No thank you

Every Wednesday morning Harris Teeter sends me an email filling me in on what’s on sale for the upcoming week.  Holyfoodporn I love it.  Harris Teeter even sends me a personalized list based on what I normally buy.  I know I should be creeped out that they are tracking my purchases, and it is a little unsettling when a sale on Tampax super absorbents just happens to coincide with my period, but mainly I love scrolling through the list and making a shopping list in my head.

It’s also kind of a stroll down memory lane.  You know, you’re right, Harris Teeter; I have been buying an awful lot of mushrooms.  And cranberry juice.  And peanut butter.

But this:

white asparagusThanks but no thanks.

Sorry Harris Teeter.  I don’t care how good of a sale you’re running, but I am NOT buying or eating white asparagus.  It looks creepy and human.

Tae Bo! Let’s go!

Hello, chickadees! My calendar has informed me that it is September 29th, and you know what that means–the countdown to HALLOWEEN has begun! Seriously, have you thought about your costume? I’ve thought about mine. I won’t reveal it here yet, but I will let you know it involves a leotard.


And since (as I heard a pageant coach explain it so neatly) you can’t put 10 pounds of sugar in a 5 pound bag, I decided to turn to my old friend, Billy Blanks.

You remember Billy Blanks of Tae Bo fame, right?

tae bo

Aw yeah.

Of course you do.

I bought Billy’s Tae Bo box set on VHS before I left for my first year of college, determined to fend off the freshman 15.  Little did I know I’d be so disappointed at my tiny women’s college that I’d survive on a diet of saltines and vodka-and-cranberry juice and end up losing 15+ pounds.

What was once a 4-tape set has been whittled down by time to one VHS tape, but luckily it is the basic workout, rather than the instructional video or (heaven forbid!) the advanced workout.  Baby steps.

The only VCR in my house is in my bedroom, so I kicked the dog beds out to clear a space between my bed and my dresser for jabs and uppercuts.  Unfortunately I didn’t sweep up my gym space and I ended up slipping on all the accumulated dog dirt and hair during a stretch.  At least it wasn’t during a back kick.  Another snag was when Ernie came bounding in the bedroom, excited by my enthusiastic answer to Billy’s, “how are you feeling?!?” (answer: “All right!” *fist pump*) and tackled me onto the bed.

ernie vs. billy

Dammit, Ernie, mommy needs to get rid of 5 pounds of sugar.

All in all, it is a good workout.  An especially good ab workout, since Billy’s nipple keeps escaping his unitard? leotard? spandex coveralls? and peeking out at me.  My friend Cory and I used to sit on my couch, drinks in hand, clutching our sides and laughing at each appearance of the “renegade nipple.”  A good drinking game AND a good ab workout.

Tiny dinosaurs eat tiny ferns

Arggh…due to a monster staff meeting this morning I’m just now getting around to my Monday morning didn’t-have-the-patience-to-do-it-on-Fridaypile o’ work.


Usually during staff meetings I don’t have much to say.  Talky McGossips-a-lot is one of those annoying people who can’t go to the corner store without running into a guy he used to work with, the lady he lives down the street from, and his second cousins thrice-removed (on his mother’s side).  He usually fills us in on who’s involved in what public policy scandal this week.  Another co-worker spends 45 minutes telling everyone about the work he’s attempted to do the previous week, and how his efforts have been thwarted at every turn by circumstances outside of his control (“well, so-and-so was supposed to get back with me about that issue, but I’m still waiting on an email,”).  I, on the other hand, keep my mouth shut unless absolutely necessary and take detailed notes.


Yes, our meeting was about giraffes that look like my sister.  And tiny dinosaurs munching on tiny ferns.  Oh, you weren’t aware I worked at the department of Make Believe?  Consider yourself informed.

These endless, pointless, WEEKLY meetings are taking a toll on me.  I am ripping my cuticles to shreds.  Seriously, my hands look like Frodo Baggins after one of our marathon meetings.  Any advice?  I’m thinking of getting a stress ball, or does that broadcasting too loudly that the combined neurosis of my co-workers stresses me the fuck out?  It’s like some truly messed-up version of Captain Planet.

Gossip!  Ineptitude!  Micro-management!  Blame shifting!  Enclosed spaces!

By your powers combined, I am CAPTAIN SHREDDED CUTICLES!

p.s. I blogged this weekend in my quest to post 30 blog posts in 30 days (jeez, could this sentence BE any more awkward?).  So check out
this and this for some weekend bloggy goodness.

France, Georgia

This morning I was lying in bed watching a movie on TBS (Invincible with Mark Wahlberg, if you are interested). A Miracle Whip commercial played about, oh, I don’t know, maybe a MILLION times.

Now, I am no great fan of Miracle Whip, or really mayonnaise or mayonnaise-type condiment (I am a more of a mustard girl). My personal preferences aside, I don’t think it was the best advertising campaign. Perhaps it’s just me, but seeing someone end up with a glob of mayonnaise (or Miracle Whip – equal opportunity hater here) in the corner of their mouth after a big ol’ bite of turkey sandwich doesn’t do much for me. Kind of grosses me out; but again, I’m not a mayonnaise girl, so obviously I’m not the target market for this ad.

So aside from the obligatory mayonnaise facial shot, the commercial also had some ‘declarations’ written in white text superimposed over pictures of young hipsters having fun and consuming mayonnaise. Sounds harmless? Well it wasn’t, because each phrase (“We refuse to play second fiddle”) was wiped off the screen, leaving a white greasy smear. Gross, I know.

But the part that got Steve and I talking was the first phrase, which was something like “we refuse to blend in,” which was displayed over someone making potato salad. Really, Miracle Whip? You refuse to blend in? Isn’t that the point of using Miracle Whip/mayonnaise in a potato salad? To blend in and bind the other ingredients together? I’ve always imagined mayo blending purposefully into the background, getting us all to forget it’s in there among the celery and mustard, waiting for a favorable increase in temperature to turn rancid the ruin picnic.

We were still talking about blending in on our walk back from a delicious breakfast at our favorite greasy spoon (french toast for me, hamburger steak [barf] for him). I broke the news to Steve that he does and most likely will continue to have a hard time blending in, which led to this comeback:

“I blend in perfectly in my hometown of France!”

I started to say that France isn’t a town, but I had to catch myself because I’m sure there is some small town in the south named France. Georgia, perhaps?

Seacrest out.

In which Ernie learns a new trick

The day started out strong – breakfast quiche. I should have known, it was all down hill from there.

It’s been raining ALL DAY LONG, leaving me only one option for how to spend the day. Watching every true-crime Dateline: Investigation special I could find while drinking beer and teaching Ernie a new trick.

What new trick? I thought you’d never ask. Listen closely, it’s pretty complicated.

I form a gate in front of me with my pointer fingers.

“Cut the cheese, Ernie!”

ernie cuts the cheese


Forecast for tomorrow? More rain.


Your’re Computer Haz Been Enfected with SPYWARE!!1!

My computer is dying, y’all, DYING!  Poor, poor work computer.  She is suffering from a disgusting virus that has made a scary message utilizing poor grammar replace the picture of my sisters and I at my sister’s wedding as my desktop background.  Yesterday I had to break down and call our Tech department to come out and fix it.  I’m attempting to put the blame on downloading Internet Explorer 8, rather than admitting to my devious attempt to subvert the work web filter by adding Twitter and Facebook gadgets to my iGoogle page.  I have a feeling that wouldn’t go over well. 

And how’s this for salt in the wound:  My boss recently retired, and since a replacement has yet to be hired, his office is empty.  Just yesterday I had the brilliant idea to switch out my cruddy mouse, which was getting really jumpy and seriously cramping my free-hand Paint skills, for my boss’ mouse (I slathered my hand with Purell and rubbed it all over the new-to-me mouse, then wiped it off with a Kleenex.  The idea of using someone else’s mouse is kind of repulsive, but after this ritual I felt ok.).  Where am I working from today?  You got it – Old Boss’ office, complete with jumpy mouse.  Oh well, it could be worse.  His office definitely has a better view than mine.

So now a guy from Technology is working on my computer (not my work boyfriend – he moved to California, although this guy would be kind of cute if not for the lazy eye).  Let’s all hope he can fix her, without discovering that the virus was caused by me watching clips of Oprah’s MacKenzie Phillips interview at

Tomorrow I will tell you how I went to my first yoga class and did not fart.

mfers, mohawk, bsb 1998, liz lemon asexual, mexico independence

No jokes, these are the Top Searches that led people to my blog this week, according to WordPress stats.  WTF, dudes?

If you end up here looking for some information re: mexican independence, you are going to leave dissatisfied.  Unless Harry Potter had something to do with it (the jury’s still out, but I’m leaning towards nofuckingway).

harry potter cinco de mayo

Felize Cinco de Mayo! Viva la Revolution!

I read this yesterday, and revealed to all in the comment section my love of Thundercats and my pre-school crush on Lionel.

What’s that you say?  His name is Lion-O?  Surely you jest.  No way that’s his real name.  Let’s skip on over to Wikipedia, the keeper of all pop culture knowledge.

Oh yes but it is.  Apparently even my pre-school brain rejected that bullshit and renamed him the more acceptable Lionel.  Lion-O?  Come on.  We aren’t some 9th graders trying to pass Spanish 101 here.  You can’t just add an “O” to the end of a word.  Or a name.




Alright, you got me on the last one.  If I could go back in time and tell my wanna-be hipster self that naming your cat after a blood disorder is a really douche-baggy thing to do, I would.  If photographic evidence existed of my thought process (“Hey, here’s my Genetics textbook, open to…H for Hemophilia.  What an awesome name for a cat!”) I would be the first one to send to it latfh and laugh.

how hemo got her name

I still drink PBR, though.  I’m on a budget!*

Permission to go off on a tangent?  Granted.

Thank you.

I love Ernie and I love that he’s named after Ernest Hemingway, but what I do not love is that his name is not very conducive to yelling.  As in “ERNIE!  DO NOT EAT THAT CAT POOP!”

It comes out sounding kind of forced and strangled.  Go ahead, try it.

If a sound can be guttural AND shriek-y at the same time, that would be it.  The sound of a mouse barfing.  A slightly larger than average mouse.**  So I’ve decided that when I need to yell at Ernie, I will call him Bernie.  So I can really put some UMPH behind it.  Or maybe I’ll just stick with YOUSONOFABITCH, as heard frequently in the phrase “YOUSONOFABITCH, you ate my late pair of underwear!”

Which, in case you are wondering, is not as awesome as being on a boat.
**A Rodent of Unusual Size, if you will.

New Business:

Hello!  Welcome back (to me)!  Sorry about the hiatus.  Between Hemo going AWOL and work stressing me out to the point that I was seriously contemplating violence (towards others or myself), you wouldn’t have wanted to read what I had to say.  It would have been a black hole of four letter words and inexpertly rendered Paint images of headless, bloody torsos.

office massacre

Nobody needs that at 9:00 in the morning.

So now I’m back to a system of self-imposed punishments and rewards that gets me through the day.  I realized I had hit a low point yesterday when I wouldn’t let myself go to the bathroom until I had finished the make-work I was in the middle of.  Just to spice things up and bit and add a sense of urgency to the mindless task at hand.  When I had stapled the last informational packet, I was flooded with a sense of relief and walked with new-found purpose to the restroom.  

I was reminded of when I was a kid and was sent to clean my room, “and I’ll be checking your closet, too,” my mom would ominously intone.  Fuck.

Of course I didn’t say fuck, I didn’t even know that word until probably 6th grade (thank you Jennifer Johnson!).  I would chew on a Barbie foot for a couple minutes, completely paralyzed by the task at hand.  Bored and seriously considering my Dad’s offer threat to throw the whole mess away, I’d wander down to the bathroom to kill some time.

“What are you doing?  Aren’t you supposed to be cleaning your room?!?”

“Jeez, Mom, I’m peeing.  Aren’t I allowed to pee?”

Magically, upon returning to my room with an empty bladder, the task at hand never seemed quite so daunting.  I’d go about “cleaning,” or shoving dirty clothes and My Little Ponies in drawers and under the bed.  Mission Accomplished.

So anyway, I’m (hopefully) back in the blogging saddle.  I’m declaring my own personal challenge of 30 posts in 30 days.  So be prepared for an onslaught of unsolicited minutia of daily life.  Like how I was in the stairwell and work and it smelled REALLY BADLY of powerful BO.  Like, on par with how Steve smells after spending all day at the rendering plant and then running 6 miles at the Y.  Bad.  But there was no one in the stairwell except for me, leaving me to contemplate how bad a person’s body odor must be if the ghost of it is haunting a 3 story stairwell. 

stink monster

On second thought, I’m going to hope that mystery goes unsolved.

Homeward Bound: The not-so-incredible journey

Old Business:

hemo ransom

Hemo is home!  After a month and a half without the pleasure of her company, Hemo has returned to the Mutha Fudruckin’ household, none the worse for her absence, other than a slightly more pronounced independent streak.  I was just about to buy some space in the local paper declaring her legally dead at the end of 90 business days and the official end of Hemo Watch, when, by chance, Ernie and I were on our way to the house around the corner to take some passion flower clippings*, and as we turned the corner, I saw a tiny gray cat perched on a similarly-colored cinderblock wall.

“That cat looks just like–OMG HEMO!  HEMO!  WTF ARE YOU DOING?!?”

Hemo was straight chilling on a garden wall, hanging with all of her stray cat friends.  I called her name and she lazily stretched and started yelling at me.

Me: Oh my gosh, Hemo!  I’ve been so worried?  What are you doing here?  Did you want to give me a heart attack?  Couldn’t you have at least called?!?
Hemo: Dude, chill.  You are embarassing me in front of my crew.  What’s for dinner?  Tuna?  I thought I hear you say ‘tuna,’ because if you didn’t say ‘tuna’ then you can forget all about ever seeing me again.  Ever.

Abandoning my quest for invasive vines, I scooped Hemo up and carried her home.  She was literally 50 feet (50 FEET) from home the entire time.  I’m not sure if she was truly lost or just being an asshole.  I’m leaning towards asshole, but either way I’m glad she’s home.  Of course I was out of cat food, having long since used the last of it to top off the dogs’ breakfast one hectic morning when I was running low (again? shocking!) on dog food, so I hand-fed her pieces of American cheese until she promised never to run away again.

Or at least leave a note next time.

On deck for tomorrow:  New Business. 
Oh yes, and there is a lot of it.

Correction: I was getting passion flower clippings and Ernie was searching for the perfect bush in which to take a dump.  He would want me to make this clear.