Theraflu Tastes Like Warm Vomit

A little bit about me: I have an awful cold and have been in bed the last three days ill and deliriously shouting out non-sequitors like : I was born in a canoe; My hair tastes like candy canes; Phil Collins is allergic to peanuts.

Let's fast forward to today: my friend Lindsey suggested that I try some magical medicine called Theraflu to get better quicker. As such I made the four-block trek to Walgreen's and feasted my eyes on the packaging that said "Severe Cough and Cold." While reaching for the box I remembered Lindsey's warnings about the flavors: Only get lemon or citrus... the others are disgusting... remember... berry isn't merry.

Well god dammit I forgot the last little jingle she came up with, and sure enough the Severe Cold and Cough was berry flavored. I can honestly say that the flavor would be much more accurate if it were called "warm soothing vomit." I mean, it really truly tastes like vomit. In fact, now I feel like I have to go vomit.

UGH when will the madness end??!?!?!?

Buyer Beware: Grandma Candy Virtually Ignored at Hood Supermarket

As you all may know from a previous post, I have an affinity for grandma candy, Good & Plenty, in particular. I'm not going to point any fingers, (SAFEWAY IN WESTERN ADDITION aka "The Hood"), but not everyone feels the same way. And that hurts.

I was at safeway stocking up on potatoless and beanless soup (truly a challenge) and as I went to the check-out lane i noticed that the candy that my heart yearns for was, well, not in high demand. Only because I took pity on the overflowing number of purple boxes did I purchase one box.

That was my last pleasant memory of the licorice treats. When I got home I opened up the box, full of anticipation like a 5 yr old on Christmas morning. I took my first handful and my god, it was awful. It was like chewing on tar maybe even hardened concrete- i'm not sure which would be worse.

It seems as though the box had been sitting on the shelf for a minimum of 2 years. Are the Good & Plentys victim of the recession? Or a victim of evolving tastes? I suspect the latter of the two -- all the young whipper snappers out and about craving their chili cheese fritos and sour patch kids. It makes me sick to my stomach that the joy that is licorice has gone out of style. At least in the hood.

We must band together if we want to see quality Good & Plentys in the future.

Delicious Oatmeal Spurs Questions

First and foremost, I love oatmeal. But that's not to say I don't grow tired of eating it daily. Maple and brown sugar is my standard, and I don't like to wander. Well, not until last night.

Last night I was perusing the aisles of Whole Foods when a beam of light was shining from above onto (are you ready for this?) CHOCOLATE ALMOND OATMEAL. Oh sweet jesus, I became giddy with this prospect - could it be? chocolate for breakfast? 160 calories? organic?

I'm here to tell you it's all true. It's the most delicious thing ever created. But that is not where the blog ends...

You see, I found myself wondering "who is this Dr. Weil character, and why is he so wonderful with his chocolate oatmeal?" The question led me to this photo:

WHAT???? Why is Dr. Weil naked and hugging a tree?

So many questions. So little answers.

Sweet sweet revenge

If this isn't karma, I don't know what is.

Political commentHATEr and rhetorical threat to society, Ann Coulter, has had her hate-spewing jaw wired shut. That's Right!! She is unable to speak (enter "Amen" and "Hallelujah" here)!

While official word is still out regarding how she broke her jaw, I'm going to go out on a limb and guess it was injured while kissing Dick Cheney's ass.

Not only is she unable to verbally attack everything that moves, but she has to postpone recording the audio version of her upcoming book.

Cue: Luck be a ladyyyyy toooooonight http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W6RTIMmJxaQ

God says NO in mysterious ways

It was 3 o'clock on gloomy Monday when I decided to take a stroll outside with my sister from another (albeit shorter) mister, Brittani. We hit up Starbucks despite the money and calorie fairy advising me to do otherwise. Additionally I had a meeting in ten minutes so time was of the essence...

Things quickly went awry as God started working his evil black magic through the barristas. Suddenly they are shouting out that my trusty sidekick and I ordered teas instead of the oh-so-indulgent peppermint mocha twist. After we corrected them of their blatant error we had to wait for them to re-do the orders. Then they screwed up the whipped cream order and gave Britt nothing and me that blasted topping - so there were issues there. Once we had it sorted out we were back on our way...

T-minus 2 minutes to get back to the office. Oh shit, I'm going down in a blaze of glory. I picked up my speed and took advantage of my long legs (extra long with some rockin' heels on today). I was at full stride and near my destination when BLOODY HELL I lost my footing and my delicious peppermint mocha twist erupted in a volcano-like fury all over my jacket and jeans.

Long story short: God doesn't want me to have peppermint mochas. Booo God, boooo.

Welcome Back...

Cue song: welcome back ... welcome back , welcome back, wel-come baaaack (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QVS3WNt7yRU)

God, it feels good to be back. Many thanks to my loyal fans for encouraging me to come out of my four month retirement. I got wrapped up in life and yes, (insert dramatic pause here) love, and as such I was afraid I had become un-funny.

But we all know that's impossible. So here I am (envision me jumping out from behind some large vegetation and holding my hands out like "surprise")!

More to come; stay tuned!

Another Day, Another Dollar, INDEED

Today is my lucky day - I found a dollar laying on the street today in the middle of a crosswalk. I stopped, picked it up, but then was immediately consumed with guilt and paranoia. I held the dollar out, arm extended, pondering what to do next. I looked to my left, nope, doesn't appear I'm on camera. I looked to the right, nope, doesn't appear I'm being watched.

I was kind of holding up pedestrian and automobile traffic as I stood there looking around me, trying to identify possible legal authority in disguise.

Then a stranger brisked by and said "lucky."

I responded, "what do I do with this?"

Her: um. keep it. (now looking at me like I'm crazy)

Me: Oh. Ok. I was raised Catholic. I always feel like I'm doing something wrong.

Her: (already crossed the street- no longer within earshot)

Me: Put the dollar in my pocket and felt like I wasn't sinning. A strange but appreciated feeling, indeed.

Mo' money, Mo' make-up.

To My Number One Fan

"Here's to you... my number one" (Usher reference)

Well, if you're reading this blog and you're NOT my number one fan (details to be divulged soon enough) you should start feeling guilty for taking taking taking and never giving (to me).

Today I got into work bright and early only to find a package at my desk.

Internal thought process:

"Ooooo looky here, a package... hmmm it rattles. A rattle snake? No. Too obvious. Jelly beans? Nah, Easter is long gone. Maybe branded company whistles, or something equally useless to use for recruitment. Wait, why am I still guessing? It's not like Christmas where I have to wait to open it. Alright - here goes..."

Well, my friends. I opened and it was two giant movie theatre-style boxes of Good and Plenty's (see previous blog posting on Grandma Candy) with a note reading "keep on blogging :)"

It was my first tangible form of fan mail. I feel like David Cassidy must have felt... receiving gifts from his crazy girl fan base.

To my number one fan: Thanks for the encouragement. I couldn't be as hilarious as I am without fans like you supporting me.

To all you other freeloaders: Send me something.

The Handshake Heard Around the World

I'm pretty sure the grip on my handshake may be a bit too firm.

A new guy started today, a manly man at that (unlike most PR guys...), and when I shook his hand his fingers CRACKED. I could see in his eyes he was startled, and possibly fearing for his life. I made a joke that clearly wasn't funny and followed it up with, "Laugh at my jokes, the other new guys doesn't." Ummm. Not so much a smooth move.

I'm a bone-crushing, man-eating machine. Wah Wah

Caught in the Act

Today I was caught doing an ab work-out at my desk with an exercise ball. Yes, I have an exercise ball at my desk, it's green, and it's all I have in this world.

For a deeper look into my psyche, read on:

I work too much. So much, in fact, that it has been impossible to go to the gym this week. What's a girl to do? Well, I think doing crunches while on a conference call is the perfect answer to this dilemma.

So today, I was sitting on my trusted ball at the computer getting an email out, but taking the opportunity to do some ab exercises in between paragraphs. I mean, no shame or blame in that! Soooooooooo as I was wrapping up, I hear "Is that what you do all day?"

Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun.

It was a VP from the L.A. office, a woman I have only met once. Because I suck at lying I just answered "Yes, as a matter of fact. Well this and work at the same time, of course." I was waiting for the tongue-lashing, but no. Instead, I could almost swear there was light suddenly shining on her. She lit up and said, "I just started working out with a personal trainer. That's a great idea."

Ohhhhhhhh yeah. Makin' moves. Bold moves.

The Black Sheep

The following story is sad, but true. Names have been altered to conceal the individuals identities.

My co-worker "Ashlee," recently shared with me her disheartening discovery of her father's professional biography. Please note "Ashlee" is the youngest of two daughters in her family. Please also note that Ashlee is not the sister that went to Yale. Read on.

The last sentence of her dad's bio, which is used for all work-related purposes reads: "Bob" has two daughters. One of which he is quite proud of, is a lawyer in the entertainment/cable industry and she went to Yale. I do not recall what his other daughter does, but she went to Boston University.

Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurn.

Excuse Me, Are You Russian?

Tuesday morning, 8 a.m., on the bus :
Middle-aged asian woman: Excuse me, can I ask where you are from.
Me: I have disappointing news; Minnesota.
Middle-aged asian woman: Oh, I was certain you were from Russia.
Me: I honestly get that all the time. What makes you think that?
Middle-aged asian woman: You just have a very distinct eastern europe look.
Me: (Heavy sigh), yeah. That's not helpful at all.

Ok, let's re-group:
A couple of things come to mind. First of all - is this appropriate to you? In what world would it be Ok for me to walk up to her and say, excuse me, are you from China? You just look very
Chinese. Honestly. Second, even if I said "why yes, I'm from Russia" what was she going to follow that up with?? Clearly she was not from Russia-- it's not like we could bond over where our favorite bakery is in Moscow.

Enough is enough. From the moment I moved to San Francisco (Approx 2 years and 2 months ago), I have been hounded by strangers, insisting I am Russian. I mean, this literally happens a minimum of four times a month. I kid you not. On the bus, in line at Starbucks, at the bar (mostly at the bar), shopping, etc. In fact, on Saturday I was at a bar and a very gay (so clearly not a pick-up line) black man stopped grabbed me as I was exiting to ask me what part of eastern europe I was from. When I informed him that I was from the great U S of A he followed up with : what ethnicity are you? OK - AGAIN -- let's flip the roles here, my friends. "Excuse me sir. What part of Africa are you from? Oh, you're from California? Oh, ok. Well what part of Africa did your ancestors come from?" I just feel like that wouldn't fly. Am I wrong?

I mean, sure, I walk with a certain level of authority, possibly giving off a Stalin-esque vibe. But it's not like I walk around with a fur hat on, or, you know, doing some sort of Russian dance.

Baffling, indeed.

Leftover Cupcakes

Before I proceed with my hilarity, let me apologize for taking quite the vacation from my blog. To my many fans that wrote in and voiced your concerns: Thank you for keeping me on my toes, and I assure you that letting you, the fans, down truly upsets me.

Moving on.

Soooooooooo Thursday was my birthday! Hooray! Well some rockin' coworkers brought in all sorts of balloons and delicious "Kara's Cupcakes." As there were extra cupcakes and I was leaving the office early, I decided to give back to the community, if you will, and distribute the two left over cupcakes to a well-deserving homeless person.

I was so excited to start my journey. I eagerly skimmed the streets for someone down-and-out that could use a cupcake to cure them of their unhappiness. I became weary as I had walked 6 blocks, and found NO ONE. Since when can someone walk 6 blocks in San Francisco and not see a homeless person? Ugh. I was getting quite upset. My birthday was nearly ruined when I smelt an unpleasant scent (human smells). I reluctantly followed my nose, and was indeed led to a homeless man. He was JUST approaching the garbage can. I could tell he was about to make a dive, and I could save him the trouble and hand him some delicious sugar.

Well, the thing is, as I approached him, I noticed he was using the garbage not for food, but rather, as a place to pee. I of course didn't notice that until I was close, and noticed his, um.... thing .... out in the open.

I was quite distraught. This man was clearly not the man I was supposed to offer my bday cupcakes to.

I slumped my shoulders, hung my head, and slowly shifted my feet along the pavement, ready to give up. BUT WAIT- there was another man in the distance sitting 'indian style' (is that politically correct? I doubt it. But how else do you describe it??) I excitedly skipped over to him and loudly inquired, "Do you like Cupcakes?!??!?!?!" he dully replied, "Sure." Not quite what I was looking for... but I let it slide. I handed him the cupcakes, gave myself a pat on the back for not a) just eating them all myself and b) not demanding he sing Happy Birthday to me first.

I must say, I've matured quite a bit over the last year. Indeed...

Printa X

3:15 p.m. is typically the dullest time of the day, but not today, my friends... not today.

I had just started to fall asleep with my eyes open when I heard some sweet beats blastin' behind me. It was some new-age hip-hop (if that's possible). Before I knew it, I was tappin' my foot, bobbin' the head and waiting for the lyrics to begin. I figured my co-worker clicked on a YouTube link or something.

But just as I turned around to ask if it was Kanye, Timbaland, or even Vanilla Ice, I discovered it wasn't my coworker at all. It was the XEROX6200DP, aka, the color printer.

I sat back and relaxed until the print job was completed. I shall call him Printa X. The baddest beat-maker around.

Finger Painting

I went to the beach today with some friends to get some sun. Being the golden goddess that I was, I reluctantly put on 15 SPF sunblock mid-way through the tan session (only because of my fear of wrinkles and aging). Anyway, a quickly slapped some sunblock on, only to later realize I did an awful job.

First of all, I am completely red. One would describe the color of a tomato as "light red" in comparison to my skin. Also- I really should have asked for my friends to rub in the sunblock on the shoulders- as you can literally see my own hand print on each shoulder blade.

It's like those finger paintings - where little kids put their handprints on paper (and is inevitably later made into a father's day t-shirt or shitty coffee mug) You know what I'm talking about? Anyway- it's like that, but WHITE adult-sized hand prints on my shoulders.

I'm thinking of putting blush over the hand prints tonight when i go out--- hoping to blend it all together

I Like Grandma Candy

I really love that candy Good & Plenty. You know the one? The purple and white licorice candy?

Well I flippin' love it! But it's quite hard to find around here... some sources say it's a "grandma candy" and that's why it's not in San Francisco. But you know what? I see grandmas allllllll over the place. I mean, I just blogged about a dance party with a grandma the other night.

And what makes it a grandma candy? I mean, my grandma had candy, but I'll tell you right now she didn't have those little delights lying around. Nope, all grandma had lying around was shitty bridge mix (you know- the chocolate covered peanuts and raisins and stuff)and potatoes. Yep, potatoes. My grandpa (sneaky bastard) always said : It's CANDY!! I knew better. Even as a three-year old I knew that man was up to no good. Potatoes as candy = blasphemy.

Ugh, I'm getting off track. The point is: I heart Good & Plenty. And if loving grandma candy is wrong, then I don't want to be right.

The Homeless Guy that Saved Father's Day

Today I witnessed a Good Samaritan at work. A homeless man, who was really drunk on the 40 he was carrying around, was walking around the streets of San Francisco reminding everyone that it was indeed Father's Day.

"Have you called your father to wish him a Happy Father's Day?" is what he said when he approached me. Because I'm admittedly self-centered, I thought he only reminded me because I was special in some way. But no, I later observed him peering in store doorways, stopping at sidewalk cafes, and looking down at the dogs tied up to meters to reminding all to call our dads.

Drunk Homeless Guy: I salute You.

(Oh, and I'm really sorry I didn't give you any change. You had me panicked about forgetting it was Father's Day, so I immediately got on my cell phone.)

Bon Voyage, Phyllis!!

Today is filled with feelings of joy and sorrow, as Phyllis (former cube mate) has moved to a new building.

I am playing a video montage through my head of all the good and bad times we shared together. There were cheezits, stories of family genetic history, and loud breathing. Come to think of it, we didn't share much happiness together at all, but at least she gave me some good content for the blog. (Note: Blog will be less funny now that I have one less person to make fun-of consistently)

But let us put our differences aside on this blessed day, Phyllis. I honor you today.

Godspeed.

Dance Party

Last night I was walking home on a sports bar-ridden street at about 9:15 p.m., right after the Lakers and Celtics game and I found myself in the middle of an impromptu dance party.

The participants, however, were not the usual suspects.

Suspect A:

A mid-twenties, long-limbed, awkward Pakistani man who clearly could not hold his alcohol.

Suspect B:

An 80-85 year-old woman, approximately 5 feet tall frail lady with a little bonnet over her white hair, carrying a bag of groceries.

Suspect A, a clear Lakers fan, was parading through the street with his friends, dancing and doing twirls while singing. He and Suspect B crossed paths and he decided to dance up against her. As I was walking behind her, I had the perfect view of this shit show unraveling, but I was pleasantly surprised to see the grandma start dancing WITH him!

Oh sweet Jesus, it was an awesome site. I didn't know if she was also a Lakers fan, or if she just wanted to get down and dirty, but she had some serious hip movement. The story would have been so adorable if that was the end. But it's not.

Suspect A's dancing began to appear more like stumbling, and after a few seconds of blissful dance moves, drunken Suspect A lost his balance and fell on top of Suspect B. I, thankfully, was there to hold up Suspect B.

As Suspect A walked away I said to Suspect B, "I think he had too much to drink." She nodded, smiled and then said, "and that's the way it should be."

Awesome.

Attachment to Hairspray?

I woke up this morning holding a bottle of hairspray in my right hand and snuggling it against my face.

Was I sleep-walking? Was I sleep-hairstyling? Was I sleep-shopping at Walgreens?

I'm so confused. But my hair did look damn-good...

If You're a Doctor, You're Screwed

Today I'm going to do something I've never done before... I am going to post something that actually has statistical backing.

A study presented at the American Pain Society meeting has found that one in 20 patients have had the urge to kill their doctor. The survey questioned 800 Americans who were in pain, undergoing physical rehabilitation or seeking legal compensation for disability to find out their attitude towards their GP (general practitioner). Even in the control group who were not being treated for any pain, 2 percent said they had previously had the urge to kill their doctor.
UMMMMM is anyone else concerned about this? Let's break it down.

5% of patients cited in an actual scientific survey that they wanted to KILL aka MURDER their doctors. Disturbing much?

Even peeps in the control group wanted to kill their doctor.

I feel sad about humanity. But more importantly, I'm happy I was blessed with bad math genes, and hence too stupid to become a doctor.

Cookie is Live, but not Well

Breaking news:

Cookie is going to live. The ant poisoning really did a doozy on his stomach, he has a "strained face" when he's trying to have bowel movements.

He has to be on a very strict "innovation" diet (not sure what that is, but I'm sure I'll hear the details soon), and is now taking steroids.

I wish Cookie a safe recovery.

Smooth Jazz Makes the World Go 'Round

For those of you that take public transportation (no, airport shuttle does not count), you know that taking the city bus or subway is a place where you stepped on, sat on, screamed at, or at least find yourself judging other people's inabilities to wash themselves. Simply put, it's the most annoying part of the day. Well not today, my friends... not today...

As I boarded the 30x bus this morning I was greeted by one cool-cat bus driver, "Goooooooood morning, miss!" In addition, he was jamming some serious tunes. This wasn't just any music - it was smooth jazz.

I thought good for this guy, bringin some music for himself... but as I went to the very back of the bus I realized that either his secretly stored boom box had some serious range, or he had rigged the speakers on the bus to blast the saxophone melodies.

Note that city bus speakers are only used to verbally heard passengers like cattle: "For the convenience of the passengers, please move to the back of the bus," "Please reserve the front seats for seniors and persons with disabilities," etc.

But today, none of these messages were played. The bus driver preferred the sweet sounds of Kenny G. And so did I.

Keep Cookie in your Prayers

My arch-nemesis "Phyllis" (middle-aged, Cheezit-loving, loud-breathing cube mate) has already exceeded her average number (9) of daily personal calls.

The increase in calls can be attributed to her god-forsaken cat Cookie. Typically I listen to her personal life unfold throughout the day: her nephew's low-income housing applications, her husbands sleep schedule (lately he's been waking up at 1 p.m.), her grocery shopping list (cherries are on special at Safeway), her colonoscopy test results, etc etc. But lately, Cookie has been the special topic.

Cookie, formerly known as Pin Dragon, is her recently adopted Siamese cat.

I have some bad news: Cookie stopped moving this weekend. From the stories she tells I assume it looked like the cat pictured above.

Today, Cookie was taken to the vet, where they discovered he had devoured ant poisoning.

Stay posted to learn more about Cookie's pending death.

A Stranger Sat on Me... Seriously

Disclaimer: I do not have a pre-existed prejudice against obese people. The story below only illustrates one incident, and should not be interpreted as a hate-story against any group of people.

Anddddddddddd we're back:

I was on the bus this morning to go to work and sat at the very front. I was enjoying my ride until an extremely extremely extremely obese person boarded the bus and looked at the girl next to me and goes "Excuse me. I need to sit." (annoying). So the girl next to me gets up and this lady sits down - but was way too big to fit into the seat, so she spilled over to my seat. And started like wiggling her ass to get further down into the seat -- coincidentally pushing me out. Before I could even consider an exit strategy, she stood up momentarily and violently plopped back down, half of her body fully ON TOP OF ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! What kills me is she wasn't embarrassed. In fact, she did it on purpose. I know this because she rudely sighed, glared at me, and said "excuse you. I'm trying to sit" I was shocked. That woman had no shame.

Ok- I feel like you don't get it. I feel like you're reading this - and not understanding that a 400 lb person literally took up 1 and 3/4 seats on the bus -- and one of those seats was already occupied by ME.

I saw the look of horror from the other bus riders. I knew they wanted to help - but it was too little too late. My right leg and hip began to go numb (this happened in a matter of seconds). I would have let out a cry for her to have mercy on me, but alas, she took all the air out of me. I finagled myself out from under her and finally broke free.

I'm still experiencing nerve damage.

You Know You Suck at Your Job When....

... your co-worker sends you the above e-card in response to you incoherent work emails.

Stop Eating!!!!!!

For those of you that know me (lucky), you likely know I'm a very finicky eater. And even the smell of certain foods can result in an anxiety attack or violent vomiting.

I despise many, many foods. On the most hated foods list appears: Beans, Potatoes and Cheez-its. Yes, Cheez-its. You may know them as the "Big Cheese Taste." But I know them as 26 by 24 mm of hell.

Well guess who loves those sharp yellow cheese crackers? My loud-breathing, loud-eating junky Phyllis look-alike neighbor. Seriously, who the F eats Cheez-its at 8 a.m.???? The stench makes me gag and not only do I smell it, but I HEAR it.

I hear her pudgy little fingers reaching in the box getting a grip on a giant handful. I hear her loudly breathing through her nose while she shoves the food in her mouth, And I can hear those crunchy snack bites melting away in her mouth.

I can't take it. But what do I say? "Hi. Can you stop eating? It really bothers me."

I'm putting on my ipod now. Ti's my only hope for sanity...

Shamed at a Graveyard

While most of you likely spent the day either drinking or sobering up, I was up bright and early yesterday at a Memorial Day ceremony at the Fort Mason cemetery.

Before you start thinking I'm patriotic or a good person in general, let me tell you that I started wandering during the ceremony and stumbled upon some old cars. Because I've lived a sheltered (albeit good) life, I thought these old 1940s cars were just especially shiny for no reason and it was my duty to open the doors and jump in. You know... get in the war spirit... go back to the WW2 days...

Old patriotic-dressed woman in other shiny car: "PPPPPLLLLLEAASEEE don't touch the cars!!!!!!!!"

Just-as-old man with a thick NON patriotic accent: "YEAH!! How would you like it if I broke into your car????!?!!"

Confused Sassy Chica (slowly walking towards them): "oh, I wouldn't like that at all... I.. I .. didn't know..."

Just-as-old man with a thick NON patriotic accent: "That's what I thought. SHOW SOME RESPECT!"

Still confused sassy chica: "I'm really sorry, I... I just saw you guys in this car and so I thought it was ok to get in...I ... I didn't know..."

Old patriotic-dressed woman in other shiny car: "WE OWN THIS CAR!!!!! Show some respect!!"

Sassy chica: "Ok, you know what? I said I'm sorry, I didn't know, and you really need to stop with the attitude."

After I said my peace I felt so shamed by my elderly forefathers that I started crying out of pure guilt. Yes. Me. Shamed to tears... I of course exited the cemetery as soon as possible to avoid all sympathetic "oh, did your grandpa die in the war?"faces.

Cue taps.

Satanic Snack Packs

"Oh, 100 calorie snack packs! CUTE!"

Oh, how naive I once was...

Back then (last week), I didn't know the dangers of these individually wrapped crack-laced snacks. Safeway had a special and I grabbed two $5 boxes: One was Ritz cracker/chips, the other chocolate covered pretzels.

*Note: Quotations mark beginning and end of inner dialogue

I opened the first little bag "Ooooooo these are delicious!! And only 100 calories!!"

2 seconds later, "Shit. They are gone. There were like four in there. Well, I'll have one more bag, it's only 100 calories."

30 minutes later: "Ugh. I'm still hungry. If only I had a snack nearby... Oh wait!! Those 100 calorie snack packs... that would be a great idea- and they are sooo tasty."

30.5 minutes later: "F word. I just had three snack packs in thirty minutes. That's 300 calories. That's more than a candy bar -- stupid snack packs! I hate you."

1 hour later: "Stop staring at me, snack pack!! I already had three of you today!! I don't want anymore!!"

1 hour and 1 minute later: "Ah, what's one more?"

1 hour and 1.5 minutes later: "I cant believe I did it again. I am throwing these evil doers away!" (two remaining snack packs in hand... my hand shaking over the garbage....) "I can't do it, I'll need a snack tomorrow. I'll just finish them then and never buy them again."

2 hours later: "Ugh, I'm going to the gym right after work -- I'm still hungry. I should really eat more for lunch. Hmmm I should get something so I don't die working out... (eyes glancing down at my drawer) ... hmm maybe I have some fruit in this drawer (even though I know I don't)... (slowly opening drawer, peering inside) ... Drats, only snack packs inside.... Welllllll, I mean, at this point I may as well have the whole box"

2 hours and one minute later: "I vow to never buy those again. They are EVIL"

Next Day: Off to Safeway to buy more snack packs.

What My Legs Have in Common with Dick Cheney's Quail Hunting Friend

As a previous blog posting reports, I do not currently have a functioning right hand. This means shaving my legs is more like self-mutilation than personal upkeep.

My legs look similar to Dick Cheney's friend's (Harry Whittington) face after he was hit with birdshot pellets. I'm happy to report I have not yet suffered a silent heart attack from these wounds. If only Harry had been so lucky...

How Not to Open a Beer Bottle

This past weekend was the craziest day of the year in San Francisco: Bay 2 Breakers.

For those of you that are unfamiliar, I'll sum it up: 20,000 people who are either naked or costumed (normal dressers NOT allowed),who all start drinking at 7 a.m., and drink throughout the 7 mile course through the city, many wheeling behind them kegs or shopping carts full of sweet sweet nectar.

On this shit-show of a day, I lost one of my greatest gifts: my ability to type and bring laughter to the world.

As I type before you, I type one-handed, like one of my past bosses who was 34, but still never learned how to type.

The incident happened at approximately 10 a.m. Sunday morning, after 3 hours of vodka. My severely intoxicated friend stole beer bottles from someones shopping cart and gave one to me. I found myself bottle opener-less, and decided to open the bottle by taking it in my hand, and smashing it against the curb.

Yep. I'm officially the dumbest person in the world.

As 99% of you know, that resulted in having the entire bottle blow up in hand, causing glass to shred all five fingers and the palm of my hand. But a true warrior, I pressed on, kept drinking (and bleeding), and literally took the shirts from the backs of others to wrap my hand.

Sunday I was a hero. Today I am a fool; a one-handed fool.

New York doesn't think I'm funny

I can understand your confusion regarding the title.

You're thinking: How could anyone NOT find you funny?

I'm thinking: exaaaaaaaaaaaactly.

But here are the hard facts, folks: I have five colleagues that work in NY and they legitimately NEVER laugh or even respond to my very funny commentary on conference calls or via email. When I'm on the phone with them I try to make small talk, or make a hiiiilllllaaarrrious comment, and there are crickets. Nothin. Sometimes, I'm so shocked, I actually become convinced we became disconnected. I say things like "Hello? This thing on?" "Oh, guys, you must have cut out," "call me back when you have a good connection."

They respond dryly: "No. We're here."

Booooooooooooooo

Frappuccino and Protein Shake: Not Synonomous

Myth: A frap is the same as a protein shake.

Myth: It's healthy and borderline-normal to drink a frappuccino while working out.

Fact: A frap has 5,000 calories and is probably the worst thing in the world to drink while working out

Fact: I was at my gym two days ago, and there was a young blond woman, seemingly normal, pretty fit, drinking a venti sized frappuccino with whipped cream out of a straw whilst working out on the elliptical machine.

Fact: I was horrified.

I'm Not Angry...

Recently I have received some feedback that my blog gives off the impression that I am an angry person. Oh really? Would an angry person have a monarch butterfly on their blog? I didn't think so...

What about a rainbow? What do you say about that?

Puppies. Lots of puppies. Butterflies, rainbows, and puppies. Life is gooooood. La da deee la da daaaaaaaa.

Unwritten rule: Don't put your breast milk in the office fridge

Cue Song: "One of these things is not like the other..."

I'm going to give you a list of things I found in our office communal fridge today - and you have to guess which item doesn't seem to belong there. Ready?
dafd

Avocado, Sandwich, Leftover Chinese Food, Salad Dressing, Yogurt, Pre-packaged Salad, Mustard, BREAST MILK IN A BABY BOTTLE, String Cheese.

dfasd

Ok, did any of those look unusual to you? Perhaps, one of them struck you as not being appropriate for a communal fridge in a professional office setting?

adfasf

A note to the socially inept culprit: Really? Is this what it's come to? You feel THIS comfortable and self-righteous that you think your colleagues will marvel at breast milk for your god-forsaken child? And why is the bottle at work? Clearly your baby is not here. Please, oh PLEASE do not tell me your pumping in your office and then bringin' the goods to the kitchen.

That milk is one hungover idiot away from being in someones coffee this morning.

Gary Had His Way with Me

Let me start by saying sorry to my brother... his friends call him Gary as a joke, but I assure you, this has nothing to do with him.

Now that we've cleared that up: Gary, is an unassuming middle-aged, sweet, Chinese man. Gary's downfall: his love of color, hair color that is.

I went to my colorist, Gary on Sunday... seemed like a nice day to get a few highlights, spruce things up a bit. What I did not understand is that visiting Gary, on this very Sunday would leave me looking like this:

That's me... the blond girl. That's what I look like now. Gary had his way with me as his muse ... and now I walk away looking like a blond L.A. sex kitten. And we all know that L.A. is the portal to hell... so this is not good.

Hello, is it me you're looking for?

Hello? Is it me you're looking for, earring?

I've lost one of my bangin' gold hoop earrings, which has left me looking like a dirty pirate hooker. Come backkkkkkkkkk

About you: You are half of my fav pair of earrings. You are a beautiful gold hoop with a tiger eye stone dangling at the end.

About me: I need you. I've got places to be after work, and I can't possibly go with one earring -- and going without any earrings makes me feel naked.

Perhaps you were abducted. If that's the case, whatever devil woman (suspect pictured below) at work found my amazing earring and decided to keep it for personal gain- I suggest returning it promptly.

Suspect:

You're Not Cool Even If Your Nine Year-Old Says Otherwise

Crocs. What comes to mind?

Here are things that come to my mind:

- NO
- HAHAHA
- Oh, Jesus.
- Put those away
- Do you get blisters?

Here is what I do NOT think of:

Imagine how shocked and appalled I was to see a well-groomed 40 year-old man in a suit get off the bus wearing... CROCS. Are you understanding me? A nice black suit, with CROCS on!!!!
I hung my head, took a moment, and counted my blessings. I was never raised to think such fashion disasters were acceptable.

Let's all take a moment and bow our heads...

You Win, You Always Do...

The bear-shaped honey bottle and I had yet another stand-off today. When the jar was full of honey, all was right in the world. But as more and more honey is consumed, it take 3 hours to get anything out of the bottle, and then it the cap gets glued shut, etc etc.

The delay in honey coming out of the jar causes much impatience on my part, and as a result I do a lot of angry shaking of the bear.

Apparently the bear had enough, and today he retaliated. He got so mad the top of his head exploded off, and there is now honey in my keyboard. I attempted to wipe it up with a kleenex- which was probably the dumbest thing I've done (today).

The honey proceeded to get thinner from the heat of the computer and melted quicker in the cracks of the keys. The bear had it's way with me. I surrender. I wave my white flag.

Honey Bear: You win, You always do...

War casualties: Space bar, Alt key and Ctrl key.

I'm Watching You Watching Me

Get this: There is a bathroom scale in the women's bathroom in my new office space. Does this scream "eating-disorder-waiting-to-happen" to anyone else? I can feel it's beady eyes on me every time I go into the bathroom. I refuse to give it any attention (ie: stand on it) but I know someday I'll give in.

It now makes sense why the new neighbors are all skinny bitches that never eat (except the lady that looks like Phyllis -- she eats -- a lot).

Sigh.

Boss's Advice: Don't Be a Slut

You read it right. My boss gave me this advice today. But, let's take a moment and put this all in context.

I had a first date last night, and my boss overheard us talking about it. So she came up to me later and said "sooooooooo how was the date?" I was feeling overly forthcoming, and I answered with "well, it went really well, well I thought it went well -- but he wasn't very affectionate so I'm not sure if he was feelin it (Seriously I dont know why I shared this)."

Her response (WARNING: If you have small children nearby, don't let them read this):

Well, don't be such a slut.

Me: ______________ (no words)

Her: (clearly noting my shock) You know that episode on Sex and the City where Carrie says "Are we all sluts?" Because Aidan won't have sex with her in season 3 when they started dating... and she asked him why... and he said because he was trying to be romantic about dating her....

Me: Oh, well, yeah. I do remember, but... I think this is different.

Her: Well. That's my only advice - don't be a slut.

PS: I'm Alive

Trusty Readers,

I have to apologize for scaring you all with post about my made-up encounter with death. What I thought was funny and "One Sassy Chica-dramatic" was perceived by others to be disturbing and, well, just not that funny. As such, I think it's important to let you all know:

I AM ALIVE!!!!!!!

I vow to never write a similar post unless I'm actually dying.

Please accept my apologies, and let me remain as your fearless blogging leader.

Loud Breathers Bother Me

I recently moved desks, and now sit across from a loud breather. A loud breather can do one or all of the following:

a) Many heavy heavy sighs like every 3 minutes

b) Breathing through the nose constantly -- and so loud that it can easily be mistaken for a snore

c) Eat loudly- This isn't just loud chewing - this is inhaling loudly through the mouth and nose while taking in a giant sandwich. And then doing cardio exercises out the nostrils while chewing.

This lady is driving me nuts. I know it's petty, but there is NEVER silence because she's always breathing. I know I know -- breathing is normal and encouraged, but not when it sounds like THAT. In addition she is on the phone ALL DAY talking about her kids and husband, all of whom seemingly have very bad genetics:

-son has diabetes and she checks up on him every thirty minutes (keep in mind this woman is definitely over 50 which means her son is some poor 30yr old who has his mom calling saying "check your sugar" constantly)

-daughter has chronic diarrhea (which I have heard all the details about). She talks about consistency and everything. Holy shit its disgusting (no pun intended)

-husband might need a kidney. he has ANOTHER (that's how she says it) appointment with the urologist tomorrow. She has been calling people all day leaving messages saying "I have some bad news about Dwayne. Well, I'll likely have bad news tomorrow after his appointment."

The only cool think about her: She looks like Phyllis on The Office.