I'm Sorry, Mrs. McConnell

Seeing as how I've been playing Christmas music at work (and especially Elvis Christmas music) for three weeks now, I thought it was about time that the rest of my cubicle caught up with the holiday spirit.

Sadly, my paper snowflake cutting skills left something to be desired. I apologize in advance to my first grade teacher, Mrs. McConnell, because clearly I have failed her.

Attempt #1: Cell division

Attempt #2: Amish hex sign













Attempt #3: Geometric bejeweled.











Attempt #4: Octopus

Attempt #5: Guatemalan wrestling mask

Attempt #6: Getting closer...









And here we see Attempt #1 by one of the supers. That's right. A 6'4" construction worker made a better snowflake on his first try then I could in six tries.

Clearly, I have some kind of mental deformity that transcends to my safety scissors.

Everybody Has Their Limit

I got so sick of coming in Monday mornings and seeing this...



...that I finally snapped and left the supers a message of my own:




In other news, as I sit here writing this, Feliz Navidad is playing on the radio. Please hold while I go get my screwdriver back...

In other other news, I had a breakthrough this weekend with the huge bald guy with biceps as big as my head. I actually came within six inches of his huge body without experiencing verbal diarrhea like I did the only other time I spoke to him. Except this time, I didn't exactly speak to him. Let me start from the beginning.

My good friend G was in town this weekend, and after my 3:30 A.M. wake-up call on Black Friday - yes, I'm one of those people - I was looking forward to some fun with G. It also meant that I was finally going to see Casino Royale. We were both so enamored with Daniel Craig that we'd promised to wait to see it until she was here. And I'll be honest, I really only wanted to see it because of Daniel Craig - I've never seen a single James Bond movie in my life (I know, I know, the shame! Get off my back.)

And it was everything I'd hoped it would be. G and I were on the edge of our seats, trading dirty one-liners about how hot he was. Ok really it was just me making dirty one-liners about how hot he was, but still. Can you blame me? Tell me you wouldn't slam him like a car door.

Upon leaving the theater, I saw something straight ahead that made me shake with more excitement than the Rocky Balboa trailer...huge bald guy with biceps as big as my head dead ahead. Now, G is fully aware of my crush as I've been talking to her about it for two months now. My biggest hope was that while she was in town, she'd get to see the back of his head at church on Sunday, but we hit the jackpot.

There he was right in front of us, and I did the only thing any normal person would do when they are face to face with their crush: I screamed, "There's hugebaldguywithbicepsasbigasmyhead!!" then threw G's body in front of me to shield myself from his radiating hotness. Lit'rally. Screamed, then threw her body in front of me. Not to mention the shaking and sweating. What can I say, I'm not one to make a scene or draw attention to myself.

My only saving grace was that there was a big crowd of people and maybe there's some chance that he didn't hear me shriek his name. G says that he didn't turn around, but she could have been so startled and panicked by my outburst that she wasn't observing clearly. Who knows.

What we do know is this: he was waiting outside the bathrooms for a girl, and we ended up walking in front of them in the parking lot, purposely quiet in an effort to hear their conversation and determine the status of the date. Our silence was working well until a chubby kid in a windbreaker suit ran past us, swish swish swishing to catch up to his friends and we couldn't contain ourselves anymore.

We laughed ourselves into a coughing fit in the car. At the risk of bringing more shame and embarassment to myself, that's where the story ends. Suffice it to say that neither G nor I have a very promising future in espionage.

I will, however, proudly invite further shame and embarassment upon myself when I say that I am SO excited to see Rocky Balboa. The theatrical trailer gave me goosebumps, and I'm counting down the days to December 22. I very nearly shook the popcorn out of G's hand when the trailer came on. Even better, I'll be in Philadelphia to see the opening with my Elvis Week BFF, and I couldn't be more excited.

As G and everyone else points out, yes Sylvester Stallone is old and looks like he's had a brow lift; yes he should've gracefully bowed out with Rocky 4; yes I kind of get retarded tingles when I see the trailer, and yes the entire theater was laughing, but none of that matters to me. Show me another 60-year-old man with a six pack like Stallone's, willing to take his shirt off for half the movie. I don't care what everyone else says, I can't wait to see this movie. Or Rambo IV in 2008.

Feliz Navidad total: 12
Rocky Balboa Countdown: 25 days

How to Spend Thanksgiving Alone

If you ever find yourself alone at Thanksgiving and unable to attend anyone else's feast because you have to work an 8 1/2 hour shift dead smack in the middle of the day like I did this holiday, here are some suggestions to help pass the time.

- Watch the four-hour "Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team" marathon on CMT, and cry a little when Kallie gets cut because "No one will work harder for ya'll!"

- Pee your pants half a dozen times when the yippy little rat terrier you're dog-sitting follows you around and scares the crap out of you because he's too small and yippy to even be detected in your peripheral vision.

- Catch up on all your TiVo'd shows from the week (Prison Break, Heroes, Studio 60, America's Next Top Model...)

- Carefully weigh the consequences of punting the yippy little rat terrier you're dog-sitting off your balcony.

- Decide that you're going to gain a deeper appreciation for Thanksgiving and embark upon a three hour PBS special about the pilgrims. Abandon that idea after about five minutes.

- Get away from the yippy little rat terrier you're dog-sitting and spend two hours enjoying the flat screen TV and surround sound system at the home of the two boxer - Great Dane mixes you're also dog-sitting.

- Spend a collective fifteen minutes wiping dog drool off your leg while simultaneously trying to convince a 100-pound dog that he's too big to fit in your lap.

- Attempt to play in the yard with said dogs and then decide against it after being charged full-speed and knocked to the ground twice by both dogs at the same time.

- Take some cute pictures of the sweetest dogs you know and try not to think about the yippy little rat terrier waiting for you at home.

















- Plan out your Black Friday shopping spree that starts at 4:00 A.M.

- Listen to a Christmas song on the radio about how Santa fell in love once too.

- Go to work and try not to punch the social worker on duty when you hear that damn Beatles song about simply having a wonderful Christmas time.

- Add another talley to your Feliz Navidad total.

- Stifle a laugh when your black neighbor offers to bring leftovers to you at work and asks if you like white meat or dark meat. Ask neighbor to bring you dark meat and a side of huge bald guy with biceps as big around as your head, because they just so happen to be roommates.

- Enjoy Thanksgiving feast, complete with Diet Pepsi from neighbor's trunk.

- Try some Viva egg-nog because you can't remember the last time you had egg-nog; and then quickly remember why you haven't had egg-nog since who knows when.

- And when all else fails to pass the time, blog about how you still can't talk to the huge bald guy with biceps as big as your head because your body simulates heroin withdrawals every time you see him.

Feliz Navidad Total: 9

Rated R for Disturbing Images

Today at work, after returning from getting our usual frozen tasty pumpkin treats from Einstein Bros., Nicole (yes, the very same Nicole from the famous food smuggling incident, and the very same Nicole from the famous dead bird incident) and I came across a ghastly site that sent me into a downward spiral of pain, anguish, and guilt. It's almost too graphic to show you, but I'm going to anyway. Please take a moment to prepare yourself for what you're about to see.

















There are no words. Your jaw is probably hanging open, just like mine.

R.I.P little bird; one love.

If I had been the one to hunt you down and massacre you with the grill of my car, rest assured that I would have screamed and possibly veered off the road. I also would have made one of my construction guys pick your little feathers out of my grill, because I'd be too grossed out to do it myself. But I would have them do it promptly, because I wouldn't want to leave my car parked there all day with your fuzzy little broken body still stuffed into the slats for someone to take a picture of and post on the internet. I hope that is some consolation to you now.

No Bones About It: Happy Feet

While most of the movie nerds were seeing Casino Royale, I admit it. I went to see Happy Feet on opening day. The previews just made it seem too darn cute to pass up - and it was. These little penguins were just about the cutest thing I've seen in a long time. I wanted to nuzzle them into my bosom and then put them in a litte box and shake them.

But while it was cute, I have to say that I don't really agree with the message - I thought it was a bit contradictory. I thought it was going to be about finding your "heartsong", and in turn, finding your Tad Hamilton; but actually its about a population that ostracizes and outcasts a penguin for being different.

For the back story, I have to borrow the words of one of my favorite movie critics, Dustin Rowles, who says it better than I could:

"The penguins’ mating habits are linked to their singing voices. It is the destiny of each penguin to find its literal “soul” mate, as do Norma Jean (Nicole Kidman) and Memphis (Hugh Jackman). Jackman’s character is, somewhat disagreeably, based on Elvis, and during the egg-warming phase of reproduction, his hips get the best of him and he loses his egg temporarily.

It’s long enough, apparently, to produce a Peyton Manning-like birth defect in his offspring, Mumble (Elijah Wood). And no, that defect is not the visage of a baby who looks as though his mother gave birth to him pressed up against a brick wall; rather, he’s got the happy feet of Colts QB about three seconds before he gives way to a Belicheckian right-side overload blitz. Unfortunately, he also has the singing voice of a Michael Vick long-ball — it’s not only hideous, but it’s off target by about seventeen octaves. "

I think its the Peyton Manning reference that really tickles me about Rowles' review. Long story short, and after a lot of weird things, Mumble (who was cast out for being different and not conforming to the standards of attraction and appeal held by his snooty penguin clan) saves the day - but only after his snooty penguin clan conforms to his standards of appeal and attraction. Literally - millions of penguins break out in choreographed line dancing.

So I thought the point of this penguin was to send the message that its OK to be different - that even if you're the only chubby brunette in a class full of walking blonde stereotypes, you can still get some action because maybe there's a huge bald guy out there with biceps as big around as your head who will let you swing around on them. I thought the message was that you don't have to conform to the norm in order to be accepted. But, according to Happy Feet, if you don't want to starve to death, you better blend in with the crowd. Which is interesting because penguins all look alike to begin with. Go figure.

But even after all the mixed messages, Happy Feet was still adorably cute and the music was infectious in a good way. It made me want to be back in front of Buffalo Bill's Resort & Casino in Primm, Nevada, watching a certain someone kick another certain someone in the shin while shuffling off to Buffalo.

Don't get me wrong, it is a cute movie, and if you can tolerate Nicole Kidman's breathy-to-the-point-of-sexually-whispering dialogue, then its fun to see. And you can't go wrong with Hugh Jackman as an Elvisy penguin named Memphis. Who am I kidding - that was my favorite part of the movie. Now get off my back.

As a side note, I want it to be known that I am one of those people - the ones who listen to Christmas music before Thanksgiving. Apparently, I work with a bunch of Scrooge's who don't appreciate it, but that hasn't deterred me from my mission. I stream the music from one of Yahoo's stations while I'm at work, and last year, I swear that I heard "Feliz Navidad" at least eight times a day.

To prove my theory, I'm keeping a running talley and since I know you'll be on the edge of your seat about it, I'll update the talley every time I post. Consider it self-inflicted torture for being the chubby brunette who gets the shakes and sweats and is too chicken to talk to the huge bald guy with biceps as big around as your head.

Feliz Navidad Total : 6

Fill In This Blank

This is a picture of:

A) My last boyfriend;

B) My car becoming a woman and experiencing the freshness;

C) A well-learned lesson in auto mechanic safety;

D) The result of a beemer gone rogue;

E) What happens when you flush your power steering reserve and your car sprays tranny fluid all over the floor.

That's right. The tranny fluid comes standard, but he doesn't kiss on the mouth.

I Feel the Love

Who says that construction workers aren't sensitive? Clearly they're looking out for me and have only my well being in mind, as seen in this little gem that was on my desk this morning:

Ghettofaboolus

This week, my faboolussness has reached a whole new level.

It all started almost three years ago when I got a fabooluss deal on a 1995 BMW 3-series from a guy I worked with. Truth be told, I really only bought the car because it was the perfect shade of Philadelphia Eagle green, and it matched the license plate frame that I had. (I know that some of you don't doubt that for a second.)

I love this car. It is my joy, it is my passion. I never drive it, I just wipe it with a diaper. Oh wait, that's Cameron's dad.

But I do love this car, and my friends love to hate me in this car. I love to hate me in this car, as I recently caught myself being prejudiced against myself. I was driving on the freeway and when I got cut off by a beemer, I threw my hands up and moaned, "Oooooooh, better get out of the way of the beeeeeemer! Look at meeeee! I drive a beemer! I can do whatever I waaaaaaaaant! Everybody make room for the fancy car!"

Then it dawned on me that people probably think that same thing about me when I cut them off. I swear I'm different though - I can't help it that front row parking spots just happen to open up for me. I don't think I've walked more than a few feet through a parking lot in the past three years. My roommates swear that I'm ripping off handicapped signs just to get the spot.

But I really am different. My car is the only fancy thing about me, and it's not even fancy. Its eleven years old and clearly not a symbol of my status in society. Let me stress the fact that I paid way less for it that it was worth. I'm a total fraud and I think people are starting to catch on.

Which brings me to the topic of this post: how truly ghettofabooluss I am now. Three years ago, if Miss Cleo had told me that I'd be offered a steal-of-a-deal on a yuppy car that would guarantee me rock star parking and kissy faces from chicanos; but the trade off is that over the next three years I'd replace all four tires, both front control arms, the starter, the catalytic converter (twice), the fan clutch, the A/C belt and tensioner (three times), the serpentine belt, the thermostat, a handful of electrical relays, and the alternator; on top of $50 oil changes - - I'd have said, "Is it Philadelphia Eagle green?" Blink blink.

I've learned a lot from this car. For example, I've learned that when a mechanic tells you that your guibo (pronounced gwee-bo) needs to be replaced, in your moment of 'this guy is SO trying to rip me off because I'm a girl and I'm going to make my dad proud by standing up for myself', you shouldn't sarcastically ask if the guibo is located near the flux capacitor, because as it turns out, the guibo is a real German automotive part, and you'll just end up looking like an ass. Hypothetically.

I've also learned that nothing about my car is convenient, easy, or cheap. The battery is in the trunk, the window controls are in the center console, the back seatbelts are backwards, the oil pan is on the bottom but the oil filter is on the top....the list goes on and on.

But it does come with a built-in tool kit, filled with special BMW tools that do very specific things. This one is for when the sunroof gets stuck open, that one is for when the glove compartment won't stay closed, and this one is for when you turn your $40 laser cut key and nothing happens except that when you pull the key out, the battery stays on and you call your brother crying because you don't know which battery terminal is negative because it's labeled in German and the manual says that you must disconnect the negative first or else something bad will happen and then need to ask your roomate's brother to tow you to the mechanic in the middle of a snow storm.

Unfortunately, there is no tool for when your car sits at the mechanic for a week because in an attempt to expedite the situation, you had them order the part from a junkyard in Washington (who sent the wrong part), and then from a junkyard in New York (who also sent the wrong part) and then finally from the BMW dealership who takes twenty days to verify the security clearance of the mechanic by demanding copies of your title, registration, drivers license, birth certificate, college transcripts, bank statements, W2's and headshots to prove that you deserve to own this fine piece of German machinery.

There is, however, a tool that will allow you to operate the car while you're waiting for your level three BMW security clearance and the underside of your steering column is exposed with the blood and guts of your ignition hanging down. It's called a screwdriver. And let me tell you, it doesn't get more ghettofabooluss than me gingerly stepping into my car, taking care not to catch my four-inch heels on any of the wires, smoothing my skirt, putting on my purple sunglasses, and then starting the engine with my flat head screwdriver.

Now that's classy.

Me and My Black Heart

On Tuesday, I had a traumatic experience. I was leaving work with my friend Nicole (yes, the very same Nicole from the famous food smuggling incident), heading down to our company's Trunk or Treat (having been volunteered to run it as the only single people assumed to have no prior obligations on Halloween Night) when we happened upon a sad site.

A giant bird (probably not an eagle) had flown into the side of our glass building, and was laying on the sidewalk in a puddle of blood. We both just stood there, watching as the poor bird twitched, both with tears in our eyes. We didn't know what to do - what could we do? - so we just left it.

When I came in to work Wednesday morning, the accountant told me about how he and one of the VP's (yes, the very same VP from the famous communicator incident and the famous carrot incident) had found a mouse in the break room yesterday. I think that the phrase "found a mouse" is a little non-descript, considering that the accountant kicked the mouse into the wall, knocking it unconscious, before taking it outside and dropping a large rock on it. "To put it out of its misery," they said.

I don't think the cheese stands alone on this when I say that it seemed a bit excessive for a poor little mouse. It really pricked the cockles of my heart to think about the accountant drop kicking a little field mouse and then bludgeoning it. Of course, all the superindentents got a kick out of this and spent the next twenty minutes telling me their individual tales of mouse bludgeoning - all too graphic to be relayed here.

And their justification was always the same. "They're rodents."

I just stood there with my jaw hanging open, listening to their ghastly stories of torture. My only response was an attempt to wrangle some shred of humanity out of these guys. With more tears in my eyes, I told these supers the tale of the poor bird from yesterday afternoon. I expected them to have some pity and feel sorry for the thing. Instead, I became labeled a compassionless murderer - apparently I should have stomped on the bird's head to put it out of its misery. By leaving it there, I was only prolonging its suffering, and ignoring its cries for help.

The rest of my work day was a free-for-all against me, The Bird Murderer. I couldn't walk past a super without him sqwaking, "Help me! Help me!" in a tiny bird voice. I also found this little gem written on my calendar:

But it didn't stop there. When I walked into the copy room, I was pleasantly surprised to see the following cartoon depiction posted on the Company Information Bulletin Board:

I don't even have time to count all the things wrong with this picture. For starters, I'm seven inches shorter than Nicole. (No, I'm not a midget, she's just incredibly tall.) When I pointed this out to the artist (none other than Jim, the super from the famous carrot incident) he said, "But I gave you high heels! Oh wait, I guess I mixed that up."

Yes, Jim. You also mixed me up with a heartless bird torturer, but hey, who's counting. Oh, wait. I'm counting, Jim. Have fun using your keyboard tomorrow.