Once Upon A Sleep Over

So we made forts with blankets and played Go Fish! for hours...

Then we wanted something sweet to eat.  Yes, at 10 pm we decided to bake.  Because that's how we roll.  Yo.

MINI LEMON SPONGE MUFFINS

Makes 24 mini muffins.

I have used a non-stick mini muffin pan for this recipe.  If you are not using a non-stick pan, be sure to pre-spray it with cooking spray or grease it prior to filling it with muffin mix.  Also, because mini-muffin tins are small in nature, I have used a cake decorator to pipe the mix into the wells in the tin.  If you do not have a decorator, you can put the mix into a Ziploc bag, snip a small piece of a corner off and use that instead.

Ingredients:

Muffins:
1/2 c margarine
1/2 c. sugar
2 eggs
zest of one lime
zest of one lemon
1 tbsp. lemon juice
1 c + 2 tbsp. self-rising cake flour
pinch of salt
4 tbsp. milk

Syrup:
4 tbsp. lime juice
4 tbsp. lemon juice
1 c. + 1/4 c. confectioner's sugar

Method:
-preheat oven to 350 degrees
-cream together margarine and sugar
-add the eggs, zest, and lemon juice; mix well

-fold in the flour and salt, incorporating slowly
-add milk and mix well

-pipe or spoon into the wells in the muffin tin

-cook for 20 to 25 minutes
-while the muffins are cooking, prepare the syrup by combining all the ingredients in a sauce pan and heating gently until the sugar dissolves
-as soon as the muffins are done cooking, pour the syrup over each muffin evenly, allowing the muffins to absorb the liquid evenly
-do not remove the muffins from the tin until they are relatively cool (about an hour) and have soaked up all the syrup; do not let the muffins cool completely as they will be difficult to remove from the tin
-turn the muffins out onto a rack and sprinkle with reserved confectioner's sugar; grate lime zest over the muffins before serving, if desired

Two Girls And A Dye Job

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on February 15, 2010)

It was supposed to be a lovely day at the spa. A treat for me. For the most part it was.  Until it came time to get my hair did. Who knew my two-tone root emergency would prompt a cat fight?


Back in the day, I used to see Carla for all my hair dressing needs. Carla's husband knocked her up and told her he would not stand for her to be around chemicals that might give their baby a third arm or a cyclops eye. Asshole. Carla was a hair care goddess. I could say, "Do what you like" and not leave the spa looking like Denis Rodman. Now she's a mini-van mumma and she hasn't looked back. I miss her and hate her.


After being scalped and scalded with hair bleach by some sista who clearly had no idea what to do other than pose out, I ended up in the chair of the spa manager, George. In the beginning, things were great with George. It was magic. He was my therapist, my not gay gay hairdresser, and my follicular messiah.


Then he got complacent.


Three hair cuts in a row that were meh and this became a crisis for me.


I have nothing going on in the looks department so my hair is my crowning glory (ya, I'm a Leo). It pained me, but I did not have a choice.


I had to break up with George and see someone else.


What I should have done was change salons. But I am a fool. I cheated on George in George's salon. Right.  Under.  His.  Nose. I had to be all ninja about that shit too.  Believe me, I burned off the karma for cheating on George immediately. I ended up in the chair of a bat shit crazy woman who stalks her kids and wanted me to not only have an opinion about that, but wanted me to agree with her actions.  But she is the most amazing colour tech in the world.  So I endured the drama for a couple hours every six weeks.


Then there was the Sunday last summer when George busted my ass.


George does not do Sundays.  Bat Shit Crazy worked every other Sunday.  Perfect.  Getting my roots touched up was becoming a Black Ops ninja nightmare.


Then it happened.  George should have been having a lovely Sunday somewhere else. But no. No. NOOOOOO!!. He came into work. And there I was, in a chair, in the middle of the salon, mid colour application, hair standing on end with aluminum foil nesting on top of my head. My only options were to jump into my purse (too small, if you can believe it) or slide right off the chair and hide under the mirror (ewww, other people's hair). I was a hawt mess with nowhere to go. George's stank eye was like a laser.


Six weeks later, all  humble and humiliated, I went back to George's chair. "I knew you'd be back" was all he said. For two hours. It was purgatory but that's what a girl gets for cheating on her hairdresser.


I have a dinner engagement this Friday and the only day I could address my skunk root explosion was today. George doesn't see clients on Monday but with his blessing and recommendation, I booked with someone else.


I thought I was in good hands.


Not so much.


Those hands did not know how to show up to work on time. Those hands and their lack of respect for their employer and this client landed me back in Bat Shit Crazy's chair. As per George. Payback is a bitch and he had me behind the eight ball. For two hours I got to hear about loyalty and being on the client list of two stylists in one salon and how this is just not normal in the industry. I took it. Normally, I wouldn't. But I was desperate and Bat Shit Crazy is cleaver. She waited until the bleach was on my hair before she packed my bags for the guilt trip. That was when Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit showed up for work, demanding I switch chairs. Bat Shit Crazy told Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit she was taking the client, getting the credit, and the tip. Luckily there was no stabbing each other with scissors or bludgeoning each other with hair spray bottles, but even I can't repeat the language Bat Shit Crazy and Late As Fuck And Doesn't Give A Shit used at the washing station. Horrifying.


This has truly been one of the most dysfunctional relationships I have been involved in.


My roots are gone and so am I. Anyone know a good salon with a gayer than gay hairdresser/therapist/fashion consultant who needs a new client/patient?

Blessed

"Just as the jasmine sheds its withered flowers, even so, O mendicants, you should cast off passion and hatred." ~ Dhammapada, XXV, (377)

Because It Has Been That Kind Of Day

Some days, it is just not worth chewing through the restraints.

A Bad Romance

Am Breathless

Let us all take a moment, forget how much this stuff costs and just admire these lovely things from Alexander McQueen.  Uhhhhh.  I.  Can't.  Even.

I think I just came.

Wordless Wednesday

Dresses, Dances, And Dalliances

It happened innocently enough. I was going to the showroom with some paper work for the order desk. El Presidente held the door open for me. Then summoned me to have a private word.

In my head, I was jumping off the building thinking, "Fuck my life this better not be about the office romance rumors because I do not want to know who is fucking who and where in the building they are doing it and I do not want to know because he is disgusting and she is the type who gives men a reason to call women bitches and ho's. I just do not want to be a part of drama.  And I do not want to have to lick a dog's ass to get the image of them humping out of my head."

I started praying to baby Jesus. Who I do not believe in.  Well maybe the part about the hippie running around the countryside rapping about cool ways to get along in the world but not the virgin birth messiah guy.  It is too far for even my imagination to stretch.

*Inhaling my last breath, bracing myself*

You know, I'm upset with you.  You better come to the Christmas party.

I'm not.

Come and get drunk with me.

I don't drink. (For really.)

Then come and smile.

Fuck my life.

No I did not say that. And I am not going dress shopping to go to some melodrama at a country club in another town.  Yes, another town.

Here's why I really do not want to go to this annual gong show.

On a daily basis, there is too much drama in where I work. Add alcohol, alleged ingestion of any number of contrabands, and we leave the realm of soap opera and head straight for shitty late night drama.  Think Jersey Shore but with mostly over thirty and snow banks instead of beaches.

Where I work is full of cliques.  And they get tighter when spouses and glitter are involved.  It is not fun for me to go sit in a room full that and be given the cold shoulder for most of the night.  Last year, my table was great and the random crazy punk rock girl in the bathroom that helped me pour myself back into my sausage casing with my Spanx was awesome, but most of them were, for the most part, indifferent and uncouth lushes on a binge paid for by The Company.  I did not exist on their planet.  Until I was leaving.  Then the drunken, "Haaaayyyy wur you going huh?  Ya can't leave yet." crap started.

Can somebody tell me what happened to the two drink maximum at the office party rule?

It is like having four hours of your life stolen from you.

Having said that, this year would be the year to go to the office Christmas party. There is a secret office romance that is about to become very public. Same guy as before, different idiot girl. She was warned and he is just a drunk prick with a hard on for anything with long legs.  I do not feel sorry for either of them. The shit is totally going to hit the fan when upstairs finds out. And I would not be surprised if it happened over dinner.

Maybe I need to rethink this dress thing.

I'm Bringin' Sexy Back

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on April 19, 2010)

And last week, I may have inadvertently tried to do it at work. Maybe. Possibly. At this point, I hope not.

I used to have my shit together, it used to be in one place, and I could find it at a moment’s notice. Now? Not so much. Most days, only a little bit. Last Thursday, not even close.  It should be said that in the last month I have lost my mobile phone, transit pass, and my long black Old Navy tank top that has lace trim (no big sexy times… I think I left it at the gym. I think. My brain is leaking and I just don't know any more.).

Last Thursday I may have lost my dignity as well. I’ve been asking around and it appears that I probably didn’t but you can call me Miss Jackson if it was nasty.

I started Thursday with my usual mad panic flight of the bumble bee that is commonly referred to by you normal people as “getting ready for work.”

Then I heard that snap sound that a woman never wants to hear.

Feck.

One favorite black bra, done.

Feckity Feck.

While the rational side of my brain was thinking of a logical Plan B, my dark side was being all MacGyver and shit, thinking about ways to fix the snapped under wire with cotton balls, band aids, and a rather large dose of medical tape. Double dee’s kids… a mere band aid will never do.

The other side of my brain, the allegedly logical side, remembered the convertible bra from hell was sitting in a drawer all patient and such, waiting to be worn again. I hate that thing. I paid waaaaaaaay too much for it. It has rubber anti-slip grips strips all over the place that make me itchy and those strips are totally unforgiving. It’s really too bad they don’t put that shit on the straps. You know, on the place where I could have used it the most. You will come to appreciate that later. I certainly would have.

Keep in mind, this black padded (I know!!) contraption is CONVERTIBLE. You ladies know what that means. Hooks on the straps for the band, hooks on the straps for the cup, and a prayer that your girls stay in place. Men, this will be important later.

Obviously I didn’t pray hard enough to the mammary gawds. Nay, nay. And if you know me, I never do things the easy way. Or half way. No, no. No, the possibility exists that I was Janet Jackson, circa Superbowl wardrobe malfunction. But with a whole lot less Justin Timberlake and possibly a whole lot more nipple. Not all of us leave the house in the morning with metal sunshine pasties so at this point I can only hope there wasn’t a nip slip. I am fairly optimistic that the lovely ladies I work with would have, at the very least, helped a girl out and at least body blocked so I could give Thelma and Louise a reset. After all, I did cup Susan’s ass when I spanked her last week… you’d think she’d return the favour, non?

Yes, I call them Thelma and Louise… a couple of wild and reckless girls.

So you can imagine my horror when I got home from work well after 6:00 pm and started to get changed out of my work gear only to be faced with the knowledge that at some point after 2:00 pm the hook for Thelma’s strap had slid out of the cup and was hanging off the strap only.

Did I happen to mention I had been wearing a sheer blouse?  Did I mention I had gone grocery shopping before I got home?

Do you know that humans have the ability to make horrified shrieking sounds that only small animals and babies can hear?

It must have sounded something like instant mortification, humiliation, embarrassment with at least six bars of ohmyeffingawd. When I realized the magnitude of what was happening, I froze.

Don’t look down.

But I gotta look down.

If you look down, your tit could be hanging out and then what?

Doesn’t matter if I look down or not, if the tit is out it is out.

Dammit, how long has the tit been out? Oh my gawd, if the tit is out oh my gawd I can’t even think it.

It was all I could do was unfreeze and ever so carefully look down. Actually, it was more of a wince to see if Thelma was loose and flapping about. At that point, I can say she was safely behind the padded loveliness of the world’s worst bra.

But for about four hours, she was AWOL.

So if you got to see Thelma on Thursday, you’re welcome.

Blessed

"The miracle is not to walk on water. The miracle is to walk on the green earth, dwelling deeply in the present moment and feeling truly alive." ~ Thich Nhat Hanh

Random Sauce, Part Two

Bathe regularly. I know there is an article floating around on Yahoo about only showering three to four times a week but they are wrong. Bathe daily. When you smell like ass, we do not think it is cool.

~~~~~

If you are willing to lie about where you are from or how old you are, there is a good chance you will lie about anything. That makes me not trust you. Do not get all pissy when I call you out on it either. Grow a set and have the fortitude to stand in the middle of who you are and be that person.

~~~~~

Having gas at work is a challenge. Silent but violent does not always wait for you to get to the warehouse.

~~~~~

When the I.T. department at your place of employment does not know how to work the email system your entire company is using, you are fucked. So is your I.T. department.

~~~~~

When you suddenly leave a job after thirty years, it makes me think you did something really sketchy. I am not the only one who thinks this.

~~~~~

I love the smell of permanent markers. And not those skinny ones either. No. The big ones with the wedge tip. Ahhhh.

~~~~~

Chair Dancing 101

See Bry, it really is a good song.  Please note that all day I will be rocking out exactly like this.  I hope you and the rest of The Cube Farm are ready for chair dancing, the likes of which have never been enjoyed by The Farm.




PS: I know you like it like that!

Happy Mini Friday

Cheesy fan video, great song...

Wordless Wednesday

Easiest Snack Ever

Aside from smashing the almonds, the most labour intensive part of this snack is eating it.

ALMOND RAISIN SNACK WRAP

Makes one snack wrap.

Ingredients:

1 - 6 inch tortilla

1 tsp. low fat cream cheese

1 tbsp. raisins

4 almonds, smashed

Method:

-spread cream cheese to about half a centimetre away from the edge of the tortilla

-on a cutting board, smash almonds; using the heel of your hand, apply pressure to the blade of a knife that has been laid sideways over an almond

-apply pressure until you feel the almond being crushed or alternatively, give it some muscle like you would if you were crushing garlic; you could use sliced almonds here but this is good for getting the stress out

-mix raisins with almonds and sprinkle in the middle of the tortilla, leaving about a centimetre of space from the sides
-carefully fold the bottom of the tortilla towards the centre of the almond raisin mixture

-fold the left side of the tortilla towards the middle

-fold the right towards the middle

-roll from the bottom to the top

Nutritional information (click to view full size):

The Weekly Whaaaaa

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on June 01, 2010)

My taste in music is above reproach. My ability to sing? Reproach away.

Before you do reproach my tone deaf, can't-carry-a-tune-in-a-bag-even-if-it-had-handles vocal stylings, watch this wee gem (and watch all of it cos its the best slice of cheese I've had in a looooooong time yet its sadly lacking some sweet ass air guitar) and then say to yourself, "Is it really too late for me to get my Eurovision/Idol/X Factor on?"



Ya, I thought so.

Balkan, balkan, balkan... Ovo je Balkan!

A Letter

Dear Santa:

It is probably too late for me to start being good this year so I'm just going to put this out there...

My anger shaman, Henry Rollins has a new coffee mug out.  It would give me much joy to have that on my desk at work.  Santa, you can order it here.  Henry is kicking in some discounted shipping on international orders so that should help the elves out, no?

Thanks Santa!  I'll be sure to leave the cookies you like and the whiskey the reindeer use for "medicinal" purposes.

It Is Not Your Birthday

(Written on November 12, 2010 at 9:18 am at work)

The birthday girl wanted Boston cream donuts and that is what she got. And croissants because she likes those too.  I have spent two months trying to find out what kind of cake she wanted.  I finally had to break down and ask her what she wanted.  She did not want cake.  She wanted Boston cream donuts.  Because she was craving them.  It is what SHE wanted.

I didn't buy plain donuts for the people who don't like donuts with chocolate on them because it is not their birthday. If it was, and I had drawn their name in the office birthday cake draw, I would have got them exactly what they wanted.  This particular birthday cake draw is not about what YOU want.

It is not your birthday.

So go back to your office and pout. Like you are doing right now.  Even though we waited for you for an extra half hour because you were upstairs in a meeting.  We waited because we knew you would be pissed off if we did not wait.  We waited because we did not want to have to deal with your pissocity.

Come to think of it, you are always pissed off.

This is why I do not go for lunch with you any more.  Or do anything with you outside of work.  Lately, you are not happy until you have annihilated someone.  I grew tired of that someone being me about six months ago.

Here's a big mushroom print for your forehead.

PS:  I will be wearing the blue cardigan set I bought about a month ago.  Weekly.  I don't care if you have the cardigan.  I didn't buy it to steal your thunder.  I didn't even know you owned it.  Quite frankly, it is way classier than the tat you usually buy.  I bought that colour because it wasn't purple.  Like the purple set I already own.

Your girl drama is getting really old.

My Name Is Memory

Please don't expect a plot synopsis.  You can go here for that.  I don't want to spoil it for you.  What I will tell you is this... I loved this book.

This is something of a miracle.

I am a complete book snob and rarely love a book.  Like, yes.  Love, not always.  Too many years of studying and reading genres like late Victorian era literature and enjoying Shakespeare made me that way.  Disgust and disdain that celebs "write" books that get published made me that way.  That being said, it is not that drivel alone that makes me a snob.  The "best sellers" have made me dry heave too.  Yann Martel's Life of Pi?  Couldn't get past the third chapter.  People were wetting themselves over Salmon Rushdie's The Enchantress of Florence.  I put it down half way through because I was tired of waiting for a plot to happen.

I do not generally waste my precious time on insipid retellings of the same bullshit love story indulge in chick lit, but this book came highly and emphatically recommended.  Yes, I know My Name is Memory is marketed as "Young Adult" fiction but it can easily be considered a gateway to chick lit.  That made me nervous.  Chick lit with a PG-13 rating... how can this be good?

My Name is Memory was going to be one of those books I read while commuting to and from work.  I found myself totally immersed right away to the point I almost missed my stop on the way to work.  To prevent this from happening, I limited myself to a chapter at a time.  Yes, I am a geek like that but when a book is good, you want to savour it.  Like a fine wine or an amazing orgasm.

A common complaint about this book is that the transition between character time lines is not harmonious and lacks cohesion.  Really?  Brasher uses chapters to separate the time lines.  She even starts the chapters with the place and date the chapter is occurring in.  My only complaint was the ending.  It just ended.  And I was super pissed off about that... here's Brasher begging the question "does true love last forever?" and all I get is an abrupt ending?  Bah!

Fear not kids, Lord Google says My Name is Memory is actually book one of a trilogy.

And the angels sang!

Next up:

While this book has been on my amazon.ca wish list since it was released, I bought it sooner than anticipated because of the controversy over the cover.  Aristotle and controversy, what's not to love?

For Uncles Who Served, For Al Who Is Still Over There, For A World That Needs Love

Blessing by The Buddha

May every creature abound in well-being and peace.
May every living being, weak or strong, the long and the small
The short and the medium-sized, the mean and the great.
May every living being, seen or unseen, those dwelling far off,
Those near by, those already born, those waiting to be born,
May all attain inward peace.

Let no one deceive another, Let no one despise another in any situation,
Let no one, from antipathy or hatred, wish evil to anyone at all.
Just as a mother, with her own life, protects her only son from hurt,
So within yourself foster a limitless concern for every living creature.


Display a heart of boundless love for all the world,
In all its height and depth and broad extent,
Love unrestrained, without hate or enmity.
Then as you stand or walk, sit or lie, until overcome by drowsiness,
Devote your mind entirely to this, it is known as living here life divine.

Wordless Wednesday

He's Bringin' Hanson Back

My cousin Brad is an awesome guy.

Sure, he's a Leaf's fan, had a bit of the Bieber Fever, and he almost became a golf pro, but he's a stand up guy who, no matter the distance, I know he has my back.

His taste in music is, well, politely put, sketchy.

He punished me for not going to the Bon Jovi concert with him by neglecting to tell me that he had tickets to Lady Gaga.

I went to see Lady Gaga.

You whaaaa?

The Gaga.  I saw her.  Fucking fantastic.

This is punishment for not going to Jovi with you, isn't it?

Yes.  Yes it is.

But I couldn't do it... the permed  hair, the purple tin foil coat in a cherry picker, throwing roses to fans in Brazil killed it for me years ago.  He's still singing about Tommy and Gina.

*shrug*

And now there's this:



No, Brad.  You are NOT bringing Hanson back.

Somewhere a Blues Brother is weeping.

Happy Birthday To You Miss Madison

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on April 28, 2010)

Somehow, along the way, this child...

became this child...

Maddie, this week you turn six. I’m going to get all cliché and say that I remember the day you were born. Because I do. I remember sitting in the hospital, holding you, praying to a god I no longer believe in that I didn’t break you. If I had only known how tough you would grow up to be, I would not have been so nervous.

For the first few years of your life you really didn’t want to have much to do with me. I was alright with that because I knew at some point you would realize how cool an auntie I am. I do not remember when you finally came around but you have more than made up for the time you had me on “ignore”.

Now for the profound stuff.

Part of me died a bit when you told me that I had to stop calling you Baby Girl. Yes, I know, you were all big and stuff and going to kindergarten with your Barbie back pack but the truth is, you will always be Baby Girl to me. Deal with it!

Never loose your inner balance. I will never forget when you were four and trying yoga for the first time. You leaned over and whispered “Look Auntie, I’ve found my inner balance.” I lost my balance but the loss of concentration and fits of laughter were worth it. Always keep your balance. And breathe. Deep yoga breaths will rescue you.

Always remember to stop and listen to the wind. When it kisses the leaves on trees and blows through the long grass be actively aware that you are a part of a world that will amaze you if you just stop to listen.

Stop cheating at bocce. And footie. And horseshoes. And Mario Cart. Auntie used to lose on purpose so you would know what it was like to win and feel a sense of accomplishment. Now, I can lose just fine on my own. You don’t have to cheat to kick my butt.

I will always love you and be proud of you. We princesses have to stick together!

PS: When you have wings, never be afraid to fly. And dance. And sing. Like no one is looking!

Happy Birthday Jelly Bean

Janelle...

Once upon a time, you were three and this big...

You were so tough Master Sadler asked two of the black belt men to hold boards while you broke them with  your tiny bare feet...

Then you grew up some more...

... and you still looked tough.

As you grew older, you became a little girlier...

Today you are twelve and have become a little woman...

And now for some advice on this important birthday...

Be you.  Most of the heroes you have right now are children who have been pimped by their parents to companies like Disney.  And I know you are watching them fall, one by one.  Don't design who you are based on how you are marketed to by companies like Disney.  You are way smarter than that.  You have already forgotten that Duff kid and Miley Cyrus is pretty much a skank who is dead to you.  Don't let who you are about to become be based on a passing phase.  And yes, Justin Bieber will be a cringe worthy memory some day in the not too distant future.  For really.  Don't believe me?  Two words.  Jonas.  Brothers.

I know you are an honours student who has never had a grade lower than a B.  You are super smart but there may come a day when the grade you get is a C.  Do not let that be the end of your world or overshadow the success you have already achieved.

Real friends will never use you as an ATM machine or a door mat.

Never settle.  Not in choosing jeans, not in love, not in anything.  Ever.

Take the high road.  Even if it gives you a nose bleed and altitude sickness.

Read every day.  Write and draw when  you are inspired.  Dance like no one is watching you.  When you are playing  your guitar or clarinet, slow down.  Hit the notes and the spaces in between.  The spaces are just as important as the notes.

Always cook with love.  Even if it is just toast and peanut butter.  Food always tastes better when it is made with love and the people you are cooking for will always know the difference.  Even if it is just toast and peanut butter.

Integrity.  Dignity.  Self respect.  Self worth.  Truth.  You are entitled to these things and you never have to apologize for that.

Listen to your body.  When you are sick, rest.  When you are tired, go to sleep.  When you are happy, sing out.

Just because a boy may like you, it does not mean you are obligated to like him back or be his girlfriend.  It is okay to be flattered by the attention, but waiting for the right boy is always worth it.

Boys hate lip gloss.  To them its just plain sticky, smelly, and gross.

And have a very merry very Happy Birthday!

PS:  I love you dearly, but if I ever catch you causing trouble or getting wasted (booze and drugs both count), the consequences are really going to suck for you.  Like epic suck.  Like the kind of suck that will make anything cops do seem like a slap on the wrists and a pat on the head.  Ya, you should be afraid.  Just sayin' ;)

Random Sauce, Part One

I am not a fan of Justin Bieber.  I want to fill my ears with concrete whenever I hear his voice.  But I was absolutely a fan of what he did when someone hacked his Facebook or Twitter account (does it really matter which one it was?  No.).  The Biebs tweeted the phone number of the kid who hacked his account and said something like, "Yo its Justin, call me."  And the fans got the Bieber Fever.  Say hacker boy, has your phone stopped ringing yet?

~~~~~

If you have extensions or a weave, please do the following: pay the money to get it done properly and wash that shit regularly because I am tired of smelling your nasty stank, especially when you try to stand on top of me.

~~~~~

Stop standing on top of me.  This is my space.  You have your own.

~~~~~

Understand that when you speak to me like I am stupid, I am going to call you out on it.  Every time.  I am not an idiot, I am not "special needs" and even if I were, I do not need to be spoken to like I have the i.q. of dirt.

~~~~~

Yelling a conversation across the hall to a co-worker who has an office that is less than fifteen feet away from you makes me want to get homicidal on your lazy, fat, chair-bound ass.  Pick up the phone or get up and speak to them.  Enough with the noise pollution.

~~~~~

Want to see crazy?  Hang out near a bank's ATM machine at 6:30 AM.  Cuh.  Ray.  Zee.  Don't ask how I know, just know that I do.

~~~~~

Wordless Wednesday