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Monthly archives for April 2007
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5 Pet Peeves at My New Job
- when coworkers are stingy with their petrochemical foodstuff
—Amy, it wasn’t me, I swear. I’d never put that shite in my mouth. Judging by the proliferation of exclamation points in your note, though, you may want to reassess your approachability. Just a thought.
- when coworkers come to my cube to talk shop before I’ve had a chance to put my lunch in the fridge
- when coworkers discuss the breast cheese scene in Borat while I’m trying to eat at my desk … gag me with a spoon, man, seriously
- when my favorite cubemate’s not around to covet my new shoes
- when coworkers show up 30 minutes late to a meeting, then proceed to ask all the same shit that was just covered
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- when coworkers are stingy with their petrochemical foodstuff
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Rodeo Clowns Are Funny, Apparently
Yesterday I was home sick from work. I watched me a little Beverly Hills 90210, ya know, on Soap Net. I napped a little. But even with this busy schedule, I became a smidge bored. So I did what I do sometimes to entertain myself … I posted an ad in craigslist’s w4m section and then enjoyed reading through the responses. All right, I’m totally breaking the girl code of ethics to admit this. Guys fear it, and, yes, it’s true … we sometimes post just for shits and giggles. (Okay, sometimes we post looking for meaningless sex, but 7 times out of 10, it’s just out of sheer boredom.)
Anyhoo, yesterday I posted this ad:
I’m a b*tch – 34
I’m a tease; I’m a goddess on my knees; When you hurt, when you suffer; I’m your angel undercover; I’ve been numb, I’m revived; Can’t say I’m not alive; You know I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Okay, not the most inspired hook (or song) ever, but I am a bit of a spitfire. You should know that up front. If you’re looking for a nice, normal girl next door, I know lots of em I’d be happy to introduce you to. That’s just not me.
I don’t own a pink Sox hat or watch Grey’s Anatomy, and I most certainly don’t dream of a McMansion in Wellesley. No, I’d rather go to roller derby. I download torrents of Entourage and Battlestar Galactica, and I fantasize about having a yurt on a lake somewhere.
…
Yada yada.
The responses rolled in, and I whiled away the afternoon reading them. Then this morning I got a response that read, in its entirety:
“Prozac or Zanex will help!”
I don’t know if I was feeling particularly cranky because I was still sick and had to go into work anyway or what, but it really got my Irish up. As I showered, I mentally drafted the perfect reply to the man only known to me as BNF61. I shot it off before I left for work, not really expecting a reply. When I got to work, though, I saw that the e-mail had bounced. The fucking smart ass had been too much of a pussy to even use a real e-mail address! Too perfect.
Naturally, I did what any bitch worth her weight in psychotropic meds would do … I posted my reply on craigslist.
Dear BNF61
Dear BNF61, aka the dude who’s too wimpy to write an e-mail using a real e-mail address,
Thanks for the tip, but next time I need stupid medical advice I’ll ask a rodeo clown or a chimp that knows sign language or something. See Prozac is used for depression and *Xanax* (not Zanex) is prescribed for anxiety, neither of which are indicated in my post. If there were a pill to make smart, vivacious women suddenly become boring prigs, I’d probably start a blog to warn everyone about it. Since you seem to prefer your women medicated, though, might I recommend Rohypnol? Maybe unconscious women won’t realize what a dumbass you are. Then again, I make no guarantees.
—
By this time, I had taken down my original post—having actual work to keep me occupied. Even without benefit of the original post or any backstory at all, about two dozen very sweet men wrote to give props, ask me out, etc.
Now I wonder if the best w4m ad isn’t an imaginary caustic response to some imaginary retard. Hmm.
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Dead Guys I Like, Part 4
Among other laudable qualities, Vonnegut was … is very quotable, so I’m breaking my usual one-quote epitaph.
- “Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.”
- “Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.”
- “Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college.”
- “Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”
- “I am eternally grateful … for my knack of finding in great books, some of them very funny books, reason enough to feel honored to be alive, no matter what else might be going on.”
- “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.”
- “A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.”
Cat’s Cradle was one of the rare assigned books that I actually read in college, and I am the better for it. It contains one of the few scenes in literature that is etched in my psyche and, I hope, will remain so until I myself am no more.
The best thing I think you can say about a man is certainly true of Vonnegut … he became less cynical with age.
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Pies, Thighs and Displacement
Over on TLC’s What Not To Wear, they say mini skirts after 35 are a serious no-no. I don’t know what I’d think about this prescription if I weren’t a whisker away from turning the big three-five myself, but since that’s not the case, I’m happy to report I’ve been able to displace all my angst about getting older into a preoccupation with not being able to wear mini skirts 132 days from now.
Inspired by Craig Robinson’s beautiful personal pies, I made some pies of my own.
According to these guys, I’ve got a pretty good chance of living to the ripe old age of 92. So that means I’ve got about 37.6503871347826% down, about 62.3496128652174% to go … ya know … mas o menos.
That’s not so bad. I can live with that pie. If we accept, though, that the maximum mini skirt–wearing life span is 35 years, the pie is a little less comforting. I have, therefore, come up with a little something I like to call the Summer of the Mini Skirt.
I just don’t know if 132 days of feeling the breeze blow up around my bloomers is quite enough. Perhaps in 132 days’ time I will say fuck it and tempt the fashion fates. Stay tuned.
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Bring Sexy Back … Now, Please
WTF, man? I was all excited that Becks moved to the U.S., anticipating a welcome, uh … surge, shall we say, in photographic coverage of him. Every lovely inch.
Then I see this over at the Superficial!
Yeah. Let’s look at that again.
Has moving to the U.S. sapped him of his yumminess already? God, please say it ain’t so.
Far-fetched to think just moving to the U.S. has the power to turn the hottest dadgum hunk o’ man into a junkie hobo?
Lest we forget …
Becksie, get out now … while you’re still able! And for chrissake, stop hanging out with Tom.
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Name's Kirsten. I'm a splitter of hairs, a hillbilly, a rock horns devotee, an ellipses-lovin' fool, and queen of the conceptual jinx. I'm also a geek and the grateful human of littleblackdog. I do this and that and some of the other … up to and including writing this here blog.
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cheese for dinner by kirsten k. hammann is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
SuperMini by unnerkrunt and nocreativity.