Random Joke

I was driving home from work yesterday and I passed a parked car with “Want to hear a joke? Call KL5-1234” painted on the rear window. Well, it wasn’t a KL5 number, but I don’t want to blow up some stranger’s phone with internet spizam (ok, that word sounded cooler in my head than it looks typed. Oh well.). Also, I’ve wanted to use the “KL5” prefix ever since I read my first Baby Sitter’s Club book. How cool was Claudia? Check out What Claudia Wore.

I digress.

I’m sitting in traffic with nothing better to do than pick my nose and pretend no one can see me (did I mention my radio was stolen from my car? for the third time? almost a year ago? and I still haven’t replaced it?), so I called. Seeing how close we are to the election, I thought it’d be something along the lines of “Want to hear a joke? Have you hear the one about how Barack Obama has secret makeout parties with anti-American terrorists and serial killers?” Either way, I figured it would be something to blog about.

*ring ring*

Mysterious Jokester: Hello?
Me: Um, I was hoping to hear a joke.
Mysterious Jokester: What kind of pants does Super Mario wear?
Me: I have no idea.
Mysterious Jokester: denimdenimdenim

Get it?

Okay, maybe you had to be there, but I just said ‘thank you’ and laughed all the way home. Or maybe it works better if you say it out loud. That joke is almost as good as my favorite joke.

Q: What kind of bees make milk?

Man, it gets me every time.


You may be right. I may be crazy.

The small women’s college I attended my freshman year bragged about the extensive screening and matching process the recruitment officers go through to determine which two incoming freshmen would be best suited for each other as roommates. I was pumped, although apparently I didn’t convey my true personality, because my roommate and I were no match at all and had nothing in common other than a shared major (Biology, which she promptly changed to Business after our first dissection lab). I should have suspected my roomie wasn’t going to be a barrel of laughs when she contacted me shortly before move-in day to coordinate which twin extra long comforter sets we were going to purchase, “so we’ll match.”

“Jenny” was a huge dork who went home every weekend and had a small desktop zen garden. I blasted Ben Harper, dyed my hair purple, and snuck beer into my mini fridge that my friends at nearby Wake Forest had provided for me. I raked the sand in her zen garden into what I hoped were disruptive patterns in her absence and blamed it on our neighbor, who we both couldn’t stand but was always stopping by. It was during this time I developed the habit of talking out loud to inanimate objects, as I had the room to myself 98% of the time.

Oh, Papa John’s Pizza with ham and pineapple, you are so delicious.

Screw you, printer! Don’t you know I have a paper due in 45 minutes?!?

When I left Salem College and moved to Wilmington, waiting tables didn’t help. I cursed my pens for exploding in my apron, gave the tea urns the finger when they overflowed, and begged my car to start for me in the morning. Mop bucket! How about not tipping over and drenching my shoes for once?

All bets were off, however when I got Hemo. She is the talking-est cat I know. She’ll have a full on conversation.

Me: Hey Hemo, did you have a good day?

Hemo: No.

Me: How about some dinner?

Hemo: Now!

Me: There you go.

Hemo: Fuck you.

Ok then.

My cookie tastes like a pen

Inspired by Ben’s work-related post, here’s a peek into my office:

  • A coworker’s response to a remark about his habit of clipping his nails at his desk:
    “What? At least you know I’m well groomed.”
    What I know is to avoid your office during your grooming sessions, lest I get a nail clipping in my eye.
  • From the mail room lady:
    “Would you like some cheese and jalapeno grits?”
    Yes. A thousand times, yes.
  • A local restaurant dropped off “goody bags” with coupons and pens to drum up some lunch business. I high-five a coworker about our good fortune–coupons and a pen!?! I find out later that each of the bags also had a cookie in them, but the fat bitch switchboard operator took them all out and ate them over the next 3 days. Now I think my pen sucks.
  • The boss is on vacation this week, and I had to show him how to set up his automatic email “away” message. For the fourth time.

    I will not be watering his plants in his absence.

Mondays. *barf*

Mondays are a real bummer. Especially when you have a kick ass weekend that included Beer Fest (where much delicious beer was consumed), and a Sunday night dinner of hot italian sausages.

It was chilly this morning (for North Carolina, anyway; I think it was 51 degrees) so that made it harder than usual to get out of the shower. I was finding things to do so I could justify not getting out.

Hey, haven’t shaved my legs in a while, and I might as well scrub the grout while I’m in here.

I mentally rifled through my closets trying to decide what I was going to wear to work, trying to delay until the last second my departure from the warm humidity of the bathroom. Of course, the shirt I had picked out doesn’t exist and the pants I want to wear were dirty. Oh well. But then my iron wouldn’t get hot. I guess I’ll be sitting at my desk a lot today, hoping that no one notices the wrinkled mess that I’m calling pants.

A good thing about Mondays is that one of the ladies in the next department always bakes up a storm on the weekend and brings in a smorgasbord of banana bread, oatmeal cookies, and spice cake. A bad thing about this is that she puts out a donation cup, with the proceeds supposedly going to cure cancer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all about curing cancer, but I never know how much is appropriate to leave. 50 cents a cookie? I’ve got a couple of dollars in pennies that have collected in my desk drawer; should I dump all of that in? It is money, after all, but I’m having a hard time spending it. No one wants to be that girl, counting out pennies at Food Lion for an AriZona Rx Herbal Tonic and some King’s Hawai’ian Sweet Bread. I usually end up putting a couple of dollars in the cup by the end of the week, unless I’ve been especially gluttonous and then I make myself put in a fiver.

Oh, and did I mention Beer Fest? It was the site of my very first Hula Hoop FAIL.

But I didn’t spill any beer. Win.


Last night the neighbors had a 3 hour screaming match. From what I could gather as I sat on my front porch with a glass of wine a book and pretended to read, He’s been talking to some other girl who means nothing to him, and She’s been talking to several guys who may or may not be her cousins. I’ll let you know how it ends. Hemo is on the shit list for peeing on the dogs’ leashes, but look what I found in my backyard:

A crab spider! Well, Steve calls them crab spiders but I call them pirate spiders because to me it looks like they have a skull painted on their bellies. I’ve been wanting one of my own ever since he pointed a baby one out to me on his porch.

I was a smart kid

When I was younger, I remember being aware of a big “Don’t Drink and Drive” campaign. I couldn’t have been more than6 or 7. At the time, my parents were attempting to enforce a “no eating or drinking in the car” rule, so I just thought that this campaign was part of a movement to keep the nation’s vehicles from looking “like a fucking dumpster” (in my father’s words). It made sense to me; my sisters and I frequently spilled our drinks in the car, and we weren’t even driving. My mom, however, had (and still has) a serious Diet Pepsi addiction. You know how some smokers need a cigarette as soon as they wake up? That’s how Mom was with Diet Pepsi. The sound of a Diet Pepsi can being popped open in the morning is as natural to me as the smell of coffee brewing. Naturally, there was always a Diet Pepsi at hand in the car as she ferried the four of us around.

My mother drinks and drives all the time! I would think to myself when I saw the PSAs with the stern cops cuffing the guilty parties. She didn’t even seem to care, taking a big swig from the can right next to police cars. In my mind, it was only a matter of time before she was caught and arrested. But the thought of separating my mom from her beloved caffeine was too much for my 6 year old brain to handle, so I just prayed that no cops would notice my mom’s brazen consumption. She didn’t spill very often, I reasoned, so maybe they’d let her off easy.

In another flash of childhood brilliance, I announced to my mother one day that I knew why the handicapped parking spaces were so close to store entrances. I’d been eyeballing these spaces for months, knowing there must be a good reason for these spaces to sit empty while our caravan of strollers, diaper bags, and crying toddlers trudged past.

“So handicapped people can get into the stores quickly without everyone in the parking lot staring at them,” I proudly informed her. Hey, it made sense to me. I knew that I personally had a hard time looking away from someone with an obvious handicap, and my younger sisters certainly were no better. I don’t know what I thought happened when the handicapped patrons actually got in the store; would people be so engrossed in deciding between Scooby Doo- or Flintstones-shaped Kraft Macaroni and Cheese that they wouldn’t notice someone speeding past in a motorized wheelchair?

“Well, that may be part of it, but it’s probably because people who are handicapped typically have a harder time getting around in the first place,” my mom patiently explained.

Oh. I guess that makes sense, too.