Soul Thumping

UUGGHH!

The title sums it up people.  The thing that I really hate about being employed is that I don't have time to sit on my ass all day and write about stuff that makes people laugh out loud (including myself) and receiving emails from people that tell me I'm trange or funny or both.

I can tell you the one thing I DO miss about unemployment:  watching my cat Kwinn vomit.  He saves it for special occassions now, and Zeus and I do appreciate that, let me tell you.  I've only had to clean it up a couple of times in a month, and I am cannot express how happy that makes me.

So, since I have nothing funny to say today (although I will have to blog about my trip to App State this weekend and my first tailgate party with the Delta Chi fraternity...yes, I am 40 years old, but I can still hang), I'm simply going to attach a link to a funny blog I wrote early this year about karmic retribution...

--Fortuitous Observer

If Only I'd Chosen a Smaller Book to Put in My Shorts

Zeus and I had dinner this past weekend with R, M, and D, and R was telling us a funny story about when she was 4-years-old and she got a spanking from her father, and she told him that must never happen again (yes, at the age of 4 she doled out some sage words of advice for her father, which is what makes the story so funny), and it made me recall a particular spanking I received from my father when I was around 6 or 7 (I can't remember exactly).

I had done something (I can't remember that either...honestly) and my mom told me that she was going to have my dad spank me when he got home from the store.  I knew I didn't want a spanking, and I also knew she was too mad to plea bargain so I waited nervously for him to return.  Through my anxiety, I was somehow able to have an epiphany that would save me.  I had seen a sitcom not too long before this incident in which a child was in the same situation I found myself to be.  This child decided that a spanking would hurt less if he put a book in his pants before getting the spanking.  His dad would be hitting the book and not his bottom.  How clever!  I was going to do that.

Fortunately, we had a large selection of books.  Unfortunately, I chose a huge reference book, thinking it would be thicker, therefore, I would feel the spanking less (I was only 6 or 7 remember).  So, I put the book in my shorts and waited for my dad to come home, feeling almost sorry for him that he would be giving me a spanking that wouldn't bother me.

Dad arrived home, mom told him what I did (I still can't remember what it was...honestly), and I was sitting in the kitchen awaiting my fate.  He came in, told me he had to give me a spanking, and I believe I almost smiled as I turned around as if to say, "Go ahead, give it all you got."  Of course, he saw the book in my shorts, and I heard him laugh, just a little, enough to know I'd been caught, and he told me to take the book out, so I did, and even though he found it a little amusing, I still got the promised spanking.  The spanking didn't hurt, but I included the obligatory cries and I-hate-you yells, then it was over.

I realized later that my mistake was in the book selection.  Had I chosen Winne the Pooh or even Little Women, I may have actually gotten away with it, but I also knew if I tried that again, my father was not going to be amused twice, so I left those antics to the make believe children on the sitcoms...

--Fortuitous Observer

What's the Big Deal About Friday?

It's a Friday afternoon, finishing up some last minute "code scrubbing" then I'm heading home.  When I was unemployed, Friday had no special meaning to me.  Big deal, the weekend is here...when one is unemployed, everyday is the weekend.  Now that I'm working again, Fridays are much more important to me.  I have two whole days to forget about the workweek, just in time for the next workweek.  How awesome is that?

That is what we call sarcasm people...it's Friday, I'm tired, and I want a beer.

--Fortuitous Observer

Granny in an Escalade

I suppose one of the cool things about actually driving to a job again is that I get to witness the deluge of freaks on their daily commute each day (of course, when I was a software consultant and I flew to job sites for work, I got to see all the freaks in the airports too, so I guess it is a toss up).  Last Friday morning I was frustrated and impatient (imagine that...) because traffic was moving unreasonably slow for no apparent reason.  I finally discovered the reason...granny was driving an Escalade.

When I say "granny" I do mean granny.  This petticoat couldn't have been more than 4 feet tall, and she was 10 years older than dirt.  She was driving an Escalade in the center lane, at no more than 45 mph (the speed limit is 65, which means everyone, except granny, is doing 75), with traffic passing her in both the left and right lanes.  What?  How does this happen?  Does a 112-year-old woman go to the dealership and pick out an Escalade?  Why does she need that much truck?  Is she hauling bodies?  Maybe it was her 115 year old husband who chose the Escalade?  Or, maybe she is loaded and her husband is a 23-year-old degenerate who makes her work at Walmart as a greeter during the day so he can sleep in after partying with his pals all night on her money.

Single, married to an old mate, or a budding libertine , she was too short for the gas pedal and too petite for a big truck.  I'm the first person who would stick up for her right to buy whatever vehicle she wants, but it was the morning rush hour commute which can be absolutely brutal, so I've just emailed my Congressman asking him to introduce legislation for a maximum age limit to buy an Escalade.  I don't know what the maximum age should be, but somewhere between 10 years older than dirt and 5 years younger than water.

--Fortuitous Observer

I Got Mad at Diet Coke Last Week...

Now that I'm working, I don't have non-stop access to my refrigerator with the unlimited supply of Diet Coke to run to during the day, so I usually grab a couple of cans each morning and throw them into my large red purse; my large red purse with the majestic blue peacock on it, the one I bought from Antrhopologie a year ago.  My favorite purse.

Last week, when I pulled into the parking lot at work, I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat (after taking the seat belt off...the purse wasn't cheap after all, so I try to keep it safe), and headed into the building.  I raced up the two-flights of stairs to my office, sat down, turned on the computer, and took out my Diet Coke.  The nectar of the gods.  My life juice.  That is when I noticed my purse was wet and I thought for two seconds that one of my cats had micturated (that is just a big word for "pissing") on it--they are not happy that I'm contracting and not at home tending to their every need, 24/7--but quickly discarded that idea because I couldn't smell anything.  It was my Diet Coke!  One of the cans had a hole in it and its entire contents had oozed into my purse...remember, my favorite, not-so-cheap purse.

I was pissed!  I was enraged.  Not my favorite purse.  And the worst part, my favorite drink is to blame.  How terrible is this?  At that very moment, I was so incensed that I vowed I would never drink Diet Coke again.  I was serious.  I felt my blood leak to my feet and my head felt fuzzy and faint.  How could something I love so much destroy another thing so precious to me?  Of course, Zeus was going to be happy.  I would finally give up Diet Coke forever and ever and drink only organic tea.

Ah, but not so fast Zeus.  I made it through the day, angry and bitter, yet as the day wore on, I became less irate with Diet Coke.  It was only an accident after all.  It could have happened with any drink.  I got home, took everything out of my purse (that was an hour task, I swear), turned the lining inside out and washed the remnants of the spilled Diet Coke away and I felt much better.

Sure, I was mad as all get-out, but I made peace with Diet Coke that evening, seeing that my purse, my favorite purse, was not irrevocably harmed, and once again, we are best friends, Diet Coke and I.

--Fortuitous Observer

Spaghetti, Pasketti...Whatever.

Zeus and I went to a great Greek restaurant last night with our friends N & T, and I ordered a cheese pasta dish in brown butter sauce with mizinthra cheese...awesome!  I try to eat pasta the "Mediterranean way" by twirling the pasta on a fork in a large spoon, and I have it down pretty good, but sometimes I just want to say screw it, and eat the pasta like I did when I was a kid, which is to cut the pasta with a knife into tiny, tiny little pieces.  The Greeks and Italians are screaming at that right now!

Anyway, the pasta dilemma from last night reminded me of a childhood memory that I wanted to jot down before I forget about it completely.  I don't know if this is normal for kids at the age of 5 or 6 (with my track record, probably not normal), but my sister and I could not say "spaghetti."  It somehow always came out "pasketti."  My parents tried to correct us but we always reverted back to pasketti.

One day we were playing outside and my dad called us in for dinner.  As usual, we didn't want to stop playing for dinner, but he told us we were having spaghetti, and spaghetti was one of our favorites!  The catch was that we couldn't have any unless we said spaghetti properly.  It is amazing what new habits you can force a 5 year old hungry kid into.  From that day forward, we had "spaghetti" for dinner, not "pasketti."

--Fortuitous Observer