the cheese stands alone

Hisstory

People like my friend Bob don't just grow on trees, you know.
But how they do grow is a story all its own.

It Was Already Cracked

It's official, I have Broken My Ass. Okay, only half my ass... specifically the left cheek. I don't know how it happened, but I am half-assed.
Any doctor in the land would back me up on this.

All Cats Are Gray Up Your Nose

Cell phone conversation overheard at the beach restroom:

Young Hyper Girl: "Omigod, you can't believe how hot this guy was! He was SO CUTE, I fucking swear."
*pause*
YHG: "They were... uh... blue? Maybe green. Coulda been brown, I dunno...."
*pause*
YHG: "Longish short? Sorta... um, dark light brownish blondey.? You know."
*pause*
YHG: "No, he rode his bike over, he don't have no car."
*pause*
YHG: "On the beach... yeah, on the beach! I got sand all up in..."
*pause*
YHG: "Because he lives with his mom, can you just imagine if we... huh?"
*pause*
YHG: "I wouldn't say fat, no. Not really."
*pause*
YHG: "What?"
*pause*
YHG: "He had a LOT of coke, Amber, THAT'S why!"

6000 5000 Words (Because Jim Can Count Better Than I Can)

What I Did On My Summer Vacation Sunday At The Beach:

Your one stop shop for all your beach needs.

This place is always packed, with a long line waiting. The GM1 and I have concluded they must put crack in the scrambled eggs.

A brief pause to fix my broken ass... I managed to get a charlie horse in only one ass cheek reflect on the beauty of the sea.

Round one of the Beer Olympics, which involved chugging a good size serving of beer and spinning round and round and running for the goal and back. We left before Round Two, Power-Puking. (No, I didn't see the Pope anywhere... sneaky bastard.)

Bobo the monkeyboy loves cheese AND parking lots.

The Nightly Adventures Continue

I dreamed that I was at a huge party in some warehouse, and the Pope was bogarting the beer.
Bad Pope! Bad, bad Pope!

Good Intentions

I was going to try one of those stream-of-consciousness posts, but I just watched "Zoolander" and now I got nothin'.

Culturisimo

The hooterific Joanie has sent me a bunch of links, in hopes of giving me some appreciation of the art world outside of Etch-A-Sketch.
Btw, for my vote, Joanie is an artist too.**

The Intimate Parade
Nate Hudson- Optic Nerve Arts
Cannibal Flower
Miss Mindy

**DaGoddess has gone all P-Machine and I can't figure out how to do trackbacks on her, nor can I find her excellent catalog of photos... however, scroll down to the entry "Evening Sky" to see an example of her abilities.

Slip

I had the oddest dream.
I was in a big waterbed, filled with not water, but a warm goo. Very, very comfortable, but it had a leak. Somehow I didn't mind. But despite the very comfy, albeit damp, bed, I couldn't find the right position. I twisted and turned and tossed and I always seemed to have the same persistent yet strangely enjoyable wedgie. Suddenly I took a big drink of my bedside cup, only to find it full of warm sea water. I spat it out and discovered the source of my wedgie... I had a banana stuck in my pants. I pulled it out and threw it to the floor, where two dachshunds appeared and began a tug of war with it. Suddenly a man's voice screamed, and I woke up.
The GM1 says he's going to be sleeping on the couch for the next few nights... "just in case."
Men are so weird.

Artsy Fartsy

First we had the Tampon Angel... fine, that was sort of cute.
Then came the Maxi Pad slippers... again, falling into the bizarro/cute category.
But really... there is only so far you can go with art before it gets totally gross. This just crossed that fine line.
What's next, poop painting?
Update: I smell a theme here....
But take heart. There's a scientific reason behind why this makes us hork. (My favorite section title: "Number Two As Enemy Number One".)
Hork indeed.

Well, It Explains the Crusades

Quote from my favorite legal show, "Boston Legal":

"I'm saying that if you're out there murdering people, on some level you must want to be Christian."- Alan Shore's secretary Katherine to murderer Bernard, who she is trying to convince that he is NOT Jewish, because there are no Jewish serial killers.

Fred's Last Letter

Dear Friends:

It is important for men to remember that as women grow older it becomes harder for them to maintain the same quality of housekeeping as they did when they were younger. When men notice this, they should try not to yell.
Let me relate how I handle the situation.

When I got laid off from my consulting job and took "early retirement" in April, it became necessary for Nancy to get a full-time job, both for extra income and for health benefits that we need. It was shortly after she started working that I noticed that she was beginning to show her age. I usually get home from fishing or hunting about the same time she gets home from work. Although she knows how hungry I am, she almost always says that she has to rest for half an hour or so before she starts supper. I try not to yell, instead I tell her to take her time and just wake me when she finally does get supper on the table. She used to do the dishes as soon as we finished eating. It is now not unusual for them to sit on the table for several hours after supper. I do what I can by reminding her several times each evening that they aren't cleaning themselves. I know she appreciates this, as it does seem to help her get them done before she goes to bed.

Now that she is older she seems to get tired so much more quickly. Our washer and dryer are in the basement. Sometimes she says she just can't make another trip down those steps. I don't make a big issue of this. As long as she finishes up the laundry the next evening I am willing to overlook it.
Not only that, but unless I need something ironed to wear to the Monday lodge meeting or to Wednesday's or Saturday's poker club or to Tuesday's or Thursday's bowling or something like that, I will tell her to wait until the next evening to do the ironing. This gives her little more time to do some of those odds and ends things like shampooing the dog, vacuuming or dusting.
Also, if I have had a really good day fishing, this allows her to gut and scale the fish at a more leisurely pace.

Nancy is starting to complain a little occasionally. For example, she will say that it is difficult for her to find time to pay the monthly bills during her lunch hour. In spite of her complaining, I continue to try to offer encouragement. I tell her to stretch it out over two or even three days. That way she won't have to rush so much. I also remind her that missing lunch completely now and then wouldn't hurt her any, if you know what I mean.

When doing simple jobs she seems to think she needs more rest periods. She had to take a break when she was only half finished mowing the yard. I try not to embarrass her when she needs these little extra rest breaks. I tell her to fix herself a nice, big, cold glass of freshly squeezed lemonade and just sit for a while. I tell her that as long as she is making one for herself, she may as well make one for me and take her break by the hammock so she can talk with me until I fall asleep.

I know that I probably look like a saint in the way I support Nancy on a daily basis. I'm not saying that the ability to show this much consideration is easy. Many men will find it difficult. Some will find it impossible. No one knows better than I do how frustrating women can become as they get older. However, guys, even if you just yell at your wife a little less often because of this article, I will consider that writing it was worthwhile.
Signed, Fred

Fred's funeral was on Saturday, January 25th.
Nancy was acquitted Monday, January 27th.

Timetables

I found this at After Hours Pub, and although that ship (#30) has long since sailed, been boarded by pirates, and scuttled, I thought I'd answer a few of these.... I love the whole Pollyanna-ish feel to lists like this.

By the time you're 30...
What every woman should have:
Cheese note: Emphasis on the "should", if you please.
1. One old boyfriend you can imagine going back to and one who reminds you of how far you've come.
Only one? Well, there is only the One Who Got Away, and I've done better since. But only one who is the lowest and most common of your relationship denominators? Please. Get me a calculator.
2. Enough money within your control to move out and rent a place on your own, even if you never want or need to.
Pffft. I don't have enough money to rent a movie, let alone a place of my own.
3. Something perfect to wear if the employer or man of your dreams wants to see you in an hour.
Both of them had better be satisfied with jeans and a clean t-shirt. Otherwise they fail that "of my dreams" test.
4. A purse, a suitcase and an umbrella you're not ashamed to be seen.
Holy crap, a "should" that I actually meet the criteria! I have an assortment of lovely purses, a suitable suitcase, and a traditional black veddy veddy Brit 'brolly.
5. A youth you're content to move beyond.
Don't be ridiculous. Only the truly delusional and vampires don't long to recover their youthful glory days. Well, and the still-young. Damn whippersnappers.
6. A past juicy enough that you're looking forward to retelling in your old age.
Juicy, you say? The Smoking Gun calls me when it needs inspiration for a new Paris Hilton story, thank you very much.
7. The realization that you are actually going to have an old age and some money set aside to help fund it.
GOING to have? Babe, I'm already on the doorstep, and not only is the kitty empty, it's starved to death. Pre-funding is for the rich.
8. A set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill and a black lace bra.
I drank the screwdrivers, I have a cordless vibrator, and... wait, only ONE black lace bra is required? Shit, I overbought again. Guess that's where that pre-funding went.
9. One friend who always makes you laugh and one who lets you cry.
Hey, another criteria met! Thank goodness for Tonya!
10. A good piece of furniture not previously owned by anyone else in your family.
I can swear it wasn't owned previously by any family member. However, I don't have a clue as to who donated it to Goodwill before I got hold of it.
11. Eight matching plates, wineglasses with stems and a recipe for a meal that will make your guests feel honored.
Oh balls. I have clean plates, a case of good beer, and the number to Pizza Hut. That had best be honor enough.
12. A resume that is not even the slightest bit padded.
Resumes are like bras.. the more padded, the better you look.
13. A feeling of control over your destiny.
Hahahahahahahahahahaha!
14. A skin care regime, an exercise routine and a plan for dealing with those few other facets of life that don't get better after 30.
Wash, walk, and Ex-Lax.... I love the classics.
15. A solid start on a satisfying career, a satisfying relationship and all those other facets of life that do get better.
I have the relationship part, and the rest just makes me laugh.

What every woman should know:
1. How to fall in love without losing yourself.
The whole point of falling in love is to lose yourself. Otherwise all we'd need are gossip buddies and a steady battery supply.
2. How you feel about having kids.
I had mine before I had a chance to decide. If I'd been around children before that, I'd have cornered the market on birth control.
3. How to quit a job, break up with a man and confront a friend without ruining the friendship.
The first two are easy. A simple "fuck off and die" will suffice. The last is a bit trickier.... you have to get back all the stuff they borrowed first, just in case.
4. When to try harder and when to walk away.
Sometimes the hardest part is NOT walking away.
5. How to kiss a man in a way that communicates perfectly what you would and wouldn't like to happen next.
I'm of the opinion it's best to communicate this before you stick your tongue down his throat.
6. How to have a good time at a party you'd never choose to attend.
It's called "open bar."
7. How to ask for what you want in a way that makes it most likely you'll get it.
Why do you think I get married so often?
8. That you can't change the length of your calves, the width of your hips or the nature of your parents.
High heels, liposuction, and denial... all part of a healthy breakfast.
9. That your childhood may not have been perfect, but it's over.
But the second ones are so much fun!
10. What you would and wouldn't do for love or more.
If the "or more" is the winning lotto numbers, define your terms now. Because the key to life is negotiation.
11. How to live alone, even if you don't like it.
Marry a military man, you'll learn.
12. Who you can trust, who you can't, and why you shouldn't take it personally.
That's a short list... Nearly No One, Almost Everyone, and Because Ammo Ain't Cheap.
13. Where to go - be it your best friend's kitchen table or a charming inn hidden in the woods - when your soul needs soothing.
Anywhere there's room service.
14. What you can and can't accomplish in a day, a month, a year.
Also called "Never start a magazine article in the bathroom unless you have the time to finish it.... this message brought to you by the Bran Association of America."
15. Why they say life begins at 30.
Because they're only 29 and stupidly optimistic.

Let me just footnote: The last time I took on a list thingy, I was misunderstood to have been knocking it. I wasn't then, and I'm not now. I'm merely having fun with a lot of things I think are idealistic silliness, but that in no way means I am slamming the author of such. I'm grateful there are people out there with such optimistic outlooks... it frees me up for my natural pessimism.

As Your Lawyer, I Advise You To Say Goodbye

Hunter S. Thompson, the father of gonzo journalism and one of my personal heroes, dead at 67.
That truly sucks. I am going back to bed.

Update: I've read a few posts here and there about Hunter S. Thompson's suicide which have called him a poser, a fraud, and called for those who would mourn him to see the light. I can't agree. He entertained. That was all I required of him. What sort of babe in the woods would read him and think it was hard news coverage? Denigrating the dead is easy, but calling for his admirers to jump on the bandwagon is asking too much.

Shaken

I feel much better now, and I believe this had something to do with it.

Heat Rave

I discovered what was making me so wonky earlier.... I had a temperature of 9,301.
Okay, it was actually 103.6, but I had the thermometer upside down. Nevertheless, having seen so many medical shows that I damn near qualify as a neurosurgeon myself, I knew just what to do.
First, I threw up.
Cats throw up all the time, anywhere they feel like it. Cats also have nine lives and can survive being tumble-dried. Therefore, throwing up is good for you. As is being warm and fluffy and having softener sheets stuck to your tail.
And it's not like I had a choice, when the inside wants to come outside, there's usually not a damn thing you can do about it.
Then I took a cold shower. Okay, a lukewarm, tepid-to-cool shower, because I wasn't quite fever-addled enough to be a complete masochist.
Sidenote: Don't try to shave your legs in a cold shower with fever trembles, or there is a very-necessary blood transfusion in your near future. I'm just sayin'.
After my shower, I took a fever-reducing agent, hereafter to be known as Tylenol, because that was the name of it.
Then I employed my catlike reflexes and threw it up.
Sidenote deux: It's a little-known fact, but I am the anti-Linda Lovelace. I gag at the drop of a hat (which is why I avoid haberdashery shops.) I gag when I brush my teeth, thus the subsequent dentist hatred. I gag when I just think about gagging.... GARK!
See?
After a brief pause and a less-brief clean-up, I took some more Tylenol and retained it. Then I drank three glasses of water and a glass of orange juice.
Then I called the EPA, as orange juice gives me serious gas. Not funny gas, that would be nitrous oxide and we'll talk about that some other time. Like when I have to go to the hated dentist and puke on him. Did you know they can bill you for emergency laundry? Neither did I until then.
Now I feel a bit more like myself (no, I did not say I was feeling myself, get your mind out of the gutter... you know who you are.) and my temperature is down to 8,001.
Or thereabouts.

Bubbles

I feel really really weird this morning. Non-focusing and dizzy to the point of falling over (which is only amusing the first three times, btw) and unable to type properly without backspacing every other letter. Okay, yeah, I do that backspacing thing even when I don't feel funky. Ignore that, doc.
I can't taste the coffee, and I just watched my screensaver for about thirty minutes. I thought it was Regis and Kelly. I should have known better. Kelly never wears anything that cool.
Now I just looked up the word "cool" in the dictionary because it didn't look right. The dictionary laughed at me for being an uncool fool's tool and I threw it in the aquarium. The goldfish have since rebelled and are living in my sock drawer.
I see dead tomatoes. Dead tomatoes! Where is Bruce when I need him?
After looking up my symptoms, I have come to believe I have decompression psychosis and will be out looking for a hyperbaric chamber if anyone needs me.
It might take a while, as I will have to walk. The gerbils have stolen my car to make a cerveza run to Tijuana.

Drizzle

Which Website are You?

Searches- A Story In Incomplete Sentences

(A tale constructed entirely from various searches that led to this blog.)

Chapter One: In The Beginning
the cheese stands alone

Chapter Two: Sex Rears Its Ugly Head
Part One
porn fairy tales
lee ann tweeden
pink panties
cherry popping
naked bottoms
biggest penis
Part Two
nice game
big daddy suv
you wear the mask
sausage of power
spanking britney spears
spare the rod

Chapter Three: The Politics
never get involved in a land war in asia
protected class
horseshoes and hand grenades
hark i hear the cannons roar
push the button max

Chapter Four: Of Dancing
two and a half men theme song
men men men men manly men
snoopy happy dance
bloody bazouki
cannot carry a tune in a bucket

Chapter Five: Psychological Warfare Continues
listen and look photo for plant can control men penis
worlds smallest penis
margaret thacher
naked pictures of bea arthur
smallest penis ever
i want my two dollars

Chapter Six: A Word From Our Sponsors
goldbach cheese plymouth

Chapter Seven: Evolution Of Fashion
Part One:
jennifer lopez s ass
backwards thong
cheese waxer
underwear invisible
Part Two:
bum cheese
tom jones panties
unbearable itch in crotch
Part Three:
addams family wardrobe
christina ricci undies
good girl knee socks
Part Four:
butt showing droopy drawers
cheese boxers

Chapter Eight: Wild Kingdom
Part One:
monkeymonkeymonkey
elephant cake
Part Two:
rubber rats
cat regurgitation
how to wash a cat
Part Three:
goat trauma
he took a duck in the face at two hundred knots
Part Four:
kitten poop in sleep
goldfish poop

Chapter Nine: The Inquisition
how what hmph mean?
slipped my mind
thick as two short planks

Chapter Ten: Medical Science Marches On
a disease called scruvy
lime in da coconut
nyquil and vodka
cure warts
nuclear brain surgery

Chapter Eleven: Crime and Punishment
pictures from aryan baby farm
coworker offended
ask not for whom the bell tolls
surrender my greencard
owen wilson tied up and gagged

Chapter Twelve: World Travels
Part One:
where can i find what a red ruffle lemur looks like?
madasgascar today
Part Two:
bad neighbors
naked vietnamese
korean dog recipes

Chapter Thirteen: A Pop Quiz
today s riddle
what phylum is cheese
faulty logic

today s riddle
why do men go to strip bars
paul harvey gonads

Chapter Fourteen: Public Speaking
she turned me into a newt
randy lay there like a slug
nobody does it like adventures of hoover
i killed the president of paraguay with a fork
salary comparative income chart chihuahua
shove your team building holidays up your ass

Chapter Fifteen: The Balance of Power
lord of the cheese
cheese makes your boobs bigger
fat chicks never roll alone
testicle ownership

Tweak

Since I'm not going in to work today (more on that later), I find guilt over neglecting my blog health nagging at me. To hell with mountains of laundry, overflowing, dish-filled sinks, and toilets begging to be scrub-bub-bubbly clean... I need to add some stuff to the blogroll and twiddle the banner and close old comments and perhaps bugger about with the colors and even possibly write some content that won't make you gag.
Unless you're into that sort of thing.
Yes, I'm looking at you... you dirty little poppet.
But I digress...
All this computerly industriousness will of course be aided by "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider" playing in a smallish window, to be enlarged on the best parts (anything to do with Angelina Jolie and tight wardrobe antics). I don't see how I ever got anything done without having a DVD playing in the background, I really don't.
If they ever develop that cyberpunky technology where I can have a movie just playing directly in my cornea while I go about my merry way, I'm so there.
And the point of this little post? Just to let you know that if this blog suddenly dematerializes and a gaping black hole is left behind, it's all Lara Croft's fault.
Really. Go tell her.

And A Song In Her Heart

Whenever I read about Michael Jackson, I hear Patsy Cline:

"I ..... fall..... to..... pieces..."

In the House

Quote from my new favorite medical show, "House":

"The little ones are licking each other again, and Harry has an oozing wart on his extra toe." - Mother of five toddlers to Dr. House

J'Accuse

I'm constantly fascinated with the phenomenon of someone trying to define or codify the ever-mutating blogworld. I'm sure that traffic laws and movie rating systems started off just as chaotic and ambiguous as blogging, and eventually became an established set of rules... but trying to corral several million individuals into a strict paddock with a piece of dental floss is like trying to construct a meaningful analogy before you've had adequate caffeine.
So when R Alex Whitlock tried to empty the sea with a teaspoon, I took notice.
And I tried to measure myself against his yardstick, which is not as smutty as I made it sound in my head with that "bow chicka bow bow" music.

Ten Things Bloggers Do Wrong: (and How The Cheesemistress Acquits Herself, In Italitcs No Less)
1. Only link to what we've already read and only say what we've already heard.
I do tend to link to news items or posts I find interesting, and I admit that rarely do I openly disagree or make an issue of a difference of opinion. TCSA is not a confrontational blog, unless you count my ongoing battle with the Forces Of Evil Manifested As My Workplace. But somewhere down the line, someone HAD to have written the original bit we're all meme-ing around, otherwise we'd still be blogging about that Plato guy and his shadow puppets. So yes, I am guilty of this one.
2. False modesty.
Guilty as well, but with mitigating circumstances. I have healthy enough visitor stats that I know I'm not just pissing in the ocean here. You darling people keep coming back to see if I've burned down the kitchen or gone postal at work, and I try not to disappoint. I'm no Dave Barry or Esther Wilberforce-Packard, but then again who is? Except Dave Barry and Esther Wilberforce-Packard themselves, I mean.
3. Clearing the archives.
Not guilty. I have done some judicious deleting here and there, if I had serious second thoughts about a post I suspected might come back and bite me on my cheesy ass in a manner I couldn't defend against. But all my wicked past, for the most part, lies bare and accessible.
4. Become overly concerning yourself with blogging "rules."
Not guilty. I've usually tried to fly in the face of any alleged rules, just because I'm me and that's the way I operate. I do try to be polite and acknowledge where I've found a tidbit or game, and I try to link to the source's main page as well as the tidbit, and I find I am liking the word "tidbit" a tidbit too much and must stop this answer.
5. Fail to follow basic punctuation rules.
Not guilty... although I will go mad with the .... thing every now and then, and I'll Capitalize Like There's No Tomorrow if the mood takes me. But I am very aware of the "Eats, Shoots, and Leaves" potential for misunderstandings.
6. Substitute slang for ideas.
Guilty guilty. But I don't feel it's an alienation or a distancing, but more a decoration. Blogs are the place where we meet. The way we phrase them is the decor. My constant use of the word "cheese" in various permutations is nothing more than the chipped vase on the corner table, or the ugly clock in the bathroom. But nobody needs wall to wall black velvet Elvis paintings, not even the l33t kiddies.
7. Fail to take advantage of 95% of the blogosphere.
Mathematically, I'm guilty. There are only so many hours in the day, and so very many blogs out there. If I want to visit my favorite blogs on a regular basis, some unknowns must fall by the wayside. Every now and then, I find a new blog and add it to the blogroll... most of the time so I'll remember to find it again. But if I find a blog that is so diametrically opposed to my personal beliefs or preferences that it gives me gas, I skip it. Diversity isn't worth the gut-ache.
8. Become a one-note charlie.
Not guilty, at least not in the way Mr. Whitlock means. I write shallow, funny, occasionally non-sequitorious posts about my life. I don't get into causes or deep feelings or dissecting my True Self. So in the sense of sticking to a genre, I am a one trick pony. But I rarely beat a dead horse.
Except in these ceaseless punny metaphors.
9. Decline to put up an "about the author" link.
Guilty, with extenuating circumstances. Or not. Maybe just with "becauses". I do have my picture here for the curious, and I used to have an "about me" sort of list. And there are times, particularly when I read something that goes against my emotional grain, that I'm tempted to whip up a little screed in the form of "here's what I believe and bugger you bastards who don't". But absolutism isn't a good fit for me, and trying to define myself is best left to mental health experts and rationalizations like the whole Answer Back thing this post is.
Plus I can't really make myself believe anyone gives a good crap about my bio.
Except those pesky, like I said, mental health experts.
10. Decline to participate in their own comments section.
I'll comment on a comment once in a while, but I don't email everyone that comments. Maybe I should, as I know when someone emails me in answer to a comment I've made on their blog, I am extremely flattered they took the time to do so. But comments are the dew on the rose, they enhance and add, and I don't want to try to one-up anyone who is kind enough to have a say.

Please go read Mr. Whitlock's entire post, and draw your own conclusions.
I did... a big long post-full of conclusions. And that's what the blogsphere is all about.
That, and Hello Kitty porn. Am I right?

Like A Hug, Only On A Stick

Even though work is killing me and Valentine's Day passed very quietly, I can always rest easy in the knowledge that at least I have a Sheep On A Stick:

I Like The Ducks

Lovely person Jack has provided me with a link to a multitude of games that are guaranteed to keep me from working on my resume for at least another day.
I have no self control. These things are addictive.
Don't say I didn't warn you.

The Requisite Overly Metaphorical Valentine

The GM1 and I continually have mini-discussions that ponder the whys and wherefores of our relationship. Most of the time he claims bewilderment at why I am with the likes of him, and I express surprise that he's lowered his standards so much to accept me. We live in the constant and ongoing denial that we are good enough for each other.
I think of it like this: when we met, it was like the final karmic trainwreck in our lives, the one moment we'd been driving like drunken moonshine runners toward, careening headlong and heedlessly to the destiny of crashing recklessly into each others' lives. And after we picked each other up, scarred and bleeding, and then healed each other, such a miracle never ceased to amaze. So we constantly peek under the bandaid that is our relationship, watching the progress of the ever-healing wound.
Love is our scab, and we pick at it constantly.
Happy Valentine's Day, GM1.
(Maybe I haven't made myself clear... well, to judge from a few emails taking me to task, I must not have. I meant all this, from drunken wrecks to scabs, as a GOOD thing. So please, Mr. Jason Radison, you clueless bastard, stop sending me bible quotations and phone numbers to marriage counselors. Geez.)

Tidy

In honor of my current spate of "stuff I have in my bathroom that I feel you really really need to see pictures of, because quite honestly, the Creativity Fairy has skipped my house this week" posts, Bob has reminded me of a lovely bit of audio he's done regarding Toilet Matters.
I keep telling him he has a career waiting in Public Service Announcements, but does he listen?
He does not.

Was It Good For You Too? Part Two

More fantasies made real.
I can't tell you the number of times I've made little clips like this.
Unfortunately for the culture-hungry masses, I delete them immediately.
Note: Link above seems to be down, so here's an alternate.

Was It Good For You Too?

For some doubtlessly Freudian reason, this feeds into a lot of my fantasies:
Garden Tricks by Ben Wheatley and Rob Hill.

Time Is On My Side

More Lack of Content photo-filler:

Today's Movie Review

Conversation with the GM1 after seeing "The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou".....

GM1: "Holy shit."
Me: "Yeah."
GM1: "I mean, it was good... I think."
Me: "You've never done any drugs, have you?"
GM1: "No... why?"
Me: "I have... a lot. And watching this movie was a lot like being stoned...you're not really sure what's going on, but you enjoy while it's going. And afterward, you have no idea of what it all meant."
GM1: "But you liked it."
Me: "Oh yeah, I liked it. Especially the part with the zebra."
GM1: "There was no zebra."
Me: "See?"

The Quiet Man

I seem to have run into a spot of Lack of Content, so here's a picture of the man who watches me pee:

A Small But Select Sampling

Just a few notes to let the proper authorities my loyal Cheeseites know what's been going on.

1. Work, while it is admittedly much better than when I was a Sales Chick, still is stressful as:
a. New Manager changes the schedule on not only a daily basis, as the mood strikes, but sometimes from hour to hour. She also feels the need to have a meeting with me every single change. Yesterday we had six meetings, all to cover 15 minute increment adjustments. I suspect ADD.
b. During certain sales events, we of the Signage Team are expected to set aside our own individual responsibilities and work en masse to make sure clearance items are all marked down. Yet our own work is deadline-dependent and we are screeched at encouraged continually to finish our our work as well, all without being given extra time to do so. Again, knowledge of time parameters is not NM's strong suit.
c. Due to bookkeeping conflicts, it was necessary to pay me at my old rate the first paycheck of the new position. This upcoming check should show an increase in pay, as the rate for Signage Team is higher than for Sales Floor. However, when I asked the Big Boss how much I was going to be making, he said he had no idea and would have to get back to me on it. I think he's having his people call my people.
d. Stress on Item C is compounded by the revelation of a Team coworker than she has been on the Signage Team for over four months and has NEVER been increased in pay. I suspect Big Boss's people are NOT going to call my people.

2. Another little tidbit from work (yes, it's true, give a man a fish and he eats dinner. Teach him to fish and he never fucking shuts up about it.)... back in the hell that never seemed to end holidays, I found a gift card in the aisle of the main store and ran the balance on it, to discover it had a nice sum still available. As per procedure, I turned it over to Old Manager to hold for me for 30 days until I could claim it. Now that 30 days has passed, Old Manager maintains after several requests to check on the card's status that:
a. She is too busy.
b. She is on her way out.
c. She just came in and can't just now.
d. "What are you talking about?"
e. She thinks the card was lost/stolen/given to the gypsies.
f. "Why don't you go ask New Manager?" *in most sarcastic tone possible, knowing NM does not have access to safe.*
I will never see it again, as both it and I are a casualty in this War of the Worlds...er, Managers.

3. I am making spinach/artichoke dip for the GM1 and I to feast on while watching the Superbowl this afternoon. Since I have a keen grasp of math and measures, I have discovered I've accidentally tripled the recipe and will be eating this dip for the rest of eternity or until the Saints get to the Superbowl, whichever comes first.

4. I just sneezed and hiccuped at the same time and I think I dislocated my nose. Or at least the left nostril.

5. My favorite t-shirt slogan is "The Liver Is Evil. It Must Be Punished."

6. I shall now take my leave of you to go begin doing just that while I watch the Pre-Game Pre-Show. I like to Pre-Beer.

Confirmation

It's one thing to suspect it, but entirely another to have it confirmed.
Via Jim at Snoozebutton Dreams, I had my face analyzed. I used the photo you all have printed out and pasted to your dart boards enjoy here at The Cheese.
I am, as they say politely, a Loser.
See extended for more whining....

(I'm truly loving the green X eyeballs.)

YOUR ARCHETYPE: THETA ARTIST
Personality Profile:
Your main drive is to be admired by those with similar interests to you. Money and influence is not of your concern. You are interested and may be active in certain political movements which you consider to be moral. You may act or dress in a unique way to reflect your eccentric personality. Your emotions fluctuate fairly often resulting in you going through incredible highs and devastating lows. When someone is attacking you personally you tend to ignore them, for you do not like to argue with those who you consider to be barbaric. You may however simply be fearful and timid. You generally enjoy interacting with other and have some acquaintances.

Theta Artist: Adopt new styles quickly. Not concerned with being looked down on.
Expected Occupations: Cashier, Unskilled laborer

Now, the distressing part is that except for the "Money....is not of your concern." line, which is complete crap, a lot of this is accurate. Oh, and except the promiscuity thing... only average? Please, I'm way sluttier than that.
But... cashier? I just escaped that noose. Don't pigeonhole me back to that again.

On the other hand, I submitted another picture and it said I was 47% Chinese.

Explanatory

Yep, ain't been a-postin' in a coon's age. Been infected with folksy-itis, major symptom of which is to jaw in obscure and backcountry idiom, thus requiring loving and caring family members to band together in a Hallmark display of Tough Love and a bit of giggling. Got my ass taken out behind the woodshed for saying negative things in this here blog. Also got a new recipe book to prop up the shaky leg on the still with, but that's another story.

To quote my old Mammy, "Son (and no, I won't explain this because there really is such a thing as too much sharing) iffen you cain't say sumpin nice, shut the fuck up."

I'm reassessing (*snicker* she said "ass") the non-coherence of The Cheese Stands Alone, and in light of recent overindulgence and subsequent pseudo-lactose-intolerance behaviour this, I am considering taking a good healthy step back and possibly renaming this The Tofu Stands Alone.
No, not really.

I'm just out here counting my chickens and crossing my bridges and futilely trying to gather moss off Keith Richard's bony pelvis and I'm not in Vegas, jail, or The Bin.
I'm assessing, y'all. (*snicker* she said it again) (shut up, you snickering fool).

Was there a point to this post?
No, not really.
Just wanted to see the numbers on the calendar change.
Me = easily amused.