February 28, 2012
Emails I Will Treasure Forever
From our young, male, Latino receptionist, after I baked mini red velvet cupcakes for my co-workers for Valentine's Day:
Thank you so much for the cupcakes they were bomb diggidy for reals. You’re the best!!! =)
You guys! I am BOMB DIGGIDY! How awesome is that?! I am going to save this email to show my niece and nephews, when they get old -- and sassy -- enough to start telling me how uncool I am.
Nuh-uh! I am bomb diggedy, and I have it in writing!
This email, after sending someone a link that took them to exactly what they were hoping existed:
You always have all the answers!
Yeah, I IMMEDIATELY forwarded that one to Husband. See!!! Again: written proof.
And then yet another series of blunders from folks still unclear on the concept of Reply All.
HR sent out a brief, informative email to all employees:
We have just learned that the name of your employing organization was incorrectly listed on your W2. That has been corrected and you can go into Payroll Software and print a corrected W2. If you are unable to access Payroll Software and need a paper copy, please send a request including the return address and we will print and mail a copy for you.We apologize for any inconvenience.
Your Payroll Team.
Which prompted this building-wide response from one of our savvy, world-travelers:
Please send the corrected copy directly to:Gwynn Grier / Professional Staff Support
Clergy-Specific Tax Company, Inc.
Well, now we all know who does his taxes. How nice. His accountant should pay him for all that free advertising. Especially since he CCed Ms. Grier on the email, so now we can ALL contact her directly!
And then, THIS Reply All to the above email:
FYII think I was included on this email communication unintentionally.
And when I say Reply All, I really mean ALL because he even replied to Ms. Grier!!! BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA *inhale* HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Made even better by the fact that he just "unintentionally" "included" everyone else on HIS "email communication!" Irony is a bitch, dude! Oh my God, I love my co-workers! I sat at my desk and laughed and laughed!
The cherry on the top was this bonus Reply All from some other random blockhead:
FYI - me too.Wow. I hope Ms. Grier's day was brightened as much as mine was. I love these people. Posted at 10:31 AM | Comments (0)
February 22, 2012
Horror and Enchantment
I've gone six and a half years without mentioning guacamole once in this blog. And now, I'm writing about it twice in one month. That must mean something, but I don't know what. Maybe I should figure out the numeric values in each syllable of gua-ca-mo-le and play those numbers in the lottery... on Cinco de Mayo?
I had a small party on Friday after work, with some of my friends from work. An informal gathering where everyone contributed a dish of food, which turned out to be a GARGANTUAN amount of food, since everyone assumed they were feeding eight people. Eight times eight -- yeah, we could've fed sixty-four people, no problem.
At the end of the night, people either took their leftovers, or left them, or divided them up among people. It's a personal preference, and I make no judgement about who does what... until it came to the guacamole.
One of my guests actually brought fresh produce to my house, chopped it up and MADE guacamole. Right there! Before my very eyes! She CHOPPED!
Oh my God, I hate chopping soooooo very much. I HATE food preparation. If someone would come to my house once a week and chop up fruit and veggies for me, I would eat them all day long. I'm not fat because I won't eat salad; I'm fat because I won't prepare salad.
Therefore, having someone come to my house and chop onions and tomatoes and peppers and avocados for me was The Greatest Gift of All. (Second only to learning to love yourself. Shout-out to the late Miss Whitney.) I watched with a mixture of horror and enchantment.
At the end of the evening, when people were getting ready to go, the chopper may or may not have asked, "What should I do with the guacamole?"
And I say "may or may not have asked" because I truly don't remember. I'm hoping that she offered some kind of question, some sort of option. But it's quite possible -- nay, even likely -- that there was absolutely no word from her to precipitate my bold, near-frantic announcement of:
I'll keep the guacamole!!!
Then, recognizing my blunder, I mumbled something like, "Oh, let's split it." But the chopper is a thousand times more gracious than I (or perhaps just wanted to calm the crazy lady), and urged me to keep it all.
In my defense, it was DAMN GOOD guacamole, and I was helpless against its freshly-chopped charms. But the more I think about it, the more I feel like a total asshat for bogarting her delectible guacamole. Fresh produce isn't free, Wenchie! God, I could have at least slipped her a fin or something!
Of course, don't think for a minute that I didn't gobble up all the guac for lunch the next day. Guilty feelings or not, I wasn't about to drive the leftover guac all the way into the city to her house. Nor was I going to give it to Husband. I mean, I was the one who had humiliated myself in order to keep it -- I was the one who sacraficed my dignity! That guacamole was rightfully mine!
Besides, it's basically a salad... that you just happen to eat with tortilla chips. Right?
Posted at 07:52 AM | Comments (1)February 18, 2012
Life Seconds Numbering
So. We've all heard that "Ring Around the Rosie" is about the plague, right? I don't know. I guess I can't assume that's common knowledge because I can't assume that other people read same the weird stuff that I do.
Anyhoo, there are arguments against this theory about the origin of this particular nursery rhyme. But I am going to stick with the plague explanation. It is hilarious to think that, once upon a time, people thought that a rhyming list of plague symptoms was appropriate to sing in a nursery. To small children.
Do you guys remember the other weird shit we used to sing in kindergarten? This one was my fav:
My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.It was bought on the morn of the day he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride;
But it stopped short, never to go again
When the old man died.Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
His life seconds numbering,
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
It stopped short, never to go again
When the old man died.
It didn't seem weird at the time to be singing about an old man's death. I mean, that's what old people do -- they die! Might be kind of weird around five-year olds. But that raises the question of How young is too old to be shielding children from a sad yet eventual part of life?
Luckily, I don't have kids, so I don't have to worry about finding an answer to that question that works for me. But what I really think is weird about this song is the concept of the clock stopping.
Was the clock a representation of the old man's life force, contrived to teach kindergartners -- through song -- about the finality of death? Was the song magical in nature, and the clock and the old man's soul were somehow intertwined? Or was the clock just really, really loyal for an inanimate object?
So many questions!
And yet nothing leaves me dumbfounded like this one (feel free to skim; many of the verses do nothing to further the plot):
Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
the old grey goose is dead.The one she's been saving,
the one she's been saving,
the one she's been saving
to make a featherbed.She died in the millpond,
she died in the millpond,
she died in the millpond
from standing on her head.She left nine young goslins;
she left nine young goslins;
she left nine young goslins
to scratch for their own bread.Her goslins are weeping,
crying and peeping,
her goslins are weeping
because their mammy's dead.The old gander's mourning,
the old gander's mourning,
the old gander's mourning
because his wife is dead.The barnyard's a-weeping,
the barnyard's a-weeping,
the barnyard's a-weeping
waiting to be fed.Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we took her in the kitchen
and cooked her all day long.And broke all the fork teeth,
broke all the fork teeth,
and broke all the fork teeth,
they weren't strong enough.Broke out Granddad's teeth,
broke all Granddad's teeth,
broke old Grandad's teeth.
The old grey goose is tough.Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
the old grey goose is tough.Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we hauled her to the mill.We'll grind her into sausages
and make mincemeat,
grind her into sausages
if only the miller will.She broke all the saw teeth,
broke all the saw teeth,
broke all the saw teeth,
that old grey goose is tough.Go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we know this is a shock.But go tell Aunt Rhody,
poor old Aunt Rhody,
go tell Aunt Rhody,
we buried her under a rock.Go run and tell Aunt Rhody,
run and tell Aunt Rhody,
run and tell Aunt Rhody,
the old grey goose is dead.
Soooooooooooo disturbing! Did the old, grey goose drown herself in the millpond, or was it an accident? And what's with the detailed account of the many ways the humans tried to consume this apparently dear and cherished goose? And why, if the steel tines of a fork weren't strong enough to stand up to the goose's cooked flesh, would Grandad try to chew her with his own teeth?
Thank God, when I went home from school, I had normal, child-appropriate music playing in my house, like Andrew Lloyd Weber's "Jesus Christ Superstar," and Gilbert and Sullivan's "H.M.S. Pinafore."
What's your favorite messed-up childhood song?
Posted at 12:43 PM | Comments (0)February 14, 2012
Guacamole Three, Skirt Zero
I have recently embarked upon a friendship with a woman here at work who is a mutual friend of several friends of mine. It's a whole circle-of-life thing, I know. And it moves us all.
'Til we find our wa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-y,
On the path unwindi-i-i-i-i-i-ing!
I try to find ocassion to belt that out at least once a week.
Anyhoo. Friend. Lunch. Our "first date," as it were. And I've had a lot of first dates lately -- with womenfolk -- but this one is the only lesbian of the four. That I know of. Still waiting for one of them to take me up on the offer to make-out. The seed has been planted...
Oh my God, is there even a point to this, and when the hell am I going to get to it? I have CLEARLY had too much cream cheese frosting! Don't bake and blog, people! Don't type on a sugar high!
SO.
Cripes.
Having lunch with a lesbian, but that's not the point. The point is, she's awesome, and I want to have lunch with her again sometime, so I was trying to be very careful not to be a complete drooling idiot.
I ordered my usual sammich at the deli -- turkey, provolone, guacamole and pico de gallo, squished and melted on a bagel, panini-style. Yum!
So we ate, and I was charming and witty and delightful. I was so close to not outing myself as a total slob on our first date, but the sammich had other ideas. Bloop! A big booger of guacamole fell out of the back of the sammich and onto my skirt. Oh, but not just onto my skirt; in the crotch of my skirt. Sooooooo classy!
Of course, I made some adorable, self-depricating joke, and we both laughed, and the lunch went on as I scoured my crotch with a napkin.
Back at the office, my mishap lingered in both sight and smell. The stain-of-undiscernable-color was less obvious when I turned my skirt to the side so that the offending blob wasn't on my crotch. But I couldn't shake the smell of pico de gallo. And what is yummy eminating from a sammich is not yummy as the odor wafted off the synthetic material pressed to my warm thigh.
I threw my malodorous, black skirt into the laundry basket as soon as I walked into my house later that afternoon. Later that week, it was washed and dried and put back into rotation. (Yes, I rotate my clothes. Did you not know that? Take it from the far left side of the closet, put it back on the far right. And I'm sure there's some kind of fashion-political joke there somewhere, but hell if I'm going to look for it.)
When the skirt was up next in my closet, I had forgotten all about the guacamole incident. But it had not forgotten about me. In the winter, I get dressed before sunrise and before coffee. So it wasn't until I was again sitting at my desk at work that I noticed that the guacamole stain had not come out in the wash!
What the fuck?! What kind of monster, radioactive guacamole are they using?! Horrible, mutant, immortal guacamole!
Again, I turned my skirt to the side and went through my day hoping no one would notice. At least the washing machine had taken away the smell -- if not the sight -- of that malignant, malingering stain.
(Wow, that last sentence was totally Poe-esque, wasn't it?)
Into the laundry went the offending skirt, for the second time. But THIS time, I pre-treated it with some Stain Stick. AND I set the washing machine for a fifteen-minute pre-soak. That will teach you, you unsightly, unnatural filth! Get thee behind me, guacamole!
There is this silly saying of unknown origin -- "The third time is the charm." Is that leftover from pagany, witchcrafty days, when things had to be done in threes if you were going to make your neighbor's cow stop giving milk and send a succubus to visit the minister in his sleep?
Not... that I would know anything about that.
Awkward.
Anyhoo, as Egrau would tell you of her sister's husband-number-three, the third time is not the charm. Nor is it enough times to teach Wenchie to check her fucking crotch before she leaves the house for work!
Because yeah, the stain was still there. And let me tell you, the third time of wearing my skirt hiked halfway around my waist to try to deflect attention from the world's most stubborn South American condiment was NOT a charmed experience. Not by a long shot.
I threw away that skirt. And I ordered another one from J. Jill, even though a J. Jill skirt is not something I enjoy replacing at full price. But I could hardly do without my black skirt. It's a wardrobe staple! And one of only two skirts that I own, so, yeah.
And that, my friends, is the story of why I now order the soup and salad.
Posted at 06:28 AM | Comments (1)February 10, 2012
My Brain, My Enemy
A friend of mine -- a gracious, warm-hearted woman who is capable of wondrous thoughts and deeds -- was talking about her day off today. I don't know why she has today off because that isn't the point (and good for her, she deserves it!).
The point is that she was lamenting the fact that her brain isn't letting her relax and enjoy her gift of a work-free work day. Her brain is all "Wait! You can't possibly be satisfied and at peace! What about (insert problem)? And remember....you still don't have (insert desire)".
Making me wonder -- do our brains even like us? Or are we the proud owners of a vital organ that gets off on thwarting our every move?
I suspect it may be the latter. And I don't think my friend and I are alone here.
I experience my hateful brain daily, on a smaller scale. "You can't relax! The house isn't perfectly, spotlessly clean! Go make yourself useful, you pathetic, comfy-pants-wearing sloth! Polishing your nails is NOT an acceptable expenditure of your time!"
On a larger scale, well, my brain takes unrealistic expectations to Olympic heights. I am actually really giddily happy with how well 2012 is going so far,... which makes for very boring blog posts, I know.
No one wants to hear that my marriage is in a really good place; and we are more financially stable than we've been in a decade; and we are getting a whole new kitchen; and I got a SHINY, NEW COMPUTER; and Heather and I are totally up-grading and redesigning my blog; and I have lots of fabulous travel and vacations planned; and my boss continues with to be awesome. See? Boring AND annoying as sand in your crotch!
Anyhoo, on this larger scale -- this bigger picture of universal contentment, this giddiness that things are FINALLY going my way -- is the feeling of TERRIBLE guilt that I am so freakin' happy.
How can I be happy when other people aren't?! I'm not allowed to be happy when there is still a shred of unhappiness in the world! Bad, bad Wenchie! Quit being so happy and go make yourself useful by SAVING THE WORLD!
There are people in Africa with NO kitchens, and no food to cook in them anyway! There are people who can't travel because they are too busy fighting cancer, you callous bitch! No one gives a shit about your new blog or your new computer because they have abusive family members and chronic health problems and crappy, falling-apart houses! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED FOR BEING SO HAPPY!!! Because you sure as hell don't deserve it!
There is also the tireless Chicken Little in my brain warning me, Obviously, you are going to have to pay for all this good forture, so get ready for the house to burn down! The date has been set for immediately following the completion of the new kitchen. Enjoy!
It's all very confusing because I was kind of under the impression that my brain liked happiness. At least, it used to. I mean, I've spent entire afternoons dressing Barbies, and my brain was perfectly content! Maybe I'm only allowed to have small happinesses? Like there is some sort of set limit that I can't exceed?
But that doesn't make sense. There have been times when my life has been hell, and I didn't see my brain falling over itself to try to make me happy. So it's clearly not about achieving balance; it's just about my brain being a total asshat.
Well, fuck you, brain! You're mean!
How does one wreak vengence upon one's own brain...?
Posted at 11:27 AM | Comments (6)February 06, 2012
The New Kitchen: Phase I
This is my favorite photo from Saturday.
My just-delivered, newly-assembled, stainless steel Kitchen Aid refridgerator. Sitting in the driveway. Isn't it resplendant?
I'm sure the delivery-installation guys thought I was weird for taking this photo. And I sure as hell wasn't going to compound their dubious opinion of my sanity by explaining to them, It's for my blog!
Phase One of our new kitchen (prompted, if you'll recall, by Billi's offer of their used dishwasher) was Installation of Refridgerator, Double Oven, and Microwave.
Here's a Before photo of the old kitchen, renovated by the previous owners about the time I graduated from high school.
Why, yes, that IS a built-in Sub Zero fridge with custom paneling that would probably cost more than our car to replace. Thanks for noticing.
You'll also notice my favorite thing about our kitchen -- the double oven. I can bake two trays of cookies at once, and stagger them so that, while one tray is baking, I'm putting baked cookies on a cooling rack and scooping more dough onto the other tray! So efficient! Or so I thought...
Here are the two ovens -- old and new -- having a stare-down in the driveway.
Old Oven: You think you're so cool, sitting there with your brilliant cobalt interior and digital panel. Well, you're not! You're no better than me -- you're just a little shinier.
New Oven: Yeah? Well, I got one word for ya, chump. Convection.
Old Oven: --The hell?
New Oven: Three trays of cookies at a time. In one oven.
Old Oven: Dagnabbit.
And here's how this part of the kitchen looked...
...for about three minutes, until the workmen left, and Husband HAD HAD HAD to pull the fridge back out so that he could properly finish the space where the new fridge goes, i.e. new flooring (all the way down to the subfloor) and drywall.
So that's why the crappy After photo is taken with my phone; I didn't even have time to walk into the other room and grab my real camera before Husband had moved the fridge and started tearing up old flooring. Kind of disappointing, when all I wanted to do is get a cup of coffee, sit down and gaze at the shiny for a while. But I don't really have a teensy baby toe to stand on when it comes to calling other people on their O.C.D. So I let him have at it.
He's also going to build me a nice oak shelf for my cookbooks over the fridge, so again -- not going to give him grief for drywalling where no one will ever see.
I'm just grateful that it's winter.
The garage has been our meat locker since 8:10 a.m. on Saturday, when the delivery guy called and said, "We'll be there by 8:30."
Phase Two will be when Husband takes out the old counter top (and stove top and sink), and rips off the old backsplash. I can't even think about the dust without getting hives. Keep your eyes on the prize, Wenchie!
Eyes on the prize. *scratch, scratch*
Posted at 09:02 AM | Comments (1)February 02, 2012
A Working Relationship
Happy Groundhog Day. Who gives a shit. Now, onto bigger and better things. Like today's post.
So, I'm thinking I may have -- completely accidentally and without even trying -- grown as a person. I mean, I've always thought it would be cool to grow as a person. But I never had an actual goal in mind. Just sort of a... vague wish. Like, Now that I'm 42, wouldn't it be nice to look back and see that, somewhere along the way, I've grown as a person?
Remember way back in time, when I practically fretted myself into hysterical blindness over an outfit for a Christmas party thrown by one of Husband's ex-employers? Or, more recently, Older Step Daughter's wedding? Jeebus, who was that chick?
Now I'm like, Christmas party? Black skirt and beaded top. DONE. Nephew's wedding? Maxi dress and shrug. DONE. Miami in April with all of Husband's co-workers? BRING IT, Don Johnson! I will Wenchie the SHIT out of this vacation!!!
And you know why? Because I have finally made peace with clothing. I have found what I like, what I feel comfortable in, and I don't give a shit what anyone else thinks I should be wearing. And it's not that I'm in some second (fourth?) childhood, being all rebellious and shit. I'd just rather feel confident enough to own the room than bow to social pressure and be self-consciously tugging at my clothes all night.
For example. My nephew's wedding, in L.A., in May. Social convention dictates that I should wear a sundress, with a delicate pashmina to cover my shoulders in the church, and tall, strappy sandals.
Nuh-uh.
With my sturdy shoulders, putting me in anything overtly feminine just makes me look like a really, really bad drag queen, and I would never want to impune the drag queen community like that. Also, as I have mentioned before, I hate sandals. Well, I hate 99% of all sandals because I don't like straps. (This also carries over to Mary Janes.) And I REALLY hate anything between my toes, which automatically rules out 50% of all sandals right out of the gate. (You can slap all the Swarovski crystals on them that you want -- flip-flops are still only appropriate for walking across sand, from the car to the water.)
But you know what? Dressing differently doesn't necessarily mean that I am dressing inappropriately. I will still dress with the formality and respect befitting the ocassion; I just will not be wearing a fitted bodice covered in flowers, or spaghetti straps that don't cover the flower tattoo on my shoulder blade.
And about this Miami trip. Apparently, if "Burn Notice" can be relied upon as a credible source of information -- and I think that it can -- the Miami dress code consists largely of khaki pants, white shoes, and tiny clothes with big flowers. No, no, and no.
I'm sure I don't have to explain how I feel about thong bathing suits.
I told Husband that I will be wearing what I always wear in summer: jeans; dark, solid-color tops with sleeves that come just above the elbow; comfy sandals suitable for walking; silver necklace.
He looked vaguely alarmed.
He asked if I wanted to buy some khakis. (The HORROR!) I said I have a pair of capri jeans that I MIGHT bring, lest I wear tan, pleated slacks and be mistaken for the employee of some big box store. He asked about shorts. I told him that I don't own any, but I'm considering buying a knee-length, swingy, black skirt, to wear with a dark, solid-color top and walking sandals.
He said that he's going to buy some more golf shirts. I informed him that I am not going to change my style of dress just because I'm temporarily leaving the midwest, and The Sunshine State is just going to have to quell its pursed-lipped disappointment.
I have, however, found a suitable median: some tees online that are long-sleeved and covered in a flowery pattern BUT... it's a dark, flowery pattern. And the long sleeves allow me to have them hemmed to my liking, i.e. just above the elbow. I bought eight different ones, assuming that I'll be sending half of them back.
And there ya go. With those tees and thong panties under my jeans (I cannot abide V.P.L.*), I will still be midwestern Wenchie, with a polite nod to Miami. Because Miami and I were just not cut out to be besties, y'all, but that doesn't mean we can't have a civil working relationship.
* Visible Panty Lines
Posted at 10:48 AM | Comments (5)