THE END OF AN ERA

It's been almost a week since I lost my job, and I think I'm finally in a place that I'm able to talk about it. Aside from the obvious (that it stinks to be unemployed), I suppose things could be a lot worse. For example, I might have children to support: mouths to feed, day care bills, college funds, etc... I think back over all of my many co-workers who have been laid off from the department in recent months, including those with ill family members and difficult circumstances, and it makes it hard to feel sorry for myself. I know that this is a turning point in my life... the point that I will one day look back on and say, "that's the best thing that could have happened to me." We don't see the plan for our lives in the moment; you just have to trust that it's there.

To be honest, I never thought there would come a time when I did not have that job; you think that, with almost 16 years in one spot, that you'll be there forever... or at least as long as you want to be. On the other hand, I had grown increasingly disenchanted in recent months. When things slowed down, I lost some of my passion for my work. It's a terrible thing when the job you once loved, dedicated yourself to and identified yourself by, becomes an impossible chore; the days are long and the few tasks you have left to accomplish are largely unfulfilling. I know I might've never had the courage to walk away on my own. Sometimes it's a gift to get the thing you don't want; sometimes it's the only thing that could possibly propel you forward. And as I look back, I realize that the true joy came, not so much from the work or the company (though I enjoyed both) but from the people... and I'm blessed to still have the people.

Two days after my untimely release, I met my work pals for a "last day" picnic we had already planned for Mikey G. After 16 years, he's moving into the next phase of his career to be an educator. He brought me the cookies in this photo, along with his last can of "desk soup", wrapped with a photo of me and a funny poem I'd written about a dozen years ago. We all had some yuks over his hand-decorated "Sorry you got can'd" cookies and the "can" award. And as we sat in the park, eating our sandwiches and laughing over the good times, I had one of those moments. You know the kind: When you realize that you're living a moment that makes life worth living. You have them once in a while, and they are so special when you have the clarity of consciousness to recognize them. I thought to myself, "I wish I could freeze this moment and just enjoy it a little bit longer." Wouldn't it be great if you could save those times in a bottle and pull them down from the shelf and open them when you're feeling a bit low? That hour in the park was a snapshot in time that I'd like to remember forever. And as we clasped hands around the picnic table before leaving and said a prayer, thanking the Lord for the profound gift of our friendship, I couldn't help but tear up. These people are my family. Three of us are gone from the company now and only three are left. We may never, all six, be together again; you never know where life will take you. But I hope they all know how much their friendship, wit and wisdom have touched my soul. As have so many others over the years, they've set the bar pretty high for my future co-workers!

And Mikey G, I really did eat most of those cookies. I ate them, in careful order, until they spelled out the words "You Can". I thought you would enjoy knowing that you are still imparting words of encouragement! And right back at you, buddy...

STATE VS. OFFICE HOARDER (EXHIBIT A)

See, ya'll... I wasn't lying.

I do feel compelled to point out, though, that the skeleton-girl was bequeathed to me by a girlfriend/co-worker when she got married and didn't need it anymore; it says "Waiting for the perfect man". And the voodoo doll was a souvenir from New Orleans; years ago, one of my employees brought it to me and it has remained a joke within the office... good fun to poke at when the pressure gets tough. I wanted to explain the creepy-looking stuff. I mean, I know I'm weird, but it's definitely in a sunshiny kind of way...

WTF: I'M AN OFFICE HOARDER

It’s Friday… let the WTF’inanigans begin!

It’s starting to feel like it might actually get a little bit busy again at work. And yesterday, I had TWO things to accomplish AT THE SAME TIME. (Not quite multi-tasking— but perhaps dual-tasking?) Anyway, I had a mild “episode”, trying to sort out one from the other. Which to do first? Can I handle the pressure?? How did I get this SOFT in just four months? Have I lost my edge?? W T F. Thank the Heavens above for Brittnee… if she hadn’t run to Office Depot for me, I would have had THREE chores on my plate, and a full scale mini-meltdown would have doubtlessly ensued.

So I’m sitting here, getting my ducks in a row for next week... Writing out my goals... Contemplating, planning, sizing up the sitch… Thinking we may fire the old ad engine back up soon. And I think to myself, “Self, you will think more clearly next week if you have a clean desk.” I get to opening drawers and surveying the contents… and what’s in there, ya’ll is just ridiculous. Completely absurd. For those of you who follow my “tweets” over on Twitter, I do apologize; this will be a repeat (and I’ve already had one person call to my attention that six tweets about the crap in my desk is too much; clearly, if it's not worth six tweets, it's certainly not worthy of an entire blog). For those who don’t follow me, reading beyond this point is completely optional. Proceed at your own peril, knowing you've been dully warned. I won’t blame you for surfing ahead to something that won’t turn your brain into gelatinous goo; this will not be stimulating. It might give you a glimpse into my psyche— but egads, I hope not. There’s no telling what these items say about me.

-2 cans soup, expired
-4 Medifast shakes, expired
-1 dried up Tide-to-Go pen
-A bottle of cuticle oil
-4 strands of Mardi Gras beads
-3 Easy buttons (two that say “that was easy” in English, one in Spanish)
-2 lint rollers with no sheets
-A bottle of deodorant
-Small bottle of Scope
-3 Oral-B Brush-Ups
-Toothpaste and toothbrush
-4 bottles of lotion
-5 bottles of Purell… WTF?
-Individual packets of Germ-X wipes
-5 years worth of greeting cards
-Lysol wipes (does anyone see a theme here??)
-A box of straight pins
-3 clothespins
-A voodoo doll… WTF?
-3 boxes of Hawaiian Punch
-1 nail file
-Assorted sizes and types of seashells
-2 grapefruit spoons… WTF?
-1 feather boa… WTF?
-A shaker of garlic salt… WTF?
-Pedometer
-Drinking straws with umbrellas
-Tealight candle… uh, fire code, WTF?
-8 Sonic mints
-Various toys and tchotchkes… some of it’s really weird, too.


My first thought was “Is there an office version of Let’s Make a Deal?” I could kick ANYONE’S butt. ANYONE! Who else, I ask you, has a feather boa and a shaker of garlic salt and a Spanish-speaking Easy button at the office?? Next, I divined that I should pack all this crap up and take it home for a garage sale… I could pay for my next vacation!

I’m the first to admit that I have a raging case of ADD… combine that with working in a creative role… and add the fact that I believe in saving all manner of minutia… and it’s a recipe for, apparently, a HOARDER of ginormous proportions. That’s what I've become: a Crazy Cat Lady with hoarding issues. Isn’t it a wonder I ever get anything done, with those tendencies and a desk like this? WTF?? And ya’ll, it’s FRIDAY NIGHT. Shouldn’t I have something else besides this going on? Clearly, it is a desperate cry for help.

I welcome your comments. Experts, please chime in.

‘Til next week’s installment of “What-The” Friday, have a good week, my pets. I’m going to be working on learning to throw things away. Will keep you updated!

"SURVIVOR SYNDROME" IN THE OFFICE

I sat down to write my usual "What-the..." Friday post, and even though I've been composing it in my head the past couple days, I just couldn't really get focused on it. My mind is preoccupied today. Unfortunately, it's been preoccupied the past couple months. The proverbial "pink slip" has darn near dominated my waking consciousness, and now it's all but dancing through my dreams too.

Around the office these days, the how are you doings are now most often answered with I'm just happy to be heres. Let me tell you it's hard to watch a department of 400+ dwindle to less than half that size. And it's very hard to sit just a few feet from someone, in a sea of 48"-tall cubes, and watch as their desk is packed up and they're whisked away to be told it's their last day. Harder still is knowing that good people-- people you like and respect-- are going to have to start all over somewhere else, but they probably don't have the foggiest notion of where. I mean, do most people really have a clear Plan B?

I've thought about it, as I'm certain most people have-- vaguely, in a fleeting, back-of-my-mind kind of way. I know I could always wait tables or work retail while pursuing my career options... I'm confident I could figure out a way to beat out a living; but at what level of sacrifice? As a single woman, no one else is going to make my mortgage in the meantime (besides, I wouldn't want them to... my pride and self-worth are very much wrapped up in taking care of myself!) I survived, and even thrived, after divorce so I know I'm capable of new and unexpected beginnings. But watching, with your own eyes, as it happens to others makes you stop and realize how woefully unprepared you'd be if the unthinkable happened to you. The meager "emergency fund", assuming you're lucky enough to have one, just doesn't stretch all that far.

In our workplace, the "right-sizing" started last fall. I've done a considerable post-mortem on it since then and don't really consider myself short-sighted, though I certainly wasn't aware of the magnitude at that time; honestly, I don't think anyone foresaw a slowdown of this scale. The first two casualties were right in my own area, with a couple of promotions/advertising employees; the advertiser was fortunately able to be moved to another area of the company that was starting to consider hiring of someone of a like skill-set, but the promotions guy was the first to actually be released. Voluntary non-paid time was encouraged through the holidays. Then a few days before Christmas, a wave of part-time/evening workers were let go and our department pared back business hours. After that, we breathed a sigh of relief, thinking it was all over and that we'd be back to normal in a few short months. It was about a month later that the next wave came, this time affecting more full-time employees. Then a few minor fringe benefits were cut, as well as several of the more esoteric programs, and most recently 401k matches and pay raises for office employees. Ironically, the things that have affected me most directly (401k and pay) were not really a blow... I had anticipated those for weeks before they were announced, and truly those are sacrifices that I'm happy to make if it keeps our business strong and positioned to excel in the future. But the last few layoffs have tugged at my heart something fierce. Maybe it's a cumulative effect, or maybe it's just the overall gnawing of uncertainty. But as I wheeled my cart through the grocery store last night, I had a feeling that just wouldn't go away. I couldn't quit thinking about my former comrades. I wondered how many of them, ill-prepared for a layoff, might be struggling right now. Even as I filled up my basket, and today as I've continued in my normal routine, the empathy I feel for them is immense.

All things considered, we've been fortunate; so many of the folks who've been cut have been placed in other areas of the company. Even some who weren't transitioned right into other roles have since been brought back to interview for jobs and have landed them. Our HR department and managers seem to have handled the situation with grace, sincerely wanting to do the best they can for these folks.

I feel grateful to have been relatively unaffected by the shake-up. But that leads me to the essence of this post. I say "relatively unaffected" in a direct sense, but what I really mean is that it's impossible not to be affected, at least on some level. I recently read an article from an HR expert, doling out tips to dislocated workers... it was full of sage job-seeking advice, and one of the tips was "give yourself time to mourn". The gist of it was that even though folks have to pick themselves up and keep going, they also need time to grieve and process what has happened. I think that's very true. I also think it's true for the ones who are left standing.

"Survivor Syndrome" usually has to do with those who live through tragic plane crashes, auto accidents, wars, natural disasters and the like. But it has meaning in the workforce these days, as well. The mix of emotions and guilt that trauma survivors experience is not completely unlike the feelings of those in an office where layoffs have occurred. There's a sense of loss mingled with niggling questions like "Is it over?" "Could it happen again?" and "Could it happen to me next?"

I keep trying to put all of these feelings into perspective, and I'm sure it will come with time. I have to think that, for some, the layoffs were probably a blessing in disguise: a chance for a fresh beginning in a job that will offer growth. For others, perhaps it's a chance to regroup, with a severance package to cushion the blow, before tackling something they didn't have the courage to try. I remind myself that this is how opportunity is born; circumstances are often a nudge for those of us who are too timid to crawl out of our comfort zones willingly. I hope that's how it works out for all my erstwhile coworkers, anyway. I'm wishing for nothing but the brightest of futures for all of us.

HONK IF I'M PAYING YOUR MORTGAGE

Wow... This is the best thing I've seen in a while. Pretty well sums up all the frustration sensible Americans are feeling right now. I wish I'd thought of it!

I wonder if you can order these little dandies by the case?

Believe me, I am anti-bumper sticker 99.9% of the time... the only time I've ever had a sticker of any kind on my car was a kazillion years ago when I was 20 and didn't know any better (sorority letters... say no more!) But I think I know plenty of folks who would enjoy these... I'm just not sure we could stand the incessant honking.

WTF: The House Next Door to "The Girls Next Door"

Well, the week passed with lightning speed, and it’s already time for the second installment of WTF— “What-The” Friday, where we explore things that make you ask, “What the......?”

Today’s topic: Hugh Hefner's selling of his "family home" that’s next door to the Playboy Mansion.

The Playboy Mansion is the heterosexual male's playground where naughty Mid-Summer (and all other seasons!) Night's Dreams come true. Hef has supposedly shared his famous love shack with his three girlfriends the past few years. You've seen it on E!... the ivy-covered Tudor-style lust-den with the infamous grotto... giant wet banana in the backyard... peacocks on the lawn... monkeys (and blondes) swinging all over the place... "Figs and dates and grapes and cakes, ah" as well as some impressively large "melons"! And hanging over it like a beneficent moon is the giant, smirkish grin of the octogenarian bon vivant who lounges all day in a smoking jacket. I have to say that Hef's trademark smoking jacket and pajamas still worked for me, up until the past couple years; now, however, it just looks age-appropriate. It's the kind of attire he would wear if he, like a lot of other people his age, lived in a nursing home. It no longer conjures up the image that he's just too busy having sex all day to waste time putting on real clothes.

WTF.

So the house adjacent to the mansion is also owned by Hefner. It is inhabited by his second wife, Kimberly Conrad, a former playmate he married and moved into the place 20 years ago. Despite Hef's flamboyant bachelor lifestyle, the two have never divorced (WTF?). She's the mother of his two sons, and has raised the boys next door to The Girls Next Door (at least for the past few years). The family manse is reputed to be a replica of the Playboy Mansion, about a third of its size. And now that Conrad and Hef are "empty nesters", it's time to put the home on the market.

This is the most recent of several very big and very publicized changes at the Playboy Mansion over the past few months. First Hef "broke up" with his three girlfriends, who were all suddenly very seriously dating other people (can you say "contracts were up" and we no longer have to be discreet)... WTF? And as soon as Holly, Bridgette and Kendra moved out, Hef had selected his next covey of girlfriends and moved them right into the Mansion. The new trio includes 19-year old twins, roughly the same age as his sons. WTF? I suppose the nest isn't technically empty, as long as you keep filling it with a steady stream of new "chicks", right? So theoretically, if Kimberly starts to feel lonely without her sons, she can always step next door and ground the new girlfriends for not cleaning their rooms.

Oh, and in case you’re interested in the property— it’ll only set you back $28 million. No problem in today's real estate market. And if you're feeling a mite neighborly, you might help keep an eye on the property next door. I bet if you peek through the bushes late at night, you can watch all the swinging next door. The monkey cages are right out back.

EVERY GIRL'S CRAZY BOUT A SHARP-DRESSED CAT

Check out Mr. Jabbers in his snazzy new tie... dapper, yes?

Surprisingly, he seems to rather enjoy getting all dressed up... doesn't fuss with his collar at all (although we're going to have to figure out how to keep him from dragging the tie in his food bowl...) I'm a little biased, admittedly, but he's a good-looking chap. And as Brittnee pointed out, a cat with a serious name like Mr. Jabbers should look the part. The tie just works on him. But poor 'lil thing. With his dental woes now corrected, he has minty-fresh breath... but alas, no balls. The frisky little ladies in the neighborhood will just have to pine for him.

Next look: the black, studded skull and cross bones tee... totally fierce.

"COME ON BARBIE, LET'S GO PARTY"

Well, Barbie's turning the big "5-Oh" this week, and doesn't she look fantastic for a gal with no Botox or dermal fillers? Blonde, thin, wrinkle-free, and has a huge closet with 50 pairs of peep-toe stilettos that don't hurt her feet... pretty much every dang thing I aspire to. And now the crazy yatch also has a fabulous dream home, done in colorful hipster-chic by designer Jonathan Adler.

Now, before we go accusing Barbie of snagging one of those sub-primes from Fannie... Jonathan Adler was commissioned by Mattel to completely outfit a 3,500-square foot Malibu beach-front house as a venue for celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Barbie doll. My first thought is, "Just kill me right now if there's a Corvette in the garage..." I'm officially jealous of plastic. How pathetic.

The big event, to be held tomorrow night, will be a star-studded celebrity soiree... if there's any justice in the world, Ken will run off to Vegas with Skipper and Barbie will spend the next three days in her bathrobe, sobbing to her five cats while eating raw cookie dough. Well, I know it would be with a Pacific Ocean-view, but it would still feel like some measure of justice had been doled out to Barbie; I mean, some of us are knocking on 40's door and struggling to achieve all that Barbie symbolizes-- far, far from the glamour of Malibu beach. Oh, wait... suddenly, I feel a little better... I just remembered that Barbie got a Volkswagen Beetle in the garage of her beach-front home. No Corvette. So life in plastic ain't all that fantastic, Babs. Whew, that was a close one!

WTF? IT'S "WHAT-THE" FRIDAY (A WEEKLY RANT)

So let me introduce the first of the weekly posts (on Fridays, duh) in which we'll discuss things that make you say, "What-The...?"

And today's topic is... insane, over the top, green-ness. We're talking silly dark green. I mean, What-The-Friday is up with all the green hootenanny?

Now, don't get me wrong... I believe in environmental responsibility. I have a stack of cans and bottles under my desk at work. I squirrel them back all week, then take them home and add them to my own recycling bins so I'll know they are properly disposed. And if you don't recycle cans and bottles, you should really try it for one week. Truly. You'll be amazed at how much recyclable waste that you, alone, habitually create in seven days. My neighbors must think I do nothing but guzzle Diet Coke and Aquafina 24/7. It totally looks like it when I take my bin down to the curb. I have two giant contractor-sized bags full of "overflow" cans to take to A.E.R.T. soon, because my bin runneth over. I create more plastic-bottle waste each week than my allotted bin will hold! And on a side note, I'd like to point out one of the differences in living in Springdale vs. Fayetteville... In Fayetteville, from the moment you set up your utilities, the city gives you a recycling bin and all but insists you use it. In Springdale, you provide your own receptacle; in fact, you have to contact the city specifically to enroll in the recycling program, plus pay extra for the privilege of doing so. Weird, eh? There's a giant schism between the Fayetteville granola-crunchers and the Springdale rednecks... but that's another WTF altogether, and I could get way off track if we go there.

So ok, this dead horse has been beaten sufficiently: I recycle. My thermostat stays set on 60, or 62 if I'm feeling quite extravagant, this time of year (well, that's partly because I'm cheap... WTF?) And I've always been extremely conscientious about turning out the lights when I'm not in the room. Aside from a lamp or night-light that I leave on pretty much all of the time, I'm conscious of my energy consumption. It's a habit that harkens back to grade school. Back then, they sent home stickers for us kids to put over the switch plates, reminding us kids to turn off lights; I had one in my room and it stuck.

Too, we have a running joke in my family that my Nana "recycled" before it was cool. Having grown up poor in rural Arkansas in the Depression-era, she learned by example and made it a way of life. I've watched her reuse bread sacks, aluminum foil, butter tubs and jelly jars for years. It makes sense to me.

I think that's all well and good... I'm behind the basics, and even some of the borderline-impractical stuff. Reduce. Reuse. Recycle. Every little bit helps. And Daylight Saving Time now starts four weeks earlier so all the goofs out there who totally don't will at least be saving some energy whether they realize it or not. But you uber-vigilant, Ed Begley-type, organic cotton-wearing environmentalist greenfreaks out there (you know who you are)... W T F?

Brittnee and I decided to spend our lunch at the brand-spankin' new Target store in Rogers today, and we saw this... the item that actually inspired today's WTF rant:

Yo, seriously? Ya'll, it's a door mat, made of recycled rubber. It. Smells. Like. A. Tire. The whole aisle smelled like the automotive department at Sears. I don't think that makes much sense, considering this is the item that welcomes folks into your abode. But then, I suspect it's more about broadcasting your eco-friendliness to the world, rather than deterring the tracking-in of dirt. And that's what makes this eye-sore (nose-sore!) such a supreme emblem for the holier-than-thou greenie set... it's kinda like those yellow "Baby On Board" signs that plagued the proudly fertile, van-driving moms of the 80's.

WTF.

MR. JABBERS IN THE HOUSE

Ah, dear readers... We meet again.

It has been a while. First, my hard drive decided it was time for an expensive vacay and went to the shop for a fortnight of R&R. Then, once it got back home, I got busy and blog-lazy. Then when I freed up, the cable/internet inexplicably stopped. And for some reason, it takes like 48 hours (ok, not really, but it feels like it!) on the phone with a rep to troubleshoot, only to find out it will be 48 hours before a service technician can make a house call. And now, I can't remember what I even wanted to say. Go figure.

So where did we leave off? Hmmm... Let's see... I was probably trying to start some weird new diet, obsessing about work, griping about the govmint again, and prattling endlessly about my cats. Sound about right? Well, it doesn't narrow it down much, but at least it shouldn't be hard to jump right in where I left off!

Well, in my unrelenting quest to become the craziest Crazy Cat Lady in the history of all Crazy Cat Ladies, I have since adopted yet another cat. This one tugged at my heart a little... So I get this e-mail from my old pal Robert Wood, titled "Cat Emergency". The message goes on to explain how this guy (who lives in the same apartment complex as one of Robert's friends in Danville) is being... shall we say, er, "detained" for the next eight to ten years. And said felon left behind a now-orphaned kitty. Apparently he had been an inside cat, because now that he's homeless, he's continually trying to run inside anytime one of the apartment doors opens. Sad, sad sitch... and long story short, I caved. The e-mail from Robert closed with, "Crazy Cat Lady, won't you help?" Honestly, it made me physically sick to my stomach, the thought of having this many cats. It's so completely creepy. But within a day and a half (before buyer's remorse had a chance to set it, I suspect), Robert showed up with the little lass.

Turns out, the kitty is a sweet little thing... very friendly and "talkative". But he had no home, no owner and no prospects, and it didn't take but a nano-second to decide that he needed me. So allow me to introduce the newest member of the feline brood, Mr. Jabbers.

So far, so good... everyone seems to be getting along. Boodle didn't care much for him at first, but even she has come around now; he and Smidgey were fast friends. Within the first week, Mr. J went off to see the vet for the ol' snip & clip procedure and a nasty drooling problem. Come to find out, he had both his baby teeth and his adult teeth, which was causing some trouble. Now that he's feeling better, he's showing a lot of personality. And now I'm both financially and emotionally invested in the little guy.

And before you judge too harshly about my recent choice of pet names, keep in mind that I had a rabbit named Scarlett O'Hare as a child (yes, I was truly obsessed with Gone With the Wind through my early teen years). So as quirky as the Mr. Jabbers moniker is, trust me... it's a step up.

So a final disclaimer from me: No. More. Pets. Seriously! I don't care what kind of sob story you lay on me next time, people, I'm at my limit. On the upside, I should be far less likely to be gallopping all over the countryside, feeding the stray cats. And now that I have a two-seater, there's not nearly as much room for cans of cat food. I'll just stay home and continue the benevolent feline ministry from here, thank you very much!

WHEN DID THE PRESIDENTIAL INAUGURATION TURN INTO MARDI GRAS???

So is any- one else sick-to-death-already of hearing about the inauguration festivities, and how the cost could top the $150,000,000-mark?

I think it's totally, disgustingly, incomprehensibly inappropriate to be throwing a $150 million party while we're all simultaneously questioning what Barry-O will accomplish toward healing the economy in his first 100 days in office. Frankly, I can't believe anyone really cares... from the looks of all this ridiculous red carpet-style hootenanny, it's more about getting your swerve on with rock stars... parties... fashions... the limelight... celebrity. And a whole lot less about the gravity and responsibility of the office.

And all this absurd nonsense about emulating Lincoln? I saw on the news this morning where the inaugural dinner is a replica of the menu at Lincoln's dinner... uh, do we really think, for one split second, that President Lincoln would have approved of this horsecrap??? I'm sure he would have been stirred to his patriotic core by Hannah Montana. And excuse me for saying so, but I think what we have here are a bunch of mules in horse harness, shamelessly parading themselves around and congratulating each other on their achievements-- all the while, squandering precious taxpayer dollars...

I remember an article where GW was rebuked for spending $40 million on his inauguration four years ago... they told how many Hummers and tanks could have been purchased and sent to Iraq, along with a lot of other wartime necessities, for that price. It seemed a mite tacky to the press, because we were in a time of war. Guess what? We've still got war, people... plus an economy that, if you listen to the news hype, is hanging on by a thread... American industry in peril to the point that the domino-effect of its downfall could collapse our entire economy... and a financial framework in dire need of government handouts, for no other reason than the same brand of wantonness and indulgence that's running the show in DC tomorrow.

And if getting the new Pres sworn in is really about this kind of extravagance, I have but one suggestion: Let's just wait and do the deed down in New Orleans in a few weeks instead! Seriously. We'll kill two birds with one stone. A crowded sea of rowdy revelers... Check. An estimated ONE porta-potty per 6,000 attendees... Check. And more boobs on display than you could count. Check-Check.

Sounds like Mardi Gras to me!

INTRODUCING.... THE SNARKIES

To all of you needlessly rude peeps on the planet, I salute you. I “see” your snark-factor and I’m gonna raise you one now. I think it might be fun, playing your game for once. So I’m recognizing— nay, celebrating— your way of life. It’s high time someone honored your achievements in making the world a less happy place for the rest of us. Some of you are quite accomplished in your art, and you should be singled out for your inwavering commitment to various acts of discourtesy. So I present to you {drumroll, please…} The Snarky Award.

Television has the Emmy. Theater has the Tony. Movies pay tribute with the Oscar. Musicians receive Grammys. And for all you impolite losers who were raised in barns, I give you the Snarky.

The first Snarky recipient I would like to pay tribute to is the rude Sonic carhop. You know who you are... you pretend it's ten minutes 'til 2:00 so you don't have to give us "happy hour" prices on our drinks.

Let me first say that I adore Sonic. You can’t get a colder, more refreshing soft drink anywhere than you’ll consistently get at Sonic Drive-Ins. Not only do the Sonic mixologists always provide just the right fizzle-to-syrup ratio, there are dozens of add-ins to get just the flavor you’re craving. They also have the best ice in the world. And the ice stays nice and cool in the trusty Sonic styrofoam cup. The straws are even extra large for maximum intake. It’s thirst-quenching perfection. And during “happy hour”, from 2 to 4pm daily, this perfection is always half-price.

So yesterday it was nearing 2 o’clock as Brittnee and I were leaving Hobby Lobby, and we decided it would be a good idea to wet our whistles with a little carbonated refreshment from Sonic. We pulled up to the drive-thru, ordered our drinks and proceeded to the window where the carhop said, “That will be $3.58”. Ever-so-kindly, Brittnee replied, “So what time does happy hour start?” To which the carhop snapped, “It’s from 2 to 4.” And Brittnee and I, in unison, said “So what time is it now?” And the carhop retorted, “It’s like ten ‘til 2.” Ok.

Now, according to the clock in the car, it was already a few minutes past 2… but apparently in the blissful land of cherry syrup, lime wedges and fruity/fizzy drinks, the clock runs a few minutes behind the rest of the universe. And if you question her authority on the matter, the carhop will put you right in your place. She doesn't have a good humor about 50%-off drinks and wouldn’t dare discount them a nanosecond early… it's almost as if the other 50% was coming right out of her fanny pack coin-changer-thingie. Like Paul Masson will sell no wine before its time, the surly carhop will sell no half-off slushes before 2pm. I get it. Rules are rules, and our clock was probably a few minutes fast, I'll admit. But for the love of Oreo blasts, just be nice about enforcing them, please.

It’s not my fault your skates are laced up too tight and that most people are too cheap to tip you. I feel for you. Really. But anyone in a snappy little fast-food visor should dispense both fries-- and disappointing news-- with a smile. I’m just sayin’…

And so, surly Sonic Carhop, this Snarky’s for you!

TRAINER BOB LOSES IT!

When it comes to losing it-- your cool, that is-- no one lost more tonight than mild-mannered Bob Harper.

On the second episode of Biggest Loser Couples, Bob completely went off on Joelle for slacking during the Last Chance Workout. Now, maybe I just have my "I love Bob" goggles on, but I can't really fault the guy...

This season "boasts" the heaviest contestants in the show's history, and despite their size and obvious physical barriers, these guys have heart. You can tell they really feel it in their gut (no pun intended... well, ok maybe a little intended). They are puking. They are gasping. Their faces are red and dripping with sweat. They're here to kick some major beeeee-hind.

Oh, and then there's Joelle.

After the couples were split in the first ep-- sending one home, while the other remains at the ranch to "earn" the ousted one a chance to come back after 30 days-- the pressure is on. Not only are they fighting to maintain their own standing in the contest, they're also fighting for their teammates who are having to go-it alone at home. I have to admit... I understood Joelle's temptation to take host Allison Sweeney's $25,000 bribe to leave. Joelle knows her heart isn't in this... hence her declaration to "fake it 'til I make it". Come on. If you fake it, you don't make it. That's the whole premise of the show. It takes a lot of commitment to do the work, drop the weight and make lifestyle changes that stick. If you "fake it", you end up with a 2-lb loss for the week... which is what Joelle posted at the weigh-in. Personally, I think she should've said, "Thanks, Allison... Give me the cash, I'm gonna cut and run". Betcha she could've gone longer than 20 seconds at that point! It would've been easy money. And with that kind of cash, even after taxes, you could hire a personal trainer to beat you up every day-- plus, pay off all of your debt, put a down-payment on a home or realize any number of dreams. But that's not what The Biggest Loser is about. I think Joelle succumbed to the peer pressure-- which kind of is what the show is about. In a good way.

But I have to tell you, after seeing Joelle's BFF Carla in the first episode, I get the feeling that Bob's myriad F-bombs would have been a mere drop in the workout-barf-bucket compared to what Carla would've done if she had caught Joelle dragging around the gym like that. I wouldn't tangle with Miss Carla for anything... and I don't say that, because at 379 lbs she is the biggest female in the show's history. I say it because I don't think she'd hesitate to jack. you. up.

So I can't wait to see what happens next week! This is really inspiring stuff to me right now... how amazing that some of these people are able to lose this amount of weight in such a short period of time. Makes my little 12-lb loss since New Years look pretty namby-pamby... but I'll take it. I'm a little more than 20% of the way to my 55-lb goal. I know it's going to get a lot tougher from here... so I believe that, when the going gets tough, I'll just envision Bob getting all Jillian on MY Joelle butt!

PUTTING THE "G" IN GHETTO...

I should probably just apologize, up-front, for this post. Let the title serve as a warning... I am, in the words of the Doobie Brothers, "taking it to the streets". Or at least taping it to the bathroom mirror. I've had it, and it's time for decisive action.

Over the past two years, our department has gone from something like 436 people down to fewer than 200. And I'm not sure how you lose over 200 pooping, peeing, messy people and find that the restrooms were cleaner before... it just defies logic. But the ladies room has gone from Stellar to So-So and now has taken a dive to Third World Country. And I did a dozen years at the old CDP building, folks, so I'm certainly not uninitiated. Nope. I've been grossed out, like, 4,300 days in a row. The restrooms back then were just barely one rung above the "Job Johnny" you'll find at any outdoor festival and one rung below the Texaco station with the smelly outdoor restrooms and a key attached to a 2" x 4". So when I say it's bad, folks, it's pretty dang bad. Brittnee even coined an super-descriptive term that explains it to a tee... our ladies room smells like "poopy Crayons".

Now, I've already speculated in a previous blog that Little Latin Lupe has it in for me... I would put up my first car payment that she races me to the restroom, just when my bladder is sloshingly full of Diet Coke and on the verge of rupture, to place the yellow bar of doom across the doorway. I'm sure it's my imagination, but I detect a hint of smugness when she knows I'll have to sprint, cross-legged, into a lopsided gallop across the third floor to get to the other restroom. She's amazingly quick and agile for a gal with a giant yellow caca cart, that Lupe. So I don't wanna do anything to rile her up. But something's gotta give. I mean, the unmentionables are poking up out of the top of the trash receptacles in the stalls-- so it dawns on me: It's time for a friendly little note.

Maybe it's just a balls-out case of after-hours swagger... but as I sat there alone, with not another living soul in the office, it hit me. It was time to do it for myself and for my office peeps. I printed the note without hesitation, grabbed two pieces of tape, and headed for the lavatory at warp speed. Wish me luck. Tomorrow, either the bathrooms will be in better shape. Or I'll have the tread marks of the giant yellow caca cart across my back. Either way, I'll be a hero... In my own mind.

PS-- I'm hoping I'm not construed as a Passive-Aggressive Emoticon User... Hmm... didn't think of that. But no, I don't think there was any "passive" here. Ooooonly aggressive. Too many Tampax wrappers running amok in the stalls will do that.

"PUT THAT TONGUE IN YOUR MOUTH AND EAT..." ADVENTURES IN DINING: PART DEUX

After the popularity of our visit to the Star of India two weeks ago, we've all been patting ourselves on the back for our collective culinary bravado-- and having avoided any major health scares or ill effects from the meal, we've decided it should be a regular institution. From now on, our little luncheon group will dare to find a different "greasy spoon" each time we eat out! Mikey G even coined a term to describe our new lunchtime haunts: Riskaurants. Me likey.

So today, we gave the ol' wheel of death 'n diarrhea another spin... and this time, it fell on me to choose the venue. Now, every time I pass through Springdale, I notice a bunch of new Mexican joints along both sides of 71-B. Most are kind of nondescript, small and have names that I can barely pronounce. And only one really sticks in my memory-- partly, because it's a little larger than the others and partly because there are usually quite a few cars there. So I said, "Let's try the Tesoro Beach Bar & Grill" and away we went.

We pulled up and saw the lettering on the windows: "$3.99 Lunch Specials". I'm thinking, "Score!!!" I mean, you can't expect much for four bucks these days, right? When we walked in, our nostrils were immediately met with the pungent smell of cleaning solutions-- and following the former dirty mop bucket / incense tear-gas combo from the last riskaurant, we all concurred that we were off to a promising start. We might actually like this place. We were the first diners to hit the joint today, so we were able to have a nice, long, apprising look around. Everything appeared to be spotlessly clean. I just had to apologize to my friends. Here we were, trying to tempt our gastronomical fate, and I had to go and pick a perfectly safe and sanitary place to eat?Sheesh. To myself, I was thinking, "We'll probably get ice in our drinks and everything." And sure enough.

So the waitress arrives, plops down the obligatory chips and salsa and proceeds to take drink orders while we browse the menu. And when I say menu, I mean it was about a five-page spread, full of dozens of options: Mexican, Salvadorean, tex-mex, lunch specials, a la carte, etc... And despite the lack of apparent risk here, el Gran Jefe decides to take one anyway: Taco de Lengua. Now, in case that doesn't sound sufficiently gross to you, please allow me to translate. Tongue Tacos. I ain't making it up, folks. Seriously.

Take a look for yourself... those are radishes on top, by the way. I'm not sure if you can tell from the photo, but surprisingly, it looked quite palatable. I was comparing it to the grotesque lump that startles me when I accidentally look down and see a giant beef tongue in the meat case at the grocery store. This really just looked like any other cut of beef, grilled.

But a meal that can taste you back? Not for this chica. But Jefe actually found it quite yummy and said it just tasted like beef (makes sense, I guess). And he made a very happy plate, so who am I to quibble...

Mikey G opted for an almuerzo Salvadoreño and ordered the Tesoro Plate, which I would assume to be the house special for lunch. It certainly looked special, anyway (see photo at top of this post). He had a tamale, a couple of flautas, a really interesting-looking tostada with boiled egg and some feta-like cheese crumbles on top. He, too, made a plato feliz... clean as a whistle!

Brittnee chose to play it safe and ordered nachos-- which also looked very good and were almost completely consumed. This was a triumph over the four kidney beans she managed to gag down the last time we played this game. And since I'm firmly on point with my new year's diet, I'm low-carbing these days and ordered a plate of fajita meat. It's not very exciting, but a good choice without the tortillas and rice. I forgot to tell them to hold the sizzle, and despite that I somehow managed not to smell like Mexican food all day. I'm telling you, the gastro-gods smiled on us today.

Delicious food... reasonable prices... extremely friendly service... no peril. Ok, so that last part might have been a bit of a buzzkill at first-- but as Mikey G pointed out, that's part of the allure. When you try a new place, you take the good with the bad... and you just might find a fantastic new place to eat. Who knew? ¡Esto es loco!

Oh, I might also mention the assorted "specialty teas" that were on display by the register. There were three of them, but the one that really caught my attention was of the colon cleansing variety. I suppose that if we'd seen that as soon as we set foot on Tesoro sand, we would've had our first inkling that our brave pursuits were in vain. Everyone knows that any self-respecting riskaurant performs a good colon cleanse on its own terms, without the aid of herbal stimulants.

VINCE IS BACK WITH ANOTHER SHAM... WOW!

Our ol' pal Vince, the ShamWow pitch man, is back... this time, with a nifty new chopper called the Slap Chop-- plus a whole new shtick that's all but dripping with double entendre.

And the new tag line?? Wait for it...

"You're going to be in a great mood all day, because you'll be slappin' your troubles away..."

Seriously! That's how the ad starts. And all the while Vince demos the amazing abilities of this little kitchen gizmo, I think to myself, "He's messing with us. That Vince is a dirty rapscallion. He doesn't think we're listening closely enough to catch the innuendo..." Here are a few of his best lines...

- "If I can do it with one finger, you guys can do it with your whole hand... "

- "One chop, you add the pickle..."

- "You're gonna love my nuts..."

- "The reason you're gonna slap away everyday is because it's so easy to clean..." (I have to wonder, is clean-up easier with a ShamWow???)

- "You can do everything in the cover, alright..."

- "Guys, we're gonna make America skinny again, one slap at a time..."

- "Tacos, fettuccine, linguine, martini, bikini..."

And the best part?? Vince throws the rinky-dink wannabe Slap Chop into the sink behind him... Over his shoulder. Without. Missing. A. Beat. It is priceless!

So what do you think: Is Vince for real? Is all this filthy talk mere coincidence or is he a total perv? Will he parlay his raw huckster talent into a whole career of as-seen-on-tv products, just like Billy Mays? I still have to say that Vince is infinitely more entertaining than Billy... And after seeing this commercial for the first time, I am literally wiping the tears! Oh and PS, Vince-- it's not from your onions. Because like you state in the ad, "Life's hard as it is... you don't wanna cry anymore". But I know I will... next time they air this spot!

THINK I SHOULD STOP CARRYING ALL THIS CATNIP AROUND IN MY BRA?

Yes, it's a baby-kitty. And yes, it's drinking a saucer of milk... Ahem...in my kitchen. It showed up (ran into my garage and told Mark it wanted to come in out of the cold for a minute) a couple nights ago. He had pulled his car into my garage to wax and detail it, and had heard a cat crying for over an hour; despite his repeated attempts to follow the sound, he could never figure out where the distressed cat was-- until it bolted across the street, up the driveway and beelined into the garage. Poor little thing was so scrawny and hungry and pitifully unkempt. And once it got nourished and comfortable, it traded the crying and mewing for loud, loud purrs. My heart melted. And so apparently, you guys aren't the only ones who know I'm the Crazy-Cat-Lady... word has hit the feline grapevine, as well. It was only a matter of time.

He (and I use the term dubiously, because as you know I'm not the best kitten-sexer) appears to be about ten weeks old. Calico. Feisty. Friendly. Bullies the crap out of Smidgey, which I love. So you know what this means... if he's going to be sticking around a while, he'll need an S name. And a politically-correct belled collar that matches his coloring. Déjà vu, eh? Oh yeah, and you'll have to endure one or two (ok, a whole big-honkin'-bunch more) cat stories.

I'm going to canvass the neighborhood this weekend and see if anyone is short a cat. And if no one 'fesses up, I'm not sure what in the heck I'll do with four cats. Four. FOUR. F-O-U-R. I'm screwed, folks. Even if you explain that two are fat, decrepit, old, inside cats that have been with me since the Macarena was the schiz... and the other two are rescued-strays-turned-outside-cats, you still sound like a freak. In the same category with Trekkies, Bigfoot stalkers, Hare Krishnas, Dungeons & Dragons gamers, Amway salesmen, Bingo ladies with their own dobbers, and the like. Not pretty company to be in.

So how did this happen? Do you think it could be the catnip I've been carrying in my bra?? Maybe I should empty out... but then I'd have to buy a B-cup...

XMAS PAST AND PRESENT... TIME TO GET REAL

So I'm jumping on the resolution bandwagon. Again. And this time, I'm posting some brutally honest photos to show my progression from fit to fat. It only takes a few years to turn back into a lardo.

I vowed to never let myself get this heavy again, but somehow it happened... no, let's not say "somehow it happened" because that implies that circumstances caused it. And I'm the one who's responsible.

Time to get real. Time to get serious.

This weekend, I started the program. I picked up the book Never Say Diet by Chantal Hobbs-- who once weighed 350 lbs and is now a fitness expert, spinning instructor and accomplished marathon runner. And it's pretty inspiring. I have to think that if this mother of four can find the strength to turn herself around (first mentally, then physically) and start living a passion-filled life of energy and activity, then I can do it too. Heck, I've done it before-- I've just got to find the wherewithall and commitment to make it stick this time.

My goal for 2009: 55 lbs in 40 weeks. Wish me luck!

Oh, so you noticed that my hairstyle hasn't changed in five years?? I see it too, and it royally stinks. Yeah, I'll be changing that as well. "Out with the fat... in with the phat!"

COKE CLOTHES: C-C-C-CATCH THE WAVE

Ok, unless you're a total Eighties Lady (and proud of it!) like me, you probably won't remember the whole "Max Headroom" ad campaign for Coca-Cola... nor the clothing line that they came up with in the late 80's. But take my word for it: Cokewear paired beautifully with the Swatch in all it's Swatch-Guarded splendor, ultra tight-legged jeans and hightop tennis shoes back then. My all-time favorite was my Coca-Cola Rugby shirt... which I esteemed to be even cooler than the Coca-Cola sweatshirt my parents brought me back from Macy's in New York in 1987. And that's saying something, because I thought a shirt from Macy's was "way rad" at the time.

But what conjures all of these memories is that today Robert is celebrating his 22-year anniversary with J.B. Hunt... and Mikey G challenged everyone to think back to January 5, 1987, and tell what we were up to that day.

Hmmm... this date in 1987? Let me think back... Ah, yes, yes, I remember it now.

It started as any usual day for me. I was a junior in high school and woke up 30 minutes late, just like always... We lived in Witter (ten miles south of Huntsville) and so I was in a rush to get to dear ol' HHS by the eight o'clock bell. I hopped in the shower; lathered my hair in Apple Pectin shampoo and applied copious amounts of mousse in an attempt to get the David Coverdale look-- a hairstyle that completely eluded me all throughout the 80's, despite my unwavering devotion to AquaNet. I donned my Coca-Cola brand rugby shirt and cropped Guess jeans with ankle-zippers, grabbed a cherry Poptart, a can of Diet Coke, and a pair of thick "scrunch-socks" to run outside bare-footed and throw my books and shoes into the passenger seat of my '79 Monte Carlo. I hopped in, fired her up and punched the heat knob repeatedly in a desperate attempt to reach a respectable temp above freezing as I raced down highway 23-South. As I drove, I ate the poptart, put on my socks, Velcro'd on a gleaming-white new pair of Reebok high-tops, and applied pink L'Oreal lipstick and electric-blue mascara in the visor mirror--- all to the pounding bass of Def Leppard's Hysteria cassette. Finishing the make-up, I grabbed the can of AquaNet from under the front seat and gave the hair one last spray. By the time I got this close to school, my lacquered-into-place-side-wings had already fallen... *sigh*

I parked illegally, not wishing to risk another "tardy" mark in first period English, and rushed to my locker to grab my lit book and folder and engage in some quick chit-chat with friends. I shuffled to class, took my seat and proceeded to hone my own literary skills by writing notes to my girlfriends: "Brad Moppin is sooo fine. We went to see Mannequin Friday night at the Fiesta Square 6, ate at Pizza Hut and he held my hand the whooooole night. I hope he asks me to prom!!! JM + BM = TLA... blah-blah-blah. Oh, what did you do over the weekend?" Repeat six times (at least one 4-pg note for each class in the school day). Each of my girlfriends got roughly the same note, the only variable being the pictures I drew, making fun of a different social outcast from each class. In between, I laughed to loud and too much... was dared (and accepted) to jump in a trashcan in the middle of the courtyard on break... botched the apron I was sewing in Home Ec... and tried to avoid the Stoner Sisters--- who I was certain wanted to kick my butt, because I had mocked them in caricature when penning notes to my friends.

Before you knew it, it was 3:20.... time to head to the Dari-Hilite for cheese fries and more Def Leppard on the juke box. By the time I hung out there a couple hours, made a few loops down the one-way, turned around at the old hospital and waved to the guys at the DX station, it was time to go home--- I was late for dinner. Again. And would probably get grounded. Again. There would be a few stern words followed by a few tears, nothing too major. Then I would retire to the den with my folks and spend the rest of the evening watching McGuyver (via the gigantic satellite dish in the backyard). I would be "doing my Spanish homework" (read: writing notes about the incredible Brad Moppin) while spending QT with the parental unit. Shirley would be on the phone, talking to her sister and cleaning up the dinner dishes... my dad would be sitting on the hearth, blowing his cigarette smoke up the fireplace insert. And this domestic bliss would continue until 10:00 or so, until it was time to pick out my Coca-Cola shirt and acid-washed jeans for the next day...

Looking back, I guess my routine hasn't changed all that much. I don't spend as much time thinking about my hair... or thinking about Brad Moppin (who now has 8 children, incidentally). But I still write notes-- lots and lots of notes, just not on ruled paper ripped from a spiral notebook and folded intricately into Origami-like shapes. Nope. These days I type out my notes. On a flat-screen HP. And now it's called blogging.

INDIAN... OUTLAWED

Robert challenged our little luncheon club to a gastronomical adventure today: the little Indian restaurant at a nearby dilapidated motor inn. And despite his proclamations that the food isn't cooked on-site, but rather literally "motored in" and unloaded from the greasy trunk of a '79 Datsun, we accepted. I watch enough Anthony Bourdain, Andrew Zimmern and Alton Brown to hold these types in pretty high esteem, intestinally speaking... and if Bear Grylls can drink his own urine from a putrefying snakeskin, then surely we could handle one measly lunch at the old no-tell motel. Right?

Let me admit I've never had Indian cuisine... but I've been adventurous in the Caribbean and also tried "lamb fries" at the Old Ft. Worth Stockyards in October, so I fancy myself a budding Zimmern. I had visions of curried beetles and spice-glazed scorpions (like I said... too much Bizarre Foods). And Mikey G, the lone voice of reason, interrupted these musings, asserting that there is a difference between exotic fare and just plain living dangerously. I had to admit he was right. But I was still in. We all were. So at precisely 11 o'clock today, we downed our tools, loaded into two vehicles and set out on our wild culinary ride.

We stepped into the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit restaurant and were immediately assaulted by the scent of incense. Lots and lots of it, hanging heavily in the air. I recalled an episode of Top Chef in which the contestants competed in "restaurant wars" and one of the teams was chided for using lightly scented vanilla candles on their tables. Even neophyte home cooks know you don't use scented anything near food. And this was way more than a little vanilla... it was olfactory rape, the kind of smell that makes your eyes water and your throat close up.

We were immediately ushered to a large table near the buffet and the kitchen. And as luck would have it, we were just in time to watch one of the help mopping the tile in front of the swinging kitchen door. The mop bucket, once yellow, was a dingy brown; the mop itself, an unspeakable shade of grey. Fortunately, the door was held open long enough for all of us to catch a glimpse of an older gentleman conveying pieces of naan bread onto a serving dish. So at last we had proof that there was at least some cooking going on back there. Our interest was piqued!

There was no need for ordering. We were invited to sample the buffet. And by buffet, I mean seven stainless-steel chafing dishes of un-named contents, lined up on an oblong table. It started with white rice, naan bread, something that I will guess was Tandoori "chicken" (appeared to be drummies and thighs of some type of fowl, anyway), a dish that was labeled as chicken within some other ambiguous lumps in a yellowish sauce, a potato/mixed vegetable dish in a sauce that tasted of sweet potatoes, something unappetizingly green that resembled a thick spinachy pesto, and a tureen of soup-like kidney beans in a thin orange-colored base with onions and cilantro. Later, they also brought out an eighth offering-- something that looked like mashed yams. Or baby poo as Mike pointed out later.

In the meantime, the drinks we'd ordered had arrived. Robert had stumped our waiter by ordering "iced tea", and after a long, uncomfortable silence when the waiter finally nodded that they indeed served iced tea, we followed suit. Until Josh had the good sense to order a carbonated beverage, that is (great call, by the way... a beverage from a canister, dispensed by machine... no prep!) We all quickly chimed in at once, changing our orders in like fashion. We ended up with four Dr. Peppers and one Mountain Dew-- which all arrived sans-ice. Looking back, I think it was the "iced" in "iced tea" that stopped our waiter in his tracks. Either that or the fact that he'd been inhaling those incense fumes all day and had no cognitive ability left.

So here we were: Full plates of moderately spicy food and nothing but tepid, syrupy soft drinks to wash down these dishes of dubious origin. And Mikey G (correctly, I believe) outed our colas as Dr. Thunder. Maybe it was because they were hot, but they just didn't quite taste right... not even like Mr. Pibb. And our water glasses? Oh, forget that. They had been filled from a pitcher as soon as we were seated, but Robert and Josh immediately spied out their cleanliness and advised firmly against it. They were real glass, but layered with a suspicious white film... the kind that builds up over time. Lots and lots of time, with zero washing, much less sanitizing, in between. In fact, at one point, the heat of my kidney beans overpowered me and I seriously contemplated the water. I held the glass up to inspect both the vessel and its contents, sniffed the water inquisitively, then held it back for a second look-- when Josh exclaimed, "No!" and told me he would knock it out of my hands if I tried to drink it. He was dead serious, so I put it down and Brittnee shared her warm Dr. Thunder with me.

But all in all, we continued undaunted. Mikey G sopped sauces from his plate with his naan bread like a total pro-- as if he had been doing it all his life. I went back for seconds of the potato dish. And Brittnee?

Well, let's just say that Brittnee did a good job of forking her rice around on her plate. She actually did consume one piece of bread and a total of four kidney beans... plus a whole lot of incense. She said, in fact, that she could still taste the incense all afternoon. Notice her plate looks exactly the same in this "after" shot. The only real difference is her horrified "get me out of here" expression.

We stopped at Sonic on the way back to the office and got her some good ol' American fare-- via drive-thru window, in case anyone at Sonic burns incense.

So we lived dangerously on the first workday of the year. Mainly, we did it to prove our intestinal fortitude-- a pact among friends, securing our bond and proving we can all hang. Truthfully, we are totally in it for the bragging rights. And as much as we like to boast about our culinary conquests, I don't think we'll be going back to the Taj-Bismol. Especially Brittnee... twelve bucks for four beans is pretty steep.

Hello, old friend...
It's been a while since we've been in contact, but I haven't forgotten you. No, you cross my mind more often than you know. I've missed you every single day that we've been apart.
I know, the styles are a-changing... the slim-leg jean is at the peak of fashion right now, and I hear the high-rise waist will soon take its place. But you have nothing to worry about. Why? It doesn't matter to me. Styles come and styles go, but we have something special. Besides, what's a great jean for, really, if not to make you feel brand new? And wearing you again, my favorite 29-waist Citizens of Humanity Kelly bootcut jean, would feel better than...
Better than eating that piece of pumpkin pie... Better than sneaking an extra dollop of gravy... Yes, even better than Grandma's homemade rolls with real butter... Better than the best Thanksgiving meal any of us has ever clamped teeth on.
I have plans for us to reunite soon, my little denim muse. And I'll be moving you up to the front of the closet as a reminder to keep my resolve strong. For, in 12 short weeks, we'll be together again. And this time, I hope it's forever.
XOXO,
Julie