We have two guest writers tonight. (Go to "View my complete profile" and then to the bottom of the page.) Both of our guests are co-workers of mine.
Our first contributor has chosen to remain anonymous. I made one editorial change to her submission. I changed the word "buglers" to the word "burglars." Of course, I suppose she might have intended to use the word "buglers" which would give her story a whole different twist.
Our second contributor is the inimitable Carly Latiolais. She is currently my most requested guest writer.
Enjoy.
Thursday, November 04, 2004
Secret Codes
They changed the security code on the doors at work again today. The management does this occasionally for (a) security reasons and (b) for the hell of it. Personally, I don’t care what management does as long as I never again in this lifetime have to be a law office manager. I did it for seven years before coming here and becoming the “calendar girl” and it was a miserable job. If my current bosses want me to type hanging from the ceiling on one of those saloon girl swings, I’ll do it. Just don’t make me manage anyone.
That being said, I hate it when they change the security code. It takes me approximately 42 entry attempts before the new 3-number code becomes second nature to me and that is precisely when they change it again. This time, I decided I would outsmart the suckers. I wrote the code on the palm of my left hand with a Sharpie. However, when I went to the restroom a while ago and tried to come back in, I automatically punched in the old code. When you punch the numbers, they beep. So everyone on the inside of the door hears you beeping 15 times rather than the normal 3 times. That’s not the bad part. Not only had I forgotten the new code, I had forgotten that I had written it on my hand. Can you believe these people pay me to work here?
That being said, I hate it when they change the security code. It takes me approximately 42 entry attempts before the new 3-number code becomes second nature to me and that is precisely when they change it again. This time, I decided I would outsmart the suckers. I wrote the code on the palm of my left hand with a Sharpie. However, when I went to the restroom a while ago and tried to come back in, I automatically punched in the old code. When you punch the numbers, they beep. So everyone on the inside of the door hears you beeping 15 times rather than the normal 3 times. That’s not the bad part. Not only had I forgotten the new code, I had forgotten that I had written it on my hand. Can you believe these people pay me to work here?
Muddy stream of consciousness...
I can’t believe it’s already Thursday. I can’t believe it’s November. I can’t believe it’s almost 2005. I can’t believe I’m almost 50.
New Look
As you can tell, I've changed the look of my blog. It's still pretty basic but I'm far too cheap to pay for some of the amazing looking templates that are out there. (Check out www.blogmoxie.com.)
There are two things I want to point out. On the sidebar are some websites and blogs that I recommend. Also, I've created a guest contributor area because Carly's post was such a hit (no sarcasm). To get there, click on "View my complete profile" and go to the bottom of the page. If you want to contribute something, send it to my personal e-mail and I'll post it for you. If you choose to remain anonymous, I promise to keep your secret (for a small fee).
There are two things I want to point out. On the sidebar are some websites and blogs that I recommend. Also, I've created a guest contributor area because Carly's post was such a hit (no sarcasm). To get there, click on "View my complete profile" and go to the bottom of the page. If you want to contribute something, send it to my personal e-mail and I'll post it for you. If you choose to remain anonymous, I promise to keep your secret (for a small fee).
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Perfect Example
I had a co-worker who had the unique talent of being able to perfectly express her discontent with her job. One day she was storming around the office after being reprimanded for something she viewed as insignificant. She passed me in the hall, glared at me and said, "Yeah, I have a bad attitude. And, I don't give a shit."
I ask you. Is that the perfect definition of "bad attitude" or what? Of course, I never knew if she didn't give a shit that she had a bad attitude or if she just generally didn't give a shit.
I ask you. Is that the perfect definition of "bad attitude" or what? Of course, I never knew if she didn't give a shit that she had a bad attitude or if she just generally didn't give a shit.
Election
I just went out to get my newspaper. It's a bone-chilling 56 degrees out there. I cautiously looked at the headline to see who our president is. I say cautiously because I think either candidate is going to get us into a whole heap of trouble. The headline reads "It's Close." I'm too afraid to turn on the television to find out so I guess I'll wait until I get to work to learn who our next fearless leader will be.
For now, I'm just a happy little Hobbit wandering blissfully through the Shire like Frodo before Bilbo gave him that damn ring.
For now, I'm just a happy little Hobbit wandering blissfully through the Shire like Frodo before Bilbo gave him that damn ring.
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
Brrrrrrrrr
The first cold front of the year is upon me. I'm a bit of a lizard when it comes to the weather. The cold front of which I speak will give us highs in the 60's and lows in the 40's.
I can practically hear by Blogger friend Lorna up in Canada laughing herself silly at that one. I was reading an entry of hers a few days ago (http://lornacr.blogspot.com/) in which she was trying to start an exercise program and hoped she could keep it up once it started snowing. What? You go outside when it snows? You drive when it snows? The schools and offices and government buildings don't close down when it snows? Here in Southeast Texas, if it snows an inch (which it hasn't done in at least ten years), everything literally shuts down.
If I lived in Canada, no one would see me between September and May. The bears have the right idea, fur coats and sleep. Cuddle up buttercup.
I can practically hear by Blogger friend Lorna up in Canada laughing herself silly at that one. I was reading an entry of hers a few days ago (http://lornacr.blogspot.com/) in which she was trying to start an exercise program and hoped she could keep it up once it started snowing. What? You go outside when it snows? You drive when it snows? The schools and offices and government buildings don't close down when it snows? Here in Southeast Texas, if it snows an inch (which it hasn't done in at least ten years), everything literally shuts down.
If I lived in Canada, no one would see me between September and May. The bears have the right idea, fur coats and sleep. Cuddle up buttercup.
A Guest Writer
I seem to have inspired one of my co-workers in her pursuit of literary expression. I generously offered her (at the quite reasonable rate of $1 per word) space on my blog for her to amaze you with her wit and wisdom. So, without further ado, I proudly present Carly Latiolais. (I’m going shoppin’!)
After reading Ms. Laurie Anderson’s most entertaining blog, I felt inspired...no... compelled, to try my hand at writing an equally entertaining anecdote. While I have not lived quite as long as Laurie, I’m only 24, nor have I had as many experiences, the following is one of the few humorous stories I do have. (Note from Laurie: She's got plenty of stories.)
Sorry, but I had to take a dig at the age thing. Couldn’t pass it up. But I digress...
Let me take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Carly and I’m a paralegal at the same law firm where Laurie works. While this may be my writing debut, this is not the first time I’ve had the pleasure of showing up in Laurie’s blog. You may know me better as "Carly The Afflicted." That’s right, you guessed it, I was the unfortunate subject of "Ode to the Loathsome Fever Blister" and for those of you who care, my lip is back to normal. Thank you for your cards and letters. They meant so much.
The fever blister that was so eloquently referred to in the "Ode" was not the first I’ve been blessed with. It wasn’t even the first time I’ve had one at work, which brings me to the subject of this entry: my first fever blister at the office. I’ve named this entry "Ode to the Loathsome Fever Blister Part ½". Not original, but imitation is the best form of flattery. And here we go...
It was Memorial weekend and because I was out in the sun and stressed out, for whatever reason, the inevitable happened. I arrived to work on Tuesday with a blister the size of a bowling ball on my lower lip. Now, anyone who’s ever had a blister knows that these things, even with the aid of medicine, take a while to heal, so we’ll skip the rest of this week and move right along to the following Monday when my blister had now taken the form of a large scab. Stick with me, the story will get better.
In my part of the office, my cubicle sits right outside of the offices of a partner and an associate. As it is with most law firms, I reserve my conversations with the partner to be limited to business matters only. I don’t know why, it’s just the way it is. The associate, Fritz (not his real name) and I, however, are very close and have various conversations not related to work issues several times a day.
After Fritz had finished yukking it up, he made his way throughout the office suggesting to all of my co-workers that they come up to me and motion that I had something on my lip. Funny, huh? (Sarcasm.) So, from Tuesday until Thursday, various followers...er...co-workers obeyed Fritz’s suggestion and I was inundated with played-out references to my lip. It got real old, real quick.
So, imagine how relieved I was to find that Friday morning I awoke to find my scab was gone and my lip was back to normal. (Note from Laurie: I wonder where the scab went? Sorry for the interruption, back to the story.) When I arrived at work, I couldn’t help but notice how disappointed Fritz was that his only reason for living had disappeared and he would now have to focus on whatever he called a life.
Well, later that day, around noon, I had finished my lunch and went to get my desert out of the fridge. What desert did I bring that day? Why, chocolate pudding, of course! Can you tell where this is going?
I tried to open my pudding, but couldn’t seem to get the plastic lid to tear off. After one last heroic effort, the lid suddenly flew off and little splashes of pudding went everywhere. Recalling the week’s events, I knew I had to get to the bathroom before Fritz saw me. When I reached the mirror in the bathroom, it was just as I had expected. My face was covered with pudding spots. I immediately began scouring my face. I was in there for at least ten minutes scrubbing each part of my face. Satisfied with my cleaning job, I went back to my desk right before Fritz walked into his office.
Shortly thereafter, Fritz and I started up another one of our random conversations about nothing. To avoid shouting at each other, he walked out of his office and stood near my desk. It was at that time, he said something that struck me as being quite funny and I leaned back in my chair and started laughing. And then he said something that to this day still rings in my ears... "Carly, what’s that on your neck?!" My laughter halted abruptly and all I could do was stare at him. Timidly, I reached for where Fritz was pointing and discovered what would become the bane of my existence, a glob of dried chocolate adhered to my neck. In my haste to expunge my face of all traces of pudding, I had forgotten to check the rest of my body, including my neck.
Well it’s been a little over 5 months since the "event" and I’ve slowly, but surely, gotten my dignity back and this is where my story ends. If after reading my tale of woe, you find nothing of worth, at least remember this: No matter where you are or what you’re doing, always, always check your neck.
You’ve been a wonderful audience! Thank you.
Ode to the Loathsome Fever Blister Part ½
Sorry, but I had to take a dig at the age thing. Couldn’t pass it up. But I digress...
Let me take a moment to introduce myself. My name is Carly and I’m a paralegal at the same law firm where Laurie works. While this may be my writing debut, this is not the first time I’ve had the pleasure of showing up in Laurie’s blog. You may know me better as "Carly The Afflicted." That’s right, you guessed it, I was the unfortunate subject of "Ode to the Loathsome Fever Blister" and for those of you who care, my lip is back to normal. Thank you for your cards and letters. They meant so much.
The fever blister that was so eloquently referred to in the "Ode" was not the first I’ve been blessed with. It wasn’t even the first time I’ve had one at work, which brings me to the subject of this entry: my first fever blister at the office. I’ve named this entry "Ode to the Loathsome Fever Blister Part ½". Not original, but imitation is the best form of flattery. And here we go...
It was Memorial weekend and because I was out in the sun and stressed out, for whatever reason, the inevitable happened. I arrived to work on Tuesday with a blister the size of a bowling ball on my lower lip. Now, anyone who’s ever had a blister knows that these things, even with the aid of medicine, take a while to heal, so we’ll skip the rest of this week and move right along to the following Monday when my blister had now taken the form of a large scab. Stick with me, the story will get better.
In my part of the office, my cubicle sits right outside of the offices of a partner and an associate. As it is with most law firms, I reserve my conversations with the partner to be limited to business matters only. I don’t know why, it’s just the way it is. The associate, Fritz (not his real name) and I, however, are very close and have various conversations not related to work issues several times a day.
Fritz and I are a sarcastic people and are normally the butts of each others jokes. It’s just the nature of our relationship. Anyway, this particular Monday, Fritz was standing outside his doorway talking to me when another attorney, Leroy (also not his real name – Laurie, why do we do this?) walked up and joined our conversation. Halfway through his sentence, Leroy glanced at me and started making a gesture at his lip. I looked back at him with a puzzled expression. This went on for a few seconds until he finally shouted, "Carly, you have chocolate on your lip!" Fritz immediately doubled over into fits of laughter, because Leroy had mistaken my blister for chocolate.
After Fritz had finished yukking it up, he made his way throughout the office suggesting to all of my co-workers that they come up to me and motion that I had something on my lip. Funny, huh? (Sarcasm.) So, from Tuesday until Thursday, various followers...er...co-workers obeyed Fritz’s suggestion and I was inundated with played-out references to my lip. It got real old, real quick.
So, imagine how relieved I was to find that Friday morning I awoke to find my scab was gone and my lip was back to normal. (Note from Laurie: I wonder where the scab went? Sorry for the interruption, back to the story.) When I arrived at work, I couldn’t help but notice how disappointed Fritz was that his only reason for living had disappeared and he would now have to focus on whatever he called a life.
Well, later that day, around noon, I had finished my lunch and went to get my desert out of the fridge. What desert did I bring that day? Why, chocolate pudding, of course! Can you tell where this is going?
I tried to open my pudding, but couldn’t seem to get the plastic lid to tear off. After one last heroic effort, the lid suddenly flew off and little splashes of pudding went everywhere. Recalling the week’s events, I knew I had to get to the bathroom before Fritz saw me. When I reached the mirror in the bathroom, it was just as I had expected. My face was covered with pudding spots. I immediately began scouring my face. I was in there for at least ten minutes scrubbing each part of my face. Satisfied with my cleaning job, I went back to my desk right before Fritz walked into his office.
Shortly thereafter, Fritz and I started up another one of our random conversations about nothing. To avoid shouting at each other, he walked out of his office and stood near my desk. It was at that time, he said something that struck me as being quite funny and I leaned back in my chair and started laughing. And then he said something that to this day still rings in my ears... "Carly, what’s that on your neck?!" My laughter halted abruptly and all I could do was stare at him. Timidly, I reached for where Fritz was pointing and discovered what would become the bane of my existence, a glob of dried chocolate adhered to my neck. In my haste to expunge my face of all traces of pudding, I had forgotten to check the rest of my body, including my neck.
Well it’s been a little over 5 months since the "event" and I’ve slowly, but surely, gotten my dignity back and this is where my story ends. If after reading my tale of woe, you find nothing of worth, at least remember this: No matter where you are or what you’re doing, always, always check your neck.
You’ve been a wonderful audience! Thank you.
The Stump
Laurie and Donna 2002-ish
Several years ago, my friend Donna and I spent the weekend at her boyfriend's lake house on Sam Rayburn lake. At the time, the thing to do in Jasper on a Saturday night is have dinner at "The Stump" and stay for karaoke. As far as I know, this is still the thing to do on a Saturday night in Jasper. I wouldn't know. I haven't gone back.
"The Stump" was everything you'd expect a place called "The Stump" to be. Most of the menu was fried and covered in either gravy or tartar sauce. The clientele at "The Stump" included city folks in town for the weekend and locals. This particular weekend was the weekend of Tracy Byrd's annual fishing tournament. That fact becomes important later in the story.
Donna and I had dinner and afterward, we moved to a different table for a better view of the karaoke festivities. I love karaoke and I especially enjoy the non-great karaokers. They have no shame and most of them are usually well-lubricated, which makes them even more fun to watch.
One of the first performers that night was a guy who sang some sappy song to his wife of one year. They apparently met at "The Stump." I will refrain from making a snippy comment about the fact that they met at "The Stump" because they were genuinely nice people. When he finished his lovely tribute, the guy joined his wife at the table beside our table.
At one point in the evening, I noticed a tall good-looking blond guy come into the restaurant/bar/karaoke club and lean seductively against a wall. I commented to Donna that he looked like Alan Jackson. She said, "Well, you know Tracy Byrd's fishing tournament is in town and sometimes celebrities come in for it." I could tell, however, by the non-reaction of the crowd around the "cowboy" that he obviously was not Alan Jackson. I had a feeling this crowd could have picked Alan Jackson out of a lineup at fifty paces in a snowstorm.
As we were watching the singers and minding our own business, a guy came to the table and asked Donna for "a light." She gave him a light and he sat there and talked to her for a while and left. I asked her what he said and she responded, "He was an idiot. I told him I was married." The next thing we knew, he was back at our table with "Alan Jackson."
"Alan" sat beside me. He stretched his long legs out and accidentally-on-purpose hit one of his legs on the table. He actually said, "My legs are so long, I have trouble sometimes." I smiled and said, "Uh-huh." I turned my attention back to the karaoke and he leaned over and said, "Do you like country music?" I said, "Yes." I was doing my best to not encourage him, but he had apparently decided I was his goal for the evening.
I could tell that "Alan Jackson" thought I wasn't catching on to his hints. So, he decided to pull out the big guns. He asked, "Do you like the song 'Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning?'" I said, "Yes." He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long Alan-Jackson-like legs and nodded knowingly at me assuming that I would assume that he was indeed Alan Jackson. We all know what happens when we assume. I did not assume that he was Alan Jackson, but he assumed that I did.
I became concerned, because I didn't know what was scarier. Did this guy want me to believe he was Alan Jackson or did this guy actually think he was Alan Jackson? My reply to him was, "Ah hah." It was not a Sherlock Holmes type exclamation of "ah-hah!" it was more of a you're a psycho, go away and leave me alone type of "ah-hah."
I have no idea what Donna's pursuer was telling her but she was equally unimpressed. The stalkers eventually got up and left but we weren't alone for long. Our next admirer was a very young guy who once again asked Donna for "a light." Evidently, this is a popular opening line at "The Stump." Donna gave him a light and he sat down. The older guy he was with asked me to dance and I went. When I got back to the table, Donna said the young guy told her the older guy I was dancing with had gotten him into the club because he was under the drinking age (21 years old) and he wanted to know if she liked younger guys. She told him she had a son his age, but that didn't bother him one tiny Jasper bit.
Back on the karaoke stage the first guy who asked Donna for a light ("Alan Jackson's" friend) was trying to sing and I mean trying with a capital "T." I have seen a lot of karaoke in my day but this, by far, was the worst. He couldn't find the key and was moving randomly (and rapidly) from octave to octave while trying to sing some Eagle's song. It was quite the spectacle.
We clapped politely and he came back to the table and asked Donna, "How did you like that?" I don't know what she said but it had to be an Oscar-worthy performance because he didn't hit her or anything. "Alan Jackson" came back to the table (they had apparently decided to work together to try to close the deal) and the creepy pair invited us to leave with them and go back to their trailer and sit around a campfire and listen to them sing. I am not even kidding about that. That was their actual proposal for the rest of our evening. More Oscar-worthy performances all around, because they once again didn't hit us or anything. They finally went away when they could tell it wasn't going to happen.
Not to be outdone, "Young Guy" and "Old Guy" came back to the table. I went to dance with "Old Guy" while Donna was verbally accosted by horny young guy once again. When I got back to the table, there were finally no men around and Donna looked at me and said, "Are you ready to leave?"
I said, "Please, God, yes."
As we turned around to say goodbye to the anniversary couple, who evidently had been watching the whole sordid affair, the wife looked at us and simply said, "RUN!" We started out casually walking to the door but, when we got outside, we walked faster and faster until we were actually running to the car.
We made it back to the lake house with our lives and our creepified dignity. By the way, Alan Jackson, if you were at "The Stump" in Jasper, Texas in the fall of 2002, I was just playing hard to get. Call me.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Osama Bin Laden and Voting
I recently watched Osama Bin Laden's latest rant and I have a couple of comments.
First, I have to say this guy is a better hider than Bubba Landry. You know, the kid in everyone's neighborhood who was great at hide-and-seek. Bubba is probably still in a tree somewhere on 14th Street in Port Arthur living off china berries and squirrel nuts waiting for someone to find him. Olly olly otsin free, Bubba. You're 40 years old. It's embarrassing.
Second, if Osama Bin Laden is saying that George Bush is leading America astray and that we should vote for John Kerry, wouldn't he be saying exactly the opposite of what he wants us to do? He knows no one would do anything he suggests. So, that would mean he really wants us to vote for George Bush? If that's what he wants, then we can't do that either...because he wants that, you see?
I think my brain just exploded a little.
First, I have to say this guy is a better hider than Bubba Landry. You know, the kid in everyone's neighborhood who was great at hide-and-seek. Bubba is probably still in a tree somewhere on 14th Street in Port Arthur living off china berries and squirrel nuts waiting for someone to find him. Olly olly otsin free, Bubba. You're 40 years old. It's embarrassing.
Second, if Osama Bin Laden is saying that George Bush is leading America astray and that we should vote for John Kerry, wouldn't he be saying exactly the opposite of what he wants us to do? He knows no one would do anything he suggests. So, that would mean he really wants us to vote for George Bush? If that's what he wants, then we can't do that either...because he wants that, you see?
I think my brain just exploded a little.
Weblog Reviews
Thanks to http://www.weblogreview.com/ for their nice reviews. I never know if something I’ve written is truly funny to other people or if they’re just being nice. I mean, I think it’s funny, but, what do I know? I liked Ren and Stimpy.
It's Monday Alright...
I’m having one of those boomerang brain kind of days where thoughts try to get into my brain and bounce off and go right back out into space. People come into my office to ask me a question and before I can even pull up the calendar, I’m asking them again what I’m looking for.
I also just spilled a full glass of water all over my desk but successfully managed to get it wiped up before the computer chick came by and caught me.
The bad news is, I think some of the water fell precariously close to my CPU so I may get zapped at any moment. At least that would wake me up.
The good news is that since the cleaning people only dust in the academic sense of the word, my desk is really clean now.
I also just spilled a full glass of water all over my desk but successfully managed to get it wiped up before the computer chick came by and caught me.
The bad news is, I think some of the water fell precariously close to my CPU so I may get zapped at any moment. At least that would wake me up.
The good news is that since the cleaning people only dust in the academic sense of the word, my desk is really clean now.
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