Bloggity blog blog
And a bit of a whine* that I’m not in Indy this weekend
Bloggity blog blog blog
BLOG!! BLOG!! BLOG!!
Psst-It’s more fun if you sing along.
I know. I’ve been neglecting you. Sorry! I need minions. Minions with 10-keys and mad Excel skills. And still more minions to care for those minions because I’m lousy at minion care which might be the reason I don’t have them. Maybe I once had minions but I let them starve. Or I drowned them in the tub because I forgot to turn off the water. Or maybe they are still lost because they are following the directions I gave the operator at Minions R Us. I didn’t get a tracking number.
*Why yes, I do have cheese to go with my whine. It’s right there on my work laptop.
I took a much needed vacation day on Friday and largely stayed off the blogs for the weekend so I was surprised and saddened to hear of the passing of my friend’s brother on Friday. I am honored to be able to call Brigid a true friend and my heart aches with hers in this time of loss. Fitting that it should happen over Easter weekend when we celebrate the greatest promise of the Gospel. The promise of resurrection. A reminder that this world is only temporary, our flawed bodies only shells. Like the thief on the cross, we have our place in paradise complete with perfect bodies free from pain and grief.
Brigid is a kind soul who never hesitates to soothe the hurts and comfort those that need it. Even to her own detriment. Knowing that it was her brother that she could go to tells me that he was a fine man, indeed. Please direct your thoughts and prayers to Brigid and her family in this time of mourning and celebration of the blessings his life gave to them.
We had our office health screening this morning. Yep, I’m healthy, but they say I’m eating too much animal fat. Psshaw, I say. My TC/HDL ratio is 2.2 and my BMI is optimal.
Anyway, this brings us to lunch time. I head on over to the break area to warm up my noodles and the new guy is sitting at the table. I should mention that the new guy’s last job was as a machine gunner in the US Marines. We’ll call him Lorenzo because, well, that’s his name.
Me: Hey Lorenzo, how’s it going?
Lorenzo: Still hanging in there. Finger’s still kind of sore from earlier.
Me: Ah but you’re going to make it, right?
L: Oh yeah. I like to think I’m pretty tough
Me: *laughing* Well they always tell me I’m eating too much bacon
L: Of course, because bacon.
Me: I know! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love vegetarians. Almost everything I eat is a vegetarian.
L: You know, you’ve got a point there. Hadn’t thought about that.
Me: Except for the Ramen. I don’t think there’s anyplace you can hunt the wild and majestic Ramen
It is said that there are three boxes to effect political change.
- The Soap Box
- The Ballot Box
- The Ammo Box
The situation in Nevada made people go for the third box. My friend, Peter, has an excellent run down on it and I agree with his thoughts here.
I’m not going to debate whether or not Mr. Bundy is in the right. Honestly, I don’t think I know enough about all the twist and turns and intricacies to make a judgment there.
My takeaway here is that the natives have gotten restless. The people stood up and the feds backed down (at least for the moment. I’m sure it’s not over). This is a bit beyond lighting off a Roman Candle in city limits level of civil disobedience.
The government said, “Respect mah authoritah!” and the people said, “No!”
And that attitude is far from unique. In fact, it seems to be spreading. New York said, “Register you guns,” and the people said, “No!” Same thing happened in Connecticut.
Taking up arms and standing in the way of the uniformed men with guns is a pretty loud “No!” don’t you think? Not a single shot was fired, but I imagine it was heard, nonetheless.
What’s next? I don’t know, but it won’t be the last time the people say “No!”
So, you’re doing a thing and it turns out that the material you were given are not really what you need to do said thing. Thing must be done, so you commit to redoing the materials.
And then when the person in charge of this project calls you on the phone and you vent a bit about what is wrong with the provided materials and then your mouth keeps going and you kind of volunteer to do more of this thing in phase two?
Sigh. My laptop will be here next week. You may find content here a bit scarce for a while.
Spotted this going around Facebook. And then this little jewel.
Really? Neither feminism nor some photographer is going to make me see hairy armpits as beautiful. Sorry, not gonna happen. You want to grow them out, fine. They’re your armpits to do with as you like. I’m sure it’s because I’ve been brainwashed by the patriarchy, but I don’t find that attractive and no amount of edgy photography or handwritten signs is going to change that. I’m not ‘perturbed’, I just don’t like it. I’m allowed.
Save for certain fetishes, no one is going to find it attractive if I smear myself with feces* no matter how beautiful I insist it really is. (And before someone jumps in and complains that I’m comparing body hair to fecal matter, no, I’m not. I’m using hyperbole.)
Beauty and attraction take at least two participants, the actor and the audience. If the actor wants to be attractive to a particular audience they will have to conform to the beauty standards of that audience. If person x’s definition of a beautiful woman is tall, blond with big boobs, I’m never going to reach that standard. I’m at peace with that. I fit just fine into other standards of beauty. I will never fit them all and neither will you.
You think being hairy is beautiful? Fine. Go be hairy and find someone that likes that, just don’t insist that I need to accept it as beautiful or find it attractive.
*Crushed up fish scales, on the other hand, are totally acceptable.
And it seems to be holding the funny hostage. Go read hubby instead.
Actually, make sure you hit this one too. Not funny, but really good information.
I’ll just be over here wrapped in my awesome blanket with my snuggly critters. And hey, I have successfully consumed 6 club crackers without incident and have no brain cravings to report.
Oh the subconscious adventures of sleeping Jennifer!
I was in school and living in the campus dormitory. The way these rooms were set up, there was a common area (kitchen, living room, bathroom) with two bedrooms attached. My roommate was a flamboyant male-to-female transgender with an affinity for short skirts and white go-go boots. I have no idea when she ever got to her studies as it seemed she was always up to some kind of crazy shenanigans which I invariably got reluctantly roped into.
In the latest scheme, she had devised a wildly popular intoxicating beverage that she was selling around campus. I refused to partake in this concoction since I knew how it was made, a process that took place in a crock-pot utilizing a giant hamburger named Bernard. He was huge and greasy and his buns were stale. I found Bernard to be repulsive and evicted him and his crock-pot from the common kitchen.
This led to several arguments with my roommate as I kept finding Bernard in various locations around the apartment. ‘No, you cannot keep Bernard in the bathroom. I brush my teeth in there.’ And a rather heated discussion when I arrived home to find that my roommate had company and so had stashed Bernard in my room so as to not reveal her secret ingredient to her guests/customers.
As entropy demands, eventually Bernard went bad (worse?). And again, I was reluctantly roped into some madcap hijinx aimed at finding a replacement for Bernard. Which culminated into us throwing a giant party complete with DJ, a light show, and multiple disco balls, because reasons.
Yeah, I don’t know either. I woke up just as confused as you are right now. Probably more so. I do find it hilarious that I cannot recall whether or not my roommate had a name, but the hamburger most certainly did.