So the Fish Said...

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear.

- Walt Whitman

Meet the Fish

I want to get a pet duck and keep it in the bathtub.
I am addicted to chap stick and altoids.
I am freakishly flexible.

World's Most Beautiful Child


World's Most Handsome Child


Other Important Things

Clive Owen

Clive Owen
Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend

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so the fish said...
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Tea and Sympathy

I was going to title this post `Yippee for Snot" but I decided against it. I liked the title so much I had to share it with you anyway. I am not, however, going share the Snot Song and Dance Routine that I performed a few hours ago in our upstairs hall to the delight and amusement of my husband because some things? Are private.

That said, I'm finally feeling a little better today. A little better in that I still feel basically like hell on a stick, but at least I have recovered enough that I can make up songs about it. I will tell you a little secret. When I'm sick, I am a sad and whiny little girl. I complain so much you would almost think that I'm a man. Anyway, great progress has been made. I showered. I did my hair (well, sorta). I've been wearing actual real clothes all day instead of pajamas. I went to the dentist. Trust me, if you already feel like crap you may as well go ahead and go to the dentist because it can't get much worse. (On an aside, which I swear will be short because I am trying really hard to stick to a topic today, my new dentist is a woman. I guess that my dentists have always been men, so this issue never came up before. It distresses me a little that when my dentist is checking my teeth her breasts are pushed up against the side of my face. I have nothing against breasts, I just feel like I don't know her well enough for that.) I have also accomplished actual work today. I have been accomplishing actual work the entire time I've been sick, but today I'm finally alert enough to have a clue what I'm doing. I guess sooner or later I'd better figure out what it is I've been doing the last few days. But if it were really bad, somebody would have caught it, right?

Forget that one topic thing - time for another tangent. For some reason, I have a major aversion to using contractions when I write. I have to go back and edit things to add the contractions so I don't sound like a robot or snob. (Ok, more of a snob.) I blame my third grade teacher for drilling into my head that contractions had no place in formal writing. I also blame her for the fact that I never learned the multiplication tables and to this day have to count on my fingers for 6 times 7 and 7 times 8.

That's enough - I have 600 lines left to review on the 8000 line spreadsheet that's due today. Wanna play a game? Question 1: How long have I had this spreadsheet? Question 2: When did I start working on it?

(Answers: Q1: A week and a half. Q2: 8:00 this morning.)

What was my name again?

Does taking decongestants make you feel like the ass end of a three day drunk, or is that just me? Also, have you noticed how I am all into making lists lately? It saves me the trouble of having to be coherent for more than a few sentences at a time. In that spirit, here are the Top 5 Reasons Why Working From Home is Good.

- You can sleep late and still start work on time. (Although this is theoretical for me since I haven't slept more than 30 minutes at a stretch in 3 days.

- Forget business casual. The dress code is flannel pjs.

- Your coworkers are lovely.

- Responding to IMs from your boss is virtually indistinguishable from actually working.

- TiVo.

On another and totally unrelated subject, I would like to send a big old "Fuck You" out to the spammer who hit my site yesterday. You think you're so cute, huh? Posting hundreds of messages on my blog? Well my friend, I have a genius rock star husband and therefore also now have MT Blacklist and I can't wait to try it out on the next fuckwad to come along. Bring it on baby, bring it on.

Two things guaranteed to cure what ails ya'

A sweet husband.

Strawberry pajamas.

Fun things to do when you are sick

Keep your husband awake all night. If you can't sleep, why should he?

Take 30 minutes longer than usual to get ready in the morning and have no idea where the time went.

Give up on your hair halfway through. The rat's nest look is in.

Drool a big stripe of toothpaste down the front of your shirt. Don't bother to change.

Stand at the front door ready to leave for work, but with the sneaking suspicion that you've forgotten something. Ponder for a few minutes. Finally give up and step outside. Decide to go back in and maybe find some shoes.

Dressing and Dinner

Do you ever pick out an outfit in the morning that seems just great when you put it on, but as soon as you get to work realize that it was a horrible, horrible choice? And doesn't even really match? Yeah, me too. Not that I did it today or anything. Really.

The hubby has a work thing tonight, so I'm on my own for dinner. Now this is my idea of dinner.

Employee of the Year

So as I mentioned, I recently received an award from my company for spending all day at work reading blogs. I was touched and moved. Since then, there have been two developments.

1) I have gone from having nothing to do all the live long day other than read blogs and do the Washington Post crossword puzzle, to having no less than three impossible deadlines to meet every single day. Now normally, I am all about impossible deadlines, I eat impossible deadlines for breakfast. These impossible deadlines, however, involve staring at a bunch of data in spreadsheets and doing something or other to it. Sometimes I actually get around to doing something or other, but most of the time I just send an email saying "I have reviewed the HEOUFJNS report and have no disputes at this time." This works really well, and will continue to work really well right up to the day I am fired for incompetence.

2) I received the aforementioned plaque for the aforementioned reward. It is a picture frame. Inside the picture frame is a certificate that says (Company Name) applauds (blank) for (blank). In these blanks, someone has taken the time to print my name in the "applauds" blank and the date in the "for" blank. My name? Is misspelled.


People, this may be the very definition of geek. Right now, this very minute as I type this, my husband and I are sitting side by side on the couch with our laptops using our fancy-dancy new wireless network to IM each other.

Things on his side of the couch are going pretty well. The weather on my side is a little chilly.


I'm waaaay too tired to write anything. How tired am I? I'll give you a class-participation demonstration. Ready? Ok - first step is to sort of pooch your lips out like you just got a triple dose of botox. Got it? Good. Now, take your index finger and stick it sideways between your lips. Perfect. And for the final step, move your finger up and down and say it with me: "Hbub-badub-badub-badub." That's it! That's how tired I am. Zzzzzzzz.

Before and After

Actually, just after. I was going to post a before picture too, but:

1) You really can't tell the difference, and
2) I looked like a goon in the before picture.

Anyway, here I am with my new highlights.

Just one of the reasons work is chapping my ass today

I just got this email:

Dear Beth,

Remember that email I sent you a month ago where I asked you to do that thing? Well, it appears that you have only done exactly what I asked you to do, and not the secret extra task that I communicated to you psychically. I don't understand how you could have so blatantly failed to perform this secret extra task that I never mentioned to you, nor even hinted at.

Random Bitch

Dear Random Bitch,

Bite me.


Dear Internet

I have suddenly realized an excellent new use for this internet thing! It can solve all your problems! From now on, I am turning all of my problems over to the internet. I expect this will be a bit like turning your problems over to god, only with more snarky comments. Don't let me down internet, I'm counting on you!

Dear Internet,

I have a very dear and wonderful friend, we'll call him Lester. (We are calling him Lester because he would hate hate hate being called Lester, and that is the kind of friend I am.) Lester and I have been friends for years, since way back before either of us even considered turning 30 and also since before I was married and I have been married forever so that's a good long time. We clicked immediately the first time we met and have been close ever since. We've had a lot of fun and great times together, and have also gone through a lot of tragedy and pain together. He is closer to me than anyone in the world to whom I am not legally related. (As an aside, Lester is currently dating a woman named Beth. This is very confusing for me, but she flat out refuses to change her name. Some people just have no consideration for their fellow man.)

Here's my problem: Lester believes in his heart of hearts that my birthday is three days earlier than it really is. Last year he sent me a really nice birthday card, three days early. When it came up, I very nicely mentioned to him that I loved the card but that is was, in fact, three days early. We went to lunch last week and the subject of birthdays came up somehow and he proudly announced that he always remembered that my birthday was the 11th. It's the 14th. I really don't care if he is three days or three months off, I am touched that he makes the effort to remember my birthday. My question, dear internet, is whether I should correct him again or just let it go and never mention it again.

Help me, internet, I don't know where else to turn!

Update: It really doesn't bother me that he has the day wrong. My question is, if you were very good friends with someone, would it bother you to find out that you had their birthday wrong for, say, 20 years or something? Should I tell him now to avoid that happening?

Girlie Girl

I'm wearing a skirt today for the third time this week, which is probably the first time I have worn three skirts in the same week since I was six years old. I feel so girlie.

The problem is that while I felt just fine about my legs when I left the house this morning, I have since come down with a serious case of fat-calf-itis.

Sometimes I hate being a girl.


- It's freeeeezing in my office and the fleece I am wearing to stop the shivering does not go with my cute skirt.

- The only thing worse than getting up at 5 to go to the gym is having to clean the litter box and take out the trash before you go.

- I am totally out of office chap stick. I still have nightstand chap stick, kitchen chap stick, car chap stick, black purse chap stick and brown purse chap stick, but the lack of office chap stick is really throwing off my chap stick schedule.

- I am so embarrassed but this spoiled yuppie complaint that I almost left it off, but I am all about full-disclosure. I have to call my cleaning lady and complain that she has not been doing a good enough job because two out of three of my bathtubs are covered in dust. The third bathtub is fine. We have never once used any of our three bathtubs.

- As long as I am already being a spoiled yuppie, the walk-in closet in my bedroom is not big enough to hold all of my clothes and shoes and the overflow closet in the room we use for nothing other than holding clothes and books is also full.

- And finally, my shower caddy frequently collapses under the weight of my sizable collection of only-available-from-a-salon and stupidly expensive shampoos and conditioners so I have to store some of them under the sink when they are taking a break from the rotation.

- Yes I know; that little tiny violin is playing just for me.

Something to ponder

If they had conjoined twins on Celebrity Poker Showdown, would the play one hand or two?

A new book idea, taking bribery to a whole new level, and a guided tour of my neuroses (none of which is funny, better luck tomorrow)

First of all, I have given up on being able to write a post about any single topic or even a series of related topics, so I am going to continue with my habit of stringing together some random thought until I get tired of typing. Deal with it.

A New Book Idea
I am reading Reading Lolita in Tehran and have decided that I should write a book called Reading Reading Lolita in Tehran in Virginia. And then, someone could read my book and write their own book called Reading Reading Reading Lolita in Tehran in Virginia in London, leading of course to Reading Reading Reading Reading Lolita in Tehran in Virginia in London in Moscow and so on. Riveting stuff, I swear.

Taking Bribery to a Whole New Level
You should all run right over to Dawnie's because she is wonderful and brilliant and funny and also because she put me in her cool little purple box thing at the bottom of her post, which makes me very cool because Dawnie is cool so I am cool by association. However, it took more than lipgloss to score a place on Dawnie's blog. I had to offer to take her to Italy. (Confidential to Dawnie: I have decided we should not pack anything at all and just buy all new clothes while we are there.)

A Guided Tour of My Neuroses
I am going to JournalCon next month because my husband made sad little puppy dog eyes at me until I agreed to go. Now people, I do a piss-poor job of meeting people one at a time (because I am a freak, but that is a topic for another post) and the idea of meeting a entire conference worth of people is twitching me out just a bit/ok more than a bit/well yes totally/oh my god! (Strangely, I have no problem whatsoever speaking or singing or tap dancing or just about anything else in front of hundreds of people at a time. I already mentioned I was a freak.) Anyway, I am seriously considering shooting myself in the foot to get out of going. Ok, not really, but I really am considering getting a nasty splinter in my finger or something and seeing if that works. I have decided to present a list of the things that I think are fairly likely to happen at JournalCon so that if I meet you at JournalCon and any or all of these things happen you won't be able to say I didn't warn you.

- I will be unable to open my mouth for any reason for three days and will have to be rushed to the emergency room and treated for dehydration.
- I will be unable to shut my mouth for three days and will tell everyone in attendance my entire life story in great and painstaking and boring detail until someone finally smacks me just to shut me up.
- I will accidentally set off the hotel fire alarm at 3am and everyone will be forced into the street in their pajamas for 9 hours and then the firemen will come out with bullhorns and announce that it was all my fault. And also, then the firemen will never date me.
- There will be a big fancy dinner and everyone else will be beautiful and fabulous and I will inadvertently show up without pants.
- I will trip. Into people. Constantly. Every time I move.
- Every single person I hated in junior high will be there and will spend the entire weekend talking about me; such as "hey, remember what her hair looked like when she was 13?" and "hey, remember how bad she was at volleyball?"
- There will be a Mandatory JournalCon Attendee Volleyball Tournament.
- I will inadvertently show up to the Mandatory JournalCon Attendee Volleyball Tournament without pants.

Consider yourselves forewarned.

Now with 20% more buttcrack!

At yoga last night, I spent the whole class behind Clearly Visible Buttcrack. Of course, this buttcrack did not belong to the cute boy with the nice hair and really good legs. Oh no. The buttcrack belonged to the big pasty grunty guy and was therefore not anything I wanted to see. It was very distracting. I really wanted to yoga my way over to him and whisper in his ear "Dude, namaste and all that, but could you please hike up the shorts?"

However, I did discover that yoga is far more rewarding when you put your mat behind the cutest boy in class `cause then you get to admire his legs for an hour while pretending you are looking in the mirror to check your alignment.

Also! I have developed an Excellent New Plan! I believe that you should always weigh yourself while wearing shoes, and then just subtract the weight of your shoes to arrive at your Actual Correct Weight. For example, my tennis shoes weigh four pounds apiece, so when I weigh myself I have to subtract 8 pounds. Your results may vary. Also I have discovered that the older I get, the heavier my shoes become. Very strange, that.

And finally I would like to report that I look Very Nice today. For most people, that would not be noteworthy, but my usual style is what I would call Presentable (in that my clothes are generally not stained or torn and frequently almost match) so this is an occasion. However, the skirt I'm wearing is really starting to bother me and I may have to take it off, in which case I will not only blow my shot at looking Very Nice, but will also crash all the way through Presentable straight to Fired and Possibly Arrested. But at least my pretty necklace will look good in my mug shots.

Nope, sorry, no idea what is going on today with me and the Random Capitalization.

Nothing. Oh, wait! Nope, false alarm, still nothing.

I've got nothing today people, just nothing. So let's see. here's some boring stuff.

I, Robot is a pretty good movie. King Arthur is a really bad movie. People should not answer their cell phones in the movie theater. No, seriously.

I think I saw John Ashcroft in the parking lot at Giant yesterday. I had tomatoes in my bag and didn't throw even one at him, mainly because I was not positive it was Ashcroft. We were in line behind Dick Gephardt at Safeway once. He was buying lots of newspapers and had no eyebrows. Also one time we had dinner in the same restaurant as the first President Bush and another time I saw Queen Noor in J.C. Penney.

I saw Telly Savalas in LA. He was sitting near the pool playing cards. No lollipop. That was the same time I met and started flirting with a guy from Scotland. He wasn't very cute but I had been stuck with my family for a week and was very very bored so I did it. I think he was a couple years younger than me too. But his parents were really rich, I do have standards.

This is a gorgeous hotel. Gor. Geous. Waaant.

My car was recalled and I had it fixed this weekend. Apparently, they had cleverly wired the driver's side airbag so that if you were in a crash it would blow up really fast and kill you. Saves you from drawn-out pain and suffering and also allows the rescue crews to take their time getting to you. Quite convenient really.

I don't know why, but

My husband looks terribly cute in jeans with no socks.

Things you can do when you are home alone

Eat Chinese food leftovers straight out of the fridge with your fingers.

Lie on the floor in front of the stereo and sing the same song very loudly 14 times in a row. (Jeff Buckley's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah") (Warning, this may cause your cat to run and hide under the bed.)

Not brush your hair until noon.

Dance around the living room with a paintbrush in one hand and a screwdriver in the other. Oh, and no pants. (I recommend closing the curtains first.)

Sneak your shopping bags into the house, cut all the tags off, put everything away, and hide the bags and tags in the garbage.

Lady of Leisure

I am off work today and therefore a Lady of Leisure. Actually, the way my job has been going lately the main difference between going to work and not going to work is that I don't have to do my hair. I was going to say that the difference is that I don't have to change out of my pajamas, but I probably could wear my pajamas to work except that I don't have any shoes to go with them.

I was going to do a bunch of little chores around the house today, but since it is also payday I think I will go shopping instead since I can sneak stuff into the house before Chris gets home.

I forgot to mention yesterday that when they gave me the "We are on Crack and Therefore Love You and Want to Have Your Babies" award, they actually pronounced my last name correctly. My last name is not hard to figure out, but people have a really hard time. The most common thing I get is the phantom "ng" combo thrown in in the middle. Say, for example, that my last name was Bupkis.* What people like to do is call me Beth Bupingkis. Hello? People? Where do you see an "n?" I don't see an "n". And I guarantee there is not a "g" anywhere in my entire very long name.

* This is not my real name, but I really like it and am considering having my name legally changed.

I'd like to thank all the little people

I won an award today for all my hard work. No, seriously. They announced it on a conference call and everything. It went something like this:

Celebrity Presenter:

And this year's Best Impression of a Valuable Employee While in Truth Being a Total Slack-Ass Award goes to.

The envelope please.


Beth, in recognition of your last 4 months of hard work, which consisted almost entirely of blogging, reading blogs, and other random surfing of the internet, while occasionally taking time to look up a few zip codes or showcase your consistently bad attitude, we would like to present you with this special You Rock plaque for you to admire and occasionally dust. In addition, here is a lovely and attractive wad of cash which you may use to buy liquor. Or shoes. We are honoring you with this recognition because we are clearly smoking something and also because your ass looks really good in those pants, which is the only contribution of any value you have made to this company in several months. Congratulations!


Why, thank you Celebrity Presenter.

First, I would like to thank the Company, for not firing me yet and for giving me my very own office with my very own window and my very own door, which I can shut when I really need to focus on reading someone's blog or when it is so funny that I am literally snorting with laughter and do not want to disturb by fellow Faithful Employees.

Many thanks to the US Postal Service for coming up with all those clever and entertaining zip codes which I spent several happy weeks looking up. At least occasionally, when I ran out of blogs to read and nobody was online to chat.

Also, thanks go to my manager for looooving me for no reason whatsoever that I can figure out. Unless maybe it is the cash I slip him under the table. That might be it.

I have to mention San Antonio, TX 75024, Palo Alto, CA 94306, Culver City, CA 90230, and San Jose, CA 95124. None of this would have been possible without you!

But mostly, I would like to thank the Little People. The midgets. The dwarves. The very short men who try to make up for their lack of stature by driving big, loud sports cars. Thank you, Little People!

And last but not least, thanks to My Public for your admiration and love. I deserve it. I do.

Ooh! I thought of one more good thing about today

The Extra Bonus Good Thing
- My cat Callie, who I have had since I was 12, who is therefore very old and also very sick with a bad thyroid and worse kidneys, has not gotten any sicker since January. This is Very Excellent News!

Three good things about today, one bad and one ugly

The Good
- It is an absolutely gorgeous morning. Gor. Geous.
- I am having lunch today with one of my bestest, bestest friends, the Muffin Man.
- I am taking tomorrow off - No Work Friday!

The Bad
- I ran out of chocolate soy protein powder to make my scrummy (not) chocolate soy milk and protein powder breakfast and had to use the "natural" soy protein powder instead. "Natural" soy protein powder tastes like ass.

The Ugly
- I meant to get my toes painted yesterday, I really did. But I did not. And they look really bad. And I wore open-toed shoes today anyway. I have no shame I tell you, no shame.


When I was a kid, I loved this book where one character had a bunch of different hats and kept asking the second character whether he liked that particular hat. The second character hated all the hats until the last one, which was a party hat.

I have googled everything I can think of and I can't find that book. Anyone know what it is?

It's a party hat!

Do you like my hat?

I made it myself.

Hot. Damn.

Tonight as I was leaving work, there on the stairwell with no prior warning was the Most Attractive Man I Have Ever Seen In Person With My Very Own Eyes. I mean he? Was soooo hot. We walked down the stairs together. Well, not together, but close together; and as much as I chewed on my lips I just could not stop smiling. At the bottom of the stairs I went out the door and he turned and walked down the hall.


(Although I would like to point out that while this guy was hot hot hot, he didn't hold a candle to the hubby.)

Look how pretty and nice!

You all should leave me lots of comments now because my comments boxes are all pretty and nice and wonderful and easy to read thanks to Dawnie!

Dawnie! Dawnie! Dawnie!

I think I'm starting to love Dawnie a little bit, but that's ok 'cause I asked her and she doesn't mind.

Never a fashion cop around when you need one

People. You know that white sweater I have? The one with the embroidery on the collar? The one I wear all the time? Why didn't you ever tell me that it's completely see-through? Not see-through in a "Look at that hot mama" kind of way, oh no, see through in a "Look, you can see her flabby belly" kind of way. Now if you will excuse me, I have to go do a million sit-ups and then hide under a rock.

Yoga Wisdom

I learned three important and deep and meaningful things in yoga class tonight.

1) The universe likes to hear positive statements, not negative statements. So intead of saying "I want to have less stress" you should say "I want to feel more peaceful."

2) If your stomach is feeling a bit unsettled, in the sense that you are emitting noxious odors with alarming frequency, perhaps you should reconsider your decision to participate in yoga today. Short of that, you should at least reconsider your decision to put your mat next to me. Pretty pretty please with triangle pose on top?

3) Eighteen year old boys still think I'm hot. I know this because one asked me out. Poor baby.

Walking Man

Every morning on my way to work, I pass a man walking down the side of the road. He is always on the same stretch of road and is always wearing dark slacks, a short sleeve button-down shirt, a sweater vest, and a dark blue, unmarked baseball cap. He carries a satchel slung across his body and over one shoulder and sometimes has a windbreaker tied to the strap of his bag. He is tall and thin. He does not walk very slowly or very quickly. He looks neither happy not unhappy to be walking down the road. He is not trudging along as though this walking were a tiresome chore. In fact, he may have a slight bounce to his step. This bounce, however, seems more his natural gait rather than an expression of any emotion.

The road where I see this man is a busy one - six lanes with lots of traffic. I have never seen another pedestrian. Every time I see him, I try to figure or imagine who he is and why he walks along the shoulder of this road each morning. I think that he must be walking to work. There are a number of businesses in the direction he walks and his clothes could be business casual in an office or perhaps the attire of a supervisor or manager in one of the small factories along this road. He may live nearby, but the nearest residential areas are a few miles from where I see him. He could be coming from a bus, but this is far out into the suburbs and there is very little public transportation. The only bus stops nearby are for the buses that run directly from the Metro to one of the large corporate campuses a couple of miles further up the road. I always see him near a parking lot for a bike path that cuts across the area and I wonder sometimes if he parks his car there before heading off down the shoulder, but that would make little sense.

I find myself building a life for him, and an explanation for his presence. I imagine his family, his history, what sort of work he does. I construct elaborate explanations for why he walks in a place where people only drive. I form opinions about this man based on where and how he walks, what he wears. I wonder what opinions he forms about me as I drive by.

I am tempted, on some mornings, to pull over and offer him a ride to wherever he is going in exchange for his story.

Cucurbita pepo




Oh, did I say that already? Damn.

See, there have been a lot of new people around here the last few days. And see, I? Have this thing? With new people? Where I? Turn into a pumpkin. Seriously. It is like my fairy godmother shows up but she is drunk or mad at me for borrowing her shoes or something and poof! Bam! Bang! I am a pumpkin. (While I'm on the subject, if any of you ever actually run into me, you should totally come say hi and try to talk to me. You will get a good old jolly laugh out of watching me turn into a pumpkin right before your very eyes. It is so much more fun in person.)

Anyway, you know what pumpkins do right? Nothing. No thing. Certainly not talk. Nooooo.

Dum da dum. Dum da dum. Dum da..

Wait! Stop! No more pumpkin! But now what do I do? Talk! Talking is good. I'll tell jokes! No wait, bad idea. What if the jokes aren't funny and nobody laughs and they all just point and go hey get a load of that pumpkin trying to be funny. No jokes.

I've got it! I will be a brainiac! That will be Impressive and Elucidating and Awe-Inspiring! I can be a brainiac on a wide variety of topics, such as Gothic cathedrals or DNS routing or the Sistine Chapel or comparative religion. Or how about Greek mythology? Or just Greek! Yes, that's it! I will speak Greek and you will all be so impressed you will love me immediately and buy me gifts!

No, wait. Bad idea again. Pumpkin. Pumpkin, pumpkin, pumpkin.

So anyway, hello new people. I am happy that you are here and I would give you all great big hugs except that I am having this little pumpkin problem right now and pumpkins have no arms. I will get over myself soon and go back to whining and complaining and posting all the crazy things in my head because I have no shame. And in the meantime, you should check out my blogroll because it is full of truly Impressive and Elucidating and Awe-Inspiring people and you will madly madly love them. Swear.


Whoops. Looks like I have been outed.

If anyone is curious about my rock star hubby, you can find him here.

You can also find lots of pictures of me there, and I just want to go on the record as saying that I am much cuter than that. I am not photogenic. (But vain? Oh my yes.)

My title

As I think I have mentioned, I recently changed jobs. Part of this change is that I now have no freaking idea what my title is. My previous title (according to my latest business cards which came in a box of 500 and of which I have 498 left because other than my mother nobody wants my business card) was Senior Program Manager. That doesn't really apply anymore. I just received an email where someone referred to me as a Senior Staff Splcialist. I love it!

Hi, my name is Beth and I will be your Senior Staff Splcialist today. If you have anything that needs Slpcialing you just let me know and I will Splcial it before you can say Lickety Splc!

I really need to get out of here. Also wine.

Point and laugh, point and laugh

I have hardly humiliated myself at all today, which must mean that it is time for another edition of Bad High School Poetry. Hold on folks, this could get really bad.

Golden (10/27/91)

Come back my Golden
little-girl god
Come back with your simple face
And shining hair
Come see
your flaxen-haired
golden child
Come back to your brown eyed girl
ride straight up from the road to Hell
to the little girl who remembers
riding behind you
with her hands barely meeting
around your waist
hear her delighted terror screams
Come back to her worshipping eyes
Come tell her it wasn't your
give her a lie to believe
her yellow hair turned brown
one august morning

when I saw my golden muse
was gilded

But wait! There's more! Keep going, if you dare...

Continue reading "Point and laugh, point and laugh" »

Why yes, I do think I'm funny

The latest IM with the hubby:

He: brain fart - is it metaphoric or metaphorical?
He: metaphorical, right?
Me: is a brain fart metaphorical?
Me: I suppose
He: no
Me: in that you are making a comparison
He: sorry
Me: but not using like or as
Me: ;)
Me: now, is smart ass metaphorical?
He: is metaphoric or metaphorical the right word
He: ?
Me: come on, I am so funny
Me: either is correct
Me: I am also very smart, so I know that
Me: I totally did not look it up
He: yes, you are indeed funny!
He: lol :-)
Me: that's all I wanted

Today's Helpful Hint

No matter how late you are for work, do not try to sew your pants while you are wearing them. If you cannot make the needed repair with a safety pin or masking tape, you may have to break down and wear different pants. And don't give me any lip about wanting to wear those particular pants because we all know that you have 15 nearly identical pairs of black pants hanging in your closet and at least a third of them do not make your ass look huge. I also don't want to hear any whining about having to change your shoes, since we all also know that you own more shoes than some entire countries. Also your boss is 4 states and one time zone away so will not even notice if you are 15 minutes late so would you just get over yourself and change your stupid pants already!

"Today's Helpful Hint" brought to you by Beth the Happy Homemaker who is Still Bleeding From Where She Stuck Herself With That Fricking Needle.

My new boyfriend

I was going to write a post about how Garrison Keillor is my new boyfriend because he reads me a poem every morning when I leave the gym. But then, I met BedHeadSmallTalk. Oh BedHeadSmallTalk, where have you been all my life? BedHeadSmallTalk is my new boyfriend because BedHeadSmallTalk really listens to me and cares about my feelings and does nice things for me just because. BedHeadSmallTalk and I are in love. It could not have happened at a better time. I had been very depressed when RetroBlowDryLotion just ran out on me with no warning and didn't even say goodbye. I mean, we both knew that it wasn't working out, but I was still there every morning making the effort and I felt I deserved some sort of explanation. Now I barely even remember all my months with RetroBlowDryLotion, because BedHeadSmallTalk is just so perfect for me.

For example, when I say to BedHeadSmallTalk, "BedHeadSmallTalk, you know that place in my otherwise straw-straight hair where it is all wavy and frizzy and looks like a zipper? I want that to be nice and straight like all the rest of my hair." BedHeadSmallTalk does not argue with me or tell me I am being too demanding. BedHeadSmallTalk just makes the zipper part all nice and straight.

And when I say to BedHeadSmallTalk, "BedHeadSmallTalk, you know that other place in the back that always does the opposite of what I want it to do? That flips out when I want it to flip under and flips under when I want it to flip out? That even when I try to trick it by flipping it the wrong way and not letting it see what all the rest of the hair is doing still always goes the wrong way? You know that piece? It hurts me when it does that." And BedHeadSmallTalk just says "I'm sorry baby, it won't happen again." And then BedHeadSmallTalk takes that bad wrong-flippy piece and makes it flip the right way and tells it if it ever treats me like that again it will have to deal with BedHeadSmallTalk.

And then this morning? BedHeadSmallTalk stacked up all my layers in the back, just because BedHeadSmallTalk loves me. It isn't even my birthday or our anniversary or anything. BedHeadSmallTalk just wanted to do something nice for me to show me how much he cares. I mean, any guy can bring you flowers or candy, but how many will do your layers in the back?

I am totally going to marry BedHeadSmallTalk. Mrs. Beth BedHeadSmallTalk. Catchy, yes?

Who let that woman into the kitchen?

Since making homemade pasta, ravioli filling and sauce is such a pain, I decided I should at least get a photo essay out of it. So here are your illustrated step-by-step instructions for Ravioli a la Beth.

After mixing the dough and letting it set for 2 hours, it is time to roll the dough.

Then you have to fill the ravioli.

And then cut it, of course.

And finally, you cook.

The finished product.

The sad part is that after all this work, it tasted pretty bad. The hubby only managed about three bites before he resorted to pushing the food around his plate and hoping it would look like he was eating. But hey, do I look like Martha Stewart?

Unusual things I did this weekend

- Argued about religion with a catholic priest.
- Watched Survivor p*rn. Well, skimmed it. Boring.
- Hung out with a group of political refugees from Ethiopia, Uganda and Cameroon.
- Made biscuits (twice) and homemade ravioli where I made the pasta, filling and sauce from scratch.


So - why are the people you love the most the ones who piss you off the most? Anyone? Anyone?


If there is anything that smells better than a ripe peach, I don't know what it is.

Maybe this is why people think we're weird

So, this is an honest to goodness IM conversation I just had with my husband. It may help to know that Callie is our cat and that we have these kinds of conversations all the time.

Hubby: you have power point on your computer?
Beth: yes
Beth: ok
Hubby: ok
Beth: why?
Hubby: ok
Hubby: :-)
Beth: ok
Beth: why?
Hubby: I might have to work on a presentation this weekend and our machine? not so much with the power point
Beth: ok
Beth: I have visio too
Beth: because I am cool
Beth: you can do a gant chart
Beth: for your presentation
Hubby: woohoo!! although I really don't need visio
Beth: gant charts are very impressive
Hubby: do you know who developed the gant chart?
Beth: callie?
Hubby: Mr. Gant
Beth: I thought it was callie
Beth: at least., that's what she told me
Hubby: nope...callie invented the pie chart
Beth: oh
Beth: I see
Beth: but not nice of mr gant to steel callie's idea
Hubby: well, her pie chart is much more widely used
Beth: that's true
Beth: but not as impressive

I guess that makes me Mrs. Crankypants

When my charming, rock star husband (Hi Honey!) has too little sleep and too little food he turns into a great big steaming pile of cranky. Last night, this raging crankiness led to one of our favorite fights.* I mean, this belongs on the Marital Spat Greatest Hits release. It is:

(dum, dum, dum)

What to have for dinner.

We can argue for hours about what to have for dinner. It usually goes something like this:

He: What do you want for dinner?
Me: Anything you want is fine with me.
He: No, I asked what you wanted to do.
(Insert 10 minute argument over which one of us is being a royal pain in the ass, each insisting that we personally are loving and understanding spouses of the highest order.)
Me: Well, how about this, or that, or the other thing?
He: Fine. Whatever.
Me: If you don't want any of those, just tell me what you want.
He: I said they were fine.
Me: But you don't mean they are fine. You have that tone.
(Insert 20 minute interlude of fighting about the tone of each others voices.)
Me: Look, just pick something.
He: I already said the other thing.
Me: (Bring up something he did 8 years ago that annoyed me.)
(Insert 20 minutes of arguing about the thing from 8 years ago.)
(Insert 10 minutes on why I always bring up old fights rather than focusing on the current fight.)

Make spaghetti.

Last night, just as we were getting warmed up, we decided to go out for Thai instead. Argument averted, crankiness mollified. I called for reservations:

Me: Hi. I'd like a reservation for 2 at 7:00.
Hostess: No problem. Your name?
Me: Crankypants. Mr. and Mrs. Crankypants

* I should probably mention that the hubby and I hardly ever fight.** At least not for long. It usually doesn't take long before one of us says something ridiculous or sticks a sofa cushion up their nose and we both crack up and decide to go see what's on Tivo.

** We did have a minor argument last night over who took who off their blogroll first. We also negotiated what it would take to reinstate mutual blogroll positioning. I like to think of it as détente.***

*** I may be kicking off a diplomatic crisis by writing about his rampant crankiness, but I am an authoritarian regime and can do what I want.