Christmas in July and August and September and....
By no fault of my own (unless you count choosing this newsroom as my place of employment) my co-workers have exposed me to CHRISTMAS SONGS ALL WEEK LONG!!
Look Left came into the newsroom bright-eyed on Monday singing, "It's the Most Wonderful Time of The Year." In his mind, the most wonderful time of the year is when the rugrat goes back to school and Daddy Daycare turns back into Daddy Day Shift. I don't blame him. I can imagine as much as one loves their offspring, there are only so many bike rides and Lego sessions a person can take.
None the less, this song has been in my head, "broken record style" for the last day or so.
The worst part is that I don't really know the song, so I'm all: "It's the most wonderful time of the year. They'll be hot dogs for grilling and everyone telling you be of good cheer. It's the most wonderful time of the year."
Now I know, that there is nothing yule-tide about grilling wieners (these are clearly the wrong lyrics), but there is also nothing yule-tide about August.
Just when I thought the effects might be wearing off, Speakerbox, in the sports department, starts whistling "Frosty the Snowman" and "Jingle Bells".
What the Hell?
Now, I have to say that one of my favorite qualities in a person is that they have a good whistle - I learned this from my great granny - and this fella has a great whistle. Perfectly on tune with little trills and turns; the kind of whistle that makes you want to be a dog owner.
But it's all about the selection, damn it.
I suppose this Christmas compulsion could be linked to this man's inability to have an interior monologue. Hell, for all I know, my subconscious is singing "Silver Bells" right now.
And with that, "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, It's Christmas time in the city."
Hope you enjoy the contagion, bee-otches!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Monday, August 28, 2006
O Mennonite of mine
I have found a workout buddy to meet me at the gym... and while there is a good chance my sports bra will be showing at some point (accidentally of course) my new gym friend will be discreetly covering the crown of her head with a little lace cap.
I met her at a yogalates class this weekend and was instantly impressed with her confidence. Not to mention her ability to avoid piercing the top of her head with the hairpins securing her cap while executing some bizarro inverted pose.
She kept her socks on during the workout. It may have been that she, A. was cold, or B. had ugly feet, but I like to think that she is so devoted to her chaste lifestyle that she did not want to expose her tootsies to the wily eyes of the world.
She told me that she grew up in a darling community called "Honeybrook" where there are more horse and buggies than there are cars.
Now, I know you're wondering: "Flee, how the hell do you expect to carry on with this woman? What the hell are you going to talk about, you uncensored maniac?"
Well, we'll just have to see. I hope to keep it laced up and maybe learn a thing or two about the subtler things in life, while maybe I can electrify her with a few expletives every now and then. You know, be the "bad friend" for once, instead of the "good girl."
If it all falls apart, I can just hit the tred by myself again - my bra straps showing and a messy pony tail being the only thing on the crown of my head - knowing that I was too bad-ass to be reckoned with!
I have found a workout buddy to meet me at the gym... and while there is a good chance my sports bra will be showing at some point (accidentally of course) my new gym friend will be discreetly covering the crown of her head with a little lace cap.
I met her at a yogalates class this weekend and was instantly impressed with her confidence. Not to mention her ability to avoid piercing the top of her head with the hairpins securing her cap while executing some bizarro inverted pose.
She kept her socks on during the workout. It may have been that she, A. was cold, or B. had ugly feet, but I like to think that she is so devoted to her chaste lifestyle that she did not want to expose her tootsies to the wily eyes of the world.
She told me that she grew up in a darling community called "Honeybrook" where there are more horse and buggies than there are cars.
Now, I know you're wondering: "Flee, how the hell do you expect to carry on with this woman? What the hell are you going to talk about, you uncensored maniac?"
Well, we'll just have to see. I hope to keep it laced up and maybe learn a thing or two about the subtler things in life, while maybe I can electrify her with a few expletives every now and then. You know, be the "bad friend" for once, instead of the "good girl."
If it all falls apart, I can just hit the tred by myself again - my bra straps showing and a messy pony tail being the only thing on the crown of my head - knowing that I was too bad-ass to be reckoned with!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Cari-who? Coffee
The cozy MN coffee shop is totally non-existent in the town I work in. What was once a Jitter's (or Coffee Zone or Caribou or Daily Grind, or any other cutesier coffee name) run, is now a Argento's run.
Argento's, my friends, is a place that advertises, in neon, its strombollis and grinders. Its deli counter culture makes me long for those comfy couches the color and consistency of a Carmel Frap.... and also, at times, containing some carmel frap.
Alternately, this place has very stiff plastic booths and the only thing on the menu that might resemble a creamy coffee drink is the cheese-wiz that is pumped onto the "steaks." The Philly Cheese Steaks that is. You want yours wiz-wit or wiz-wit out?
This post was instigated by my dinner break tonight. I sat and ate salad with chicken that belonged in a bucket and croutons that resembled left over pizza crust. I pulled a book from my purse and began to read a bit. There was a family with a whole herd of children waiting to take home two big-ass pizzas for $10. The kids were racing laps around my center booth, and only stopped once so that one of the kids could look sadly at me and ask his father, "Daddy, is she okay?"
I peeked up over the edge of my book and smiled, but my coffee shop behavior clearly translated as sad and weird.
There is an interesting crew of old retired men that meet at Argento's for their daily dose of banter. Should you go in on your lunch break to try and catch up on a few chapters, you will certainly be drawn in to their conversation, if only by eavesdropping.
It looks like I'm going to have to find some coffee-to-go, and sit in a park somewhere if I really want to find some comfort on my breaks.
A good coffee-to-go option here, so far, is from a bizarro gas station called Wawa... which I may or may not have talked about before.
It is kind of like the Target of the gas station world. You go for one thing, gas, and unless you pay at the pump, you are surely leaving with a whole slew of things you didn't intent to purchase.
For example, fresh brewed coffee in house, dark, vanilla, hazelnut, or Irish cream. With corresponding creams, might I add. A milk shake machine, which allows you to stir one up fresh, a sandwich counter, with more steaks and grinders, a fresh hot pretzel section, a refrigerated section containing fresh fruit bowls , hummus wraps, and veggie trays, not to mention your run-of-the-mill snacks, like cokes and sunflower seeds.
But in order to get to this place you have to jump onto the highway.
As for now... I will probably still stop into Argento's out of desperation. But I need to find out what a grinder is, just to be sure I'm not hanging out in a place of unsavoryness.
The cozy MN coffee shop is totally non-existent in the town I work in. What was once a Jitter's (or Coffee Zone or Caribou or Daily Grind, or any other cutesier coffee name) run, is now a Argento's run.
Argento's, my friends, is a place that advertises, in neon, its strombollis and grinders. Its deli counter culture makes me long for those comfy couches the color and consistency of a Carmel Frap.... and also, at times, containing some carmel frap.
Alternately, this place has very stiff plastic booths and the only thing on the menu that might resemble a creamy coffee drink is the cheese-wiz that is pumped onto the "steaks." The Philly Cheese Steaks that is. You want yours wiz-wit or wiz-wit out?
This post was instigated by my dinner break tonight. I sat and ate salad with chicken that belonged in a bucket and croutons that resembled left over pizza crust. I pulled a book from my purse and began to read a bit. There was a family with a whole herd of children waiting to take home two big-ass pizzas for $10. The kids were racing laps around my center booth, and only stopped once so that one of the kids could look sadly at me and ask his father, "Daddy, is she okay?"
I peeked up over the edge of my book and smiled, but my coffee shop behavior clearly translated as sad and weird.
There is an interesting crew of old retired men that meet at Argento's for their daily dose of banter. Should you go in on your lunch break to try and catch up on a few chapters, you will certainly be drawn in to their conversation, if only by eavesdropping.
It looks like I'm going to have to find some coffee-to-go, and sit in a park somewhere if I really want to find some comfort on my breaks.
A good coffee-to-go option here, so far, is from a bizarro gas station called Wawa... which I may or may not have talked about before.
It is kind of like the Target of the gas station world. You go for one thing, gas, and unless you pay at the pump, you are surely leaving with a whole slew of things you didn't intent to purchase.
For example, fresh brewed coffee in house, dark, vanilla, hazelnut, or Irish cream. With corresponding creams, might I add. A milk shake machine, which allows you to stir one up fresh, a sandwich counter, with more steaks and grinders, a fresh hot pretzel section, a refrigerated section containing fresh fruit bowls , hummus wraps, and veggie trays, not to mention your run-of-the-mill snacks, like cokes and sunflower seeds.
But in order to get to this place you have to jump onto the highway.
As for now... I will probably still stop into Argento's out of desperation. But I need to find out what a grinder is, just to be sure I'm not hanging out in a place of unsavoryness.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Why Subi-roo? Why?
My car is making it clear that it has had enough. There is a constant smell of burnyness, the check engine light winks at me every now and again, and the brakes are growling like the king of the Outback.
I think the cross-country road trip is what sealed the deal.
If you know me, you know about my love affair with my car. It is such a humble, fun vehicle. The kind of car that is more a vessel for public radio than anything else. So it is much to my chagrin that it is starting to show its age, er mileage, @ 125,000 (+). Eeek!
The brake thing just started. It went from just fine, to holy shit!, in about 5 miles. The pads are now just a fine layer of dust around my hub-caps and the routers, well, they sound like they resemble a Lay's potato chip, and not the Frisbee they were at their inception.
So I am looking right now for a reliable mechanic in PA. Not an easy task, anywhere really.
My fella keeps insisting that he has buddies that can take care of the job, but I'm afraid that if I wait any longer, I'm going to have to ask those same buddies for a ride to work b/c my car is Ka-Put.
Oh, and to top it all off, the very reason I love the car, the hatch-back, has rusted shut or just plain old rattled itself broken b/c I cannot open it to load and unload my mud splattered mountain bike, camping gear and Golden Retriever.
GRRRRR!
My car is making it clear that it has had enough. There is a constant smell of burnyness, the check engine light winks at me every now and again, and the brakes are growling like the king of the Outback.
I think the cross-country road trip is what sealed the deal.
If you know me, you know about my love affair with my car. It is such a humble, fun vehicle. The kind of car that is more a vessel for public radio than anything else. So it is much to my chagrin that it is starting to show its age, er mileage, @ 125,000 (+). Eeek!
The brake thing just started. It went from just fine, to holy shit!, in about 5 miles. The pads are now just a fine layer of dust around my hub-caps and the routers, well, they sound like they resemble a Lay's potato chip, and not the Frisbee they were at their inception.
So I am looking right now for a reliable mechanic in PA. Not an easy task, anywhere really.
My fella keeps insisting that he has buddies that can take care of the job, but I'm afraid that if I wait any longer, I'm going to have to ask those same buddies for a ride to work b/c my car is Ka-Put.
Oh, and to top it all off, the very reason I love the car, the hatch-back, has rusted shut or just plain old rattled itself broken b/c I cannot open it to load and unload my mud splattered mountain bike, camping gear and Golden Retriever.
GRRRRR!
Monday, August 14, 2006
A Portrait of Helen
The woman that lives in the lower unit of our apartment is an 89-year-old woman. Her name is Helen and if she stops you on your way out, just plan on being late.
Today, she did just that, and because it was a beautiful day, I sat with her on the front porch for a bit.
Well, a bit turned into a half an hour and that half an hour made me late for work.
The first time Helen made me late was when I was in PA interviewing for my current job. I was literally on my way out the door to the interview (already running a little later than I planned.) I ended up being an hour late for the interview (thank goodness for the car accident that gave my tardiness legitimacy.)
The weather today was wonderful, and in my jollity I gave her a little squeeze and a cheek kiss. But despite the day's sweet air, the smell of 89-year-old skin, under 25-year-old clothes stuck to me. It wasn't especially foul, but she smelled sad — the way T.V. dinners smell sad.
Helen has been on bed rest this summer because she has an inflamed spine, and they can't do surgery on it until it's healed. I could tell you more, she certainly did, but I'll spare you the full diagnosis until I'm the 89-year-old.
Anyhow, she started reminiscing about how she used to be "a real go-getter." These are her words.
She used to pick up her girlfriends in her car (four of which, including her ability to drive, she has lost this year.)
She ached about how she couldn't sit up long enough for her hairdresser to put a permanent in her hair. Just before she said this, I was actually admiring her hair. In my mind, it looked lovely loose, like plumes of white smoke rising from her head.
I told her it was a nice laid-back summer style and that the color was shining.
It was getting to be "that time," and I started to make a move towards my car. I half sat, half hovered, over the edge of the chair, trying to go.
Her glassy gray eyes begged at me from behind glasses that were starting to be swallowed by the wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. Much like trees that are growing near fences often times just incorporate the fence right into their plight.
Without actually saying it, she said: "Please don't go yet. I am so lonely and scared that I am ignoring your attempts to leave."
I had no other option but to stand up and walk backwards, still talking, towards my car. I promised her that I would stop in, instead of just waiting for her to be on the porch.
As I drove away, I gave the horn of my car a little beep, so as not to startle the fragile one, and I waved at her. I spritzed on some perfume and popped some strong mint gum in my mouth to distract my senses. I couldn't help but think that maybe that was the last conversation she was going to have — and not just with me but with anyone.
When I got home from work, Helen's blinds were drawn, and when I left the next morning, they were open. These, the subtle signs of what's left of her comings and goings, are reminders to me (another self-proclaimed "go getter,") of my own vulnerability.
The woman that lives in the lower unit of our apartment is an 89-year-old woman. Her name is Helen and if she stops you on your way out, just plan on being late.
Today, she did just that, and because it was a beautiful day, I sat with her on the front porch for a bit.
Well, a bit turned into a half an hour and that half an hour made me late for work.
The first time Helen made me late was when I was in PA interviewing for my current job. I was literally on my way out the door to the interview (already running a little later than I planned.) I ended up being an hour late for the interview (thank goodness for the car accident that gave my tardiness legitimacy.)
The weather today was wonderful, and in my jollity I gave her a little squeeze and a cheek kiss. But despite the day's sweet air, the smell of 89-year-old skin, under 25-year-old clothes stuck to me. It wasn't especially foul, but she smelled sad — the way T.V. dinners smell sad.
Helen has been on bed rest this summer because she has an inflamed spine, and they can't do surgery on it until it's healed. I could tell you more, she certainly did, but I'll spare you the full diagnosis until I'm the 89-year-old.
Anyhow, she started reminiscing about how she used to be "a real go-getter." These are her words.
She used to pick up her girlfriends in her car (four of which, including her ability to drive, she has lost this year.)
She ached about how she couldn't sit up long enough for her hairdresser to put a permanent in her hair. Just before she said this, I was actually admiring her hair. In my mind, it looked lovely loose, like plumes of white smoke rising from her head.
I told her it was a nice laid-back summer style and that the color was shining.
It was getting to be "that time," and I started to make a move towards my car. I half sat, half hovered, over the edge of the chair, trying to go.
Her glassy gray eyes begged at me from behind glasses that were starting to be swallowed by the wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. Much like trees that are growing near fences often times just incorporate the fence right into their plight.
Without actually saying it, she said: "Please don't go yet. I am so lonely and scared that I am ignoring your attempts to leave."
I had no other option but to stand up and walk backwards, still talking, towards my car. I promised her that I would stop in, instead of just waiting for her to be on the porch.
As I drove away, I gave the horn of my car a little beep, so as not to startle the fragile one, and I waved at her. I spritzed on some perfume and popped some strong mint gum in my mouth to distract my senses. I couldn't help but think that maybe that was the last conversation she was going to have — and not just with me but with anyone.
When I got home from work, Helen's blinds were drawn, and when I left the next morning, they were open. These, the subtle signs of what's left of her comings and goings, are reminders to me (another self-proclaimed "go getter,") of my own vulnerability.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Pretty Little Things
There is this place (across the from work) called Jean's. I can see her store front from my desk.
Much like Dani's of Duluth, Jean's of Pottstown switches up her window display bi-weekly (well maybe not just like Dani's — Lord knows that broad changes her displays like she changes her pony tail wigs.)
So, I've really been wanting to go in and snoop around on my lunch break.
Wait… did I mention this place is called Jean's Lingerie?
And may I reiterate that I can see it from my desk? And if I can, that means my boss can, and so can every body else in the newsroom!
I will give you a taste of today's window, just so you can get a taste of this boutique. The theme of this display is "pink" with subtle tones of "thigh and nipple exposure." Now don't get me wrong, the candy striper costume is pretty tasteful — and by tasteful I mean I can't see the mannequin's non-existent boobs — which is more than you can say for Dani… I've seen a couple of unfinished products looking pretty lewd in her window.
So today, just around 3 p.m., a giant delivery truck pulled in front of Jean's, blocking the view of the store from the newsroom.
I jumped up like there was some breaking news and made a beeline for the store. I walked past the truck, and in turn, past Jean's. Ithen made a sharp U-turn around the front bumper of the truck putting me face to face with the candy striper.
In the shadowy safety of the truck, I slipped in.
Hello! I have found the only store that caters to granny-boobs and whores alike!
There was an entire section of nippleless and crotchless garments, tucked in next to some flesh colored bras made of stiff Wal-Mart looking lace.
And what's more, Jean offers her selection in sizes XS to 6X. Whoa Momma… it is amazing how a sexy nighty can quickly become something that resembles a pup-tent.
As I was peeking around, Jean herself, with her 65-year-old shelf-like bosome, asked me if I needed any help.
Me: "I just stopped by. I'm new to the area."
Jean: "Well, we do custom fittings. By the way, your shoes are so cute. What size do you wear? Because I have a whole closet full of heels that I can't wear any more. I try to wear them to church, but they make my back hurt."
Me (internally): "Hey lady, you go to church? Also, you might consider the link between your torpedoes and your back pain. And what exactly are you planning on custom fitting me for?"
Me (external): "Oh gosh… I wear size 8."
Jean: "Oh shoot, I wear 9."
On to the costume section…she's got all the classics, French maid (complete with feather duster/tickler), police officer (complete with handcuffs), the infamous candy striper, and the leather-clad dominatrixs.
And last butt (he, he ) not least, the tummy tucking, booty lifting, thigh slimming, meat packing under garments. The kind of things that make you look all, "Oo, La la," when your evening gown in is on, and all "Braulhagphlaug" once you unleash yourself from it later in the night.
Needless to say, I had no idea what I was getting into when I walked in, and will have to return once I am more aware of what my specific needs are.
And for all of you who are still wondering… the truck was gone when I reemerged. What choice did I have but to walk out with my head held high, as if to say, "Damn right I was chillin' with Jean."
I'll tell you what choice I had, I ducked hard to the right as I exited, protecting my identity with some heinously large sunglasses, and pretended to be going to the bank next door.
I will not be the new girl who goes to the smut shop on her lunch break.
There is this place (across the from work) called Jean's. I can see her store front from my desk.
Much like Dani's of Duluth, Jean's of Pottstown switches up her window display bi-weekly (well maybe not just like Dani's — Lord knows that broad changes her displays like she changes her pony tail wigs.)
So, I've really been wanting to go in and snoop around on my lunch break.
Wait… did I mention this place is called Jean's Lingerie?
And may I reiterate that I can see it from my desk? And if I can, that means my boss can, and so can every body else in the newsroom!
I will give you a taste of today's window, just so you can get a taste of this boutique. The theme of this display is "pink" with subtle tones of "thigh and nipple exposure." Now don't get me wrong, the candy striper costume is pretty tasteful — and by tasteful I mean I can't see the mannequin's non-existent boobs — which is more than you can say for Dani… I've seen a couple of unfinished products looking pretty lewd in her window.
So today, just around 3 p.m., a giant delivery truck pulled in front of Jean's, blocking the view of the store from the newsroom.
I jumped up like there was some breaking news and made a beeline for the store. I walked past the truck, and in turn, past Jean's. Ithen made a sharp U-turn around the front bumper of the truck putting me face to face with the candy striper.
In the shadowy safety of the truck, I slipped in.
Hello! I have found the only store that caters to granny-boobs and whores alike!
There was an entire section of nippleless and crotchless garments, tucked in next to some flesh colored bras made of stiff Wal-Mart looking lace.
And what's more, Jean offers her selection in sizes XS to 6X. Whoa Momma… it is amazing how a sexy nighty can quickly become something that resembles a pup-tent.
As I was peeking around, Jean herself, with her 65-year-old shelf-like bosome, asked me if I needed any help.
Me: "I just stopped by. I'm new to the area."
Jean: "Well, we do custom fittings. By the way, your shoes are so cute. What size do you wear? Because I have a whole closet full of heels that I can't wear any more. I try to wear them to church, but they make my back hurt."
Me (internally): "Hey lady, you go to church? Also, you might consider the link between your torpedoes and your back pain. And what exactly are you planning on custom fitting me for?"
Me (external): "Oh gosh… I wear size 8."
Jean: "Oh shoot, I wear 9."
On to the costume section…she's got all the classics, French maid (complete with feather duster/tickler), police officer (complete with handcuffs), the infamous candy striper, and the leather-clad dominatrixs.
And last butt (he, he ) not least, the tummy tucking, booty lifting, thigh slimming, meat packing under garments. The kind of things that make you look all, "Oo, La la," when your evening gown in is on, and all "Braulhagphlaug" once you unleash yourself from it later in the night.
Needless to say, I had no idea what I was getting into when I walked in, and will have to return once I am more aware of what my specific needs are.
And for all of you who are still wondering… the truck was gone when I reemerged. What choice did I have but to walk out with my head held high, as if to say, "Damn right I was chillin' with Jean."
I'll tell you what choice I had, I ducked hard to the right as I exited, protecting my identity with some heinously large sunglasses, and pretended to be going to the bank next door.
I will not be the new girl who goes to the smut shop on her lunch break.
I'm Making Friends!
Okay, they're work friends... and I got to know them during a work mixer, but they are quasi-friends none the less.
What a sad ass situation when your social life is reduced to hanging our with the people you are paid sit next to.
Well, whatever. They are not as great as the "missed ones" but they are a good start none the less.
Okay, they're work friends... and I got to know them during a work mixer, but they are quasi-friends none the less.
What a sad ass situation when your social life is reduced to hanging our with the people you are paid sit next to.
Well, whatever. They are not as great as the "missed ones" but they are a good start none the less.
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