Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Will it ever END?

I have spent far too much time this evening looking at this site:


The basic formula is this: grab a picture of yourself from back on the day, then take another pic of you today in a similar pose. Post both. Be amazed.

The plus side is that it doesn't appear that there is any navigational aid beyond 'next,' 'back,' or 'random,' and also that in 10 minutes of clicking I didn't find the end of it.

Isn't the internet amazing?


Got a call from Thing 1 this afternoon. It seems that the lad has gone and gotten himself into the top band at school on the first go-round. The director picks those kids she deems worthy, and lets them know they have a shot in the bigs, without an audition. I like that style, as I'm a terrible auditioner and hated every single one I was involved in.

What does that mean for him? It means band with the upperclassmen, a new tuxedo, and harder music.

He is, obviously, THRILLED.


I have plans to make a banana/blueberry/pineapple bread tonight. It's good to dream big, don't you think?

Also - must finish up that work project I've let languish too long. Let's guess which one gets done tonight, shall we?


Oh, and for the ladies out there - who has ever gotten professionally fitted for a supportive boobal undergarment? I have not, yet think it might be time, but dang if I'm not 8 kinds of leery about unleashing the breasticles in front of a stranger who is then going to HANDLE them and MEASURE them and make me try on clothes and junk. Just seems weird. And yet another aspect of life where the doods have it waaay better. Never have heard of a 'boxer fitter,
have you?




Have a good one, all.

Monday, March 22, 2010

If you can’t say something nice….

When I was little and I started whining about something or complaining about a kid in school or miserating on my terrible life and how nobody liked me (oh, I was a world-class moaner, as I recall), my Mom would sometimes reply with the polemic “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.’

Boy, howdy, did that grate my cheese.

I would have been happier during those moments to have been raised by Dorothy Parker, who famously said ‘if you can’t say something nice, come sit by me!” How delicious would it be to be raised by someone who truly enjoyed verbal sparring of a sort brought to perfection by drag queens and film critics? Very delicious, was my thinking.

Except – those lessons by Mom sank in over time. It might have TAKEN 30 years, but ultimately at least now I do TRY to hold my tongue in conversation. Sometimes though, the tongue can be a slippery little bugger, and all sorts of slightly-less-than-sunny words come sliding out. Takes a lot of doing, but infrequently my brain gets all greased up with rage and there's nothing to do but let it out, lest a flash fire occur and burn something important inside my head.

(now that was a really nice metaphorical string, don't you think?)

One such occasion was in the aftermath of a concert Biff and I attended on Saturday night. If I could write a letter to all the poeple who were the object of my anger, it'd go something like this:

Dear People at the Tim Reynolds Concert on Saturday Night who Obviously Were Bred in a Jackhammer Factory,

A few questions to get things straight before we get to the message -

1) Did you not also pay 30 bucks to go hear one of the world’s best guitarists play a solo concert in a reasonably intimate setting?
2) Did you not notice that the rows of convention-center seats were not accompanied by a BAR or pool table or other contrivance normally found in your local 1-star watering hole?
3) Did you not realize that when one attends a solo concert by one of the world’s best guitarists in a reasonably intimate setting, that talking at the top of your f*cking lungs throughout the show is offensive, irritating, maddening, and lower-class than Pam Anderson’s hot pants?

5) Who raised you to be so self-centered?
6) What could possibly be so important to discuss during this show that you couldn't possibly walk ten feet out to the lobby to talk about?
7) How on this earth could you generate the notion that idle chatter in a room obviously designed for intent listening would extend to listening to YOU babble on about whatever the HELL you were blathering on about incessantly during every single damned piece the man was playing?
8) Can you NOT appreciate artistry, mastery, incredible inventiveness and reverence for an art form?
9) Is your boorishness a product of your being raised by a family of microcephalic howler monkeys for whom the only form of communication is repeated loud hoots or poop-flinging? ( If so, thanks for not tossing crap while you nattered on about banalities in the back of the room where a couple of hundred other people were trying their hardest to enjoy what their hard-earned money bought them.)

Let us just say that it’s a good thing Biff and I decided to leave the show early due to your egregious dunderheadedness, because at the next song break you would have been the subject of a severe tongue-lashing by me and very likely by the other dozen people who tried to ‘shush’ your ignorant pie-holes during the concert. If you had the self-awareness to have looked around at the rest of the crowd Saturday night, you would have noticed people who were throwing death glares at you over their shoulders, but of course you didn’t notice because you’re surrounded by what can only be assumed is a cone of the most dense ignorance available through poor breeding and lack of any manners at all.

I hate you. HATE you. You are scum, you inappropriately self-entitled snowflakes, you pus-filled balloon heads, you odifeorous misassociation of sperm and egg, you unfortunate breathers of my air. I’d still like to preach a thing or 2 at you, to lock you in a room with me and all the other people you pissed off, to give you whatever piece of my mind I feel at my advanced age I can spare, so it’s probably a good thing we 1) left early and 2) I don’t know your name. Know this: that just because nobody called you out on your poor-ass manners doesn’t mean you aren’t among the biggest boors around, it just means that those other people had better manners than you and chose not to escalate an obviously wretched situation.

Secretly, I do hope that SOMEONE took you all to task for your total lack of couth. I would have stuck around for THAT part of the show if it had been on the ticket.



And now to change the topic and refocus on what is good in life, here’s a picture of a flower blooming in our front garden (now with patented Crappy Cell Phone Picture technology!). We liberated a few of these from the empty lot next door a couple of years ago, with no idea what they were except 1) abandoned, 2) pretty, and 3) free. Not coincidentally, those are the three attributes of a highly adoptable puppy.

A bit of research reveals that it’s likely a “Van Sion’ double daffodil – an ancient variety that is very hardy and often will thrive where other daffs won’t.

So, it’s perfect for our yard, the goofy ol’ mop-headed thing.


This morning’s rain has turned into a glorious afternoon, with “simpson’s” clouds swiftly drifting across a Carolina Blue sky. I’mma go take a walk around the building before diving into this afternoon’s ‘to-do’ list.

Y’all have a good one!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

Recipe time

AMENDED - to include chopping instructions for the veg - thanks ETW!

OK - I concocted a sauce tonight that was a rather big hit at the TH, and it has the bonus of not ONLY making the house smell great while it's cooking but also being stupidly easy to make. I suspect it's likely a ripoff of someone else's awesome sauce, but because I did not consult any cookbooks before making it, I claim it as mine.

Hereforth then, Sausage Sauce!!

You'll need:
1 pound bulk sweet Italian sausage
1 TBSP olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped fine
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 yellow pepper, diced
1 bunch green onion (I originally typed 'red onion' - does that make me onion-blind?), chopped fine
2 medium regular carrots, minced
1 28 oz can diced tomatoes
1 large can Hunt's sauce (I used garlic and cheese this time)
1 TBSP balsamic vinegar
1 TBSP sugar
1 tsp dried basil
1 tsp dried oregano
1 tsp black pepper
1/4 c 4-cheese Italian blend shred cheese (or just use a mix of parmesean and romano)

How to cook:

Heat a wok (yes, a wok) over medium flame, add oil and meat. Cook sausage, turning frequently, until no longer pink. While cooking, chop veg and maybe sip a little cocktail.

When meat seems done, chuck in veg (except tomato-y bits and sauce), cover pot, and cook for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally to thoroughly mix.

Dump in tomatoes and sauce and vinegar, stir to coat all. Add sugar, herbs, and spices, mix well, then cover and simmer on low for an hour.

When almost ready to serve (say, about 20 minutes ahead of time), uncover and let bubble for 15 minutes to dehydrate a little. Then toss in the cheese, turn heat to low, melt cheese while stirring sauce and watching it magically thicken before your eyes. Then turn off heat and serve over your fave chunky pasta (Farfalle is recommended, though linguini wouldn't suck, nor would anything sturdy and al dente).

A nice hunk of hearty bread couldn't hurt, if you have that lying around to serve with the delish dish.

Enjoy, y'all!!!

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

Intefadeh of the heart

From time to time there comes an evening so perfect as to mark a notch on the bedpost of reality.

Tonight has been one of them.

Bright afternoon. Easy commute. Homework done. Stew simmered. Fire built. Time spent 'at the pit' in the open air, watching flames leap and dance. And now, a chance to unwind in abandon.

This life is a good one, my friends.


There were two opportunities to have free cookies at work today.

Further proof that this is not the day on which the World ends. How could it be, with that many free desserts?


Also - I have never heard even one song by Lady Gaga. What am I missing? Is she anything like this chick?

Joanna Newsom. (vid by someone else, music is hers. Also? Listen to it more than once and you're addicted. I'm NOT KIDDING!).

I doubt that they're much the same at all, but of course you're invited to naysay at your whim.

Naysay away friends. CUL8Turd.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Is it the cooties?

So, the Biffster and I go to this church that we think is really cool and is full of cool people and has opportunities to do a lot of cool things like eat Panera breads and drink coffee on Sunday mornings while hanging out in a movie theater and also maybe be a part of a small group of folks who meet outside the regular Sunday morning time to talk about God stuff. No, honest, that’s pretty cool! Well, I think it’s cool, because normally on Sunday my mouth is too full of delicious bagel to say a whole lot, and there’s also all the singing and sermonizing going on, sometimes with video and always with a drum set so a separate time to chat is always welcome.

It’s a dang cool church.

But…I have a problem with one aspect of this church, and it's that whole small group thing. See, I totally dig talking Big Issues and Bible stuff, because it’s all pretty much new to me despite me being raised in church because I didn’t really listen back then so nothing really stuck. Except of course that whole “God is love” thing which I totally get and completely adore because hi! It’s simple! But slavish devotion to one overarching mantra isn’t the whole picture, it doesn’t tell the whole story, and it doesn’t speak at all to how we go about dedicating ourselves to a life of taking next steps and finding fulfillment in an atmosphere of struggle and humanity.

That was one hell of a sentence. I hope you get my drift, which is that the small group meetings are a great time to pick apart messages, dig around and do a little factual archeology, debate points and explore using the wisdom and knowledge of the other people in the group to begin to create a foundation of insight on which to plant a foot for whatever next step there might be. So far, I’ve been really happy with the discussions, and gratified that people don’t get too frustrated with my constant ‘but WHY is it like that?” or 'but WHY and ephod? Why not a nice brooch instead?' or “why a burning bush? What’s THAT all about? If Moses supposes the bush it is talking, won’t his millions of minions just start a-walking?”

At least I don’t THINK I’ve frustrated the folks in our small group. Perhaps I have, because it seems like it’s a struggle sometimes to get people to come to the meetings, even though there’s always coffee and usually a yummy treat to go with all the seeking of mysteries. Could it be me? Could I be so annoying that people just quit coming, because being aggravated by some noob who asks ignorant questions shakes the cage of their faith?

I sure hope not, but anything is possible. Great Scott! If that’s the case, the Biff is a strong and patient man, being as how he’s never once told me afterward to please STFU and just let the big dawgs have their say. Truly, sometime I feel like a hillbilly at a ball at these small group things, and I KNOW I’ve over-shared, but dang – I’d hate to think that it’s ME chasing folks off.

Like last night. At 6:30 the doors open, and by 7 we’re scheduled to start digging in. Except last night? Nada. Nobody. We did get calls from 3 folks to announce they weren’t coming, and called the fourth who admitted to needing to stay home to continue to heal from an injury. With our 2 habitual no-shows a pretty sure bet to not show again, we shut the front door and proceeded to decide what else to do with our night.

So, instead of discussing this week’s message (which was a DOOZY and didn’t really even make me mad though I expected it to once I figured out where our pastor was going with it), I went grocery shopping. Doesn’t exactly fulfill the intellectual and spiritual seeking need, but it did put lunch in the larder, so I suppose it’s all for the good.

Next week, maybe we’ll have a full house. That way at least a full pot of coffee won’t go to waste.

In the meantime, I’mma go inspect myself for cooties and practice holding my tongue. I’ll be the cross-eyed gal in the corner who is bleeding slightly from the mouth, if you need me.



Monday, March 15, 2010

Halp halp I'm being unfollowed!

And no wonder. The frequency and quality of posts here have decreased dramatically lately. There's a reason for this: I'm far too preoccupied with concentrating on how dang NUMB my butt gets after a few hours at work to think much at all about anything else.

Desk job hazard pay? I would hope so. Folks, the shape of my butt has suffered from years of just sitting down at work, and with the advent of 'the menopause' I've found that differing fat distribution as well as a sudden lack of resiliency in things like skin and butt fat have contributed to an added shift of epic proportion. This whole being a girl thing? Bah! The changing hormones, the effects of gravity, the onset of true aging are for the birds, baby.

The one upside (that of no more periods!) is a good one, I'll admit, but it would be ohsonice if that upside could be delivered without the multiple other whammies. Like - can I have all that hair back please? ON MY HEAD??? The once-thick ponytail is half as big as it used to be, and while there's still quite a bit of hair THERE, it's not the same as it used to be.


I won't even go INTO what's happening with my boobs. Dear Lord. I'm almost afraid to loose weight in case the only thing that's keep them even mildly inflated is the FAT. Not that they were ever all that PERKY, mind you (damn it!), but now they're downright disconsolate.

Men will complain of balding as they age, but guys, I'm sorry. The gents don't have the lifelong wild hormonal shifts, the monthly cramp n' bitch sessions, the sudden yoinking of a very important set of endocrine helpers after 30 or so years of C n' Bs's, the withering of what was a modicum of fresh beauty as one of your gramma's faces starts to appear in the mirror. Or at least gramma's NECK, a swingin' in the breeze. Gobble gobble!

Y'all - Being female is NOT for sissies. Especially being a female with a numb crinkle-butt.


Played Frisbee yesterday for 90 minutes or so with the Things and Biff. Oh, I'm sure it was hysterical to watch, what with the wild throws and sudden protracted inability to grasp. All good fun though, and those near-constant jogs to pick up the consistently wayward disc did get the ol' heart rate up.

And, apparently, used a whole lot more muscles that I'm used to using. Yowza. Every time I haul my flat ass out of this very uncomfortable office chair to go for a leg stretch or another swig of water it feels like my lower half is wound twice as tight as normal and I walk like a drunk lil' monkey until things ease up a touch.

Feels good.


A while ago I saw a show in which there was a dude who had hooked up his employee's computers to a treadmill, and to get the 'puters to work they had to walk at 1 MPH for the duration of the time they worked.

I like that idea.

A full day's work AND 7-8 miles walked? Nice. We cube dwellers could get off our puckered behinds and burn off some energy while typing furiously or creating the World's Best Spreadsheet or whatnot, AND help keep costs down by providing some of the energy needed to run these infernal machines to which we're hooked 30% of the day.

Would you welcome that kind of work situation? I think I would. Shoot, there's word we're going to be working 'open plan' here anyhow, so it's going to be noisy as all get-out anyway, and nobody's going to have any privacy anyhow, so why NOT just strap on the trainers and walk the workday away? Let's be forward-thinking then, and start incentivizing it - whoever logs the most miles a week gets a bigger bonus, for example, or whomever creates the most electrical output per week gets a free lunch (salad only!). Why, I'll just bet that a little friendly competition would have us kickin bootay and taking no prisoners in short order while getting fit n' trim! Win Win WIN!

Or maybe I just want an excuse to wear sweat pants at work.


Enough for now. I'm going to go mourn the loss of a follower (hey, I don't HAVE that many), then wrap up this work day, and attempt to get feeling back in my gluteus maximus. Wish me luck!

Thursday, March 11, 2010

I think it's over.

For months now I've been playing Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook. I've written of my love for this game before, almost waxing poetic about its many charms in this very space as I glowed in the aftermath of a particularly great game.

But now, it seems, those days are over.

There's no real explanation; it's just that the game isn't that fun anymore. I've been on a bender, have experienced the headiness of an over-400K game, and now realize that the 500K game is beyond my reach so might as well give up trying. My goal of reaching a million boost points appears to be in jeopardy as I quickly lose interest in playing at all...

Dear Lord, what WILL I do now with my time?


Yesterday on the way to work I spotted the Common Douchebag on his morning commute. Tink and I were noodling down Route 1A toward Cap BLVD, doin' the speed limit as we usually do, not a care in the world.

Don't you KNOW, therefore, that Tink and I were to become the bane of the existence of one very ticked-off jeep driver? Dude roared up behind me, flashed lights, beeped, and began gesticulating. Very obviously gesticulating, if you catch my drift. For a moment I thought perhaps there was something wrong with Tink, and this fellow was being a good Samaritan, and so I checked dials and flashy dashboard things and sniffed for an unusual odor, but truly all I could smell was utter douchehole behind me going all Jersey Shore 2 feet off my back bumper.

Folks - the road has 2 lanes. I was in the right-hand one. The left one was perfectly usable. This cornhole simply wanted to antagonize someone, and i was the target du jour.

Not wanting to believe a person could be so asstastic as this dude was, I chose to think there was indeed something wrong with Tink ans thus pulled into the parking lot of the middle school, thinking perhaps dude would follow and maybe help out, but no. As soon as Tink made the turn, Mister Dickstank McGuntface rip-raced past me, flipping a final bird at poor Tinky and me while staccato beeping his impotent lil' horn. I didn't care - there's nothing wrong with the car or me, I'm still taking breath, so life is good man, life is good.

Seriously, on a bright warm early Spring morning some douchenozzle chooses to fling poo at my cone of giddy and comes up the only one stained? I count that as a good day indeed.


When someone blasts past you at a million miles per hour in heavy traffic while weaving in and out of lanes, is it really so wrong to hope they get nailed by the cops? Or that they plow into a bridge abutment, Slap-Chopping themselves into a viscous goo not even their cheap-ass girlfriends or slick-haired Goombahs would recognize?

Gosh I hope not.


Eh - it's time to go. Been another in a series of odd nights around here, and it just might be time to put a nightcap on this sucker and call it good.

See ya.

Tuesday, March 09, 2010

When in doubt, blog

There’s a central server at my place of work that holds important things we need to do our work if we’re not smart enough to think ahead to a time when the server might go down and we need to export stuff to the desktop or other accessible area in order to do the work we’re expected to do.

Today this server is 'down.'

If you were thinking ‘hmmm, I wonder I this means Tiff did NOT save those important items she needs to do her work to an area where she can get to them to DO it?’ the answer would be ‘yes.’ It’s like getting ready to cook a great sauce on a snowy day, when your taster is totally tuned to sauce and pasta, only to find out that there’s no basil in the house or even any cans of tomatoes so instantly you’re dead in the water and yet,,,,you want the dang sauce suddenly so much more because you can’t have it! This is how I’m feeling about work today. Normally I’m fairly meh about work, not that I hate my job but that I’ve been working so LONG that the glint is off the salver, so to speak, but today I’m full of intent and focus, which is being wasted in this no-man’s-land of inaccessibility.

So, why not take some time to whine about it here on the internets, where a good whine is to be savored in perpetuity once the ‘publish’ button is pressed?

The natural corollary to this is that once the juice gets turned back on, once the figurative tomatoes and basil are procured, the motivational taster will have been tuned to something else like roast beef and the work will once again become a meh-ism to be struggled with, made worse because it’s a glorious spring day and there’s sunshine and a light breeze and wouldn’t it be wonderful to take a stroll or a nap?

I can feel my gusto waning with each passing moment.



OK, so this is kind of gross. I think I have toenail fungus. EW! Lately my left big toenail has been looking weird (no, there will NOT be pictures) and because I love the internet, I did a little searching and would you believe it there are photos out there that look identical to what’s going on with my stupid toenail, which is onychomycosis.

I have never HAD onychomycosis before. This troubles me, and so I blame the nail salons I’ve been to, for until I started going to nail salons for the delicious pedicure, I did not have onychomycosis. Honestly! Mind you, I have not been to a salon for MONTHS, but toe rot takes a loooong time to develop to the point of being able to notice it, so months-long development is possible.

The brand of ick on my toenail is ‘distal subungual,’ which means it at the end of the nail and off to one side, which is a better breed of inculcation to eradicate than the kind that’s all over the nails making it thick and gross and flaky and nasty. So, that’s one good thing. However, the only real cure for it is to go on meds for 6 months or so until the nail grows out completely, and of course you can’t get the sweet sweet meds without a visit to a dermatologist and I’m too impatient for that so what did I do?

I got out the PedEgg and shaved that ol’ toenail DOWN, is what I did! Then I painted some antifungal topical junk all over it. And I will continue to paint and shave for another couple of weeks to see if what I’m doing is having any effect (it already has, in that much of the infected area is now a tiny pile of shavings in the bathroom garbage can, which to me = PROGRESS) while I’m waiting for the derm appointment to roll around.

Because it makes perfect sense to do this, right? Nothing says ‘smart move’ like sanding your toenails down to almost bare nubbins. No harm can come of that, eh?

My thoughts precisely.


Well, there are cats playing in windowsills to admire, laundry to fold, dishes to wash, and the protracted waiting around for systems to fire up to do. I’m a very busy woman, you see, and must take my leave.


Thursday, March 04, 2010

Take your dramamine

I love this stuff. Click on the pic to get the full-sized effect!

For this first one, a hint: If you stare right at the center the weirdness ceases, but what would you want the weirdness to cease? What are you, some kind of weirdo?

Also, check this one out - an oldie but a goodie for major brain-bending:

FREAKY FUN! Woot! All the effect of a good buzz with none of the hangover. Extra-fine!


In case you were interested, I still haven't cleaned the melted plastic off the oven floor from my little brain-fart last week. Thank goodness for toaster ovens, you know?

It's amazing just how much oven cooking goes on at the Tiny House. Many times during this past week I've thought about 'what's for dinner' and then followed up with 'that's not too big for the toaster oven?' Or, 'hmm, I'd like to bake something' with the immediate antecedent 'that can be done in small batches.'

Clearly, it's getting to the tipping point at home, and Something Must Soon Be Done about the whole oven/plastic drippage situation. However, because I am a Master Procrastinator (Third Degree!), it's entirely possible that 'soon' in this case might well mean 'in a week or so, or until we all get well good and sick of waiting around for something to happen.'

Someone order me up a swift kick in the pants, won't you?


My younger brother thinks I'm a dork because I signed up to volunteer at the NC Renn Faire this year. Well, I showed HIM who knows a thing or 2 because my rebuttal of the aforementioned dorkatude included the fact that at these Renn Faires, many many women believe that the only good costume is one that shows off their vast tracts of land to the best possible advantage. In fact, I believe it's these costumes that have Biff and the Things so eager to go BACK to the Renn Faire this year, because seriously, who doesn't dig VToL? Even I, as an avowed heterosexual female, can admit they have allure.

Can't imagine what it must be like the be teenage boy at these things; or for that matter what it must be like to be a full-grown avowed heterosexual man. Shoot, I bet some of those gals could make Johnny Weir stand up and take notice, such are their charms.

Sadly, the eye candy for the ladies at the Renn Faire are not as varied in opportunity or scope, because the men's costumes generally don't tilt toward highlighting THEIR best bits. There are far too many tunics/cloaks/chain maile shirts/full suits of armor at the Renn Faire, to my way of thinking. Bah on periodicity and authenticity! I say MORE TIGHTS FOR THE MENFOLK! Or at least more kilts. I do so love a man in a kilt. Especially on breezy days.

Now that's an idea that might have to go in the suggestion box.


There is so much more to say, but time and space (and quite possibly, your interest) dictate I take my leave. Y'all have a fabulous Thursday!


Monday, March 01, 2010

she don't blog here no-mo

But heck, Tuesday is her birthday.

Go wish her the very best on this her 29th birthday. The pup.

There's a recliner on the kitchen table. It's wet and smells like Febreeze.

Thank God.


Today is the day of 2-line posting.

Thus I have declared.


Oh, and have you noticed that Tom Brokaw's speech impediment is NOT GETTING ANY BETTER? Gah! All y'all who have the powers that be at teevee or radio stations, please, for the love of Mike (and Pete [you're welcome, R-chelle]) do NOT hire people who gutturalize their "Ls," PLEASE.

Ira Flatow, I'm looking at you, once I stop giving Tom (and Robert Bazell [SHIVER]) over there a hard stare.

Just my opinion.

- -

And that's three lines. Y'all have a great night.