To Spit or Swallow

So…I just licked spit off a tootsie roll pop. No…it’s okay…it was mine.

I’m not sure what happened to Monday…this week it just came and went. This weekend was cool though. I hung out with my friend, Michael in Springs. Saturday night we went to a sushi bar. For the most part, it was cool. Michael made several good sushi selections from the menu…I think it was me who wanted to try the sea urchin…or uni, I think it’s called. No…I definitely,KNOW...it’s called uni. That three letter word is imbedded in my memory for all time. Especially, if I’m ever with someone having sushi and I want to gross them out…I’ll be like, “Have you tried uni? It’s like an orgasm in your mouth.” Then I can tell them,”So…you spit?" or "Oh, you swallow?"

I have never really felt like vomiting at the dinner table…and then feeling like I already did and it was in my mouth. I vow never again to eat something that I don’t have the foggiest idea what it looks, smells or tastes like without having a container or paper napkin to spit in.

In trying to describe what uni tastes like and feels like in your mouth, only a few things come to mind…sampling baby poop; eating the contents of an old pus-filled pimple on a biker’s back…or like when you’re really sick with a bronchial or sinus infection, and hawking up a chunk of mucus and then saying, ”Oh, that looks good…maybe I’ll eat that.”

Even more disgusting is that I consumed it. I swear…I looked for a place to spit it. Michael offered me a cloth napkin. I just couldn’t bring myself to move the uni from the back part of my tongue to the front without having to taste it again. I felt like I couldn’t go forward, yet couldn’t go back. It was fucking traumatizing.

Office Etiquette

Okay, I haven’t written a blog in some time. My life has been busy…although not interesting enough to me to write about. That doesn’t stop other people, so…

A couple days ago, I got really pissed at work. I don’t usually get that pissed at work. I usually let minor irritations roll off me and don’t get my feathers ruffled. When I’m at home, that’s another story…there, I’m frequently pissed and it’s usually due to the drama I have to endure with my sassy 15 year old daughter.

Anyway…I work at an employment office. Myself, and the four other people that do what I do, all assist walk-in customers looking for jobs. It’s usual day-to-day stuff.

We also have to enter job openings as they come in. Job Orders, as they’re called, are to me, like lottery tickets…except--ones that require that you DO something. It’s like you answer the phone, “Workforce Center, how may I help you?” and then (to myself) “Crap!!! It’s a job order.” Job orders aren’t all that bad, but sometimes you get them when you really don’t have time to enter them…when you’re in the middle of something or have so many other things to do…or when you already have a customer at your desk. That doesn’t matter. They are a priority and have to be entered as soon as possible. So you have to enter all the requirements, duties, and all the details about the job…basically you’re entering a complete job description. Job orders also become “yours” and have several other follow-up responsibilities that come with taking one. Sometimes, you stroll into the copy room to send a fax or make a copy…and a fax is coming in. You unknowingly pick it up off the fax machine and, “Damn…it’s a job order!” It doesn’t matter, they belong to you and that’s just how it goes.

So…for the last two days, RJ, a guy in my office who has the responsibility of working out in the community, but, still has office responsibilities, has won the ‘Job Order Lottery’. But he does the HAND OFF. “Hey, I hafta get outta here, can you enter this?” The first one I entered, no problem. But the next day, it’s the same thing. This guy must hate job orders more than I do. He’s not the best typist, and depends heavily on spell check--so it takes him even longer. So! That doesn’t make it my job order. Asshole. It was the same line too…”Hey I hafta get outta here, will you enter this for me?” I take it, and it was a fucking long one. A ton of requirements and a shitload of duties to enter, plus all the other stuff. And then, he doesn’t even fucking leave the office and at least get out of my sight. He goes back to his desk and stays there all afternoon. Then he’s asking me questions about stuff, as I’m typing away. I have other shit I need to be doing too. The lady before him always did all her job orders AND her out-of-the-office duties too. Yeah, she was fucking stressed out…we all are. And SHE never did the HAND OFF.

So, later that evening, as I’m taking my 15 year old driving, who recently got her driver’s permit. I’m telling her how RJ pissed me off by handing off his work to me. And I’m preparing as to how I’m going to handle it the next time he tries the hand off. I tell my daughter, “Next time he asks me to enter one of his job orders, I’m gonna look him straight in the eye and tell him…(firmly)"I’m sorry…I have all these other things I’m working on and I don’t have time to enter your job order.” My daughter laughs and mockingly says, “I’m gonna look him straight in the eye…and be polite.”

Brutus

Brutus was our back yard dog. He was a large breed...not sure what kind of dog he was, but he'd jump on you when you went out to feed him, weighed about 80 lbs and had no indoor dog manners whatsoever. Occasionally we'd look out at him through our bedroom window and sometimes he'd be staring off into the distance or up at the sky. After he'd eaten all his dog food from his big heavy dog bowl, he'd flip it over and teeter-totter the bowl gently with his paw...sometimes simultaneously staring up at the sky.

Mike informed me that there was some pipe that ran under the house. Right under the head of our bed to be exact. Apparently the end of this pipe extended into the back yard where Brutus was.

It was happening more frequently. Mike and I would be getting ready for work in the morning and Mike would sigh and say, "God...did you hear Brutus last night? I've gotta remember to take that damn bowl away from him before we go to bed. Didn't you hear him?"
Me: "Huh-uh...what was he doing?"
Mike: He kept banging his dog bowl against that pipe that runs under the house. You didn't hear it?"
Me: "Nope...I guess I slept through it...I didn't hear anything."
Mike: "I can't believe you didn't hear him."

Mike looked tired, I guess... but I hadn't heard anything so it really didn't register.

Then one night about 2:00 in the morning, I heard it...Brutus had his bowl. BANG!!!BANG!!!BANG!!!BANG!!! resonated against the metal pipe under the bed. I think I muttered the words "Oh, HELL no!!!" before I was even completely awake. Mike was already laying there looking up at the ceiling with a look on his face, like "Shit...I forgot that fucking bowl again." I looked at him and said, "That is what has been keeping you up at night? Oh my God."

I got out of bed, walked over to the window, slid it open, stepped out into the back yard, picked up the dog bowl...whacked Brutus with a couple times before he backed off...stepped back into the house, then called Brutus over to the window, "Come 'ere boy!!!" Brutus stepped over to the window, I leaned out with bowl in hand and whacked him a couple more times for good measure...dropped the dog bowl on the bedroom floor, got back under the covers and went back to sleep.

I was just thinking about that night while staring out my office window into the sky...

"Brutus!"

ASPCC

I was in my pajamas, watching T.V. late one evening. Mike was arriving home and when he walked in, our dog, Oscar, darted out the door. I’ve had to chase Oscar down a time or two, and I figured, Mike’s the one who let him out, he can chase him. I remained on the couch and when Mike hadn’t returned for about five minutes, I put on my shoes and went outside to help.

When I opened the door, the light from inside the house shone on the sidewalk, and I could see our car parked on the street in front of our house. Mike was on the opposite side of the car and Oscar was on the side of the car closest to the house. Oscar stopped in his tracks and I called, “Come ‘ere, Boy!” Oscar darted inside the house. I closed the door once Oscar was inside, feeling like…'Well, I handled that!'

Seconds later, Mike comes in and slams the door behind him. He bends over, points at Oscar and yells, “Don’t ever run from me again!!!” Mike furiously spanked Oscar’s hind end several times. Then he stood up, looked at me and nearly out of breath, shouted sarcastically, “Thanks for helping me catch him! I chased him around the car about 20 fucking times!!!” Then Mike stormed off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. I stood there, dumfounded for a couple seconds, then looked at my 12 year old daughter who had witnessed the whole incident and we both burst out laughing.

The next day Mike received this email…

This letter is in regards to a complaint filed with the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Chibburins (ASPCC). Oscar De La Launderia, aka “The Chibburin”, “Mr. Fluffypants”, “The Mister”, and “Mr. Oscarton”, has filed a complaint against Mr. Michael.

On the evening of January 19, 2005, at approximately 10:00 p.m., Mr. Michael arrived home. Upon Mr. Michael’s arrival, Oscar exited the front door of his home. Oscar thought it would be a good time to take a quick jog around the block.

With no warning, Mr. Michael began pursuit of Oscar. In an attempt to flee, Oscar led Mr. Michael on a high speed chase around a nearby car, which lasted approximately 5 minutes (35 minutes in Dog Time). When Oscar saw the opportunity, he made a dash to the door of his home and thought he had made it safely inside.

Mr. Michael pursued Oscar inside his residence and proceeded to “open a large can of whoop-ass upon Oscar’s hindquarters.”

Although Oscar claims no physical injuries, he is fearful of leaving his home in the event of another vicious attack in which Mr. Michael may again, “lay the smack-down”.

If convicted of this crime against the Chibburin, you may be sentenced to a fine of $10,000 in dog treats over the lifetime of the Chibburin in question and have to undergo 200 hours of anger management classes.
**********************************************

Oscar has since dropped the charges following threats of neutering.

The Chibburin

Oscar was a white Pekingese that my ex gave to me as a birthday gift. I love puppies…but, eh…I wasn’t too thrilled that Mike chose a Pekingese. It was fitting though…growing up, Mike's family had Pekingese dogs, so he bought me the kind of dog HE liked. After a short time, Oscar grew on me and became part of the family.

The majority of the time, Oscar resided in the laundry room. He shed long, white hair everywhere. I never could trust him enough to leave him alone on the carpet and worst of all, he would get these sporadic breathing attacks followed by vomiting foamy drool which was much easier to clean off the linoleum in the laundry room than off the carpet. One morning, after unknowingly stepping in the slime, Mike nearly slipped and fell on his ass.

You could enter the laundry room directly from the living room and we kept Oscar in there behind a wooden baby gate, so that it would still feel like we had a dog, and not an abomination we kept locked away behind the laundry room door.

Oscar acquired many nicknames throughout his time with us. “Oscar De La Launderia” (Spanish for, “of the laundy room”) reminiscent of the boxer, Oscar De La Hoya. He was also fondly referred to as, “Mr. Fluffypants”, “The Mister”, “Mr. Oscarton”, and yet another Spanish version, “Os-car” (pronounced “Ohs-carr”. (Roll those r’s!)

In the winter months when we let Oscar out to do his thing....I’d glance out the window to see if he looked like he was finished. He was fine. Lookin’ around…smellin’ the air...white hair flowin’ in the breeze... pissin’ in the wind. But, as soon as I’d go out to bring him in, he’d start shivering. It was almost an act, because he wasn’t shivering until I opened the door to bring him in. I looked down at Oscar and said in a baby-talk voice…
“Oh, my baby’s shiverin'.”
“Are you shiverin’, boy?”

After I brought him in, I told Mike, still in baby-talk,
“He was shiverin’."
“He’s a shiverin’ dawg."
“Oh............he’s a chibburin dawg”.

And with this new nickname, Oscar evolved into a New Breed of Dog--The Chibburin.

Wrong worditis

I met Brian through a friend. Brian is a nice person. Not bad looking. Owns his own concrete business. I talked to Brian on the phone on several occasions. We always had plenty to talk about. We eventually decided to go on a date. We went to a nice Sushi place and out dancing afterwards. He was a gentleman and he treated me like I was the only woman in the room. We continued to talk on the phone after our date. It was over the course of talking to Brian for a couple weeks, that I came to the conclusion that there was no romantic future between us.

It had nothing to do with Brian's personality, "for say", as Brian would say. He did spend a lot of his free time visiting his grandfather, but, I understood when he told me his grandfather was in the hospital with "ammonia". When Brian spoke fondly of a friend of his who had moved to CA...the "perspiring" actor, I was a bit worried, but I rationalized it...(Maybe his friend only does sports commercials). Now, I might not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I grasped what Brian meant when said he was watching the magician, Chris Angel, "meditate" above The Luxor. However when I asked, "meditated?", for clarification, Brian raised his voice at me, and said, "Yeah! He floated above it!" Later, when I told Brian that maybe we should just be friends, he informed me that he had a "pemonition" that this would happen. I got it, but I asked if he meant, "premonition" and he said, "No!!! PEM-onition--like when you see something happening before it actually happens???!!!"

Yeah...it might have worked, but I really don't like being yelled at.

http://marriottschool.byu.edu/marriottmag/winter07/features/trends1.cfm

Danger...Curves Ahead

Curves, to me, has become a logo that signifies fat. I doubt that's what it's creator intended. I open my new Avon catalog...just past the perfume section of the catalog, is the health and fitness section. Avon now sells Curves products, such as vitamins, pedometers, jump ropes, tennis shoes, even lycra bike shorts with the Curves logo. In the catalog, of course, the woman modeling the Curves attire is a fit woman who likely exercises 6 days a week. I'd be willing to bet money that she wouldn't set foot in a Curves fitness center. She belongs in Bally's doing kickboxing, not next to the Curves water fountain dripping hydrogenated vegetable oil from every pore after 6 minutes of intense circuit training. Why doesn't Curves get some actual women who go to Curves to model their products? I passed a woman yesterday who would love to be a Curves Model. She was walking out of the grocery store with a size 2x purple grease-spotted t-shirt. You could tell she was in need of a size 42 DD bra---but wasn't wearing one, yet proudly displayed the Curves logo above her left beast...I mean breast.