Saturday, September 23, 2006

happy to your Friday!

I must share the following Engrish pictures with you, which I found on Something Awful (NSFW). They're obviously not authentic, but that doesn't mean they aren't hysterical. Sticky about your favorite things, and make to laugh!

(By the way, I've seen tons of real Engrish with the phrase "I'll sticky about..." or "Be sticky about..." I asked the illustrious and charming Lola about it, since she lived in Japan for a long time, and she said she thinks they mean persistent.)

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Photobucket - Video and Image Hosting

Thursday, September 21, 2006

gettin' squirrely

When I last saw the crotch doc, she recommended that I get a bone density test, since I'm at elevated risk for osteoporosis on account of my ladyworks being gone, and a cholesterol test because I AM GETTING OLDER GODDAMMIT FTW.

Fast forward a couple of months, and I'm at Longs buying my Friday night necessities: a magazine void of any intellectual or artistic content and a small bag of Baked Lay's cheddar and sour cream chips (one of the bestest things ever, by the way, and a relatively healthy snack calorie/fatwise; if they ever come out with a salt and vinegar version, I will be happier than a puppy in dirt). As I'm standing at the checkout counter, I notice a sign saying that they'd have a variety of health screenings coming up, including cholesterol and bone density. No appointment necessary, $30 for the bone density and $14 for the cholesterol, cash or check only.


Today was the exciting day. I took two hours off in the middle of the day and drove to Longs, where a florid-faced man in a lab coat sat at a card table in the back. I filled out some forms, and then he pricked my finger with a lancet. Owie!

When that was done, he said, "And you wanted the bone density done too, right?"


"Are you wearing pantyhose? You need a bare heel for this test."

I excused myself, went to the bathroom, and tossed my pantyhose into the trash. (They already had a small snag, and cramming them into my purse alongside keys, pens, and other detritus was asking for more.) I returned to the table and presented my foot for inspection.

"Okay, now I'm going to put this conductive gel onto your ankle. It might be a little cold."


Next, I put my foot in a contraption that looked a lot like the footbaths at the local mall's nail salon. Two hot balloony things puffed out and squeezed my ankle. It didn't really hurt, but it was uncomfortable, so I thought of other things, like how you used to be able to go to the shoe store and X-ray your own foot. That would have ruled.

Anyway, as I was thinking of those halcyon days of unrestricted radioactivity, my gaze settled upon the technician, whose face was quite a bit redder than it had been just a moment before, and whose eyes were looking down at...


Yes, lady that I am, when I was daydreaming, my left knee relaxed, and without my pantyhose on, the technician got one helluva squirrel shot.

And the bastard still charged me!

Thursday, September 14, 2006

a coworker haiku

My cube is not your
Personal supply closet
You damn cocksucker!

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

White Flour!

Somebody must have been asleep at the editor's desk when this picture found its way into the final galleys of the new Martha Stewart's Living:

Now, I know they didn't mean for their artfully designed marshmallow ghosts to wind up looking like Klansmen on the prowl, but goddamn!

(And as much as I'd like to take credit for my entry title, I can't; it was left as a comment on Gawker's critique of this disturbing Halloween treat.)

I just picked up my copy of Rule of Rose, the new PS2 game that's stirred up a shitstorm of controversy over some of its disturbing themes. Allegedly, Sony begged its US distributors not to release it over here for fear of bringing the likes of Joe Liebermann and Hillary Rodham Clinton down on their heads. Now, the cynic in me thinks this may be a very clever marketing ploy---"Get it before it's banned!"---but I didn't get it for that. I got it because it's a new survival horror game with a twisted storybook feel to it, and I need something to tide me over until the next Silent Hill/Resident Evil. True, it's probably only methadone to Silent Hill's/Resident Evil's pure crack cocaine, but I had to get it. Now I'm off to check out the opening movie (I promised G I wouldn't play it without him, but he usually doesn't watch opening movies because of potential spoilers) and sniff the instruction manual., that sounds like a euphemism.

Monday, September 11, 2006

holy freakin' crap

Man, did I get the shock of my life on Friday afternoon.

Okay, a bit of background is necessary here for those of you who are new to these parts, and for those of you who need a refresher. (Speaking of refresher, you might want to grab a beverage, as this is going to be long.)

Several years after my mom died, my father, aka Daddy-O, decided to dip his toes back into the dating pool. But what to do? He's an HR rep, so dating a coworker was out of the question. He's not into the bar scene, he doesn't go to church, and his pastimes were solitary ones, so he wasn't going to meet any women that way, unless some chick happened to fall through the roof while he was sitting at home reading or watching TV.

This left one possibility: a personal ad. Since Daddy-O is a neo-Luddite, he wasn't going to go the internet route, and he signed up with a prestigious Twin Cities dating service. He went on a couple of dates with pleasant but unexciting women before he met G. (Obviously not “my” G, but that’s her first initial, so G in this entry refers to her.)

Ah, yes, G. I used to refer to her as "Our Lady of the Pantsuit" because Daddy-O could NOT stop raving about how gorgeous she looked in the pantsuit she wore on their first date. "She looked like she'd just stepped out of a magazine ad! She looked so pretty and crisp."

"I don't think you should use that adjective for anything but crackers, Dad," I commented.

There was just one nasty fly in the ointment of their potential love: she had recently gotten divorced from a Grade A prick. I only have her side of the story to go upon, of course, but if only half the stories I've heard are true, then he deserves his own plaque in the Asshole Hall of Fame. Anyway, she was emotionally fragile, which to her credit she admitted up front, but she said she knew she had to get on with her life.

I think I met her after they'd been dating for about two months. I liked her well enough, but there was a definite air of entitlement about her that I didn't much care for. She'd been born into a wealthy family, married rich, and divorced even richer; we’re talking monthly alimony in the five figures here. She expected nothing less than the best, and it showed. Daddy-O, while not rich, certainly isn't hurting for money, but he's been dirt poor---stories of having to make one can of tuna and two boxes of macaroni and cheese last for three days during the early years of my parents' marriage are legendary---and he's about the least pretentious person you can imagine. He's just as happy eating pulled pork sandwiches at Famous Dave's as he is dining at some fancy restaurant, and if he's not at work or out with G, he's chilling in his Indiana University t-shirt and well-worn jeans. But I digress.

Anyway, I don't remember how long they'd been dating when Daddy-O came home and told me that he and G had broken up. I was absolutely shocked, especially since I'd never seen him look so old before. He said, "You know, little Ro, this is nothing compared to losing your mom, but my god, this hurts." I hugged him and I didn't let go for a very long time.

About two weeks later, they were back together. I was pleased, because the light was back in his eyes, and I felt better about my impending move to California, knowing that he had someone to take care of him.

Aaaaaaaaand...they broke up again.

Daddy-O didn't sit on his hands this time. After a brief wallowing period, he took his membership at the agency off hold, and he started dating in earnest. He started seeing a younger (not grossly younger, mind; she was in her forties) woman that I dubbed Legs because he couldn't stop raving about her legs. He came out to visit and brought her along, and she was fun and bubbly and MILFish, but man, did she have scheming eyes. I ain't sayin' she was a gold digger, but you know she wasn't hangin' with no broke-ass...

Ahem. Yeah, you know how the rest of that song goes. But seriously, whenever she looked at him, I swear I could see dollar signs in her eyes like some old Warner Brothers cartoon. This impression wasn't helped by the charming anecdote he told me about how she told him what kind of engagement ring she wanted...on their second date. Guys sure love that!

Legs was, needless to say, short-lived. Not only did she obviously want a sugar daddy, but she also wanted a DADDY daddy for her two kids. I was talking to Daddy-O on the phone and he said, "They're great kids, but I raised my two kids, and frankly I'm too old and too tired to do that all over again." Plus word had gotten out on the grapevine that he'd been seen out on the town with a curvy blonde, and G started calling again. He'd never gotten over her, so they started dating again.

And they broke up again.

And they got together again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

The last time they broke up was last year, and he told me, "This is definitely it. Jesus Christ, I'm just so sick of the emotional roller coaster."

"You'll be back together within a month."

"No, seriously, this is it."

It wasn't a month; actually it was several months. But yes, they did get back together.

< / Cliff's Notes >

Okay, fast forward to today. I was sitting in my cube, clockwatching, when my phone rang. I picked it up, went through my phone spiel, and Daddy-O ripped a huge belch.

"Niiiice," I said, not without some admiration. "How was your trip?" (Note: he'd taken G to a resort in Wisconsin for her birthday)

"It was good. VERY good. As in, your old man just got engaged."

"WHAT?!?” I shrieked, causing coworkers to prairie dog over the tops of their cubes.

"I asked G to marry me, and she said yes."

"Wow," I said dazedly. "I can't believe it! Congratulations, I guess."


"You guess?" Daddy-O said in a hurt voice, and I felt terrible.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded," I said, which was actually true. "I'm just so overwhelmed! Congratulations, honestly."

He went on to tell me the details of the proposal. He arranged with the hotel staff to fill their room with roses while they were at dinner, and when they came back, he popped open a bottle of champagne and then got down on one knee, slipped a diamond and sapphire ring on her finger, and asked her to marry him.

"Have you set a date yet?"

" could be next month, it could be next year. But obviously I'll keep you posted." Daddy-O paused and said, "I know you know this, but this doesn't mean I don't still love your mother. I don't believe, and never have believed, that there's only one person for you in this world. I could never love anyone as much as I love your mom, but I do love G very much, and she makes me so happy, which I never thought I could truly be again."

My eyes misted up, and I frantically scrabbled for my box of Kleenex. "I know, Dad."

We chatted for a few more minutes, and after I hung up the phone, I immediately called K. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, you're not going to believe this," I wheezed, and then I told her.

"Shit! I thought I was gonna marry your dad!"

This is all so weird to me still, but I really am happy for them. It's just going to take some time to wrap my brain around the thought that I'm going to have a stepmother.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

The return of football season!

Yes, the preseason games are over, and now football is about to begin in earnest. I sure can't wait to watch hours and hours of football!

...okay, I'm being a smartass. ("Better than being a dumbass, uh huh huh huh!" OMGLOLZ I M T3H CLEVER) I'm not going to lie and claim that I love football, but I do enjoy watching G's reactions when the Giants score. I've hung the Giants' schedule up in my cube, so I know who we're going to play against and, with the help of a borrowed GPS system, aim my Norwegian gypsy curses accordingly. And I have grown fond of the Boys of Big Blue: Shockey, Tiki, Plaxico, Amani, Eli...

Shit, this kind of makes me sound like I actually LIKE football or something. Have I actually turned into a football fan? There's only one possible response to that: