn, and march on Washington, that's her brand of feminism. It all comes back to what she wants to do.

Am I alone in these beliefs? A while back Sars wrote an excellent piece on the topic that sorta says things better than I can. Anyway. Comments are open. Dive in. And wherever you are today, do me a favor. Thank your mom. Biological, surrogate, adoptive, pseudo, whatever. Thank your mom. You wouldn't be here today if it weren't for her.

For the love of all that's holy

And I apologize in advance, because you're not going to care, but I need to vent.

People. People. People.

Ok, so I've never hosted a massive fundraiser, but even I can see some fundamental problems here.

1. You entrusted getting the location you wanted, on the date you wanted, to the flightiest, flakiest, bitchiest drama queen on the planet, and you were surprised that he fucked it up.

2. You settled for a different date at a different location, and told everyone about it.

3. You changed your mind, went with a TOTALLY different location, and sent out your save the date cards.

4. Now you decide you don't want to have the event at the new (third) location after all, and have decided that you may go back to the other (second) place on a THIRD date. (Bearing in mind that 1. the save the date cards went out, 2. all publicity has mentioned location #2. 3. you have 9 days to have the invitations designed, and to the printer for the event which will take place at the end of May.

4.a. You will wait until the end of the 6th day to decide on anything, and wonder why nobody can complete the invitations for you (which have to be designed from scratch).

5. Your committee doesn't show up for meetings, because you scheduled them (in your infinite wisdom) during the day, when most people who don't have a. trust funds or b. husbands who are doctors to support them have to Work.

6. You volunteered to do a million asks for sponsorships, but will probably neglect to do them till a week before they're due, and wonder why nobody will cut you a check.

7. Instead of telling the bitchy drama queen from #1. to go sit on it and rotate, you continue to let him disrupt the actual proceedings, and demand all manner of ridiculous accomodations, and attempt to take over. He fucks up the simplest of tasks, and provides absolutely nothing positive to the group, in fact- his presence is highly un-nerving, and detrimental. Yet. Still. He. "Participates."

8. The event is in about 2 1/2 months. NOTHING IS FINALIZED. This is ridiculous.

Seriously, you have no idea how half-assed this thing is. I can only do so much, and when I do provide a service (at the last second, because invariably, even if I ask the day before the meeting, you won't give me any clue what you want till an hour before we have to be there) you bitch because it's "not right". Fuck.

At least the newspaper is hiring an HR assistant. I could do that in my sleep.

I promise, something funny later on today, to atone for my bitchy venting. Now, I shall go dance about my office to "Istanbul not Constantinople". Oh how I love you egg radio.


It's Monday. I'm Moody.

Heh. Gee, that's a shock.

Dear Creepy Guy on the Elliptical Next To Me,

I'm all about not smellin' all funkadelic when you go to the gym. At the very least, I advocate runnin' a soapy washcloth over your nether bits. The only funk I want to deal with is in my ipod. That said, this isn't a singles bar, we aren't impressed by your ability to roll around in a bottle of Brut before you get here. In fact, we're repulsed by it.

See, here's the deal. When the gym is empty, as it is by the time I'm hitting the elliptical for the second time, courtesy says leave a gap of one machine between you and the person next to you. That's why I was on the crappy machine that catches in the first place. You, therefore should have skipped a machine, then got on. It probably wouldn't have mitigated your stink, but it may have let me stay on the machine for more than 4 minutes. If I had stayed on any longer, the waves of horrible "cologne" (eau de carcass if you ask me) would have literally throttled me, and at a minimum given me a migraine that I can ill afford to have.

You very nearly gagged me the other day, when you were on the leg-press machine next to me, and did about 80 whomptillion reps. You. Have. Chickenlegs. Wearing so much cologne that you render someone's vision blurry at 10 paces is not a way to compensate.

Mix in a shower, and wash that shit off.


Special Sauce



When did they change Samoas to Caramel Delights?

You can't just go screwin' around with my favorite Girl Scout Cookie, people.

Also. Mean Girls?

Not mean enough.

Eric Ash, I'm talking to YOU.

First up, everyone send your positive thoughts, over to the Elvis Twin, because Middle Kitty is still out there somewhere and needs to come home, now. (no, really, right now, MK. We're not kidding.)I hope MK comes home, safely and soon.

We now return you to the selfish bitching portion of the blog, already in progress.


Believe it or not, despite the ranting and raving on this blog, I am generally a mild-mannered, sweet-tempered person. Mainly, because I vent my spleen in here. Aside from rightfully earned anger, I'm not so much of a bitch. In fact, usually only 2 things will turn me into a snarling, hate-filled, if-you-thought-PMS-was-bad..., watch-me-rip-out-your-soul-with-just-a-look, hydra-headed bitch.

1. A lack of sleep

2. Not eating

Yes, I know I'm an infant.

Thursday night I got about half the usual amount of sleep I get. My frozen lunch didn't cut it, and so by 4:30 Friday afternoon I was a very bitchy, very hungry, very tired ball of hate. (You know the kind of tired and frustrated where it feels like there are ants and hornets doing some kind of tango directly beneath your skin? Mix that with a heavy dose of "fuck off" and you've got it.) By Friday at 9:30, I managed to finally fall asleep. At 11:45, a Mr. Eric Ash of Some-fucking-where in motherfuckin' Hawaii called my house. And let the phone ring. And ring. And ring. And woke. My ass. UP.

Then through a combination of events, (namely Monk -separate rant to follow-, Evil skritching a plastic bag, Evil demanding to be petted, skritching the plastic bag again, Evil leaping onto my bladder, Evil balancing all 13 of her pounds on her front paws which were directly on top of my boobs, getting up to suffocate the cat with the plastic bag-or maybe just moving it out of her reach, and wearing Evil on my head) I didn't fall asleep till after 2:00 this morning. AND STILL WOKE UP BY 7AM. Fuck.

So. Eric Ash, of Some-fucking-where in motherfuckin' Hawaii, who couldn't be bothered to leave a "dude, sorry, wrong number, aloha" on my voicemail. Someday I am coming to some-fucking-where in motherfuckin' Hawaii, and I am going to let Evil bug the shit out of you while YOU'RE trying to get back to sleep after I wake your ass up in the middle of the night.



OK. New Season, new "assistant", and apparently new writers.
I loved Monk. I loved the writing, I loved Tony Shalloub. I loved Bitty Schramm. I love saying "Leland Stottlemyer" over and over again. The guy who plays Randy is cute. I loved almost everything about the show except for the stupid Randy Newman theme song,(but I hate everything about Randy Newman anyway so, par for the course)and the fact that it comes on so late on a Friday night.

I was bummed when they gave Bitty the axe, but just because you change one of the main characters doesn't mean that the show will automatically suck, right?


G. Monkey and I were discussing the show (she's a pack of wipes and a short haircut away from being able to BE Monk)and why it seems to have gone so far downhill.

In previous seasons Monk was called onto cases that were, in a manner of speaking, unsolveable. In this season, he "stumbled across" every freaking case. (note: I missed the first few minutes of last night's episode, so this may be incorrect, but if they did it for all the other episodes...)Not to mention the fact that the cases have been ridiculous, and the endings telegraphed from before the first commercial break. I suppose I should have known when they explained Sharona's absence with "She remarried her ex and moved to New Jersey", when they finished the season with reinforcing that would NEVER happen...

And yes, I'm getting too silly about a TV show, but dangit, I make a point of watching exactly 3 shows.
1. Monk
2. CSI
3. Law & Order (and that's not even the new ones. I can't remember when new eps are on, so I watch the syndicated ones.)

It's kind of sad when your favorite show jumps the shark. I didn't even want to watch last night's episode, but it was the only thing on (with the exception of a rerun of Saturday Night Live from 1998, and I did try watching that, but it sucked harder than Monk did).


And because I hope he googles his name- Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash, Eric Ash.



Proper Update

Ok, I was being a smartass last night, but Shaun of the Dead was effin' AWESOME. Senor Horsty is going to make me a copy. (we were interrupted many times during our impromptu cheddar theater)

Also considered awesome this morning:

1. 35 minutes on the elliptical, and I probably could have done more
2. Coffee. Coffeecoffeecoffeecoffeecoffee. Big. Turkey Hill. Hazelnut. One cinnamon creamer, a little bit of milk. Coffee good.
3. Egg Radio. (Seriously. I want to smooch them.)
4. It's Friday! Whee! Hoo! Yay!!

Now, as promised, the story of the 'neckette next door and her trip to the grey bar hotel.

There's a shared driveway between my house and the house next door. Over the years there have been some illustrious residents over there. F'rinstance...

The Gnomes. They were there when we first moved in. 2 brothers who really did resemble garden gnomes, talked "dutchie" (with heavy PA dutch accents) and liked to hug me. A lot.

The Fighters. They were next, fought constantly, left their kid roaming all over the place, cops were there on a weekly basis. 2 highlights of their stay.
1. They set the kitchen on fire (accidentally) and were so stoned/drunk/stupid, they called 911 twice, and hung up on them.

2. The female fighter's friend was over one afternoon, and for some odd reason (I wasn't home at the time, it was relayed to me after the fact) decided it would be a really good idea to run around the backyard naked and screaming.

They moved out shortly thereafter.

The next people were ok, a bit weird and had yappy dogs, but we never had to call the cops on them, so woo.

(side note, the house next door is a rental. A very overpriced rental. Most of the people don't move on because they WANT to but because they have to. I'm amazed they can rent it out at all, it's a shithole.)

Now we have the 'necks. Well, just the 'neckette now, sort of. And of course they come complete with the dog, a passel of kids ( 2 girls, and one on the way, plus two boys, on the weekends), the screeching motorcycle, and the screaming. Oh god, the screaming. I can actually hear her screaming at The kids, inside her house, with the doors/windows shut, inside my house, with my windows shut, and the TV on.

Most recently (and it does pertain) Dude 1, father of 2 of the boys who spend the weekends, and the bun currently occupying 'neckette's oven, had enough (smart man) and moved out.

To pay the rent, Dude 2 (let's call him Dopey, shall we?) moved in. Dude 2 is apparently the youngest girl's father (the oldest girl's dad's dead). There is of course, acrimony between dude 1, 'neckette, & dopey, because Dude 1 thinks 'neckette has been sleeping with dopey a bit more recently than however many years ago they broke up. Cue the screaming. Cut to about 2 weeks later.

Dopey doesn't drive. Neither does the 'neckette. Never wondered why, never really cared. Dopey is perpetually hitting people up for shit. "Hey, can you start my furnace for me?" (Well, no, because I am not going to fuck it up, and blow you up, why not call the landlord, or the service dude?), "Can I borrow your shovel, I want to go shovel driveways to make some cash." (Sure, that I like.) "can I use your phone", and the most recent one... (with the youngest in tow, because, damn.)

"Um, yeah. Is your mom home?" No. "Oh. Um. I'm in a bind" (and I'm thinking, SHIT, I do not want to have to babysit this kid) He then lays out the story that the 'neckette got hauled off to jail that afternoon for nonpayment of a speeding ticket. She also relieved him of all the cash in the house, and left him with the baby. Could he borrow 10 bucks for groceries?

{permit me to be all manolo for a second)

The sauce, she cannot resist the power of the cute little kiddo. And the little kiddo cannot help the fact that she has shithead parents. Of course he got the 10 bucks. (He was lucky, because usually I carry no cash.) Do I expect to see it "On saturday! I swear!"? No. Do I care? No. He did actually take off down the road with the baby in the stroller, so I don't think he'd used it for drugs or something stupid.

Apparently, the day after that, Dude 1 came back (rather pissed off, too) and loaded up the 2 girls, and I haven't seen anyone in the house for a few days. I was going to drop a bag of groceries off on the porch, all anonymous-like (because again, it's not the kid's fault she's got shitty parents, she's still got to eat, and 10 bucks doesn't get you a whole lot of stuff), but apparently nobody's home.

Maybe you just kind of have to be there, but seriously. My neighbors are better than a soap opera most days. (And yes. I am an awful person.)


With 57 minutes to spare.

Shaun of the Dead fuckin' rocks.

That is all.


Fun stuff

First up-

Dear Boss,

Stop being nice for no reason, it really fucks with my head. At least when you're being an asshat, I have a reason to hate you.



Next. I don't care if you like Television Without Pity or The Real World or not. You will go, and you will read this, and you will laugh your ass off, for it is not every day we have Buffalo Bill recapping anything.

Then, you should go to Ill Will Press and go through the archives, and giggle at Foamy the Squirrel, who is my newest, most shiniest hero. I want to be Foamy when I grow up.

(Ok, and when I drive? I AM Foamy the Squirrel. I am grey, and fur-covered, and channeling Dennis Leary.)

And if you need something to listen to after that, may I humbly suggest Egg Radio? They have yet to play a song I hated, and quite a few that I squealed "AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!! I HAVEN'T HEARD THIS IN FOREVER!" at. (Although Tom's Diner did get an eyeroll.)

You should also go over to see my friend Stephee's site, and wish her a happy birthday, and scroll down and gaze upon her 25th birthday pictures from a veddy long time ago... I can't believe my ancient homepage is still up, and had those photos on it.

Stephee and I used to train for Borders together, she in Delaware, and me, not. I met her at a Traning conference, where we were roommates. The first of many adventures we had. And let me just tell you, that you have not feckin' LIVED until you hear stephee read the book "If you give a pig a pancake" like Eric Cartman. Seriously. Somehow, along the line, I got the moniker of Stephee Lite (honestly, I can't remember why), heh. Steph rocks, and she's turning 30. Go, make her smile.

Also: I hate Wendy's toe-up sock pattern, and I am pissed. Actually, I hate the fact that I knit "wrong" and I can't get the damn pattern to work out. And all I want is a simply written explanation for a toe-up sock, with a figure 8 cast on, designed with a short row heel, specifically written for combination knitters who happen to have really wide feet and ankles like tree trunks. Is that so much to ask? Gosh!

On that note. I am going home now.

An Open Letter...

Dear Guy with a very girly name,

I have a boss. That boss, believe it or not, isn't you. When I write something for public consumption, it must be approved by my boss. She makes the requisite changes, and we refine it before it leaves this office. That means the minutes and packets I mailed out after our most recent meeting? Those were approved by my boss.

Let me break those last two sentences down into concepts you'll understand.

Boss Said Everything I Wrote Was OK.

Therefore, the fact that you're not listed as a co-chair of the event? That's not an oversight. You're NOT a co-chair for this event. Want to know why? Because nobody likes you. And because the person who DID co-chair the event refused to do it, if you were allowed any semblance of power.

And the ticket prices? They're $150.00/person. Just like I wrote it. Just like it is in my notes. You want to know why you don't know this? Because you were too busy being a condescending little prick, with the woman who OWNS the property we're using. You remember, "What, do I have to ask your FATHER about this?" does that ring any bells?

So, when you call my office in an absolute tizzy on a Friday afternoon, and you leave me not one, not two, but THREE messages speaking to me not only as if I was a toddler, but a toddler who killed your dog, shat in your mother's mouth, and told you those pants make you look fat. I may be a peon, and you may be a drama queen, but that doesn't give you the right to treat me like shit. From here on, I will not be dealing with you. Take your whining straight to my Boss, or I will set you straight, and you're not going to enjoy it.

Fuck off,

Special Sauce