Archive for February, 2014

I’ve had a couple of bosses who were able to appreciate my sense of humor.

I was working on a project with about 75 people, 60 of whom were vegetarians. We were working particularly late one night, so a manager, lets call him Randall, ordered pizzas for everyone.

When the smell of Italian seasoning and bread filled my cube, I meandered on down to the conference room of delicious goodness.

The table was loaded with pizza of every description: salami, sausage, pepperoni, and so on. Until we got to the last two pizzas which were vegetarian. I stood there by Randall observing the luscious display.

I said, “Next time you should get more vegetarian. You know almost everyone’s a vegetarian.”

He said, “I did.”

“I only see two.”

“There’s those mushroom, onion, and bacon pizzas.”

I waited.

“Oh crap, bacon.You must think I’m an idiot.”

“No, I prefer special.”


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If you’ve come to this blog looking for the book Live, Laugh, Love, move along. Don’t read any further, nothing to see here.

This blog is Scream, Cry, Jump Up and Down with a Little PMS and Lots of Alcohol thrown in. My furnace is broken. It was 18F. And my space heater broke. Argh, I may not get out of bed until spring.

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I have several bosses that I loved working for. The most fun are the ones who play along with my insanity. One of my bosses moved to France and I miss her horribly. Her name was Elizabeth, so I called her Lizardibreath to her face. And behind her back.

There was a particular incident that demonstrates our relationship.

I was having  lunch at my desk: burger, fries, a packet of salt and of course a diet soda.  

Lizard-breath came stomping around the corner. We could all hear her coming. The click, click of her high heels running through the isle ways made grown men cringe.

“I need you to …”

I held up my hand for her to stop, opened the packet of salt and sprinkled it in a circle around my chair. “Ok, now what?” I asked.

She responded without skipping a beat. “I’m not a witch, I’m a vampire. I need you to ….”

“Damn it, I forgot the garlic salt.”

“Go through the clients records and …”

She was always up for the game. I really miss Lizard-breath. She just had to move to France. How insensitive can one person be?

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I have a whole shelf full of recipes from my ancestors, some of which are really great. Others are a bit odd. Someone has included notes on how to buy meat from the butcher. That tells you where most of the meat came from.

I’m not going to tell you how to make a crown roast out of hotdogs. I’ll save that for another day. Today is squirrel roasting day. Getting gigglie yet?

For this recipe you’ll need 3 small squirrels (so send a boy out with a good BB gun, they’ll generally drag you back a couple).

You’ll also need cooking oil, (We’re getting fancy now, usually it just lard or grease.) lemon juice, bread crumbs, milk, (Use cream if you’re having the preacher over.) mushrooms, salt, pepper, onion juice, (There aren’t instructions for juicing an onion, hum.) and bacon fat (My Gramm’s didn’t fail me. She says, “There’s no substitute for bacon lard.”)

I think it goes without saying but just in case dress, clean and wash the critters before you start. Marinade the meat with oil and lemon juice for at least 1 hour. Yum-Yum sounding good already, doesn’t it?

Stuff the squirrels with everything else. Sew it up, truss it and roast. Brush it with the bacon fat every 15 minutes. Serve it up with some pan gravy. And there you have it.

Ah heck, I should’ve put this recipe out for Thanksgiving. I apologize.

P.S If you don’t know who to dress and clean a squirrel, I’ll include that in the Braised Moose recipe. I’ll try to get to it before Easter.

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Dear Abbie,

I know you must work at Careerbuilder, because your emails end with their name. You send me emails almost everyday. Always with the same subject XYZ Company is interested in you.

I fell for it the first couple of times. I mean who wouldn’t. You work at a large employment site which I regularly use. I figure you have the inside scoop and have found me <blank> (charming, pathetic, funny, sad, annoying, add your own).

I thought perhaps these companies are really shy, like back in grade school and wanted you to slip me a little note. “We like you, do you like us, check yes or no.” I went directly to the company and said, “Yes, I like you and would love to go steady.”

However… Not only did they not send the note, they had never heard of me. And when they had they were nice enough. “We’re sure you’re a really nice person (call security we’ve got a live one.), but we’re already going steady and we really like him… a lot.”

How humiliating.

You’re on notice Abbie. I’m hip to you and your funny hijinks. So when you get an email telling you some awesome company wants to go steady with you, remember I’ve got my eye on you.


P.S. Am I still your friend? Check Yes or No. NO big fat NNNNNOOOOOO!

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Maybelle collected butterflies (warning if you have a pet butterfly, stop reading). She had a lovely collection on the wall behind her desk, close to thirty.

The collection was so varied no two were the same colors.

It was a lovely day in spring.

One day I was asking her a question, “When are we going to take the V22 out for a test run, I want to shot some missiles?” A breeze came through the open door on my right, bringing with it the smell of the Chesapeake Bay. Everything faded around me. I was hardly listening anymore.

“We don’t have any tests scheduled until next month…”

I was lost in early spring. Maybelle had added another butterfly to her collection. It was pale yellow with bright blue on the tail.

“… and we’re not testing missiles.”

Then the wing flipped. I jumped, blinking. That can’t be right. It’s wing flipped again.  Oh no.  It wasn’t still alive!

Oh yes it was. Maybelle had caught a butterfly at lunch and pinned it to the wall.

I never crossed Maybelle after that.  She was a butterfly hit man and I didn’t want her turning to humans.

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I was reading a couple of blogs this afternoon when I came across one that mentioned Writer Sponsorships. Really? Is there such a thing?

I’ve sponsored several of my friends and their children to dance, walk, march (band), play, run, whatever. Paying an amount per hour, mile or whatever. For things such as loving trees, hugging trees, planting trees, saving trees, and well whatever.

However, I never thought of a sign up sheet for sponsoring my writing, some sum of money for amount of words or pages written during a certain period of time. That’s brilliant. For example someone, probably a great aunt who pities me, might offer twenty-five cents for every 100 or 500 or 1,000 words or pages in a 14 day period.

Interesting idea, how fast would I write if I were actually getting paid? Could I or would I finish a rough draft in 14 days?

Okay, I’m convinced. I’ve made up my sponsor sheet and I’m sitting right here with my favorite pencil, poised ready to sign you up.

Sitting here, not writing, just waiting for you or anyone… It’s very quiet. … Very, very. …

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I’m supposed to blog everyday, except I missed Monday. I’m back today to try again.

A while back, I was working in Maryland. An engineer moved from Atlanta to work with us.

After the first week so, a technician in her 70s, Maybelle gave him some note worthy advice.

With a big grin on her face, Maybelle said, “I know what you need?”

To which Willie replied with an equally big grin, “What?”

She said, “Rubbers.”

Willie’s smile waned. “What?”

“You’re going to need rubbers and good strong ones.”

Maybelle continued to grin.

Willie’s smile was replaced by confusion. He began rocking from one foot to another. He looked at me.

How long should I let the show continue?

I shrugged, asking, “Do you two need some alone time?”

“No!” Willie snapped. “Look,” he stammered at Maybelle, “… you’re a nice person … I mean it’s not that I don’t like you … you’re very interesting …”

Maybelle continued grinning. She had no clue.

“Galoshes, it rains a lot, there’s swamps and things get boggy.” I had to rescue him. He was going to upset Maybelle and she was 76 after all.

So, if you’re in a really wet climate, look for those really strong rubbers.

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Was at my sisters a few weeks ago.

My young nephew, the Pistol, asked his Dad, “What does CENSORED mean?”

His Dad replied, “It’s CENSORED, not CENSORED.”

My sister turned molten rage in her eyes, steam coming out of her ears.

I grabbed a drink and pulled up a chair. For once I was quiet. I didn’t want to get kicked out when things were getting really good.

My Sister yelled, “Why did you tell him how to pronounce it?”

My Brother-in-law replied, “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.”

Good one, Bro. I’m sure she’ll run with that.

At which point the Pistol asked, “BUT, WHAT DOES CENSORED MEAN?”

My sister turned to him and said, “You go sit on the front porch.” She must have noticed me then, because she added, “You too.”

I said “What, I didn’t laugh?”

She gave me the hairy eyeball.

So, the Pistol and I were sitting on the front porch when he asked, “What does CENSORED mean?”

“It’s a bad word.”

“Oh, why didn’t they just tell me that?”

“I don’t know, they’re your parents.”

“Yeah, they send me out here a lot when I ask about new words.”

“Yeah, me too.”

So I’m assuming my Sister is having a REALLY good Valentine’s Day. If not, I’m sure her and her husband are discussing new words.

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A few years ago, we got a new coffee flavor at the office, Chocolate Doughnut. If there was ever a coffee for me, that’s got to be the one. So of course, I tried it. Chocolate Doughnut awesome greatness, right? No, I couldn’t find the chocolate doughnut because of all the coffee.

However, that gave me a super idea. The office also had a candy dish. I grabbed three Three Musketeers, dropped them into the Chocolate Doughnut coffee, and stirred until dissolved. It didn’t help. Coffee is obviously a demon’s brew, because it totally overwhelmed the chocolate. And, we all know chocolate is a gift from heaven.

Since I had wasted three chocolates, I felt obliged to drink it anyway.  I was sick as a dog. Obviously, coffee is poison, because we all know chocolate could never make me sick.

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