Feliz Navidad, God Jul, etc. 12-24-09
> So they say there is no place like home for the holidays. This phrase is sure to encourage Christmas cheer and doting love and affection between friends, lovers, mothers and daughters. It is Christmas eve and I am sitting here on my turbulent flight back to Minneapolis donning a shiner, a swollen face, and somewhat of a grouchy disposition. I peeked around at my surroundings through my foggy and blurred lens and saw squabbling concourse employees, people tossing around bags and curse words. It seems like a dark cloud has settled over what used to be the most wonderful time of the year. My own outlook has gone from bright and cheery to leery and distrusting. With this attitude in hand it seems almost certain that the plane will crash. Happy Holidays everyone! Love Scrooge
P.S. Drink the nog.
A most deserved shout out! 12-13-09
> Often times after the first snow falls and and the pristine white blanket starts to become soiled and gray with dirt and pollution and carelessness, the state of our world can begin to feel rather bleak. We go from feeling like we want to toss our knit beret up in the air in a Mary Tyler Moore fashion and spin around in circles as the snow flakes ceremoniously christen our heads, to feeling like we want to raise our white flags in the air and spin dizzily in circles until our body surrenders to the uninhabitable temperatures and we fall into a snow bank and meet our final rest.
During these times of looking out the window and seeing a stew of gray and haziness, we have to try our best to notice the crisp bright red velvet bow on a wreath or the highly saturated chartreuse pom pom gracing the top of a snow cap.
My gray this week: Walking to work with my dress stuffed up inside my jacket exposing my numb frost bitten rear to the whole of uptown.
My Pom Pom this week: Receiving a surprise plate of potato latke's with sour cream on the first day of Hanukkah.
Dearest Jude and Nick, Most Saturday mornings, we all arrive at work kicking and screaming. I think the both of you realize the joy of food! The power that it has to resurrect memories, bring people together, and heal the blues. You put love into your food, and that is the most tasty ingredient of them all. Thank you for turning a bitter cold brunch into a warm inviting Hanukkah morning. You guys are the ripest peaches on the tree! All my love, Anne
In todays news: 11-30-09
-The movie “Funny People”....not so funny.
Tiger Wood's wife to children, “daddy's fine, mommy and daddy just had a little disagreement, daddy's going to be just fine, aren't you Tiger?”
Chuck Woolery has all the same interests and hobbies as his LINGO contestants.
Family Feud's female contestants do not want to kiss Richard Karn on the lips.
Howie Mandel makes a record breaking yearly salary of 1.7 million sexual favors from the suitcase girls.
Team Cruise/Pitt beats up both team Edward and team Jacob.
Sean Connery still HOT.
Ben Folds and Regina Spektor make an adorable collaboration that will make your heart smile at the demise of your relationship. Listen to “You don't know me”!
A deeb a deeb a dee thats all folks.
Tis the season to ponder things thoughtfully. 11-17-09
The crisp weather has arrived and blowing in its winds are feelings of nostalgia, reminiscing, mourning of lost loves, celebratory reunions, beating hearts, and darling buds. We use our blanket of memories to warm us from the chill of the cold front and our inner séances to resurrect a season of self preservation, crafted ever so carefully with a hodge podge of fond thoughts, hard cries, an old t-shirt, a note... a picture.
Time is a lover and I can not take my eyes off of her. She cradles us as we wrap ourselves up in the past, she runs alongside us in the present, and grabs our arms and pulls us towards the future, all the while promising that this too shall pass. This leaves us stuck somewhere between holding on so tightly that our knuckles turn white and letting go so quickly that the rush leaves a flush in our cheeks.
Cheers to all this season... keep moving as the fall leaves crunch under foot... do not stop to lick your wounds.....also, if you need a little something for your pancakes tomorrow morning, you can try squeezing some of the sap out of this post...yeesh.
For your listening pleasure: Nurse your seasonal heartache with Girl from the north country Bob Dylan Freeewheeelin.
Hey! This way...wait, no, that way! 11-10-09
Skip the sandwich and eat the plate? I'm doing thing backwards, upside down, sideways, every way except the right way....whichever way that is. I can't talk it away so I think I'm just going to be quiet...for now.
So sentimental...not sentimental NO! Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix on repeat.
Pack Animals. 11-9-09 (who knew!)
The wolves came today dressed in restaurant rep's clothing. Although the suit and tie didn't cover up the dollar signs in their eyes. I pretended to be someone important and smiled and cooed at their presentations. I mentally punched them in the face. Just another Monday at the soundbar.
Listening to crayon by Caribou (formerly Manitoba) Want a xylophone, must have xylophone.
Oh to be a Bennett. 10-21-09
I have tomorrow off. I am about to re-watch everything Jane Austenish that I own. See you in 36 hours. Happy in my heartiest of hearts.
A Week of Faux Pas'. 10-18-09
Do you ever have one of those weeks, where in retrospect everything you did is not only regretted but shamefully hidden away in your mental trunk, or self justified with absurd scenarios, or visions of terrible diseases and mental disorders that may have caused you to commit these heinous acts? This week I:
1. After a long day of watching the bambino, the baby barf that had soured on my sweater drove me into a mad fit of hunger. I had almost reached the highway when beaming from the corner of the street like two golden rainbows were the arches that pleaded for me to drive through their pearly gates and into deep fried golden potato utopia. I mean why bother with one rainbow that may or may not have a pot of gold at the end, when you can have two rainbows made entirely of solid gold dreams. Aided by promises of a Monopoly game piece and the tiny twinge of hope that my grease soaked Boardwalk chip would leave me forever financially secure, I made a quick turn and squealed into the drive thru. With a promise filled voice I shouted my order into the giant burger. Chhhhhh crackle...um yeah...chhhh...I would like one larrche frie...and ummm...chhhh...a uh... long plentiful life filled with joy and world peace..chhhh...and uh yea that'll be all. This feeling of ecstasy was short lived and quick to follow was shame, guilt, and disposal of the evidence. Not only was I not a millionaire, and I would not be buying my family members a fleet of multi colored porsches, but my body was howling in pain. Chhhhhhhhhh..... Ummm...Ma'am your total is get a fucking life and please pull around to the first window so I can slap you in the face.
2. After spending an hour or so writing some sort of dribbling tune on the guitar, I cried at the lack of my talent and put a pot on to brew. After a hearty hiss and after the last drop of that sweet brown nectar hit the pool of youth, I pulled it off the hot plate and chugged it down like a college freshman taking a beer bong. “Open your throat and say ahhh”.... a phrase that college girls will hear multiple times, in a variety of different situations. I slowly felt the caffeine buzz coming like a building climax. My body convulsing and my face warm, I lay in bed with ice cold feet, and chattered away in my head for the next 11 hours. I awoke the next day with my hair slicked to my face like I had done it on purpose, my breath smelled like feet, and I had the fuzzy slippers on my teeth to match. I reached for my brosse a dents, hand still quivering from the liquid insanity that was coursing through my veins. I scrubbed until my gums started to bleed, and I couldn't stand the coppery taste any longer. I reached work at about 5 mins before 11am and before I could stand and admit I was a junkie, I poured myself a tall cup o' joe and threw it back like jack.
3. Post day of tomfoolery at the apple orchard we arrived home feeling like we had learned the meaning of life. That lump in your throat that screams of excitement, anticipation, and satisfaction crept slowly into our hearts...sheesh it felt good. We should have stayed home and called it a day, why ruin a good thing, but it was Friday night. I slipped into my tightest slacks, and pulled my velvet blazer out of the back of my closet. I put it on and I melted into it like it was my skin. My bangs lay flat and crisp against my forehead, I pulled my hair back into a slick pony and curled it into a single warm ringlet. We were a tight, pulled together group. We would walk into the bar in flying V formation, and bounce bullets off of our chests. Little did we know that our kryptonite lay in wait behind the bar counter top. Note to self: absenthe turns roommate into sad, crazy person. Lesson learned ...probably not.
Go ahead have a good laugh at my expense....I did.
To Date or not to Date that is the question. 10-08-09
In the Wake of October 8th 2009 I sit here in my kitchen waiting for the water for my noodles to boil. I am attempting to cushion the lining of my stomach with some Roundy's thin spaghetti to avoid upchucking at the thought of what I am going to do this evening.
I despise dating. Dating is all a rouse that has been master minded by the evil powers that be, so that they can have a good laugh on a Thursday evening. They will sit back, hands slippery with popcorn butter pointing at the train wreck that is young singles trying to find a deep human connection.
Recipe= awkward late twenty something boy, picked last for dodgeball in school, now donning nerdy chic black rimmed glasses, embracing his previous shortcomings and turning them into witty tid bits to impress girl. Insert mid twenty something girl, still has a mouth full of teeth that she doesn't know what to do with, only defense mechanism is witty repartee that is actually intended to fend off boys but in a universal twist of fate has somehow lured them towards her.
Boy newly empowered with embracing of tortured past cannot help himself from asking, and girl with a history of not being able to say no...well.... says yes.
And so the stage is set. The “people in charge's” cupboards stocked with butter lovers and sour patch kids within arms reach.....DAMN... there is no Gorgonzola left for my pasta....perhaps I will sub arsenic.
Pinata. 5-27-09
I compared myself to a pinata the other day. I mean yes the boys want my goodies, but I don't think this is at all what I was envisioning when I unloaded the metaphor. What might I have in common with a papier mache ass you may ask? We are so similar its ridiculous. Apart from the deeply saturated hues of crepe paper, we share a belly, a soul full of candies that everyone with a long stick is trying to beat out of us. Blindfolded the people gather round poking and prodding hoping that when they finally tear our exterior out will flow all their favorite sweet treats. But what happens when I have no more tootsie rolls? Fill me up again, mend the tear, and then give it another swing. Isn't that life? I mean shit, we are all pinatas.
Smokin in the girls room. 5-17-09
While most people think that all the action is happening in the bar, the female population knows that the real haps are going down in the ladies room. All your visions of the little girls room having over sized plush couches, bidet's, the most crisp “champ” chillin on ice, and hoards of powdered little bottoms running around are for the most part true. Don't you wish that you could belong to our exclusive club? Don't you wish that your bathroom time was more eventful? Instead of standing up against a wall, dong hanging into a porcelain bowl, trying not to size each other up, you could be enjoying the finer things in life via the girls room. So here is how it all goes down on a typical evening out. Lets take last night for example. If plans include consuming liquid gold for the evening I can usually bet on about a 4 trip run to the ladies give or take a few. It was a crowded evening, pub crawlers out, sluts a plenty, and nature was calling.
Round 1: I walk in on a photo shoot. First girl is leaning up against the mirrored wall glancing over her shoulder with ass on display. Her friend with camera in hand is giving her backhanded compliments and shooting her best angles. Conversation is something like.... Girl 1: Make sure you get my ass Girl 2: You are such a hot bitch Girl 1: Should this be my new FB prof pic? Girl 2: For sure you nasty little slut Girl 1: OMG I fucking love you hoe
Round 2: I walk in on what is not an altogether atypical scene in the girls room. Consumption of the truth serum often whirs the emotional blender. Girl laying in the muddy stall on the floor weeping, most likely about some asshole who has done her dirty. One girl offers her a comforting hand from under the stall door, girl with assless chaps has no sympathy and roars for her to hurry up because she has to piss. Upon closer inspection I see that our damsel in distress has reeked her havoc on the bathroom prior to her in stall meltdown. A sink full of vomit. I decide to opt out of this visit and wait until the bar bitch takes to a scrubbin before I visit again.
Round 3: Only stall available is the one that has been streaked by the in bar pooper. She has not been identified. But I am horrified that her deed might be pinned on me. When it comes to what stall you're going to get....its a crapshoot... da dum chhhh. .
Round 4: Girls often take this time to scope the other ladies of the night under the not so mystifying lighting of the club...but up close and personal in more telling lighting. You chat about current events, comment on each others hair and shoes...and OMG where did you get that!!?!? This is prime time to size up the competition and plan sabotage. There is a thickness in the air. A heavy odor of judging masked by sweet giggles and innocent conversation. There are politics. Friends can be made, enemies slain.
Okay so maybe it isn't exactly a presidential suite, but eventful it is. The girls bathroom is a club in a club. A babushka dynamic. NO BOYS ALLOWED.
FAIL. 5-7-09
A couple of days ago I wrote a blurb I was really excited about. The thought came to me flying out of the sky like a piece of sputnik. I dug the idea...I dug it hard. I decided to have a pre-post re-read to ensure there were no gaping wounds in my precious gem, and that my grammar wasn't any more offensive than usual. I was so bored to tears I could barely read through it. Usually being a big fan of my own bits, I thought, this will not do...oh no this will not do at all. (DELETE DELETE DELETE) With those three pronounced clacks I spared myself from an onslaught of virtual rotten tomatoes, and helped you law abiding citizens find some better use for your spoiled produce. Back to the thinking chair. Goodnight moon.
Ive seen all good people...... 4-24-09
Yes, yes, yes, yesyesyes, Y.E.S. YES! Is yes becoming an endangered function word? Did yes seal its own fate by being too straight forward . In a world that has become increasingly about games, smoke, and mirrors, perhaps we have no room for it anymore. Maybe is the new yes. Ego is the new black. Half truths are the new truth. At the risk of sounding square... I have to ask, are there anymore good old fashioned honest folks out there???? As yes fades out of fashion and is summoned to grace the museum of good things past, so dawns the era of uncertainty. Your sures only leave me unsure. Do I want to see your heads nodding affirmatively? YES YES YES I do.
The Good Po' Boy's. 4-20-09
Its official...I'm getting old. I can no longer stand over stuffed house party's bumping billboards hot 100, shooting bullets of Ron Diaz down my throat, and dealing with beer swollen broski's looking for a reason to fight with anyone and everyone who looks at them sideways. My ears can no longer withstand the garish giggling of seven besties who call themselves the “slammin sevs”, forever bonded together by their family plan they have at Darque Tan, and their favorite drink..sex on the beach (insert giggles).
Not that I prefer local hole in the wall bars, filled with the overtly rude, too punk to have basic customer service skills staff. Unless you are apart of local respectable thrash, crap, scrape my ears and make them bleed “speedcore” punk band, you are barely acknowledged at the bar, and then when finally waited on, the exchange causes you to walk away feeling like you ordered with your pants around your ankles. Then you must beg them for forgiveness for interrupting their night by giving them a two dollar tip. I mean gee I would go to the tat shop and get a sleeve in order to ensure more speedy service next time, but those tattoos are hurty.
Its just kind of a joke, the stuff that we think gives us the right to treat others illy, or feel in a position of authority over another. The Bros are just the guys who are having quite a time dealing with the loss of popularity points since they left high school. All a bunch of big fish from small ponds, now swimming in the Pacific, and the waters are salty and there are some noticeably larger fish, surviving off of wit and mad navigating skills. And the punkers, those are just the geeky band kids, or the chubby weirdo goth kids that nobody gave two twits about until they left high school and joined a band. Aren't we all just a bunch of fucked up insecure teenagers?
Have we all forgot how painful it is to get hurt?Are you easing your own pain, by inflicting it on others? The worst kind of wars go down when the oppressed fight the oppressed. You would think that all those years of being stuffed in garbage cans, being called a fag by the wrestling team, and enduring other basic hazings would encourage the most empathetic kind of person. As an opposite result, we find the ugliest kind of war...the one called revenge.
Hey Man, maybe I'm here with no agenda. Maybe I just love your two fer specials and po- boy sandwiches. I could care less if that face behind the bar used to have bad acne and an aversion to social interaction. Hey bros, maybe I just want to hang out and watch the Twinkies game on the boob tube and throw some back, I'm not looking to make out at the end of the night or make you suffer for your ill treatment of me in high school. Let me echo the cries of generations of beauty queens and implore you “ Can't we all just get along?” After all, nobody likes an asshole.
Cupcake. 4-4-09
So to squelch my mad craving for a chai cupcake and some alone time, I rolled off the couch, unwillingly dressed myself and headed out into the big bad scary world. I was pleasantly surprised to find blue skies, a couple billowy clouds here and there, and this very big shiny golden orb that started to melt the frigid layer of ice that I've been encapsulated in for the last couple weeks. I did my best not to spoil the perfectly rotten mood that I was in by absorbing too much Vitamin D and natural endorphines. I was pissed and I wanted to stay that way. As I drove down university, I kept my eyes focused on the prize. Visions of swirly puffs of sweet spicy frosting and steaming cups of complex coffee danced in my head. I shook my angsty bangs and gave cross looks to gawking bystanders, as if they should know better than to try to peek into my roaring jeep when both her and I were feeling rumbly. Unless you are a cupcake with a large pompadour of lardy frosting gracing your cranium then I don't want to see you, speak to you, hear you...K.
Against my better judgment my spirits were lifted as I drove by two golden tressed hunks. One on two legs and one on four. Both joyfully dancing down the street bathed in a blanket of golden sun sun sun. The corner of my mouth started to curl upwards into a sort of half grin. Yuck, quit chasing me simple joys!
Finally I arrived at my destination. I grabbed the whisk shaped door handles and pulled open the French doors, feeling like a brigade of trumpeters should have welcomed me with a red carpet and flutes filled with bubbly. Alas, they weren't expecting me. I nabbed my goodies and popped a squat. I poured the steaming cup of joe down my throat like it was going out of style and attempted to delve into my cupcake.
The frosting that I had been fantasizing about was piled so high that my bitty mouth couldn't get around it. I stopped, pushed the plate back a nudge and analyzed the situation. What was the best way to get at this? Frosting first, cake later? All frosting, feed the cake to the birds? Hows about all ins? Whole cupcake here and now. Mouth meets matter masticating fest. I chose the latter. Post ravenous indulgence, I happened to glance to my left where a perfectly coiffed young lady was taking graceful bites of her cupcake, using a fork to down size the overwhelming girth of it. I hadn't even considered flatware. An embarrassing wake up call to the Flinstonian state of my manners. Burp!!! Excuse me...please and thank you.
For Privacy's Sake! 4-1-09
Consider social networking sites. They have nearly become an obligation these days. We all diligently create our myspace, facebook, twitters, and what-nots, for fear that we may be missing out on opportunities to participate in amazingly fulfilling cause groups, chances to get our face out there in our local scenes, meet new friends, keep up with old beaus and gf's. Our profile information is fanciful and exaggerated, or vague and sarcastic. We create our ideal persona, conveniently leaving out the blurbs about our passive aggressive nature, addictions to pornography, social insecurities. Don't like peeping tom's? How about 137 peeping tom's? Having a Facebook is like posting a big sign on the front of your house saying, I am butt naked and vulnerable standing in my bathroom, which is the third window on the left, the shade is open, but please don't come look at me perv. Information about ourselves or at least the version of ourself that we want others to come to know is readily available. People do not have to make any long term commitment to our life or well being. They don't even have to like you, in fact they may actually hate your soul and everything you stand for. Nonetheless they are able to make assumptions about who you are and what you are doing with your life.
My name is Anne, I am average height, with an average sized body, average breasts, legs on the chunky side, bye bye arms. I have a drab haircut, I am not a college graduate....(yet), I live at home with my parents, I rarely date, I love my dogs more than most people. I would rather stay at home and play games and drink beer with my family than go out and party with any of you people. Now there... no assumptions. I quit you Facebook. Now log on peeps and tweet about what you think about all this.
Side Note: This is an obligatory shout out to TJ Ryan...because I hung out with you the other day and you insisted that I do this.
Mmmmm what can I say about TJ Ryan. TJ likes to replace beautiful flowing Samson locks with mediocre hair-dos.... for good causes. He goes to the Red Stag and orders PBR's and then mooches tastes of other peoples fancy beers. He has 6 dollars in his checking account. Dripping with sarcasm. Spazzy. One of the coolest people I've met in a while. Good for you TJ Ryan....good for you.
jam. 3-27-09
Tonight was my pops Thursday night bluegrass jam. They have convened at my house every other Thursday since I can remember. A real melting pot of guys. The hard of hearing old timers sporting that brass buckle that will carry on down generations into an heir loom or auctioned off at an estate sale, yuppy middle agers, curmudgeons alike. Bald shiny heads gleaming under the low lighting in our family room. I don't even flinch at the old familiar sounds of Ragtime Annie and Whiskey Before Breakfast anymore. A beautiful choir of heartfelt off key hootin and hollerin. But, tonight something different happened. Like a dog alerted by the sound of the can opener, my ears perked up when a Bob Dylan tune came billowing out from behind the glass sliding doors. May you grow up to be righteous, may you grow up to be true, may you always know the truth and see the light surrounding you...Forever young. Literally music to my ears. Brought on by the loss of a close friend, he sang the words with true conviction, while the others hushed their mando's and banjos to listen to his rendition. I sat outside the glass camouflaged by a large house plant and snuck a listen. My heart swollen and creeping up into my throat, I felt a moment of regret for all the Thursdays I've let slip by without watching the dynamic of the jam unfold. It was simple,soft, and tender. He sang it for his friend, and I felt like he was mine. I remember as a child busting in on the jams to do-si-do around the room and then tearing out of the room laughing and pressing my face against the glass leaving a breathy foggy spot on the window. How silly those rosy cheeked men looked. Now most of them silver haired and wrinkled, I peeked through the glass and didn't see anything silly at all. Pick it son!
Some final parting sentiments. 3-16-09
Thanks factory job for making every other job that I have from now on suck a little less. You were the worst job that I have ever had. You made me feel like my brain was rotting out of my skull. You made me question my own sanity. I will probably blow you up...soon. ( Don't call the feds... I'm only joking)
Okay...some parts of you were alright. Thanks guy that left this at my work station on my last day.
boxes. 3-10-09
Why hello there again. Its been a while hasn't it. Or maybe you have no idea whether its been a while or not. Maybe you never ever go to this site or would even consider visiting. You may not even ever read this post telling you that you may never read this post or visit this site or notice that it has been a while. Anyhow if you have happened to stumble across this webpage, I'm really glad that you are here and can read this stuff and like or dislike, love or loathe it. Monday thru Friday may be taking a break from the monotony of the 9-5 and returning to nights and weekends...or possibly even hungry and homeless, in which case I would have to sell this laptop for food and materials to build a small hut for which to live in under the 94 overpass. I'm not sure whether I am ready to give up the laptop yet. It is my very first and purchased by the sweat of my brow and some birthday bucks. Now where to draw all my writing material from? If I can't complain about my coworkers...then I will have to complain about the other homeless people who are trying to steal my higher grade cardboard box with top quality corrugated to fight off the heavy winds. I will have to brawl with them for prime begging corner real estate and bash their poor choice of words on their "whoa is me" message. I will complain about how unfair it is that I can't grow a big burly beard to insulate my face during the cold months and in return they will complain about how unfair it is that I don't have to worry about dirt and debris and small woodland creatures nesting inside of my facial fair. The grass is greener syndrome will exist no matter my social standing. (Please forgive the handful of homeless stereotypes I just unloaded.)
After a long grueling internal bout (mind against heart) I came to the decision to leave my current place of work. I became increasingly turned off by my situation during the last round table meeting that we had with the higher-ups. We discussed being an "and" company and not an "or" company. Meaning that we should be a company that does this and this and this, rather than one thing "or" the other. This made me overtly roll my eyes and doodle pictures of our CEO with a dunce cap on drowning in a pit of his failed to launch products. AHHHH too many products, tooooo many products! What ever happened to the days when people used to be a butcher, a baker, or candlestick maker. You went to a peddler to get your shoe fixed, and you went to the clocksmith to fix that faulty spring in your pocket watch.
Mass production makes my stomach twist and turn into knots. I realize yes I am giving off a hippie vibe. An unrealistic hippie vibe. I guess this is our generation. We are the innovation generation. Everything on steroids. Better faster stronger. A handcrafted French style baguette breakfast sandwich in an instant. What happened to process and the rewards that a process brings. The sweat and craft that goes into a real handmade, homemade item. I love the journey on the way to good things. The banging and pounding and hissing and swirling that makes a good latte. Not the push a button presto chango latte. Why must we try to eliminate everything rustic and natural. We want all the same pleasures of good food and company sans time and effort. All I want out of life is to enjoy my journey. I believe I can achieve this by laughter, music, outdoors. Things like fresh air, baking, taking a walk. A real walk. Not a virtual walk provided for me via virtualnaturespot.com. Real tangible things. I can reach out and touch the snow with one hand and hold someone else's hand with the other. I no longer want to feel numb and automated like I am being run by a micro chip planted in me by some Dr. evil. Back to the basics. Peace Love and Hair grease.
WHAAA. 2-20-09
I have been MIA this week for sure. So for your reading pleasure, here is this past week in short.
I'm sure you all are expecting a daily dose of cynicism... well...my evil twin is off for the day...and bleeding heart is the only thing on the menu. I spent the week climbing up a really big figurative beanstalk and getting figuratively absolutely nowhere, no magic golden egg laying bird at the top, just more climbing, then ultimately having the whole thing figuratively crumble out from underneath my feet sending me into a downward spiral reaching out for any small tree, bush, piece of shrubbery that I could cling onto for dear life. I got one. This writing shrubbery saved my figurative life.
Friday I spent the night at a valentines day party, where the most action I got was a hug from “the John”, and finally spent a long romantic evening in bed with my head in a punch bowl. Strike one.
Saturday I woke up feeling similar to a sqirrel who had been run over by a reckless teen driver, or small town boy enacting revenge with his 88 bronco equipped with CB radio. I managed to conjure up enough strength to walk down the hall and say my thank yous and apologies to the gracious hostesses and listen to all the stories of the evening that I couldn't recall. Once again the work week had left me with a voracious appetite for fun...and my overcompensation left me with opposite results. A beautiful sunny valentines day afternoon, sun in the sky, puke on my shirt, mascara under my eyes, breakfast on my mind. We headed to local breakfast joint, and I forced some nourishment into my weak regretful bod. Took a twirl around town with the ladies only to be assaulted by LOVE. Valentines day had vomited all over Minneapolis. Suddenly feeling ill again, I went home, ate a fantastic dinner with some fantastic folks, and was asleep sitting up on the couch with my pup in my arms by early evening.
Sunday I awoke with a massive crick in my neck but surprisingly upbeat. I decided to give the weekend another go. Quit while you are ahead.. what does that mean? I'm not even sure what happened that evening...all was overshadowed by what happened on the way home. Driving at what I thought was a decent speed, I saw my rear view illuminate with cherries and blueberries. I shook my head to clear the thoughts that were obviously clouding my driving judgment. Heartless cop with large wad of drooly chew in his mouth had no mercy on his agenda and decided to crush my already wounded heart with 2 traffic tickets. Too tired too absorb what had just happened to me I crashed in my clothes only to awake to Monday morning.
Monday morning 6am and I literally dragged my butt out of bed. Fortunately I fell asleep with my clothes on,so little effort was put into getting dressed, apart from swapping my dress out for a shirt. Under the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the unforgiving hum of 100+ decibels of noise, I suddenly felt overwhelmed with grief and couldn't calm myself. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the reality of being back at work...it all came barreling down on me and my knees began to quiver. I thought I would fall to the ground, beat my chest, and yell to the sky, WHYYYYY?????
Tuesday I decided to swivel the sludge that had been bogging me down out of my system, with two fers and hippitty hop dancin at the Triple Rock. I tore up the dance floor as well as a whitey can. Feeling a tidge better, I got in the car and in an effort to remove the soft dusting of snow from my windshield, I activated the blades. Something other than snow was snagged on the wipers. Yep, another ticket. After a small tirade of Fucks, I shoved it in my purse along with my unpaid hospital bills, and previously awarded tickets from Sunday. No jig or two step was going to heal these blues.
Wednesday Nothing to report.
Thursday Brueggers Bagel day at work has been replaced with Stale Bakery from the Coffee Shop day. Frowny Face.
Friday And so I have come full circle. Cross your fingers and wish me luck, here I go again.
The Queen of my own Personal Dumpster Utopia. 2-11-09
Every now and then my perfect seclusion in the ladies locker room is abruptly interrupted by another female. Today the Temp agency sent us (GASP!) another woman. You would think that I would be jumping for joy at the prospect of having another lady around for a day. We could chat about glitter and feather boas, giggle and braid each others hair, but NO!! I don't want to do any of those things. I want to be the sole ruler of my locker clad castle, on my porcelain throne, with my hairnet crown, and my break snack banana scepter.
The locker room was clearly designed with a fleet of female factory (yeah alliteration!) workers in mind. I am the only member of the fleet and I occupy locker number 23. So cleverly chosen to match my age at the time of my hire. I had my pick of any locker... I could have been all egotistical and chosen #1, I could have been a little tart and chosen to occupy both #6 and #9, but I wanted number 23, thats all I asked for, a little piece of ME, ME,ME, MINE, MINE,MINE.
Upon her arrival, (lets call her Carmelita) starts settling in and unpacking her coat, lunch, etc. into her locker of choice. I turn around post hand wash appalled to discover her putting her things into locker number 22. With an infinite number of locker choices, Carmelita decides she wants to be neighbors. Could she not see that number 23 was the only other locker with a padlock on it? Couldn't she see that this would be inconvenient for me? Options 1-50 and you pick number 22! What significance does 22 have in your life Carmelita? Do you have 22 beloved Persian cats?? Have you traveled to 22 different countries with 22 different lovers??? Are you 22 different kinds of stupid ??? Please help me try to understand why you want to shat upon my castle.
I'm not trying to be a biznatch or anything here, its just that having unwanted peeps all up ins my personal space really makes me get retarded. The rest of the day was filled with umm excuse me's, pardon me's, your locker door is covering my locker's, your taking a nap in front of my locker, I would like to get into my locker please remove your lazy ass, could you please not lean up against my locker, I want to banish you to the dungeon, please get the fuck out of my kingdom!!
Cliques. 2-05-09
Welcome to high school. Its never gonna end. We grow in size and width and things stretch out and hang to the floor, but we can never seem to move past the superiority complex. I'm better than you, who is better than him, who is whhaaayyy better than that guy. C'mon big boys, let go of the winning touchdown that you threw at the big game against the worst team in your division in 1982. Your pecks are more like boobies now, and NO you are no longer allowed to fondle the same of every bright eyed new-hire. Here are the tiers of hierarchy in the Roastery as they stand now. Starting from the crusty scrapings from the bottom of the barrel, leading straight up to the folks that shit solid gold nuggets. Coming in at dead last, is the temporary hire..also known as a TEMP, meat machine, @#%! head, etc. These are the guys that nobody else wants, and we don't want them either. Usually lacking a basic understanding of how to wipe their own butt and the meaning of NO..for the love of God NOOOO. My dog is smarter than most of these guys, and her favorite part of the day is running around the house gleefully with my zebra striped bra in her mouth. She thinks it is a wild animal, you know.... because of all the stripiness. Coming in at NOT dead last, is ME. I have found this to be a reoccurring theme in my life. I suck...but not that much. I get to boss the temps around a little bit, flex my minuscule corporate muscle, and this earns me affirming nods from the tier just above me. The tier above me is the technicians. This Dickies clad group of 50 somethings have been in the biz of proving that they are better than the other since the 80's. They pal around for most of the day bouncing around ideas about why the machine does this and that, and propping their leg up on the low rungs of chairs and desks like Captain Morgan...they actually hate each other. Old guy rivalry...heeeeelarious. Scootching their way a notch above the techs are the roasters. They are basically a technician with way more hipster cred. They look like this. They only converse with tiers 4-Top. Conversation usually is, blah blah fancy culinary words, blah blah my gig on Saturday, blah blah my short stories, blah coffee and wine..BLAH. Occupying the remaining top spots can only be described as evil....pure evil. They spend most of their day counting large stacks of cash and blowing their noses with Benjamins. That money that is not in my pocket has become the bane of my existence. I'm sick of being a sophmore, when can I start chanting...SENIORS SENIORS????
I wish it was Sunday, cuz thats my fun day. 2-03-09
Okay so we made it to Tuesday, alive and unscathed by Monday....ooooo scary. Why does everyone hate Mondays so much? I think people love to hate Mondays because then they can say things like, 'somebody's got a case of the Mondays', 'Monday blues gotcha down?', 'it aint nothin but a manic Monday' ( woot Bangles!!!)...to this I say, 'Eff you cliche Monday slogan thrower arounders.' Its not like I can't create a handful of catchy 'I hate Tuesday' slogans to appease your appetites for putting salt in peoples wounds....for example... ' somebody's got a case of the Tuesday's', 'Tuesday blues gotcha down?', 'it aint nothin but a manic Tuesday.' You see, the trick is just to replace the word Monday from each catchphrase with the word Tuesday. Lets give Monday a break from being the most hated day of the week, and start picking on Tuesday a little bit. Lord knows Tuesday picked on me today. Tuesday has been flying under the radar for far too long now. It has nearly gone by unnoticed since the dawn of time telling. Tuesday is Anthrax, carbon-monoxide poisoning, nearly undetectable... a silent killer. Time to pass my first legislation as moderator of this web page and grant a pardon for Monday..... death row for you Tuesday.
Downward Facing Dog. 2-2-09
Today corporate posted a bulletin advertising yoga classes. Come one, come all. For the low low price of 30 shmackers, you can spend your Tuesday evenings watching the tight reared marketing team twist themselves into compromising positions. This will be a perfect opportunity to rub...um.... elbows with the upper echelon of the company. Corporate must think that they have a bunch of goons on their hands. I for one refuse to fall prey to their evil scheming ways. I am on to you corporate, oh..yes.. I am on to you. Do you think that I don't know why you are offering a bunch of meat head guys a chance to mingle with the other side. Have you seen the perfectly sculpted asses that reside next door in the offices? This is all just an excuse to get us into the downward facing dog and see if we were paying attention during last months sexual harassment training session. If I'm not mistaken, which I most definitely am not, the downward facing dog is in clear violation of this rule. All that stretching, and bending, and in your face limberness, is practically begging Ol' Leroy to give those snug buns a pinch, or at least an overt glance. I think I'm going to sign up. I need an excuse to put on some spandex and get out on a Tuesday night.
Speaking of downward facing dogs...these beauties are one of my many reprieves from the work week.
UPDATE: So apparently all my griping and complaining hasn't been for naught. Today to my SHOCK and surprise... I was awarded a shiny brown and gold plaque on the Roastery wall of Awesomeness...ness...ness!!! Yes..let it resonate. Looks kind of like this. Only it says ' Presented to Team Member Anne and her robotic arms...for superior excellence in productivity...10,488 bags boxed in an 8 hour shift.... because ya de ya de ya da...we care...blah blah blah....circa 2009. ' It glimmers it gleams!
On a side note: Feeling angry at Saint Valentine??? Show him just how the propinquity of love makes you feel by buying this at La Petite Chou-Chou! OR!!!! If you know someone who has that certain 'Je ne sais quoi' and you want to show them just how much you adorez him or her then buy some of this other stuff...also at La Petite Chou-Chou!!!
On a final side note: Monday is over....almost.
pilot 1-26-09
Testing.. one, two, three.... is this thing on???? Eh hem. Oh hi there. My name is Anne. I work from 730-400 Monday through Friday in a factory packaging coffee beans. My job is... open box, put 6 bags of coffee into box, repeat. Or if I'm lucky...grab bag, put piece of tape onto bag, repeat.
I work with a bunch of guys that look like this. I am the only girl. I like that. Other females and I... well we don't agree with each other. I am cheese, other girls are lactose intolerance. Boys like cheese. We all kick palettes around, and exchange jokes about booze and farts.
I try my best to glorify my rather insignificant position. If you ask me what I do for a living, I might tell you that I am a coffee quality control specialist. That is like calling a garbage man a sanitation engineer. I mean... shit stinks, even if you spray the finest European fragrance on it.
Like so many others, the alarm on my cell phone blares in my face around 6am every morning, I then proceed to hit the snooze button, then silently curse about how obnoxious the noise is.
Eventually I roll out of bed. I begrudgingly comb my long black hair that will only end up smooshed under a hair net fifteen minutes later, grab the cleanest smelling flannel shirt I can find, and fly out the door.
I am not a good factory worker. I don't think that I know how to be. I don't snuggly pack away my left over spaghetti, granola bar, and HI-C punch into my Coleman cooler the evening before work. I don't even have a Coleman cooler...come to think of it.... I don't have any food. Most days I wear dresses with my steel toes. Although no one ever says anything about it, for fear that HR will reprimand them for even noticing that I am wearing a dress.
You see, I have never been a Monday through Friday girl. My resume consists of nights and weekends, sloshing booze or coffee, batting eyelashes for tips. Still knocking back booze and coffee, only now to self-medicate after work week. Cheers 9-5ers.
The guy who walked uphill both ways to school. 1-28-09
(The names have been changed to protect the ridiculous)
When it comes to grumbling about the daily grind, I have met my match. Insert one Leroy Finklestein . Around 930am every weekday morning, Leroy comes strolling into work after a long ride on the 14A. He allots himself enough time to stop at the coffee shop , fill his mug with a light roast COD, and grab a terrifyingly stale bakery item. Unfortunately the daily dose of that particular bakery delicacy is going to end in the tragic loss of Leroy's life. He might as well frost a cinder block and consume that for breakfast. Although I imagine it would be quite difficult to masticate anything less than soft when you only have one tooth. Or as we like to say around the digs, Leroy has winter teeth... 2 below. Teeth or not, Leroy enjoys a variety of foods, including but not limited to, SA taquitos, Old Country Buffet mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob...yes... corn on the cob.
After consumption of previously mentioned bakery item, Leroy is all set to perform more important tasks. These tasks include bothering me, wearing too much cologne, changing light bulbs, spitting on me while ranting about pointless metro section news, ordering windex, watching me, holding tools, you know... really important stuff.
Oh, but his contributions have not gone unnoticed, Leroy has earned two plaques up on the Factory wall of lame, he's right up there with Bob who was deservingly recognized for a perfect set of punches on his time card before being publicly escorted off the premises for the three 5lb. bags of coffee per day he left with under his shirt. I have yet to earn a shiny brown and gold plaque up on that wall. I mean...why give someone who has restructured your entire sanitation program a plaque when there are guys out there on the floor punching in when they get to work.
Leroy's 11 year stint at the factory has led him down a long path of odd jobs. Overworked and under appreciated he says. 11 years at the factory and he still hasn't received his 10 years of quality service pin. 28 long years of paying child support (???? is that possible Leroy???) I thought kids were set free from the nest and government support at 18.
'Been earnin the same pay for the last 5 years' (??? Been paying your union dues Leroy???)
The machines ran faster, the hours were longer, the temps more heinous, the noise was louder, the earplugs less efficient, the ladders higher....Poor Leroy, under appreciated and over exaggerated.
Showers Rock. 1-29-09
There is something to be said about the warm cascade of a shower on a cold evening. As the work week comes to an end the culmination of all my thoughts come together into some form of clarity while I stand naked in the tub. I am in my most vulnerable state of being. Alone, unclothed, nothing to entertain. Maybe there is something spiritual about it. Washing away whatever left you feeling icky that day, letting it swirl down the drain into the sewer where it belongs.
Post-shower I lay in bed downstairs in my lair, turbie twist towel still on my head. I'm certain that my bangs have dried into some sort of alf alfa sprout under there and I don't care, and I still won't care tomorrow when I go into work completely un-groomed.
I've decided that this whole work thing is really putting a dent in my social situation. After the first two days of " training” I had at my job, my body went into complete auto-pilot mode. If you would like to learn how to do my job really, really, I mean REALLY well, I will say to you, do you have 20 minutes. So... body does its thang thang for 8 hours, and that leaves me alone with the constant humming noise and my thoughts.
My brain eats itself for breakfast. Too, too, too much thinking. By the time I leave work, I am so exhausted from my own company, that I have nothing le
I spent the major portion of my childhood years with a bowl haircut, always missing an abnormal amount of teeth, and tattle telling on my 5 siblings. I'm a middle child which automatically gives me 'look at me' syndrome. Dubbed a Sarah Bernhardt by my grandmother, for my grand displays of hammy antics, and my equally dramatic acts of martyrdom. It was and still is near impossible to not trip over my own two feet or an untied shoelace. Broken dishes, a poorly cleaned bedroom with all my clothes and toys stuffed in the closet or under the bed...a bad liar...an even worse truth-teller. A lover of animals, and music, and outside. Natural thrills. Warmth on the inside, Popsicle toes on the outside. I love to laugh deep from the depths of my newly grown beer belly. I place a higher value on cheese than any other food. I really like my family. I am really hoping that you cyber-spacers enjoy my cynicisms.
→ February
&rarr January
E-mail: anne(at)mondaythrufriday.com
Cellphone: 763-213-7942