Friday, April 28, 2006

Just take Belair Road north until you hit Nevada

First let me say that I am NOT going to apologize for these pics. The only nasty one is the Disney one, and if you know anything about Disney, you know that they had that coming (no pun intended). Also, as far as the link goes, I have been waiting for that to happen since I was about 4 and now I have been vindicated.

I planned on giving my review of MI:3 that I saw last night, but I am running out of time because I have to work tonight. I will get to it first thing next week.



Wednesday, April 26, 2006

just for the heck of it - here are some random pics

this is Leo when he was a covert operative for the government. See the post below for an explanation.

Murderous Acid Flashback Kittens and TBI Bake Sales

Okay, let me begin by saying I am in the middle of a hellacious 2 week period. Between the two jobs, I don't get a sleep in day until Saturday the 6th of May. I open both days this weekend. *whine whine whimper whimper*. Why am I telling you this? Because I am an attention whore and want your sympathy, even if it is given under false pretenses.

Both of our cats are bat-shit crazy. No real surprise there, 99% of ALL cats are nucking futs, if you catch my meaning (I know, it wasn't the most subtle anagram). I do not know if I have mentioned their names yet, so I will now. We haev taken in two strays, an orange tabby named Leo, and a black and white mixed named Tuxedo. Leo is a boy, Tuxedo is a girl. I am now thoroughly convinced that Leo is in a permanent state of wake and bake. His eyes are always at least half closed and except for when he is plotting a way to escapr the house for a little alley catting, he moves as if the air is about 3 times thicker than it is. It is almost like it is taking a supreme effort to make it look effortless, and it shows. If he was fat and liked lasagna he could be Garfield. Not that those two things are the only requirements. Hell, I am fat, and I love lasagna. But I am not Garfield. although Wifey does treat me like I am Odie from time to time. But anyway, he is just James Dean with fur, but I have uncovered his hidden past. My cat was a trained assassin for the CIA. I am going to post a picture of him on a mission that will prove it.

As far as Tuxedo goes...well...she is just plain stupid. She is a crackhead. This morning she spent at least 30 minutes playing with a Cheerio that had apparently fell on the floor and missed sny previous attempts at cleaning. I say "at least" because the 30 minutes were before I left for work. She was still going strong while Wifey did her morning routine. For all I know she is still batting the damn thing around. Also, she has a habit of getting her claw stuck in things. When she goes to the furniture and/or the cushions and/or the bed, she invariably gets a claw stuck in it and will stand there for a while, trying in vain to figure out what the hell happened and how she can get free. Apparently "PULLING" is not an option. The best though, is when she is walking down the steps to the basement (where our bedroom is, as well as the bathroom, utility room, and the ever important litter box is. I have witnessed on more than one occasion where she gets her claw stuck in the carpeting as she is just walking down the stairs. She will stop on a step, for some reason a claw will pop out, and there she is completely stuck. And let us not forget when she will stop on the stairs because she suddenly has an overwhelimg desire to lick herself (hey, we all would if we could. Well, maybe not the butthole thing, but there are certain areas...maybe I have said too much), and she will then proceed to lick herself and then tumble down the stairs becuase she has lost her balance. Again, I have seen it 3 times. Who knows how often the dumbass actually does it. I work two jobs, Wifey has a full time job and is currently helping plan a summer camp, so neither one of us is home that much (and if you don't believe me, look in the sink. The dishes tell the story). I would not be surprised if Tuxedo rolls down the stairs 3-5 times a day. Maybe it is fun. But it HAS to cause brain damage, and from watching her in action, she ain't got a whole lot of wiggle room there.

Also, one more thing about Tuxedo. For about a month and a half, she has been stalking something in the house. At first we thought it was a mouse. But now I am convinced that there have been no mice since they moved in and chased one througfh the crawl space and into the ceiling of the basement, when they fell through and broke my nightstand. Even the MICE knew then that those damn cats were too damn crazy for them to hang out in the house. So if there is no mouse, what is she hunting? Currently the most plausible theory is that she is suffering from some some sort of Vietnam flashback. And yes she is only a year or so old. But with those 9 lives, you never know.

I have to get to the TBI Bake Sale, but before I do, let me note that it is currently 11:27 am on Wednesday April 26th, and JJ just walked in. And for the last 2.5 minutes (yes I am counting) she has been trying to figure out where her pencil is. "Where's my pencil? PEN-CILLLL? Phooey, I cannot find my pencil. I know I had it..." The word "pencil" has lost all meaning to me. It looks and sounds like a made up word. Also, whenever she says "therapy", it sounds like "thurpee", like a child with a lisp wants a frosty drink from 7-11. It doesn't matter what I rant about, she will be there like that annoying sound that Jeff Daniels and Jim Carrey made in Dumb and Dumber, only more constant.

Now, on to the Bake Sale. Well, it isn't really a Bake Sale. TBI (which stands for Traumatic Brain Injury) is a department here at the hospital. From the overhead announcement (which sounds more than vaguely like it is used as a training ground for the people who make announcements for Amtrak and Light Rail. Not quite Peanut's adults, but awful damn close), I heard that TBI is doing "something" in the Grand Hall. Refreshments will be served and it seems they will be selling something. But from the way the announcement wa worded, it will be the TBI patients doing the selling. And since my brain is immediately drawn to the bizarre outcome, I just keep seeing people with bandages and gauze wrapped around their heads intermingling with the extras from "One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest", trying to haggle with me for a trinket. And if I can't out-haggle a guy who thinks he is Napoleon or a lady who calls everybody "Fred" and then gives them BIG hugs, well, I am not the negotiator I think I am. Honestly, I don't think that is how the shindig is going to shake down, but you have to admit that it is a funny visual. Powder blue pajamas, hospital issue slippers, and what can only be described as a hospital turban trying to make a deal with you on the price of a cherry pie.


Wednesday, April 19, 2006


No, the link has nothing to do with the post. It is just something that has made me laugh since I first saw it, lo those many years ago.

Okay, since I now have more readers (even if some of them are in fact coerced into reading by Wifey, who can be rather convincing when she wants to be), I thought I should maybe make clear what some of the nicknames I use really mean. And since some of them have evolved, it can only help me too..

These are in order. I do not know what order they are in, but they are in SOME kind of order...

Wifey - hopefully self explanatory.

Moleville (or any mole reference really) the basement at the hospital where I am employed.

Asian - also known as Asian Mustard Lady. She got the name from her unwavering support for the mustard included in most Chinese carry-out orders. During a lengthy discussion here in Moleville by the hens about their favorite mustard. Which brings me to...

The Hens - the collection of women that I work with here in the basement of the hospital. Their predilection towards gossiping, usually followed by "Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrlllllllllll..." or something of that ilk, usually makes me want to own the Get Smart Cone of Silence (or whatever it was called). To give you an idea, for the last 15 minutes the discussion has been on the one winner of the latest Mega Millions jackpot (a multi-state lottery, this time won by 1 person in Ohio. The jackpot for this drawing was 265 million dollars). Well, after everyone expressed how much they cannot believe that one person won the whole amount, the conversation turned to how they hope that the person who won is poor and not old, because it always seems that old rich people win the big money. One of the hens is now talking to herself about how she would take the lump sum, because (muttering. Cannot make out the words here). The other two hens have left to go upstairs to the cafeteria to get lunch. She is STILL talking.

Mother Hen - she actually has her own office (the vast majority of us are in cubicles). She will often bring in bagels or doughnuts or something like that, I think to make up for the fact that she can be rather short (rhymes with witch) sometimes (sometimes = 90%, but that is pretty much splitting hairs)

Wonder Twins - an evolution of WW (Wonder Woman) and Jamaica, two women who work in the same cubicle section as me. Definite members of the Hens, also quite opinionated on pretty much EVERY subject one can bring up. Because one of them can't eat chili without the other one farting, they have become one entity to me. In fact, when one is out of the office for any length of time, the other starts to wander about the office like the man in the 24 hour grocery store at 3 in the morning on a Tuesday, walking about in his pajamas searching in vain for the frozen peas.

JJ - JabberJaws. Named after the Hanna Barbara cartoon, she is an older lady who spends (it seems) every possible moment of her life talking. She talks to everyone in the office. She talks to herself. She talks to the medical charts she is working on. And so on. Also, she has no filter to know what to talk about and what NOT to talk about. Like the whole inseam-zipper problem mentioned in the post right below this one.


The third hen is still talking. Now she is talking about going to a fat farm and getting a personal trainer. I can only assume that this line of voiced thought is a tangent from how she would spend the money if she ever won the lottery and became a millionaire. I do not know if that is in fact how she got to that point, but for the sake of clarity of her self conversation, I hope so. Also, the Wonder Twins just walked back in, and their lips are also flapping to beat the band. Any minute now WW will pull up the local news on her computer, turn up the volume on the video part al lthe way so that we can ALL hear what is going on here in "Charm City", and by doing so will give The Hens conversation fodder for the rest of this glorious afternoon.

The Lurker - the only person here in Moleville I can truly trust. I trust her enough to let her read my blog. If the rest of the people down here read it, well, it would be UNPLEASANT to say the least.

Psycho - from the R U A Psycho link to the right. Another blogger, and the first official reader of this site besides family and friends. An excellent blog to read, and it is low fat and high fiber, so as to lower your cholesterol.

I think that just about covers it. If there are any I am forgetting, let me know and I will add them.

BSR - Big Shirtless Ron. The name of my blog and my own little shout-out to myself. It is like a good red wine. Jammy, yet unpretentious.

Asian is committed to learnnding (the misspelling is on purpose)

Yeah, she is back. Wandering about. Actually she just walked out, but not before sharing with everyone what she learned while helping her daughter with her homework last night.

Quick aside, I don't know why I never noticed this before, or maybe it has changed, but as I was sitting here listening to her talk ad nauseum to everyone here in Moleville, she kept laughing. And finally I placed what her laugh sounds like. You know how Barney Rubble laughs, right? Well give Barney's laugh about a half dose of helium, and voila! That is Asian's laugh.

Also, after two whole weeks of blissful peace, JJ is back and Lord if she isn't making up for lost time than I went for a walk wearing a turtleneck sweater-dress and some nice strappy sensible pumps the other day. So I don't know what is going to happen today, but it should be interesting to say the least.

Okay, so Asian, after harassing EVERYBODY else in the hospital, came down to chirp and cluck at all of us. And when the Alpha Hen starts clucking, the rest will surely follow. And. They. Did. So after all the usual chit chat, she is about to leave when *EPIPHANY* she decided to share with us what she gleaned from her daughter's schoolbooks last night. BTW - I am pretty sure that her daughter is in either Elementary school or Middle school. So what that says about the learning curve in that household I will leave up to your final judgement. She started telling us that "It wasn't just the Jews that Hitler killed you know".

...Yes, I did. I actually have a personal stake in this. But I would think that most everybody who does not subscribe to the Mel Gibson "Holo-what?" school of thought is aware that it hasn't just Jewish people hunted down and tortured and murdered. Gypsies (my Momma's side of the family. Where do you think the name came from?) were killed too. In fact, more Gypsies were killed per capita than Jews were. Hell, my mother would be an endangered species if Gypsies were not people (Gypsies are made of people! THEY'RE MADE OF PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!). Sorry, couldn't resist that one. Anyway (and this is where I had to stop myself from giggling. Really, it isn't the subject matter, it was the delivery), than she started talking about how he killed all the "cripples". AND "the gays". Yup. "The GAYS". And the way she said it made it sound like she was putting the quotes around it. The best way to describe it is as if a really old person was talking about how her friend got "the cancer", in that semi whisper way of speaking, like you are afraid that if you say it out loud, you'll get it too. Asian obviously doesn't want to "catch gay", so she said it like that, rather affected.

Oh, and she also learned that Hitler committed suicide, which means he can't go to Heaven (yes that is a quote). Because I am sure THAT is what kept him out. Fear mongering? War-hawking? STATE SPONSORED GENOCIDE? Yeah, God let those go into the Holy Shredder. But put a gun to your head and hi-ho, hi-ho, it's off to Hell you go!

Personally I am willing to bet that at best old Adolph was rather far back on the waiting list, to say the least. Being forced to sit at the bar while those with reservations get seated at the table with the Father. Yeah, and that is being generous. More than likely he is in Hell being forced to prepare meat according to the strictest Kosher standards, while those who were lame here on Earth dance around him and "the gays" stand there and constantly ridicule his fashion sense and choice of window treatments.

So that was fun.

Also, as mentioned earlier, JJ is back, back with a VENGEANCE! And she is in rare form. So far I have heard about how the sun room is almost finished, how she is going to wait to furnish said room until she and her "I don't know what I did in a past life but for the love of God I am SORRY!" husband go vacationing in the Adirondacks this winter. Because nothing says fun vacation like having to lug hundreds or thousands of dollars of furniture hundred's of miles.

The last ten minutes of personal bliss has been spent listening to her and the Wonder Twins talk about pants shopping. She just said "I'm not tall, but I have a large crotch measure. Sometimes I have to buy a size bigger because of the zipper. Because when you sit down you push out. Ouch."


And just to make sure you are suffering like me, just picture a turkey necked old lady with the body of saggy Hershey's Kiss (she just keeps getting wider as you move towards the feet. Not to unlike Jabba the Hut really). And now picture this woman going COMMANDO and then sitting down. You realize quickly that she is in pain because she immediately starts to adjust the offended area.

You're welcome.

Also, she apparently thought she was done with March's charts, but it seems this is not the case. Because whenever she is not regaling us with EVERY POSSIBLE PIECE OF MINUTIAE REGARDING HER TRIP she keeps muttering to herself about how there are charts from March and she was sure that they were all done and did they give her charts twice and oh my goodness...

...And they ask me why I drink.

BSR (still waiting on your responses to this)

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

My life on display. Or, My wife uses me to make her co-workers snort.

I know, long title. Before I begin my ranting, I want to steal two things I just read on on Rick Maese's blog. One is a quote from him, and he other is a quote he pulled from a New York sportswriter. First his own quote...

The worst thing a blogger can do is continually apologize for his absence. So let's just skip that. I'm back blogging. I'll be here every day. Enjoy the veal. Let's get right into it...

So no more apologizing from me if I go off the radar for a few weeks. TPPBBBTTTTHHH!

Secondly (and much funnier IMHO)...

Two weeks into the season and Jorge Julio has already worn out his big welcome in the Big Apple.
Check out this excerpt from Joel Sherman of the NY Post in Sunday's newspaper:
Jorge Julio provoked the largest Saturday home crowd in Mets history to actually chant "Bring back Benson," though it never specified Kris, Anna or the 1980s sitcom. At this point, any of those would be more acceptable. All is forgiven, Anna; maybe that low-cut Mrs. Claus outfit was not so bad. After all, Anna's big mouth was never going to hurt the Mets as much as Julio's bigger ERA.

Now I would like to say something here. And since this is my blog, I will. TPPBBBTTTTHHH!

(and if you are not a sports fan or not a baseball fan or care not for my opinions on Baltimore and its sports scene, please feel free to scan past this and move to the section wherein the title will actually make sense)

1) I was not one of the people who had a problem giving up Julio for Benson. A few people did. They were and in all likelihood still are morons. They should not be allowed to voice their opinions on anything that is of interest to me, because they will just annoy me again, and not capitulate when they are proven wrong. Shakespeare probably said it best when he said "Verily thou are a stupid head". And he used it in iambic pentameter. Damn he was good.

2) I never wanted Benson to go off the air either. If for no other reason then Rene Ajouboudbvkjdf (or whatever the hell his last name is) needs to work without latex all over his face. And I was waiting for the Swedish lady to break out into a Madeline Kahn-like "I'm Tired" song EVERY time she was onscreen.

3) If Kris Benson doesn't have a problem with his wife dressing like a trollop, why the hell should it bother you? Personally, I am hoping my wife gets a good look at the Mrs. Claus outfit she wore (as well as some of those other outfits, like anything she has worn in FHM/Maxim/Stuff pictorial) and thinks to herself "I bet my husband would love to see me in that. Maybe I will wear it while I cook him a gourmet meal and he sits on the couch in his underwear scratching himself and belching. He is SOOOOO hot when he is yelling at the TV during a football game. It makes me want to service him when I see him in those boxer briefs with the holes, and when you add in that delicate scent of Miller Lite and chili on his breath, well I can't contain myself. I have to RAVISH him then"

You live in your world, I will live in mine. And before you ask, yes the sky is blue in my world. And the grass is green. And legal. And portly is just a word that describes going in a certain direction while at sea, just without as much commitment to the turn as if you had said "port".

Now, all about the title. Let me re-read it so I know what the hell I am supposed to be talking about. Oh yeah, I remember now.

It seems that Wifey has been having all of her female coworkers read this excursion into self gratification. Which brings me to another thought I wish my wife would have. It involves the Secretary Pool and a pool. But that is for another time...

So she has co-workers reading my blog (I still hate the word blog. Can you all help me? I think we need to come up with a new word, one to replace "blog". Please leave your suggestions in the comments section). According to her, they seem to like it, which is good. But the frogurt is cursed, which is bad (3 people will get that, and they are the ones who always quote that scene with me. I love inside jokes). But I feel a little weird knowing that a bunch of people who only know me from Wifey's description of me are now getting a view into my warped little mind. It is making me fear the Christmas Party, and that is a good 8 months away. And if there is any kind of summer cook-out for her company, well, just say a little prayer for me now, don't save it till the morning after.

One final thing before I go (although I am feeling the bug and may post again today if I get some good material from here. It is a distinct possibility), I want to give a quick shout out to the Lurker and her ninja pajamas that she wore to work yesterday. 99% of the people in this building could NOT have pulled that off. It was like Hugh Hefner's and Bruce Lee's closets made sweet love and her outfit was their precious child of their inseamed loins. So KUDOS to you Lurker. And Quaker Oats to the rest of you for being here.

I noticed yesterday that I ended my post by referring to myself in the third person, but not just in the third person, but with a nickname. And not just a nickname, but an abbreviation of said nickname. I looked at it today, and honestly, I didn't know how to feel about it. So when you submit your entry for the word that we will be using to replace "blog" (and one day we will get this word into the dictionary!), do ol' BSR a favor and let him know how you feel about him referring to himself as BSR (or maybe ol'BSR, but then I will have to start using phrases like "good buddy" and "breaker breaker". *shudder*)

Monday, April 17, 2006

The dangers of assumption

I just got to type the word "ass", but since it is in the middle of a bigger, safe word, it is okay. I love technicalities.

Anyway, I just wanted to share with you all a conversation that Wifey and I just had on Yahoo IM. Please note that I am not in any way compensated for my mention of Yahoo IM or mentioning that my wife and I use it almost every day because we are both at work and this way we can spend a little virtual time together. I am not a paid endorser. Not by my choice mind you. I would gladly take any pittance they would offer me. I have said before and I will say again, I am relatively young, relatively newly married, and relatively broke. And my relatives will no longer loan me money, so I will accept it from any viable source. So here you go, here is the conversation...

wifey: Well there's sun out now and I'm going for a walk in about 15 minutes.
wifey: Okay.
BSR: hey, I am back
BSR: you back yet?
w: yay!
w: I am now.
w: It's HOT outside.
BSR: it is warm, yes
BSR: but I don't think I would say it is "hot"
w: Yes.
w: You didn't just go walking. In turtleneck sweater dress.
w: It's hot.
BSR: you don't know that I didn't do that.
BSR: Don't Assume.
w: You didn't.
w: Uh huh.
BSR: have you been here with me all day?
BSR: Is it possible that I went shopping?
BSR: Maybe at Fashion Bug or the Avenue?
BSR: Is it not possible that I got some sensible pumps?
w: You bought a turtleneck dress.
w: Something strappy and flattering to the ankles?
BSR: and that I went for a walk because I felt so free and alive?
BSR: I didn't say that I DID, I'm just saying that you don't know if I didn't.
w: Strappy and flattering to the ankles eh?
w: Free. And. Alive.?
w: Oh dear. Lord.

Now what are we to learn from that?

1. That I am more than willing to embarass (I got to type "ass" again) myself for both friends and strangers in order to get a chuckle.
2. I am not afraid to put an image in your head of me in a turtleneck sweater dress and fashionable strappy pumps, and if you know what I look like, you know how brave that thought is for me, and how nauseating it might be for you.
3. If my current career goals do not pan out, I have a possible second career as the host of Straight Eye for the Portly Cross Dressing Guy.
That I can pull off typing the word "strappy" and still feel okay with myself (no small feat really).

And before I go, one final update...
According to wifey, after the alarm went off today, I accused her (in my sleep) of trying to kill me. I know she is trying to kill me. She thinks I have the wealth of Raymond Burr and the aim of Aaron Burr. I in fact have the wealth equivalent to Ray Romano's acting ability and the aim of flouride toothpaste.

Lastly, Wifey just added an additional; post to the IM, one that I think ties up a lot, not so much here as in general. Here it is...

Boobies. Are. Sweaty.

...and to that I say...Thank you Lord for the impromptu wet t-shirt contest you have given me. Truly you do love me to bless me with dinner AND a show.

BSR luvs sweaty boobies!

Thursday, April 13, 2006

The Bed of Manifest Destiny and waking up to Operatic Vikings

Well, it has been a few days, and I am finally getting back into the routines of the daily grind. But not willingly, thank you very much. But to fill you in on the last 48 hours or so...

Tuesday night brought a spat between me and the missus. Long story short, she was already mad about something, and I didn't exactly help matters. But all is good now, thanks to some open communication between her and myself (one of the things I like most about our relationship is that we have been able to keep the lines open even when we are very mad) and also Pat (who is more like my own little Larry from 3's Company minus the gold chains and plus actual talent with comedy) and his sacrificing a container of chocolate peanut butter ice cream to She Hulk (my wifey when angry. Don't make her angry. You wouldn't like her when she is angry). But there is peace in the household again. Although I think there might have been just a hint of resentment. And that led to last night. And this morning...

Apparently last night Wifey became her own little version of Westward HO! (and no I am NOT calling her a ho. I thought I should make that PLAINLY clear, because the water just cooled down and I have no desire to get it boiling again). She started the night on what you could call "her" side of the bed. But that was not meant to last it seems. By this morning I was doing the equivalent of a high wire act on the edge of the bed, various body parts dangling over the edge like an awning over the floor below. That was slightly inconvienent, to put it mildly. But she has been known to want to Lewis and Clark the sleeping arrangements in the past, and apparently my side of the bed is the far end of the Louisiana Purchase. Maybe I ned an Indian guide.

But even that wasn't the morning shock that her alarm clock was. I know I have mentioned previously that she will set the alarm, but it is never loud enough to wake her from her sacred Odin-Sleep, so I have to keep tapping her until she grunts and rolls over and slaps the hell out of the clock. Honestly I don't think she is hitting the snooze bar so much as she is just stunning the damn thing so that it will shut up for a while. That is why the cats will only sit on MY side of the bed to meow about how sad their lives are. But anyway...

It seems that she got the message about setting the clock in a way that actually causes her to move without me having to be the stimulus to her response. There is one tiny unforseen problem with this. If it was loud enough to wake me up before, but not loud enough to rouse her, just how loud does it have to be in order to wake HER up, and how will that decibel level affect my rem stage?

Well to answer your question, it depends. And by that I mean it depends on what the alarm clock is set to. A standard alarm sound would have been omewhat jarring, but like most of you I am becoming a little immune to that sound. After 33 years, even waking up to it isn't quite as bothersome as it was in the past. But was that the sound? Nooooooooooooooo...

Was it some radio station? Yes it was. Was it the radio station we usually listen to in the morning because it has what I have found to be the best and most complete traffic updates and it has them about every 10 minutes? Nooooooooooooooooooooo...

I do not know what radiio station it was. I have never heard anything like what I heard this morning, except for when the Vikings started singing the Operatic Spam in Monty Python. But was it Vikings singing Monty Python? Noooooooooooooooooooo...

It was (and I cannot find any better way to describe this) as if a gaggle of Operatic Vikings decided to steal that old Gregorian Monks Chant idea, but just to keep it fresh, they decided to do a CD of whale songs. And record it at 45RPM just so they could play it at 33 1/3.

(Sidebar - I am not completely sure that "Operatic" is a word, but I like it, so it stays. And if it isn't a word, well it damn well should be)

I will admit that the sound DID wake up wifey. However, it also caused my heart to stop beating ever so briefly, and also my testicles to become so frightened that not even a borderline boiling hot shower could fully rouse them and make them un-tortise themselves. In fact, around 11 o'clockthis morning, I had what could almost be described as a second puberty as my testes dropped again, finally convinced that it was again safe to dangle in the way that only they can.

I humbly apologize for any lasting images now in your head.

So what is to become of all of this? Well, one of two things will be happening. Either I convince her to go back to the old way of waking up, which was annoying for me, but not nearly as catastrophic to my psyche nor to my reproductive organs. OR I will be changing the station on the alarm clock, adjusting the volume ever so slightly, and if I *ACCIDENTALLY* turn off the alarm clock, well, she doesn't have to get up that early anyway. She deserves to sleep in. And I deserve to keep my balls whee they are.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

I'm back, and I am ready to leave

First of all, let me say that Maine was fabulous. Second of all, let me say that due to the time the train left (both ways) and the fact that the wife and I pulled all nighters the night before we got on said trains in order to pack and get everything together, we did not accomplish train-nookie. I know, I am disappointed too. Probably much more so than you are. But, I was given plenty of attention during my birthday weekend, so I am okay. Now if I can only convince her to put on that cowgirl outfit...

It is incredibly gorgeous there, and Nicky and Frank took wonderful care of us. However, we still managed to lock ourselves in the bedroom Saturday night. And in a house where they don't lock the front door. Why? Because they don't HAVE to. It is that safe up there, not to mention mind numbingly beautiful, and peaceful. Now wifey understands why I keep saying that I want to move there. How did we do it? Anyone who knows us knows how easily we accomplish what should be impossible, and how completely we manage to achieve it.

(BTW - later on this week I will be posting pictures. I have to get them off the new digital camera I bought. Hee hee hee hee)

Now on to the end of last week, namely Thursday. Getaway day, as it were. Of course, I had to work both jobs, so it was going to be a gauntlet day no matter what. But still, Thursday is now my boss' SCHEDULED DAY. Of the three places she has to oversee, two get two days a week, and one gets one. I am the one. And I am very much okay with that. And now that I know WHAT day I am going to see her, it makes planning my workload to allow my busy goofing off schedule (like right now for instance) that much easier. I am pretty sure that I have mentioned that my ACTUAL boss (in other words, not the one who runs the dental office, but the one who actually hired me and is in charge of my project) is very cool and I really do enjoy working for her/with her. But she is making it hard on me to not get myself in trouble. It started last week when she called me to check in on my progress and in the course of conversation she told me that she got extensions, or a weave, or whatever the technical term is. Okay, I know her only as a woman with short hair, but I am going to prep myself for this. But nothing can prepare you for your boss walking in and saying "Ta-DAAAAAA" while modeling her new, expensive fake hairdo. Her pride and joy. Her mullett.

Yup. She chose to get a mullett. Her hair (as mentioned earlier) was short. The top was a little poofy, nothing bad, and it was a good look for her. Well she kept the top and got extensions in the back. Now she looks like a puffy Cher if she were to commit to doing 2 years at the Sands in Vegas. Or maybe Branson MO. How can I look at her the same way? More importantly, how can I not say something. Those who know me know that I cannot help myself sometimes. It is part of my impish charm. How long until I screw up and say something. Anybody want an over/under for THAT?

I really need to go, get back to work. But some things need to be shared.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

A few quick thoughts on syrup scented bathrooms and vampires in the basement

Howdy all! First of all, let me say how great it is to know that there are at least 3 people reading this without my prompting them. I know this because two of them commented, and the third told me he read the last post. I feel like Channel 45 back in the early days, before they joined up with fox, hell, before Captain Chesapeake even. But eventually I will find my affiliation and will climb to a solid 4th in the ratings. And then, look out Equalizer-era CBS!

Okay, let me get this out of the way. or some unknown reason, for the last week or so, the men's room here in Moleville has smelled stongly of maple syrup. I find this disturbing on many levels, the least of which is the fact that I have had absolutely NO craving for IHOP recently, and I love IHOP. So this is making me angry.

Next (and this is for The Lurker, a co-worker down here who will randomly read this and comment. Lurker is the only person I trust down here to read this thing), for some reason, it seems that a co-worker who shall henceforth be known as Soop (for Sooper Shopper. She has what can only be described as a mutant power to know the sale prices of every grocery store in the greater Baltimore Metro area, and to use this power to find the best rate for crab meat and Cheerios) has been eating Garlic Bread for breakfast on a regular basis, I would say 3 times a week on average (a week being strictly Mon-Fri for the sake of comparison). Now, you might wonder, how do I know this? Is it her breath? No. Her breath is not the issue. The problem is that she brings it to work, and then puts it in the microwave to cook it before having breakfast at her desk. Before I continue, I will freely admit to have eaten a few everything bagels here in Cubicle World in my time. Lately my breakfast of choice has been Kashi Twigs and Branches cereal, with enough fiber to clean out Jabba the hut from your lower intestine, but I digress. Everything bagels do have some garlic on them, and when toasted you can smell some garlic. But this aroma is beyond the pale. And when all you want to do is drink your coffee and wake up, the last thing you want to smell is the Olive Garden right next to you, because with 3 metric tons of garlic odor in your nose the Sugar Free French Vanilla creamer in your coffee starts to dance on our tastebuds in a whole new way. Not a combination I will be submitting to Glade for their next scented candle anytime soon.

Let's see, what else has been happening. OH YEAH, I remember. For the last two days, I have been subjected to middle aged to upper middle aged women (I have not yet cut them in half to count the rings, and a gentleman never up and asks. And neither do I), have been actively discussing their sex lives, mainly their history of losing virginity and so forth. *shudder* My mini vacation CANNOT start soon enough.

Oh yeah, one other thing. Mother Hen has been pissing me off a little lately. Small stuff, but annoying. Like when I turned in my petty cash request (I am sometimes called on to go on the road to courthouses across the state to gain judgement on deadbeats), I forgot to put the reason I was requesting mileage, namely the place I went to. Well, instead of just saying, "Ron, can you fill out this portion of the authorization request that ou forgot to fill out, she literally tossed it at my feet and said "You gotta fill it out all the way. Until then you ain't getting paid!" Well fuck you very much too. When you add in that it seems more and more likely that SHE was the one who called my boss about my music instead of talking to me directly, and she is officially on the poopy list. And yes, I am aware that I just said "poopy" exactly one sentence after dropping the "F" bomb. But it is my blog dammit! I will self edit as I please.

I will try to post again before the trip, but if I don't, stay tuned for pictures. I am planning on buying a digital camera before the trip and will have to share the glory that is Maine with all of you that have never gotten to experience it.

Until then, I leave you with an example of the World's Worst Contraceptive, as created in the mind of my friend Patrick in the EMMS show during the Comedy Fest this past weekend (we made over $1000 for Autism Awareness and had excellent response from the crowds. If you live in the greater Baltimore area, look for the Autism is PSA that was shot for the Festival to be aired on most if not all local stations during April, which is Autism Awareness Month. The last kid who speaks, who is also one of the first kids to speak, is Zachary, my buddy Greg's oldest son and who is autistic himself. He did GREAT in the spot and we are all VERY proud of him). Okay, long interlude, let me set up the joke again. World's Worst Contraceptive, by Patrick...

Bounty, the Slower Knocker Upper.

If you don't think that is funny, I'm going to Shtaaaaaaaaaaaaad