One Smarmy Mama is the carefully selected winner of the WTF contest from a few days ago. If you send me your address, I will gladly mail you a Somewhat Valuable Prize!! Woo hoo.
Second, (edited) please remember my new blog, True Employee Confessions email your stories to snackishblogATyahoo.com and/or send out some link love to get this thing rolling. I can't wait to read everyone's wacky work stories.
Third, Elizabeth of Table for Five has a great post on feeling like a grownup - or not.
I think she nails how so many of us feel - here we are, at our advanced age, and we still have some seemingly basic skills that we cannot seem to master. We can't save money. Or we can't put together a cute outfit. Or we can't seem to get anywhere on time. Or to find a job that satisfies us. Or to stick with a commitment to get in shape. It's always something.
I have a whole laundry list of these things, but tonight, because Mr Stapler is on his way over, I have been thinking about my lack of Feminine WilesTM. I just missed out on that whole thing.
When he said he was coming over, I brushed my teeth and then went on folding laundry. I thought about how some women would be doing makeup, fixing their hair, deciding on what to wear.
So I went in and put on some brown eyeliner and a tiny bit of eyeshadow. One of my makeup fears is that I don't want people to think I am wearing makeup. Because that would mean what? That I'm trying to look pretty? Well, yes! And I am a smart girl, not a pretty girl. Everyone must love me for my brain and my brain only. What am I, Barbie?
This logic has taken me to some stupid extremes that I hesitate to write about lest you realize how messed up in the head I actually am.
There was the time when crazy crazy stylist Billy Yamaguchi "feng shui'ed" my hair and decided, with all his assistants swarming around, that I needed to dye it a shade darker. At that point I had never dyed my hair.
So I promptly burst into hot, furious tears. I was embarassed in front of a boatload of hairstylists that someone would think I was so vain as to want to dye my hair. Like that is a new concept to them and that they would be shocked! shocked! that someone as unvain as me would stoop to such a thing.
What a ninny.
At least I got over that. Hair dye in a box is my best pal now. I buy it on sale in bulk to save a couple bucks.
But I still can't dress myself or make my hair work or pick out clothing to save my life. I am usually just content if my naughty bits and cellulite are covered, nothing has a big stain on it, and it isn't so terribly, awfully wrinkly.
I think I have to set my standards higher. Of course I have been saying that for years. And I am sitting here in my baggy ass jeans, waiting for Mr Stapler to arrive.
09 December 2006
08 December 2006
True Employee Confessions
Heads up, kids and kittens. There's a new blog in town.
Inspired by Dawn of Baleful Regards, who hosts the gritty, gruesome and sometimes sweet True Wife Confessions, I have created True Employee Confessions.
If you hate your job, think your boss is stark raving crazy, can't stand your idiot co-workers OR if you just want to make the rest of us jealous by talking about your sweet gig, send your stories to me at snackishblogATyahoo.com
You can also send memories of hateful past jobs and past associates that you wish you could forget but who somehow live on in your memory. Purge those files right here in public, so we call all enjoy the misery.
Your confidentiality is guaranteed. No one will be Dooced for their confession. No one from the HR department will visit your home.
Please give me a hand in getting the party started by giving me some link love.
Dish. I want to know. And maybe, just maybe, I will post a little something myself sometime.
Inspired by Dawn of Baleful Regards, who hosts the gritty, gruesome and sometimes sweet True Wife Confessions, I have created True Employee Confessions.
If you hate your job, think your boss is stark raving crazy, can't stand your idiot co-workers OR if you just want to make the rest of us jealous by talking about your sweet gig, send your stories to me at snackishblogATyahoo.com
You can also send memories of hateful past jobs and past associates that you wish you could forget but who somehow live on in your memory. Purge those files right here in public, so we call all enjoy the misery.
Your confidentiality is guaranteed. No one will be Dooced for their confession. No one from the HR department will visit your home.
Please give me a hand in getting the party started by giving me some link love.
Dish. I want to know. And maybe, just maybe, I will post a little something myself sometime.
Big love
I have written at length about my decision not to have children.
I think it is a good thing for everyone involved - for me, who needs 4 or 5 hours of alone time every day, and for my non-existent progeny, who don't have to put up with my cranky ways.
(Oh, yes I am. Everyone who meets me thinks "Oh, Suebob, she's so nice, so kind, such a good listener." For about 2 weeks. People who have known me longer than that admit "Yeah, Suebob, she is one cranky wench!")
The one thing I think I have missed out on is getting to feel the love parents feel for their children. I gush about my dog (the best dog in the world) but I have a feeling that nothing can compare to the love you have for a child that you are doing your best to grow into a good human.
Petroville has a heart-wrenching post about recognizing her own mother's love for her and apologizing for not realizing it at the time.
I had a glimpse of it the other day, when my mother, who is 80, was remembering a time 40 years ago.
We had gone camping and I had gotten terribly chapped skin from playing in a creek and in the sun. She put some lotion on me that, instead of soothing my sensitive skin, made me feel like I was being boiled alive. Something in it, perfume maybe, just reacted badly with me.
"You SCREAMED, oh," she said, tears filling her eyes. I could see the pain was as fresh then as it had been 4 decades before.
That's Big Momma Love.
How do you bear it?
I think it is a good thing for everyone involved - for me, who needs 4 or 5 hours of alone time every day, and for my non-existent progeny, who don't have to put up with my cranky ways.
(Oh, yes I am. Everyone who meets me thinks "Oh, Suebob, she's so nice, so kind, such a good listener." For about 2 weeks. People who have known me longer than that admit "Yeah, Suebob, she is one cranky wench!")
The one thing I think I have missed out on is getting to feel the love parents feel for their children. I gush about my dog (the best dog in the world) but I have a feeling that nothing can compare to the love you have for a child that you are doing your best to grow into a good human.
Petroville has a heart-wrenching post about recognizing her own mother's love for her and apologizing for not realizing it at the time.
I had a glimpse of it the other day, when my mother, who is 80, was remembering a time 40 years ago.
We had gone camping and I had gotten terribly chapped skin from playing in a creek and in the sun. She put some lotion on me that, instead of soothing my sensitive skin, made me feel like I was being boiled alive. Something in it, perfume maybe, just reacted badly with me.
"You SCREAMED, oh," she said, tears filling her eyes. I could see the pain was as fresh then as it had been 4 decades before.
That's Big Momma Love.
How do you bear it?
06 December 2006
Frequent Farter Miles
As a vegetarian and someone who produces more than her fair share of noxious emissions, I have got to feel sorry for this woman who lit matches on an airplane.
She is just trying to hide her farts and ends up creating an international terrorist incident and is on the American Airlines No Fly List. Poor gal.
The FBI questioned a passenger who admitted she struck the matches in an attempt to conceal body odor, Lowrance said. The woman lives near Dallas and has a medical condition.Yeah, right, a medical condition called Stinko Fartosis. I know it well.
She is just trying to hide her farts and ends up creating an international terrorist incident and is on the American Airlines No Fly List. Poor gal.
05 December 2006
The disease is spreading
Yesterday's blog post listed some weird word usage I had found lately around the blogosphere. Little did I know at the time, I wrote a doozy over at Mothergoosemouse just yesterday...
"...for a battle of Amazon warrioresses to hold him down..."
A battle of Amazon warrioresses? The funny part is I can't even remember what I was trying to say. Maybe "battalion." Who knows? My brain, honestly!
Some new stuff is up over at Linkateria. Make sure to click on the "Seinfeld: the Lost Episode - Kramer" link. OMG, funny.
"...for a battle of Amazon warrioresses to hold him down..."
A battle of Amazon warrioresses? The funny part is I can't even remember what I was trying to say. Maybe "battalion." Who knows? My brain, honestly!
Some new stuff is up over at Linkateria. Make sure to click on the "Seinfeld: the Lost Episode - Kramer" link. OMG, funny.
04 December 2006
Time for a Game
Yes, everybody, it's time for America's favorite game show, "WTF is up with that?"
Leave your entry in the comments section and I will decide, in a scientific process, who deserves a Somewhat Valuable Prize. It will probably be a book but you never know.
As your hostess, I will start:
Women who, when they laugh, put their hand up about 3 inches in front of their face. My favorite example of this is Dr. Phil's wife, whatshername.
WTF is up with that?
Ok, your turn. What do YOU want to know WTF is up with?
*****
And while we are having a random post, here are my nominees for Web Weird Word usage, collected from around the blogosphere. If you spot one of your own, let me know and you, too, may win a Somewhat Valuable Prize.
This is not to make fun of the writers. English is such a wacky, wonderful language that it could happen to anyone.
"With one felled swoop, it went flying into the air."
"Be a big boy. as in, have some initiative, drive, onus and purpose in your life!!"
"Mixed with yoghurt or thickened cream it makes an instant chocolate moose that is hard to resist."
Personally I prefer the instant elk.
"I get a pit in my stomach just thinking about it."
"They strike a cord with me so much"
"...after having 11 viles of blood forcibly removed from your body..."
Leave your entry in the comments section and I will decide, in a scientific process, who deserves a Somewhat Valuable Prize. It will probably be a book but you never know.
As your hostess, I will start:
Women who, when they laugh, put their hand up about 3 inches in front of their face. My favorite example of this is Dr. Phil's wife, whatshername.
WTF is up with that?
Ok, your turn. What do YOU want to know WTF is up with?
*****
And while we are having a random post, here are my nominees for Web Weird Word usage, collected from around the blogosphere. If you spot one of your own, let me know and you, too, may win a Somewhat Valuable Prize.
This is not to make fun of the writers. English is such a wacky, wonderful language that it could happen to anyone.
"With one felled swoop, it went flying into the air."
"Be a big boy. as in, have some initiative, drive, onus and purpose in your life!!"
"Mixed with yoghurt or thickened cream it makes an instant chocolate moose that is hard to resist."
Personally I prefer the instant elk.
"I get a pit in my stomach just thinking about it."
"They strike a cord with me so much"
"...after having 11 viles of blood forcibly removed from your body..."
03 December 2006
Call me "Mom"
That's it. I am done. I am so over low-rise jeans that you can slap some rib-huggers on me and call me "Momma." I won't mind, I swear.
Evidence Item #1: The other day when I was trying to put air in my tires with non-working air hoses, one of the chief things irritating me, beyond having to drive around in a death-on-4-wheels automobile, was the fact that I knew my ass was hanging out of my jeans as I squatted beside my car.
Here's the scene: I drop two quarters in the machine, which is supposed to give me three minutes of air. I hustle around the car connecting the hose to the tires and waiting for the air compressor to kick on as I feel a cold breeze where there should not be a breeze. I become aware that my booty is bulging out the top of my jeans for all to see. But damn it, I am risking life and limb by driving on underinflated tires! So I continue to squat and swear, praying that no one I know is driving by to see my special show as I try to get up to 29 PSI.
Evidence Item #2: I have freakishly short legs. Though I am 5 foot 8, I have a 28 inch inseam. That is not a typo. 28 inch. 2 legal-sized sheets, taped together, that equals how long my legs are. I do not need low-cut jeans to help draw attention to this. Good lord, when will this suffering end?
Evidence Item #3: I was picking up my dry cleaning at the strip mall the other day. A little girl, maybe 4 years old, was playing on the floor at the cell phone store next door with her cute little fashionable jeans on. Her back was to the window, and her little 4-year-old buttcrack was clearly visible to the whole world.
People! Stop this madness! Do I need to remind anyone that there are really good reasons that your 4-year-old should not be dressed like a tiny stripper? I mean, yuk. Give the little girl some pants she can bend over in without looking like a plumber, please.
Evidence Item #4: I am going to have to pussyfoot around this one, lest anyone recognize themselves...I was at a group function. A certain lovely young friend was there. She happens to be a bit overweight. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. Normally, this would not be a problem, but her very low-rise jeans revealed waaay too much flesh squeezed above the top seam and below her now-hiked-up shirt. It was, to put it mildly, off-putting.
Bring on the mom jeans. I have one pair and they have become my best friends. I don't care if I look like Urkel. As long as my rear end stays out of the breeze and well out of sight, I am happy.
Next week's subject: why pantyhose with sandals rock.
Evidence Item #1: The other day when I was trying to put air in my tires with non-working air hoses, one of the chief things irritating me, beyond having to drive around in a death-on-4-wheels automobile, was the fact that I knew my ass was hanging out of my jeans as I squatted beside my car.
Here's the scene: I drop two quarters in the machine, which is supposed to give me three minutes of air. I hustle around the car connecting the hose to the tires and waiting for the air compressor to kick on as I feel a cold breeze where there should not be a breeze. I become aware that my booty is bulging out the top of my jeans for all to see. But damn it, I am risking life and limb by driving on underinflated tires! So I continue to squat and swear, praying that no one I know is driving by to see my special show as I try to get up to 29 PSI.
Evidence Item #2: I have freakishly short legs. Though I am 5 foot 8, I have a 28 inch inseam. That is not a typo. 28 inch. 2 legal-sized sheets, taped together, that equals how long my legs are. I do not need low-cut jeans to help draw attention to this. Good lord, when will this suffering end?
Evidence Item #3: I was picking up my dry cleaning at the strip mall the other day. A little girl, maybe 4 years old, was playing on the floor at the cell phone store next door with her cute little fashionable jeans on. Her back was to the window, and her little 4-year-old buttcrack was clearly visible to the whole world.
People! Stop this madness! Do I need to remind anyone that there are really good reasons that your 4-year-old should not be dressed like a tiny stripper? I mean, yuk. Give the little girl some pants she can bend over in without looking like a plumber, please.
Evidence Item #4: I am going to have to pussyfoot around this one, lest anyone recognize themselves...I was at a group function. A certain lovely young friend was there. She happens to be a bit overweight. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her arms above her head. Normally, this would not be a problem, but her very low-rise jeans revealed waaay too much flesh squeezed above the top seam and below her now-hiked-up shirt. It was, to put it mildly, off-putting.
Bring on the mom jeans. I have one pair and they have become my best friends. I don't care if I look like Urkel. As long as my rear end stays out of the breeze and well out of sight, I am happy.
Next week's subject: why pantyhose with sandals rock.
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