Anchra's Space

“Operation Save Little Phoenix in progress. Moving in! Over.”

“Right behind you. Move. Move. Move!”

At which point, the two friends ‘accidentally’ bump Mr. Date, spilling his coffee.
Then one friend says, “Oh My God! I’m so sorry. Let me buy you another … SUZIE? Is that you? How are you (hug)? Me and Lizzy were just having lattes. Do you mind if we join you?”

See?

Do you see?
You are saved.

I guess the better advice would be to just stay the hell off of MySpace entirely, but we both know that is just silly talk.

It’s like telling teenagers to abstain.

It's nice in theory - but it ain't gonna happen.

Can someone tell me why it is that if you have a conversation with a man and are the least bit nice or, God forbid, friendly, that man automatically assumes that you want to sleep with him?

I can assure every man out there that this is not the case.

I just wanted to clear that up.

So, I have had the screaming stomach flu for about a week now.

Fun fun.

It changes form and intensity day to day.

It’s like a painful candy bag full of never-ending torturous treats.

I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

(OK, maybe my worst enemy.)

It all started at work one night. I’d been feeling a little weird all day. I wasn’t even half way through my shift when suddenly I felt like I had been poisoned.

It was … unpleasant, to say the least.

Even more unpleasant; The train ride home.

I’m going to stop discussing it now.

It’s lovely how a simple thing like the flu can drastically change your appearance to something resembling a zombie-like state.

I was afraid to be seen in public for fear that small children and the elderly would take one look at me and scream themselves hoarse.

By Saturday, however, I was recovered enough to venture outside to meet with friends and drink myself silly.

My roommate met us out for cocktails.

We were in his car, en route to a second destination, when suddenly the car stopped going.

We were on the highway, by the way. Did I mention that?

Did I also mention it was one o’clock in the morning?

Yeah.

So we had to leave the car and walk to the nearest exit, which was probably about a mile from where the car died.

It was funny that earlier in the evening, while dressing, I thought to myself, ‘Nah – I’m not gonna wear sneakers. I’m going to dress like a girl tonight.’

Needless to say, the shoes I chose to wear were not what anyone would consider ‘walking shoes’.

To my roommate’s delight, during the hour or so it took us to get to the next exit, I would intermittently yell out, “These are not walking shoes!” followed by a string of curse words, like I had Tourette’s.

It was a special, special night.

Between that whole incident and the man I previously alluded to (who happened to be about 20 years older than me) who took a tiny thing like my having a personality and turned it into a ‘I think I should be touching her now’ kind of thing … I would have been better off lying in my bed with excruciating stomach cramps.

Is there anything more effeminate than a man running in a drizzle with an umbrella?

I submit that there is not.

It’s one step down from a man who has a lisp and wears dresses.

I suppose I can see if the guy is wearing a $3000 suit, or on his way to a business meeting, or something along those lines. That is excusable and/or necessary. But if it’s some Joe Blow who’s running to his 9 to 5 in Dockers and a Golf Shirt for casual Friday, I don’t see where the umbrella is necessary.

At least if you are a dress-wearing-lisper, that is your thing. It is who you are and, presumably, it is the image you are trying to present to the world.

That, I can accept.

But the umbrella guy doesn’t seem to have a clue that he looks silly or feminine in any way.

I just shake my head in sadness at these fellas and think to myself, “We could never be.”

I do the same thing with men who call dinner “supper”.

I hate that word so much it makes my skin crawl.

I do not ‘sup’.

I ‘dine’.

Call me fancy.

Any man who either asks me what I had for “supper”, or if I would like to go out for “supper” will be immediately cast onto my un-datable list.

Many people may not realize why I have such disgust and contempt for this word, but I would like you to remember that I am from Boston. The word “supper” becomes the noise “SUHPAH”, which is so truly obnoxious I want to vomit when I hear it --- ironically ruining any desire I had to consume a meal to begin with.

And while I am on a roll here, I may as well bring up another un-datable feature that pushes my irritation button: The Corny Jokester.

I am very happy to see that the Lamisil ad at the top of this thing has been replaced.

I’m not exactly thrilled that it has been replaced with a giant eye … which is almost as creepy, but I guess I should be happy that I don’t have to keep watching that friggin little monster crawl under that toenail anymore.

Man! That was so bogus.

People should have been vehemently protesting that ad.

I realize that I have been neglecting my faithful readers … all three of you … but you were all warned beforehand that school was starting. I still think of you all the time, in a reminiscent sort of way.

School has been keeping me busy, but I have to admit, it is a pretty light course load. The only class I have any interest in is my photography class.

So I finally managed to take a moment and get a haircut and a brow wax yesterday.

I hate paying a fortune for a haircut.

My hair is long and straight and all you have to do is cut off the dead ends. These people do not have to make a project out of it. I expect to be in and out of there in like 10 minutes tops. Taking forever and making like it is a big intricate project does not impress me.

They can just take a pair of kitchen scissors and hack off the ends.

I don’t care. Whatever.

As long as I don’t have to spend my whole day in there.

So … I think that’s what she did.

At least I had the experience of having the best hair washing of my life.

I wanted to ask the girl to move in with me.

It was phenomenal.

So, here’s something:

The only time I watch TV is Sunday nights. The Simpsons and Family Guy are on and sometimes I enjoy hanging out on a Sunday evening and staring at them. Well, as we all know, the World Series is going on right now.

I have no idea who’s even in it. (Maybe Oakland? Maybe someone else?)

(OK - I just checked - it's the Cardinals vs. The Mets.)

 All I know is that the Sox are not, nor are the dreaded and hated Yankees. So, I ask you – what the hell do I care? I can’t watch to see the Sox try to win and I can’t watch to pray that the Yankees lose.

So why is it cutting into the only thing I ever watch on television?

I think they should have a special channel for these events instead of ruining the TV viewing of normal people who have no interest in The World Series at all … or Sunday football, for that matter.

I know they have sports channels like ESPN and NESN … so why do we have to be subjected to these intrusions on regular television? Back when I was watching TV regularly I would go on and on about this intrusion. The Simpsons season premier was always put off for weeks because of friggin Baseball.

That is just so irritating.

Get your own channel, Sports Enthusiasts!

Leave us Cartoon Nuts out of it!

There’s this lip-gloss that, I think, may be out to get me.

I really like the way it looks and all, but I may have to chuck it out the window soon.

It all started with J.
She just looked so pretty one night, so I asked her what she had on her lips that was so sparkly and enticing. She handed me this lip-gloss and told me to try it.

So I did.

It looked so sweet that I decided to go out and buy my own.

So, after the purchase I tried it out and saw the prettiness for myself.
I loved it.
I looked damn good.

The lip-gloss was somewhat gummy, though.

I was driving in my car, looking all extra pretty with my new lip-gloss on.
I was feeling so cool I thought it would be a good idea to smoke a cigarette.
I don’t know why. Possibly I felt that urge that smokers get. Possibly I was feeling a little too kissable and, having no one to plant one on, needed to destroy my kissability. Who knows? But I smoked.

When I was done smoking, I went to flick it out the window. The gumminess from the lip-gloss adhered to my fingers and the butt-flick fell lame. Instead of flying out the window and out of my life, it flew back in the window and into my face.

There I was, driving at about 40mph, with a gummy lit cigarette bouncing off my eye socket and into my lap. I was forced to pull over, screaming and panicky, as it burnt through the pocket of my sweat pants and into my flesh.

I called J and left a message on her voicemail that said, “I’ve had a lip-gloss related mishap. Call me.”

After I recovered from the whole thing, I threw the lip gloss in my makeup bag and chalked it up as a learning experience.

Note to self: Don’t smoke after applying the lip-gloss.
Got it.

Ok. Fine. I had a little incident.
On with my life.

So, about two days later, I opened my makeup bag only to again be reminded of the excessive gumminess of the lip-gloss as my hand came out of the bag covered in it.

Upon closer inspection, I realized that everything in the bag was also covered in it.

When I say that this stuff is ‘gummy’, I don’t feel like I am quite conveying the sticky gooiness accurately. This stuff is so gummy that dish detergent wouldn’t touch it. I still can’t figure out how to de-gooify all of my belongings.

I did the best I could with a wet towel and secured the cap, which had come loose causing all of the damage, onto the lip-gloss tightly.

I threw everything back in the marginally clean makeup bag and tried to forget.

Forgetting wasn’t easy when 2 days later it happened again, though.
This time slathering my entire purse with the leakage.

I swear this lip-gloss is out to ruin me.
I told J the whole story.
Apparently she had neglected to tell me that in extreme temperatures this stuff demonstrably explodes.

Well.
Now I know.
… and knowing is half the battle.

Back by popular demand! The Blog Entry!

So, you wanna know what upsets me?
Those gardening clogs.

You know the things.
Those rubber clog-like dealies that are meant to be worn in the garden?
One day, some asshole thought that it would be a good idea to run around town with these things on and some other asshole said, ‘That seems like a good idea.”

The next thing you know, it is some kind of horrible fashion trend that makes my head pound with terror.
 
Ok – this is not a fashion trend.
I’m no Fashion Guru, but I can tell you this much:
Anything you can buy at Wal-Mart, in various hues, for $2.99 is NOT a fashion trend!

Look at those things!
First of all, they come in horrible colors. I think there are three selections: Obnoxious Orange, Barf-inducing Blue, and Putrid Pink. There may also be a Yak-on-Me Yellow.

Completely clueless women choose to match a loathsome shirt to their horribly abominable shoes and call it a day.

Secondly, they are atrociously ugly … and apparently made of rubber. I can’t even begin to imagine the stench that is trapped in those babies.

I’m upset that people actually leave the house with these things on their feet. How can you build an entire outfit off of one pair of ugly shoes (that should never be worn beyond the garden), still hold your head up high, not feel like a circus clown, and walk around in public?

These shoes upset me so much that every time I see them worn in public I get a little angry. When I see a woman wearing these things around South Station, I have an uncontrollable urge to tackle the bitch and tear those things off her feet.

Is it just me?
It’s just me, isn’t it?

So I was leaving work the other night, walking to the train wanna be, when all of a sudden my flip flop had a blow out.

Here’s the thing about a broken flip-flop: Once it’s broken, there is no way to continue wearing the thing. What happens is that the thong part of the flip-flop breaks and you are left with nothing holding the flat part of the flip-flop to your foot.

So now I have a problem.
I am about to head into subway-land with only one flip-flop.
I am essentially barefoot here.
In Boston.
At South Station.
On the trains.

When I got on the first train, I just kind of clutched the thong thing between my toes and sort of slid my foot along behind me like a gimp.

This was ok for short distances, but once actual walking in stride was expected from me, there were problems.

I started out with the dragging of the foot, but it slowed me down so much there was a crowd forming behind me.

Apparently, they didn’t realize that I was in the pedestrian breakdown lane with my hazards on.

I was waving them ahead.
“Go Around Me!”

This got to be too much. If I had kept up that pace I would have missed my next train, so I inspected my foot for cuts or blisters, found none and proceeded through South Station barefoot.

Though I hate shoes and complain about them an awful lot, I would have killed someone for a shoe that night.

I would hobble to wherever I was going with one flip-flopped foot and one bare foot. 

When I finally got to a place I could sit down somewhere, I would place the broken flip-flop on my foot to create the illusion that I was normal.

So I was on the commuter rail, sitting down, looking like I was wearing two flip-flops.

When my stop came I knew I was close to home and said, “Screw it” and took them both off ... mostly for speed.

I walked by a girl and heard her ask her boyfriend, “Why did that girl take her shoes off?” like I was some kind of psycho-freak or something.

Like I want to be barefoot on a train.
I didn’t stop to explain.

Let her wonder.

The flip-flop carcass was limply hanging from my hand. She couldn't have missed it. If she needed more of an explanation than that, there was really nothing satisfactory I could have provided her with.

When I got home the roommate started to talk to me but I cut him off with, “Can’t talk – gutta wash my foot.”

So, is there a moral to this story?

No. I don't think there is.

So I was walking up the road on my way to work, with a butt in my hand.

I was outside.

I wasn’t bothering anyone.

I wasn’t even really smoking it, I was just holding it.

I also was not the only smoker around.

A guy stops, stares at me and says, “Such a beautiful girl … SMOKING.” with a big smile on his face.

Is this some kind of backhanded pickup line or something? Is that supposed to be a compliment coupled with an insult that would send me running into his arms?

Is this guy actually verbally disapproving of the way I choose to live my life?

What WAS that?

Did he think I would quit right then and there and the two of us could hold hands and walk into the sunset together?

I said, “Uh. YEAH.” And kept walking, but it really pisses me off that people feel like it’s ok to walk up to a stranger and tell them that smoking is bad for them, or that they don’t approve, or that they think it is disgusting.

It's not like I was in that guy's living room! I was outside amongst several other people going about their daily routines. There were a number of other smokers out there, much, I’m sure, to this nosey person’s dismay.

First of all, Buddy, what the hell do you care whether I am ruining my lungs or not? You don’t even know me. Is my smoking some sort of deal-breaker that I was not aware of? What makes you think that I was interested in your opinion?

Secondly, it is none of your goddam business what I do. I was minding my own business. Why can’t you mind yours? I was not being rude. I was not blowing smoke at anyone. What the f*ck do YOU care?

Why do people feel like it’s ok to do that and it’s not okay to stare at a fat chick eating a Big Mac and say, “Such a pretty face … EATING.”

One is rude and the other is socially acceptable.

People apparently feel like it is perfectly reasonable to become the f*cking surgeon general every time they see someone smoking a cigarette.

“Smoking is BAD for you!”

“Yeah, no shit Einstein. Thanks for the update. Now F*uck off.”

I am not fond of nose pickers and crotch scratchers, but I would never walk up to a stranger and say, “Such a cute guy … DIGGING.”

The way I see it, just because I don’t like certain social behaviors, doesn’t mean that I am right – and just because I, personally, would not do some things doesn’t mean that I have any right to walk up to someone and insult them about it.

It’s their life, not mine.

You wanna smoke? Then smoke.
You’d rather drink yourself to death? Knock em back.
You like the crack? Light that pipe.
Marijuana is your deal? Toke the doob.
Ass scratching turns you on? Scratch at it.
Love to eat? Gorge all day.

It’s none of my goddam business.
Unless you are making a public spectacle of yourself, I probably won’t even notice. I don’t know you and, quite frankly, I don’t really care what you do with your own body.

What compels people to be that rude?
Is it that they don't smoke, they don't like smoke and they don't think other people should smoke?

Well, that's bullshit.

I don't eat red meat, I don't like red meat, but I don't really care if other people eat it. I'm not going to cause a scene. I probably won't mention it at all.

If offered the meat, I graciously decline the offer.

I certainly don't go up to people in restaurants and insult their way of life because they are eating a steak.

It's their body and their taste buds, and if that steak pleases them - all the power to them!
Who am I to disagree with what other people ingest?

Again, It's none of my business.

Enough already with the anti-smokers! Doesn’t anyone remember the 70’s? There were pieces of furniture that were stand-up matching ashtrays, for Christ sake.

Go to Europe and pull that Butt-Nazi crap on some Irishman. When you wake up 5 days later pissing into a bag and vomiting up your own teeth, maybe you’ll realize why people have such contempt for pushy, know-it-all, nosey Americans.

This is not my story, but it is one that needs to be told.

When I left my classes today I called J to see what was shakin’.

Instead of answering in the conventional way, with a ‘hello’, ‘hi’, ‘wassup’ or the ever-popular ‘Sup’, she yelled my name in a loud and panicky way as a greeting.

 I knew that something must be wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh God.” She replies in a forlorn cry of desperation, “I need to be held.”

The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me:    “What happened?”

J:       “Oh God.”

Me:    “What happened?”

J:       “I was eating a sandwich … and there was a Band Aid in it!!”

Me:    “Oh My God. Are you okay?”

J:       “I don’t think so. It was in my mouth! I was chewing on it!”

Me:    “Where did you get this sandwich?”

J:       “d’Angelos”

Me:    “I f*ckin hate that place. I don’t think anyone should ever eat there EVER. Did you call them? You should call them.”

J:       “I called them. I told the guy there was a band-aid in my sandwich. He didn’t know what to say. He told me he would give me a coupon for three free sandwiches.”

Ok. Now, I ask you: If you had just bitten into a sandwich and encountered a mouth full of band-aid, would you want to go ordering another one?

What kind of consolation prize is that?

What would they do to her next? Put a condom in the thing?

First of all, why was the kid with the hand wound NOT wearing gloves? Isn’t that mandatory for all kitchen workers?

The people who work in the cafeteria at my work don’t even prepare the food, they only serve it and they wear gloves. You’d think Mr. Assistant Manager at the local d’Angelos would try to enforce that basic rule around the kitchen.

Secondly, I shudder to think of what kind of person would make a sandwich without gloves on, lose a band-aid and think nothing of wrapping up the sandwich and sending it out for delivery. This person should not only NOT be working in food preparation, but should not be working anywhere that he or she might have to take on any responsibility for anything at all.

I suggest homelessness.

I suggest collecting change at the subway in a 12 year-old Dunkin Donuts cup.

That’s what this person is destined for.

Oh, this is going to change us. I know it is. Eating out will never be the same. I will never again trust a sandwich made by anyone but me … and I will even be leery of my own sandwich making capabilities.

Poor J.

This is a life-altering event.

I could hear her boss in the background while I was on the phone with her. He was saying, “Are you still talking about that? Get over it.”

I said, “Tell him it’ll take at least 6 months.”

Well, let me start off by saying that there seems to be an exorbitant amount of midgets on campus this semester, which is always entertaining for all.

As the infamous Rocko from WAAF used to say daily, “No matter which way you cut it; Midgets equal funny.”

Well, midgets aside, the first couple of days of classes were about the same as always.

It’s always pretty tough for me to adjust to actually getting up in the morning and having to be somewhere at some point before noon, then parking my car in that nightmare of a parking lot, then running around from building to building, then going into Boston on several trains, then working until 10p.m, then taking several trains home again.

It takes me a couple of weeks to get used to it, so I’m kind of running on empty right now.

So on the first day of school I had a class at 10am. When it was over at 11:00, I glanced at my schedule, saw the room number for my next class and moseyed on over there.

As I was sitting there I was looking around the room thinking to myself, ‘Wow. All these people look like Freshman … and what’s that book they all have?’

But, stupidly, I just sat there.

The professor comes in, calls names and, for some reason, skips right over mine.

So now I’m really starting to wonder what the hell is going on.

He passes out the syllabus that says American National Government on the top and I realize that I am in the wrong class.

I gather my stuff and get up to leave … because, I mean, really what’s the point in staying?

As I am leaving the professor stares at me so I say, “I’m in the wrong class.”

Instead of just letting it go, he’s got to try to make me look and feel stupid for some reason. I don’t understand what the hell that compulsion is about.

Look dude, YOU are the professor. It is a given that you are probably smarter than me, and that I am supposed to believe that you are smarter than me … (though in reality, he probably isn’t – he probably just has more garbage stuffed in his head than I do because he’s older) … so why do you get off on making me look more foolish than I really am?

Does it make you feel special?

Does it make you feel powerful?

He says, “I didn’t call your name then, did I?” all smarmy - like.

I say, “No. That’s when I got an inkling.”

He says (all loud so the whole class can stare at me), “Well!  It was nice having you here.” All sarcastic - like.

I said just as loud, (cuz f*ck THAT guy), “It was a pleasure to be here!” and I walked out.

Turns out that I actually do have a class in that room, but not until 12:20.

Which was a complete surprise to me.

I had no idea that I had a 45 minute break between classes because when I chose classes for this semester I did it extremely quickly and half-heartedly.

I didn’t really care what I took as long as I got 9 credits out of it.

I also didn’t want to have to work too hard.

Last year they told me I was graduating in May.

Yeah – Last May.

Then they said , “Oops. You owe us 9 credits. Our bad.”

So, since all of my requirements for both the college and my major are already fulfilled, all I have to do is sit through 3 classes that I don’t want or need and they will finally let me graduate.

(and there was much rejoicing --- yay.)

Well, I took one English class because I am like an addict with that stuff and the other two classes are a walk in the park.

Now that I know when and where I actually have these classes, this should be one nice and leisurely semester.

I’m taking a photography course this semester. Just beginner stuff, but I still think it’s going to be really fun and cool. I get to flex my creative muscles --- which is always something I enjoy.

All in all It was a pretty good week – aside from being cross-eyed tired – I am pretty happy with the way things went … except for that smart-ass professor.

So I’m at South Station today and as I’m walking through the place my progress was impeded by this man with a clip board who told me that I care about saving the whales.

As I stepped right, he stepped right, as I stepped left, he stepped left.

We did a little dance for a minute until I realized that I was not at the prom and decided to stand still and listen to him for a moment. If, for nothing else, to just stop dancing.

He was older, maybe close to 60. He had long gray hair, which probably looks a bit better in what I’m sure is its natural state – a ponytail. It was, however, hanging loose and free all wiry and crazy looking.

He was clean, though, and not offensive in odor, so I stood there for a few minutes.
He had a nice little table set up for himself with all of his paraphernalia designed to get me to donate money and sign petitions. He was talking about how I was concerned about the whales that were being hit by boats off the coast of Massachusetts.

Which is, admittedly, quite a little misfortune for the whales.
But he just talked too fast, like he was trying really hard to convince me, but not giving me any facts at all. Like he was talking to a moron who is easily moved by pictures of whales that are all messed up and destroyed and, well … you know … dead.

Yes, I was moved, but since he was not telling me anything rational, I was not going to sign his petition and give him money until I figured out what he and his people were trying to do about it.

He kept telling me what they were doing is “grass roots”.
He said that word four times in our brief conversation.
Every time he said it he would give me the knuckles.
You know … when someone puts their knuckles up to you and you are supposed to touch their knuckles with your knuckles like you are in some sort of secret brotherhood or something.

And, although the term really means a movement by the people to change the society they live in, presumably for the better, I always mentally connect this term with excessive pot smoking.

I asked him if he had a web site and he said, “We have everything.”
I actually had to coax the name of the web site out of him, which I found a bit odd. There is nothing wrong with doing a little research before handing out donations. What if, for example, I did not agree with this particular “Grass Roots” movement. Maybe I thought there was a better way to try to keep the whales from becoming entangled in fishing nets.

Are people so impulsive that they give over their cash and sign their name and address on a piece of paper just because they saw some really sad pictures?

Besides, I thought we already saved the whales.
Hasn’t the plea to save the whales been circulating since whenever it was that man decided to try to save things they hadn’t hesitated to destroy only days before?

I think whales may have been the first subjects of that phony mass-altruism movement.

These creatures have been around since the age of the dinosaur. I’m sure that man, in all his stupid self-centered glory, could be the ones who destroy these giants, but I think it is doubtful. I think that whales are so much smarter than we give them credit for anyway. Men are so near sighted and superior to think that these creatures couldn’t survive without us.

I’m all for helping the whales to get untangled from fishing line, but I think it’s something that should be left to people with the know how.

Can you imagine me on a boat trying to disentangle a whale???

Yes, this is probably a great cause. I tip my proverbial hat to people who can look at a bad situation and truly want to help. People who faithfully take time out of their lives to dedicate to some kind of worthy cause.

Good for you.
Really.

That is just not what I’m here for, though.

As for the long haired grass roots guy – when I went to the web site, it said nothing about the grand schemes this nut was telling me about. The website talked about some great people who helped assist the whales to get untangled and the ongoing problem. They are implementing a program to help the whales out and so on and so forth.

Mr. Grass Roots was talking about ‘forcing the government’ to do this and that and babbling all this nonsense at me that was in some way designed to get me to hand over some cash to him and sign my name.

I'm sorry, though. I just can't justify taking food off of my own table to be all Grass Rootsy for this particular cause. Call me selfish or insensitive or what have you, but it is what it is.

At least I mentioned the web site on my blog.

Maybe someone should have tried to save Steve Irwin from his own stupidity.

 (Yeah - with the thumbs up? Not so much.)

 (can you see the dolphins?)

The department I work in is literally stuffed in the corner of the building I work in.

There are 8 cubes along the two walls of the corner we are jammed in. A couple of people have big cubes and the rest of us are rammed in 4ft x 2 ft cubes. Add a file cabinet and a computer to that and you have a little more than 2 feet in which to cram yourself in and attempt to move around.

Three of us have a window seat. I am one of those people.
I guess I should feel lucky that we get a glimpse of the outside world, but I feel like we are merely fish in a bowl.
… desperately trying to figure out a way to freedom.
… tapping on the glass for recognition.

Tap-tap
Look at me.

Tap-tap
Take me with you.

Tap-tap
This isn’t my life.

So, because we are in the corner, and because we are a call center, we have our own door.
We also have our own weather, apparently.

Today it was kind of cold outside. Not, like ‘wear a coat’ cold, but like ‘wear long sleeves’ cold.

My department was ‘wear a coat’ cold.

I swear it was about 50 degrees in there today.

At one point I swiveled around in my seat to face the backs of all my co-workers, (being careful not to knock my knees on my file cabinet), and completely out of nowhere said, “Ok. Are you kidding me? It’s so cold in here I am actually getting angry!” as my red nose dribbled clear fluid and my fingertips turned blue.

We’re like creatures in a zoo in that place; tethered to our cube by our headset and expected to perform for the public in even the worst conditions. We are not even granted the luxury of little things … like heat.

I remember working on the 4^th of July. Since it was a holiday, no one else was in the building except me.
Well, they neglected to even bother turning the air conditioning on that day. It was so hot in there I slowly but surely wound up in just my headset, bra and panties lying on the floor in front of the fan … and panting.

… and dying a little inside.

I called the only other people around (who were maintenance and security) to try to get the problem solved, and though there were many good intentions uttered, nothing came to fruition and I spent 8 hours sweating and gasping for air. Oh! And answering phones politely. Don’t forget that!

The three calls I got all day, I mean.

And today, while I was cupping my hands and breathing into them like you do on a cold autumn night to create some temporary warmth … while I was warming one hand inside the other and rubbing them together to try to get some friction going … while I was putting my cold hand intermittently on the back of my warm neck and then between my legs to keep them at a normal temperature so I was able to use them for typing … (which you are expected to do even if you have been bitten by a spider and any pinkie movement causes excruciating pain) I was thinking, Isn’t this why Unions were created?

When the phrase ‘I can’t work under these conditions’ chants through your head over and over you start to wonder what the hell you can do about it.

Shut up.
Quit your complaining and put a sweater and a wrist brace on.
You're fine.

Oh. And don't forget to be polite on the phone!

So, yeah, we’re cold … or … yeah, we’re hot.
Oh well.
We are trapped.
This is office life.

Welcome to Hell.

Here’s something I bet you didn’t know (unless you have experienced it):

When you wear flip-flops in the rain, your ass gets wet.

I think it is from the flip … or the flop.

I have a question to pose, and I wonder if anyone has a really good answer.

How come nobody in the 70’s could act … and why were these people continually hired?

I know you have watched 70’s sitcoms.

Remember The Jeffersons?

That Weezy couldn’t act her way out of a wet paper bag, and it always bugged the hell out of me.  

Well, as you know (maybe), I am an addict of MST3K.

For those of you who do not know what this is, I will give a brief explanation of the show.

A guy (Mike Nelson – or Joel Robinson) and two robots (Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot) watch really bad movies and make fun of them.

It’s no longer on TV, but I have tons and tons of them on DVD.

Anyway, there are a few movies from the 70’s thrown in the mix. What I have noticed in these movies is that no one can act to save their soul. I realize that they are taking the worst of the worst in order to make the show funny, but they rank on movies from the 50’s and 60’s too, and at least those people seemed like they were in the movie … and not like they were reading their lines off of a cue card.

Maybe it was because everyone was on drugs in the 70’s.

I don’t know.

What I really wanted to discuss today has nothing to do with the above two tid-bits at all.

Have you heard of this product called Warm Delights ™ by Betty Crocker®?

Ok – it is a little bowl with a dessert mix in it. You add water, throw it in the microwave for 45 seconds and you have a hot dessert.

I saw these things on sale in the supermarket during my insatiable chocolate craving episode and I said, “What’s this now?” as I stopped and stared at the display … weighing myself mentally.

I said, “Um … ok” and grabbed the Peanut Butter Fudge Brownie one and quickly and ashamedly threw it in my cart.

So, that night I was thinking “I gutta try this.”

So I did.

Can I just tell you that it comes with frosting? You squirt this chocolate goo all over your hot brownie and just ram your face in the bowl.

Actually, I think you are supposed to use a fork or something, but why get all technical.

It was absolutely delicious.

Umm ... yeah.

After the frenzy I looked at the nutritional information.

The bowl is one serving.

One serving has 400 calories and 14g of fat.

So I was thinking – WHO are they marketing this item too?

Who can eat like that on a regular basis?

Granted, I bought one in a weak moment, but it’s not like I could possibly purchase one a week and expect to still be able to wear clothing anymore.

Are they marketing this dessert to naked people? Or incredibly obese people?

Kids couldn’t eat this treat regularly. There is so much sugar in it their heads would explode. Besides, no one wants their kids to get hooked on something like that and wind up fat and unhealthy.

The way everything is today, most people make a genuine effort to eat healthy. None of us are perfect, of course. We all occasionally do things like buy a microwavable dessert and jam our faces in the thing.

I was just wondering how these kinds of things continue to be marketed, that’s all.

I told my friend J about it and she goes, “Who buys that?”

Yes. That was my question.

Well, I bought it.

(are you kidding me? Look at this thing!)