the cheese stands alone

Gravel

I just finished reading an interview in "Entertainment Weekly" with Chris Rock, who is hosting the upcoming Academy Awards. I'm at a loss.
In the interview, he plays the race card no less than five times, and says awards shows are "idiotic". He also says he's not going to do any of his material, but will save it for an after-awards show he'll trot off to do elsewhere, where he'll rip apart the ceremony. His game plan to be the host of one of the biggest movie awards show is to "run out the clock".
Sure, Chris Rock is a damn funny comedian. He's a good actor. And yes, certainly award shows mean less and less as they tend to pop up every other month for every permutation of art/film/music they can find.
But don't you think maybe they could have at least found a guy who gives a shit about anything except his own agenda to host? What's next, they'll get Michael Moore up there to hand out the golden naked guy?
Obviously I woke up on the wrong side of the remote this morning.

Misappropriations

A conversation fueled by some really, really good wine after dinner the other night....

*after a promo for the Golden Globes in which Meryl Streep proclaims everyone can see through her dress*
GM1:I need to watch that.
Me: Why?
GM1: Hey, transparent dresses!
Me: You got a thing for Meryl Stroop?
GM1: No... what? Wait, you said Meryl Stroop.
Me: Did not.
GM1: Did too.
Me: Okay, you got a thing for Meryl Stroop.
GM1: Okay, yeah, I got a thing for Meryl Stroop. She's hot, baby.
*pause*
GM1: Go Google Meryl Stroop.
Me: Why?
GM1: Maybe she IS really hot.
Me: Meryl Stroop.
GM1: Yeah. Hottie Stroop.
Me: No more wine for you.
GM1: How much wine would it take for you to do Meryl Stroop?
Me: About as much as it would take for me to do Al Pachinko.
GM1: Huh. That's a lot.
Me: Go figger.

Again With The Buttering Up

The GM1 had to spend the night at the Naval Hospital. Don't worry, nothing like illness or accident or my cooking... he had to do a sleep study to determine, pre-retirement, if his snoring and near-apnea is cause enough for a bit of disability tacked on to the pension.
He called me last night before settling in for the night.

GM1: So, they've got me. Don't worry, I won't talk. The Cause is safe.
Me: Good to know. Are you wired up yet?
GM1: Oh yeah, I'm trailing wires all over the place.
Me: Wonder how much electricity is running through you?
GM1: I don't know, but I bet I could shove a slice of bread between my cheeks and come back with toast.

Butter Me Up

I give up.
I tried, I really really tried, but I cannot watch "Napoleon Dynamite". I have started and stopped and begun and paused and fast-forwarded and reversed and yet I cannot force myself through it. It is a train wreck without the finer quality provided by maimed corpses. And yet it was touted to the heavens by critics and moviegoers alike as "hilarious" and "subversive". I just gagged a lot. Movies I dislike hit me in the pit of my stomach like a bad plate of moo shu dork.
Other movies I have tried in vain to watch, as per advice from raves and reviews:
"Buffalo '66"- despite the ever-luscious Christina Ricci, I couldn't keep from screaming at Vincent Gallo to shut the fuck UP already. He was a sinus headache with nasty hair.
"Ghost World"- I wanted so much to like it. It had slackers and outcasts and geeks, what's not to like? But besides being completely distracted by Enid's glasses, Steve Buscemi makes me itch. And not in that good place.
"Bottle Rocket"- Owen Wilson is the bomb. Excuse me, the bottle rocket. As is Wes Anderson. They also were behind "The Royal Tennebaums", which was just as self-conscious and silly as "Bottle Rocket"and which cracked me up. Yet I cannot get past the first five minutes, and I have no idea why... I just keep winding up in the bathroom with an old copy of Maxim.
"Joe Versus the Volcano"- Actually, just the first twenty minutes of this ulcerate me. This goes again to my inexplicable obsession with Tom Hanks and my inability to watch any movie, or part therein, where he is unhappy or in pain. Example: I watched "Cast Away" and cried until my face swelled shut and I had to have my dinner pizza intravenously.
And as long as I'm venting my cinematic spleen, let's list Movies I Won't Watch If They Are Made Of Oxygen And I Am Stranded On The Moon:
"The Passion of the Christ"- I like my myths with a little less in-your-face gore. If I want bloody entertainment, I'll watch anything by Tarantino. Besides, what fun is a movie where you know the ending?
"My Big Fat Greek Wedding"- I'm sure it was a cute little film, but it was constantly shoved down my throat via hype that I now Pavlovian-gag if I see a bridal shop.
Anything by Michael Moore- If I want to hear from a fat gasbag, I'll go to the zoo and feed the elephants some chili.
"Philadelphia"- See "Joe Versus The Volcano" above.
We can add to the list anything that is billed as "heartwarming" or "good family fun" as a major selling point. I'm just not a fan.
Like the poet said, opinions are like assholes... everyone has one and a lot of them stink. Stinky is in the eye of the beholder, I guess. I'm sure there are some of you out there a bit frothed that I've dissed your favorite film. If so, sorry about that. I'm just speaking with my gut here.
And really, what do I know? I just go for the popcorn and necking in the back row.

UPDATE: Upon the advice of TheFrog, I chaptered ahead and watched the dance scene in "Napoleon Dynamite". I must now redefine "train wreck". I seriously thought the kid was going to strip down any minute... the song should have been that "bow chicka bow bow" from porn movies.
And I laughed my ass off.

A Nice Game Of Tag

I've seen this going roundy round the blogs, and Zonker of Thunder and Roses tagged me to put in my two notes worth of musicality. Then I get to tag five others, down around question 5, to play with me.
Or you can just go ahead and play with yourselves... far be it from me to restrict your personal quality time.

Random 10 Songs in My Playlist:
1. "All The Way From Memphis"- Mott the Hoople
2. "Atom Bomb"- Fluke
3. "YMCA" in Cantonese
4. "Peace In The Valley"- A Life Less Ordinary Soundtrack
5. "Conjunction Junction"- Schoolhouse Rock
6. "Rockafeller Skank"- Fatboy Slim
7. "Bang A Gong"- T. Rex
8. "The Galaxy Song"- Monty Python
9. "The Ballad of Chasey Lain"- Bloodhound Gang
10."Detachable Penis"- King Missile

1.) What is the total amount of music files on your computer?
About 170 MB... yes, kind of smallish, but I have my stereo sitting right next to me on the desk, so I don't really use the computer for music very much.

2. The last CD you bought is:
"Born" by Bond

3. What is the song you last listened to before this message?
"Cowboy" by Kid Rock

4. Five songs you often listen to or that mean a lot to you.
"Army" by Ben Folds Five
"We Were Snotty Nosed Kids In A Trailer Park" by Redneck Greece Delux
"Bad Touch" by Bloodhound Gang
"The Way" by Fastball
"The Galaxy Song" by Monty Python

5. Who are you gonna pass this stick to (five persons and why)?
Bob, because he's a damn fine musician in his own right.
Scooterdeb, because I bet she is a wonderful menace to society despite what the tests say.
Jeff, because he seems to attract the musical types.
Janet, because she can turn a musical pun like a pro.
Joanie, because music hath charms to soothe the savage breast (and backs).

All's Fair In Love and Blogging

Our own Froggie's hubby, the TPO, is coming to visit here at Chez Cheese. He's an old friend of the GM1, and a dinner out is planned. As his wife blogs too, he sent a word of warning to the GM1 via email:
"P.S. I'm mentally preparing myself not to make an ass of myself or do ANYTHING! that is blogable."
Dude, it's too late.
I should clarify that I mean it's too late to not behave bloggably, NOT the ass part. Remember, context is everything, and the TPO will be with the GM1 and myself, both masters of the Make A Total Ass of Ourselves superpower. The TPO is likely to come off looking like James Frickin' Bond.

As In "Herring"

I had a spare hour, so I did what everyone does with their free time:
I dyed my hair red.
It's red.
I mean, red.
Beaten stepchild red.
Holy crap.
It didn't look this red on the box.
I was expecting little glisteny highlights, sparking copper and bronze in the sun.
Man. It's... well, it's red. Forget your dainty "auburns" and "strawberry blondes".
We're talking whore in church red.
The box says "Cardinal". I must have been thinking "oooh, pretty bird", not "the Monsignor's undies."
GM1: "Holy shit, babe, that's.... RED."

I kinda like it.

Yes, pictures will be posted later, are up now in the extended entry thingy.
I just have to find a way to keep the camera from completely deleting my entire head when it tries to correct red-eye.

Bird's eye view

GM1 keeps saying Maureen O'Hara. I don't know about that. But I do have a redhead's temper, despite my angelic reputation.
Shut up. I can hear you, you know.

Soylent Green Really IS People

Prepare to be dazzled.
I cooked last night.
Spaghetti, with lots and lots of nice chopped onions and mushrooms.
Prepare to be grossed out.
I cut off the tippy-tip of my thumb.
I couldn't find it.
I continued to cook.
I did not tell the GM1 there was a extra bit of protein in his dinner.
Let the "eewwwwing" begin.

*Alternate title 1 "The Rule of Thumb"
*Alternate title 2 "Discretion is Nine-Tenths of the Claw"
*Alternate title 3 "Tastes Like Chicken"

Getting Down

Today's work conversation:

Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: Excuse me, can I ask you something?
Me: Sure.
Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: Do you have anything that smells like a duck?
Me: Excuse me?
Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: I SAID, do you have anything that smells like a duck?
Me: *silence*
Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: Because I need to find something that smells like a duck.
Me: Live or cooked?
Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: LIVE! Of course, LIVE! Do I look crazy?
Me: *wisely skipping the rhetorical question portion of our program* Uh... what does a duck smell like?
Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: You don't know what a duck smells like?
Me: No, not really.
Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense: *very huffy* Well, if you were a duck, you'd know, all right!
Me: Quite true. Sorry.

Update to this: I got the other job, which is still with BigStore in the MegaMall, but in a department where my contact with people like Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense is going to be very limited. This is bad news for Bonzo...er, blogging, but good news for what was sure to be possible weapons charges in my future. The learning curve is goddamn near vertical a bit steep but I feel if I put my best foot forward and my nose to the grindstone I will no longer be able to smell the Lady With Very Random Fashion Sense. Or the ducks.

Random Thoughts As I Wait For Tater Tots

1. I have some blogs bookmarked that I would never consider putting on the blogroll, for one reason or another... yet I read them almost every day. Most of them are the "spill your guts" kind of blogging, with every little family disagreement being aired. Bloggy train wrecks, so messy and horrid and yet I just can't stop looking.

2. I've said this before and I'll say it again.... my feet look funny from up here. If I bring them close to my face, they look normal. But down there at the end of my legs, bizarro freak show feet.

3. No matter what the GM1 says, a fart is not an expression of affection.

4. Unless I do it. Then it's just luv luv luv, baby.

5. Johnny Carson was a television pioneer and a truly funny man who shaped my childhood and who I will miss, now that he's gone, and who deserves more of a memorial than this, a rambling blurt in a chain of same, but I am at heart a lazy bitch who has tater tots in the oven, turning to cinders as we speak.

6. Where is the number for Pizza Hut?

Epiphany

Went out to dinner last night with the GM1 and his buddy. I've decided, after watching Buddy order his meal, that men truly do have decision disorder. It took this guy six times of the waitress coming over to the table, explaining the menu selections in detail, refilling his water glass, over and over, before the guy could make up his mind. Good thing the waitresses at Hooters are so patient.
I tell you, guys are just so dim-wi....
Hey.
Wait a minute....

Oh.

Featuring The Little-Used Attribute, "Wacky"

Of the 79441 people who have taken this quiz since tracking began (8/17/2004), 4.9 % are this type.

I especially like the menace to society part.

Only One Betwixt The Two Of Them

Conversation with the GM1 while watching "Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle"....

Me: Isn't that that guy?
GM1: No... uh, no, it's that other guy.
Me: The one who was in that thing?
GM1: Yeah, that thing the other day.
Me: Oh, yeah. Silly me.

Quick and Dirty

As I mentioned here, strange things were afoot vis a vis my job. To sum up, the person with whom I interviewed called me on Monday and I started my New Position on Tuesday. (Knew all that yogaing would come in handy someday.)
It's a better fit of a job for me, because it has zero customer service encounters, at least official ones. I'll still be in the general store area, accessible by the random pubic, but when I'm doing my assigned assignagements, it's got dick-all to do with them.
I am now calling myself The Oracle, for what I do is entirely dealing with signs. Posting signs, taking down signs, revamping signs. I like this job quite well, and it's going good. Well, it was going good. Up until this afternoon.....

When I began this gig as The Oracle, I was told by my new manager that I would have nothing more to do with customer service. When I told her that my previous manager, knowing I was being hired to this new thing, had gone ahead with who knows what motives and put me on schedule in my (now old) job for Friday and Saturday. "IGNORE THAT!" trumpeted my New Manager. "YOU ARE NOT WITH THAT JOB NOW! YOU DO ONLY SIGNS! ONLY! SIGNS!"
My new manager is a bit deaf.
So today I went in on my new hours, did my new job, came home, and took my new nap. I awoke to a voicemail on my phone, from the Old Manager saying that I should NOT go in to work on Saturday at my New Job hours, but to come in to my old job in the afternoon and work until closing because she had no one available.
Wtf?
Old Manager, being the crafty sort, had called me after the New Manager had left for the day, a timing of which OM was well aware. She also knows NM is off on weekends and that I would be unable to confer with her as to what the HELL is going on.
I'm rather pissed about it, and here's what I'm going to do.
I'm not going in on Saturday, to Old Job assignment with Old Manager because I don't do that anymore. OM thinks she can bulldoze me, knowing I have no one in my new upper chain of command to consult.
So, come tomorrow (my day off as stated by New Manager just this very day), I am not going in. I am not answering any calls I will surely get from Old Manager when start time comes and goes. (Love that caller I.D.) And I am going to go in my new regularly newly-scheduled day (Sunday) like nothing is going on, like I know nothing about the whole thing, and if I am confronted, will tell Old to go talk to New, because I gots a new massa now, yassum I do.
Jesus H Jumped Up Christ, can't you management types just let a girl get on with her new job in peace?

The GM1 says to just chalk it up to interstore politics, with me as a pawn, and go with the higher authority, that being in this case New Manager. And as this is the logical, rational course of action, it's what I'll do.
But part of me, the primal, monkeybrain part of me, wants to go down to BigStore right now and put a good old fashioned HURT on Old Manager. Just for making my Happy Eve Of Day Off buzz go south.
But only temporarily.....
I'm shaking, not stirring, as we speak. Extra olives, anyone?

UPDATE: The GM1 points out another option, which is to Go Ostrich, a phrase around our place which means "to pretend it never happened, thus negating the need to respond." So if the voicemail never happened....
Yeah, it's a cop-out, but it keeps the sacred Day Off from being all smudged with Old Manager's pushy fingerprints.
I've Gone Ostrich on this one as of now.
UPDATED AGAIN: Naught else was heard about the matter. No further calls, nothing said today when I went in to work, although to be fair I didn't see hide nor hair of Old Manager. Is this a dead deal or the clam before the storm?

Obsess

I have watched this now fourteen times.
I will watch it fourteen more.
Then I will go change my pants and watch it again.
(Pants-wetting gigglefest courtesty of Harvey)

Speaking Of Food

Well, I mean, weren't we? Okay, wasn't I? As a woman on a constant diet in search of That Perfect Ass (no, not the one I married, stop that right now, he's listening, for godsakes!) I am of course constantly dwelling on, daydreaming about, desiring... food, glorious food!
This is why it irks me that my goldfish eat better than I do.
My goldfish, you see, are constipated. To you and I, this is but a wee inconvenience and a good time to catch up on our back issues of Cosmo. But to a goldfish, whose entire life is dedicated to expelling as much feces as possible, this a damn near a denial of existance. Consider the day of an average goldfish:
Get up.
Wiggle heinie.
Poop.
Swim a little.
Poop.
Examine poop.
Poop again.
Compare to previous poop.
Make that funny "ooooh" face.
Poop.
Eat ravenously.
Poop.
Brag about poop to other goldfish.
Short nap, with poop.
Poop.
Watch other goldfish poop.
Dismiss other poop as rank amateur poop.
Poop again, disdainfully.
Eat like you'll never see food again.
Poop.
Pre-bedtime poop.
Go to sleep.
Poop in sleep.

Now, imagine, if you dare, a goldfish without the miracle of kaka. He can do only one thing... float with his arse above the water line and wait for a miracle.
So I read up on the problem in "Goldfish Monthly: The Full Poop", and it said to feed him fresh peas, carefully squeezed from their skins, and orange slices, cut carefully into jussssst the right size.
This worked, by the way. The goldfish are pooping like stallions. My filter runneth over. Poop abounding. The Neverending Poop.
I could go on and on. And frequently do.
The point is, I need to be a goldfish, a constipated goldfish. I want to be pampered.
I've got the little "ooooh" face down pat.

Under the Spreading Chestnut Tree, The Village Wordsmith Stands

I'm so clumsy today I'm spilling things like gravity is on sale and I've got a pocket full of nickels.
Trust me, this made a lot more sense when I thought of it earlier in the shower, but most things do, je ne sais?

Manual Overdrive

On the way back from a job fair in Los Angeles, driving with the GM1:

Me: So what's the attraction of the fast lane anyhow?
GM1: It means you're the big dog on the highway. You're the man. You drive The Car of All Cars. It means go real fast now.
Me: Like, "when I'm in this lane, I have the biggest penis of all"?
GM1: Yeah, okay, like that.
Me: But, if I had a penis, it WOULD be the biggest penis of all, because it's me.
GM1: Okay, it could be big, but would you know what to do with it?
Me: Are you kidding? I'd be Dale Earnhardt Jr. in the Penis Nascar 500!
GM1: Or Mario Andretti in the Grand Pricks.
Me: Pree. Grand "Pree".
GM1: Not this time.

Low Carb, Too

Best compliment I've gotten lately:

Kelly: "You're... you're like the candy-coating on the pickle, you are."

Upping the Date

There have been developments on the mysterious job in the mysterious new department, which I have mysteriously related here.
Okay, I just like saying "mysterious".

Counting On You

Yes, another meme thingy where you answer a pile of questions. I am sorely addicted to these, if only because they jog my poor misguided memory, and sometimes they afford the opportunity to lie my ass off.
Only to protect the innocent, of course.

1. Your name spelled backwards: nnaeel
2. Where were your parents born? Both of 'em were hillbilly born and raised, West Virginny-style
3. What is the last thing you downloaded onto your computer? My new theme song, "Atom Bomb" by Fluke, courtesy of Zonker at Thunder and Roses
4. What's your favorite restaurant? Cheesecake Factory, where the best dirty martinis are born.
5. Last time you swam in a pool? In the child-pee warmed waters at my middle sibling's home this past summer, during my Visit To Hell.
6. Have you ever been in a school play? I won the drama award three years running.
7. How many kids do you want? Thanks, I'm not hungry.
8. Type of music you dislike most? Tied between rap and that Mexican polka crap.
9. Are you registered to vote? Yes
10. Do you have cable? Yes, but the ropes are plenty strong enough.
11. Have you ever ridden on a moped? Yes, I had one named Major General.
12. Ever prank call anybody? Only when I can't find Michael Hunt.
13. Ever get a parking ticket? Bloody buggery Los Angeles stupid meter nazis.
14. Would you go bungee jumping or sky diving? How much have I had to drink prior?
15. Farthest place you ever traveled? Japan
16. Do you have a garden? Not a chance. I have a black thumb.
17. What's your favorite comic strip? Clip Clop Comix and Red Meat.
18. Do you really know all the words to your national anthem? I know the first verse.
19. Bath or Shower, morning or night? Shower, morning... unless it's for recreation, then it's bath.
20. Best movie you've seen in the past month? Grosse Pointe Blank.
21. Favorite pizza topping? Mushrooms, mushrooms and more mushrooms.
22. Chips or popcorn? Popcorn, cheese of course.
23. What color lipstick do you usually wear? A shade called Black Honey.
24. Have you ever smoked peanut shells? No, but I have smoked a salmon.
25. Have you ever been in a beauty pageant? Yep. Lost it when I fell off the runway.
26. Orange Juice or apple? Neither... CranGrape.
27. Favorite type chocolate bar? Heath Toffee
28. When was the last time you voted at the polls? This past election, when our guy won.
29. Last time you ate a homegrown tomato? At my mom's this summer, during the Part Of The Visit To Hell That Didn't Suck
30. Have you ever won a trophy? Yes, for kickboxing. 3rd Place.
31. Are you a good cook? Cook? Cook? What the hell?
32. Do you know how to pump your own gas? "Okay, Unleaded, where were you on the night of April 19th? Don't make me get the rubber hose... oh... you've got one already... hmmm."
33. Ever order an article from an infomercial? No, but oddly enough, my catfish's name is Infomercial... because he's flashy, but he's full of shit.
34. Sprite or 7-up? Diet 7-Up, please.
35. Have you ever had to wear a uniform to work? Several times, the last as the Fairy Floss Floozie.
36. Last thing you bought at a pharmacy? KY, some rubber gloves, and a bag of discounted Christmas ornaments. Got a nice doubletake from the cashier.
37. Ever throw up in public? Too many times to count. I am the Queen of the Spews.
38. Would you prefer being a millionaire or find true love? Assuming that I hadn't met the GM1 already, I'd imagine being a millionaire makes true love come out to play a bit easier.
39. Do you believe in love at first sight? Lust at first sight, love if you don't go blind when you wake up and see the results.
40. Ever call a 1-900 number? To vote for some television thing or other... don't remember what.
41. Can exes be friends? No, because life is already too short for even proper vengeance, let alone "forgiveness."
42. Who was the last person you visited in a hospital? My papaw, rest in peace.
43. Did you have a lot of hair when you were a baby? Bald as an egg. Mom would tape a pink bow to my noggin to stave off the inevitable question.
44. What message is on your answering machine? "Hello. You've reached my phone. You know what to do next. If you don't, hang up and get back on the short bus."
45. What is in your backpack? Like my purse, only worse. Ooooh, a rhyme!
46. Favorite thing to do before bedtime? Read, unless the GM1's gotten ideas.
47. What is one thing you are grateful for today? That I didn't have to go to work and the coffee that made me human again. Okay, it's two things, sue me.
48. What is the first concert you ever went to? Black Sabbath, in 1973.
(Counted away from Karl at White Noise)

In Color

Kelly, heretofore to be known as The Coolest Person Ever, has sent me a Present that she made with her own clever little hands. She doesn't have a blog, so you can tell her how keen she is here in my comments.
Kelly, you are the best daughter ever.
The evidence is in the extended....

TA-DA! The Shirt Heard Round The World!

These? They're optional equipment.

A close-up so you can observe my cool hand signs... I think I've suddenly become a Crip or something.

Notice the way Blog lifts and separates
.

I've just swallowed a bug and am waiting for the flash before I spit it out.

Oh, there's my ass!

Not Quite Dire, But Certainly Rear

All right, all right, a lot several a few of you Mom has been wondering what is up with the blogging when I'm supposed to be at work. Did I suddenly get internet access at Big Mall? No, unless I mug the 1 in 100 customer who has a cellphone with 'net, there's not much chance of that.
No, the truth of the matter is, my job is currently in flux. (Flux, by no small coincidence, also is a term for "discharge of large quantities of fluid material from the body, especially the discharge of watery feces from the intestines", which sums up my job nicely. ) As a seasonal employee, I was informed that I would no longer be on the schedule but be logged as an "on call" person. Then, in keeping with form, they went ahead and scheduled me and were astonished that I didn't show up. Finally (after 4 shifts missing), they called to see why I wasn't around. I informed then that since I'd been determined non-scheduled and on call, I'd not checked the schedule but had waited to be called. Silly me!
And then the gloves came off. I went on to inform them that spending the most joyous holiday of the year as the verbal punching bag for every Juan, Dick, and Harry, cleaning up the non-flushable toilet that was our store after the hordes had passed through, and finding little happy in Happy Holidays had pretty much discouraged me from a further career in the retail arts.
It was then I was offered an interview to transfer to another department, one that entailed NO dealing with the general public. No nights, no customers, no smiling through the emotional cordite cloud. They seem to be selling it a tad hard, so my grain of salt defenses are up. I'm curious to see if they try a reach-around.
It's later on today. I'll let you know.

Update: Had my little interview, both with the store manager and the department manager. Good hours, same pay as before, and I'll have an answer on Friday. One question I was asked was if I was an organized person. Those of you who know me and know my near-Monk, slightly OCD tendencies are laughing.

Updated update: As you can see (or maybe not, since I forgot to say I am typing this on Sunday... ) Friday has come and gone and nary a word from the people with whom I interviewed. In the meanwhile, I discovered that one of my favorite people from another department has also interviewed for the same position, which will make me feel rather crappy if I get it and she doesn't, particularly since her current department sucks raw donkey weenie.
She and I had a mini-conference about it, and it turns out both of us have been approached by other store employees who wanted to "warn" us about the Interviewed-For department, saying it was "full of drama" and "they don't like Anglos" and other stuff guaranteed to make me dig deep into the classifieds in search of elsewhere employment, like cleaning kennels in outer Mongolia. What bodes extremely worrisome in my book is that my current manager called me up at home to ask me if I'd heard anything (do department managers not communicate with each other?) and to tell me that if I got the job, to come see her and she'd "tell some tales" about the new manager that would "curl your hair". Great.
I shall continue to update the situation here, because I am too damn lazy to make a new post and have to re-tell the tale.

We Are Devo

Yet another meme to let us list things but also to show us how we've grown in the past year. Or how well the flashbacks are doing.
Take the first sentence from the first post of each month of 2004. That's your year in review.

January: How can I possibly find the elephant who crapped on my tongue if you keep setting off nuclear bombs in my skull?
February: One of my relatives is working her way through college as a pizza delivery driver...
March: The cosmic downfalls caused by cats eating cheese....something to do with evil starfish that fall out the nose and stuff.
April: April Fool's Day, not surprisingly, is one of my favorite holidays.
May: I don't write 'em, folks, I just report 'em.
June: Survivor Blogosphere has announced the six victims players who will be giving their sanity all to challenge themselves, to entertain us, and most importantly, to win.
July: I'd say the naming theme was the least of their problems....
August: Still visiting here in West Virginia.
September: There must be some kind of phallic undertone symbolism in yard maintenance.
October: Yes, they’re real.
November: I dearly love the innocence and guilelessness of youth.
December: Since it's allegedly better to give than receive, a phrase I've never really been a fan of except in cases of sexually transmitted diseases with bizarro side effects*, I would like to offer up this very entertaining site to my friend Mo, of Froggie's Lilypad.
(reverse-engineered away from Don't Panic)

Working On The Other Six

Recent conversation with the GM1.....

Me: Hey, check it out, for once a dress that doesn't make me look fat.
GM1: Yeah, it looks good.
Me: Good? Hell, I look fantastic! And look at my chest, it's just... impressive! This dress is perfect! I could make Jesus rise from the dead faster than three days in this.
GM1: Okay, perfect then. *giggle* You are so going to hell.
Me: 's okay, I'll be the prettiest one there.
GM1: And popular.
Me: Huh?
GM1: Everybody's crazy 'bout the sharp-dressed damned.
Me: How long have you been saving that one?
GM1: Couple weeks now.
Me: Okay then.

It Pink-Slipped My Mind

I was going to post a good scathing rant on the various things that are tweaking my shorts just now, including the stupid froth over Kid Rock, the obscenity of "9/11" and "The Passion of the Christ" winning at the Moronic SheepPeople's Choice Awards, and just the constant in-your-face-lately-ism of things I despise (we don't have time even for the short list.)
So instead, go cheer yourself up with Liquid Generation's newest offering, the "Corporate Informational Video".
I found it's much cheaper than buying a new monitor, television, and more ammo.

Dream Come True

I was recently dinged by someone doing mini-reviews of the blogs up for Most Humorous Blog in the BoBs.... he took umbrage at the fact I had quizzes included here.
By the way, the voting is still going on over there, and I'm down around next to next to last, so you could maybe just toss me a bone and vote a teensy bit? I feel dirty just asking, and not that good kind of dirty, like you get after one of those comment parties that Harvey's always instigating...
So I thought, well, maybe he's right, maybe these quizzes are just a crutch for my poor little brain in times of beal and woe. I'll just keep 'em to myself, my own guilty little pleasure.
Then I took this one, and got this result, and all was right with the world once I quit pissing myself with joy:

Your Famous Blogger Twin is Dave Barry

Funny, witty, and clever! You always have a ton of offbeat links to share

Because this man is my idol. My mad literary desire. The writer who is always in my toilet. (His books, not Himself. Though if He has to take a leak anytime He's in the area, me potty es su potty, Dave.) I don't just want to write like Dave Barry, I want to BE Dave Barry, and I've got the haircut to prove it.
There's that whole different gender thing but I think I can fake it.

Random Thoughts That, Strangely Enough, Were Not Alcohol-Induced But Hope Springs Eternal, As Does This Post Title

1. Is it really necessary to wrap a gift box for a blind person?
2. If I have a sex change, I will also change the theme of my blog from cheese to sausage.
3. On that note, "spotted dick" is just fun to say.
4. The grocery employee of whom I asked the location of "spotted dick" did not know where it was.
5. Neither did the next one, nor the next. The fourth looked ready to smack me.
6. Do not ask male employees this question, as they seem far too ready to help you find it in a most personal way.
7. My toes look funny from up here.
8. They don't look any less odd up close.
9. Now I have a crick in my back. Ow.
10. They say alcohol can have a calming effect on cricky backs.
11. Self-medication is a fine tradition.
12. Let's see what else I can injure.

Muuuuuch Better Now

There is NOTHING like having a song dedicated to you to make a girl perk up and feel way better. Eric's done it for me before, as has Harvey, and now Zonker has re-themed me with "Atom Bomb" by Fluke.
Go on over and have a listen and check out the kindly-provided lyrics. (Be kind, and right-click-save-as.)
And take note, ye who would trample my last nerve... such things they say are true.
Zonker, you da man.

Crankier Than A Sack Full Of Pinched Kittens

I just realized I am in a Bad Mood. Not depressed, not riddled with angst and despair, but just plain cranky. Irritable. Easily Pissed Off.
The ...um, bad... thing about being in a Bad Mood is that I always want to track down the reason, figure out what triggered it and just fix it already. Cut off the head so the body can die. This is a bad thing because sometimes there is no head/body/reason. Sometimes it's a combo of factors/ingredients/assholes and sometimes it's just One Of Them Things.
I hate when it's One Of Them Things.
And for you men out there, snickering "PMS" up your sleeve, it ain't that. Hush up.
In the meantime, I will be over here, stifling the urge to make rude remarks about various things I read out in the bloggysphere. Making sport of aggravating people who clearly deserve it is one thing, ripping them up for my own therapy is quite another. I won't waste semi-adequate sentence structure on them under those circumstances.
Bah. I'm just in a Bad Mood.

Well, Read

I love the memes where there are rules. Of course, if I have to read the rules four times or more, it means I need more coffee before attempting anything more than nodding my head, muttering "Mmmm, that's cool."
Disclaimer finished. Here's how it works:
Copy the list from the last person in the chain, delete the names of the authors you don't have on your home library shelves and replace them with names of authors you do have. Bold the replacements.

1. J.K. Rowling
2. William Gibson
3. Neil Gaiman
4. Neal Stephenson
5. China Mieville
6. JRR Tolkien
7. Stephen Brust
8. Dave Barry
9. Stephen King
10. William Shakespeare
The path is from A Likely Story, who got it from Llama Butchers, who got it from Jenspeaks, who found it at Fire Ant Gazette....

It's Not Always About You

I've been informed the comment doowhicky is not functioning just now, so if you try to comment and are turned away, don't take it personally. It's not you.
It's you... over there, in the zinnias.... you naughty little freak.
But it's not you.
Or you.
Or you either.
Now, you... we're still deciding.

Edit: Apparently it is about you, and I am a big liar liar pants on fire. They're back.

Good Things Come In Threes

1. The GM1 (soon to be the GM1, Retired) has an interview tomorrow, for which major shoppage had to be done. Dressy shirt, dressy tie, dressy shoes... he's tricked out prettier than a $5 whore at Christmas. I only hope this is a good experience for him, as he's not had to do anything like this since some recruiter leaned across a desk 20+ years ago and told him he had a pretty mouth.

2. As compensation for following the GM1 around the mall in search of a pair of shoes that weren't "something those guys on 'Queer Eye' would pick out", I got to wallow in the Victoria's Secret trough during the Big Bra Sale. Evidently they named it just for me, as when I was ritually measured, it was discovered that, despite my since-birth diet efforts and the subsequent loss of at least some of my ass (dropped a size in the trou, thankee), I have GAINED in a goodly amount of bosom. Up to (avert your eyes if such details offend) 38D.
I now qualify as a flotation device.

It's The Booty Of It

In my constant and near-obsessive search for affirmation, approval, and just plain old arse-kissing, I bring you yet another fun way to Rate Your Cheesemistress...
What Kind Of Pirate Am I?

What kind of pirate am I? You decide!
You can also view a breakdown of results or put one of these on your own page!
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

G'wan, give it twirl, matey. (Please pay no attention to the scruvy and obvious gender-based answers. Your Cheesemistress is an equal-opportunity pillager.)

Everything Old Is New Again

In keeping with my complete and utter lack of new content due to the fact my brain has imploded from Nyquil abuse tradition, I bring you a bit of the past:
Originally posted back in August of 2003, I present:

Pull My Finger
One of the first things that happened to me upon my re-arrival to Southern California was an attack of the deja-new. Not unlike deja-vu, deja-new strikes randomly, firing off memories left and right when you rediscover a place after being away for three years. It's not like I really forgot, it's more like while my back was turned everyone moved things around just a tad, like bad Helen-Keller-ish practical joke.
I decided the best way to reacquaint myself with the old hometown would be to take a lot of day trips on public transportation to familiar landmarks. I decided this because our belongings were still in transit, as was our car, and our daily entertainment was centered around a very fuzzy reception of "Regis and Kelly" on a minature TV.
Nothing should ever center around Regis or Kelly, no matter how mercifully out of focus it is. They are inhumanly perky. They frighten me.

One thing I'd forgotten about during my time away was the quantity and quality of.... let's be nice and call them "colorful street residents". Or we could just cut to the chase and call them "bums". In Hawaii, there are relatively few street people. I guess it's a math thing, proportionally. Less population = less population wearing a bedsheet and a tutu pissing on the mailbox at the red light.
Suddenly they were everywhere. At the bus stops, on the bus, on the trolley, in the fountains. Ranting, raving, glowering, scowling, babbling, begging.
And I forgot the first rule of dealing with transients- no eye contact. Ever.

So as I sat on the bus, looking forward to going home after a long day trudging around the zoo, I smiled at the man who muttered an apology for bumping against me as he walked up the aisle of the bus. He smiled back with all the teeth he could muster (3). And then he sat down next to me.

This man had issues. He had fashion issues, as evidenced by his layered wardrobe, giving him that trendy Michelin Man look. He had personal space issues, meaning he had no problem scooting over against me until we were almost sharing a thighbone. He had hygiene issues too, at least from where I was sitting downwind.

"Lookit here" he sputtered at me, and held out a shaky, crooked, filthy finger. "Dis my holy finner".
"Uh... what?" I stupidly replied. (Rule two- don't respond)
"My finner. See? Jesus lives in my finner. I gots a Jesus Finner. G'wan, touch it."
"No, no thank you, that's okay."
"It'll give you a blessin', girl. It got power. It's my Jesus Finner."
"No, it's fine, not really necessary."
"TOUCH MY JESUS FINNER! TOUCH IT! TOUCH MY JESUS FINNER!!"
On the other side of me, the GM1 was helpless with laughter. Chivalry is dead.

The JesusFinger man got off the bus at the next stop, pausing on his way out the door to wave it over us in a general blessing move.
I waited three days before I ventured out on my next mass transit attempt.
And that went fine.... until the Crazed Half-Naked Vietnamese Violinist got on the trolley.

That's another story for another time, though.

Despite it all, or maybe a little because of it, I'm glad to be back.
I'm really glad, though, that my car finally got here.

New Year, New Pile of Crap

As I usually do, once the approaching New Year was... um... approaching, I began to set aside things that needed attention.
"Nah" thought I, smugly. "I'll deal with it next year."
Next year just crept up and bit me on my shapely arse, making me realize it's well into that legendary time, the time when angels will sing and all will be made right with the world and I will, yes I will with god as my witness, go through all my links and ascertain that they are indeed working links, not to mention figuring out why the hell I linked them in the first place. I'm not talking blogroll, y'all, stow your baggage and unclench your sphinckies. I'm talking that traditional catch-all of an internet closet, the Bookmarks. Favorites, for you IE folk.
Great honking piles and wallows of urls that once delighted and titillated, and now just make me wonder what the HELL was I on when I saved them. My techno-lust trend? My erotic animation trend? My curiousity trend? (Although I can say that 2004 is the year I discovered what "dirty sanchez" and "milf" mean. Holy crap, people. )
So I'll be over here, hip-deep in ten second cartoon clips and pictures of thongs that can also be used as servers, archaeologisting my past mind and looking up the phone numbers of good "rest homes."
By the way, some of this is Harvey's fault.... he mentioned guilty pleasures vis a vis links, which he got from the Other Lee Ann.... I hardly know who to blame, so in the interests of being tidy, I blame myself.
But it's a good blame.

Diversity

I used the phrase "beat it like a rented mule" yesterday at work.
About half my coworkers had no idea what I meant.
The other half is ready to call PETA.
And then there are those who think I moonlight as an "entertainer" in Tijuana.

And A Pizza

Money (Thats What I Want)

!!!!!!!!!!!!!which BEATLES song are you?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
brought to you by Quizilla
(stolen from Bob at I Ain 't Got No Journal, who never really believed that Paul is dead.)

Wear A Mask When You Go

It seems the stress and strain of creating the Best of Blogs Awards has done in our Genuine, and he's taking the entire clan, snotting and coughing, with him.
Please, go over and give him some good wishes now... before he's home-cured himself the approved way with enough Jack Daniels to float a battleship and can't read his comments any more.
Right after, of course, you go vote for the Cheesemistress for Best Humorous Blog.
Yep, I'm that bad.

You Say Tomato, I Say Squishy

It is raining.
"It's raining," I said to the GM1, "like a cow pissing on a flat rock."
This is the traditional phrase, handed down to me by my grandfather, who is also the one who told me that bad little children get nothing from Santa but dead goat bones.
The GM1 has never heard either of these phrases and I am beginning to suspect he was raised in a lab. Or by wolves. Or perhaps by wolves in a lab. While Little Red Riding Hood stood by with a cattle prod, wearing a latex bikini and a Metallica t-shirt.
Wait, that's his fantasy, not mine.....
Anyway.
To be fair, I have never heard that the word "goober" means "one who sucks farts out of dead chickens", as the GM1 attests.

What bizarre yet traditional phraseology do YOU use?

Following My Own Map Again With Similar Results

In the past, I've come up with what, in my own toasted little mind, seems like a Cool Idea.
"Gee" thinks I, "I shall initiate a New Weekly Feature and thus guarantee that at least once a week I will have something to post about, even if it is lame like "What's On Channel Seven Right Now?" or "Which Thong Is David Spade Wearing Today?."
One post on such a theme, or maybe two, and fallen by the wayside it goes. Such are the talon-like clutches of my ADD bloggery. So this morning, when I was lying in bed waiting for the coffee fairy to show up and make my wake-up plasma, I thought of another Cool Idea.
"Gee" thinks I again, "I shall post This Cool Idea weekly and it will be the bloody damn KING of all cool ideas!" And I leaped out of bed to implement this.
After I found a bandaid for my forehead (Stupid gravity. Stupid dresser corner. Stupid socks in the middle of my leapage path.) I rushed right over here to the computer and began blogging, such is my dedication to art. Without the attentions of the coffee fairy, even.

I've forgotten, however, what the Cool Idea was, or even what I was going to say next.
Damn it.