I like mine with a little ranch dipping sauce.

Me: Let’s go to dinner.
Friend: Sounds good. Where do you want to go?
Me: Well there are a couple of places around the corner. Jakes, Houlihans and a new Buffalo Wild Wings which I haven’t been to.
Friend: Yeah, let’s go to BW3s I could go for some wings and beer.


BW3s? Did she just say BW3s?

A few days later at a staff meeting…

Coworker #1: I heard our new office is near a BW3.
Coworker #2: Sure is.

BW3? Did I just hear BW3? For the second time?

Thus began my irritation.

First, there are only 2 W’s in Buffalo Wild Wings. Second, most buffalo only have 2 wings. And, it can’t be merely coincidence that two people in my life would say BW3. There must be something that I am missing.

Thus began my investigation.

I first thought it was just a Minnesotan thing. I asked some native peeps what they called it. Some said, “Buffalo Wild Wings” – well, actually they said, “Buffalo Wild Wings, DUH!” A couple of people said, “Bdubs”, but nobody gave up BW3 as a possible answer.



I inspected the logo. Yep, only 2 W’s. I looked for hidden W’s. Nope. No hidden W’s. Not even a website address containing a W in triplicate.

When all was looking grim, when I was ready to throw in the wetnap, I decided to turn to another famous W… Wikipedia.


Buffalo Wild Wings was founded in 1982 after James Disbrow and Scott Lowery moved from Buffalo, New York, to Kent, Ohio. Unable to find authentic Buffalo-style chicken wings in their new town, they decided to open up their own restaurant first, in Columbus, Ohio, and then one in Westerville, Ohio one year later. Originally called Buffalo Wild Wings & Weck, from which the abbreviation BW3 was created, the restaurant became a franchise with more than 430 locations across 37 U.S. states. The original name and acronym, BW3, was intentionally reminiscent of the acronym TW3 popularly used in referring to the television show That Was The Week That Was, a show of which co-founder James Disbrow was a fan. The company later changed its name to Buffalo Wild Wings, but still uses the short name BW3 on occasion due to the common usage by patrons.


I need a beer and some celery.

What is with this guy?

You may get a phone call from me this weekend!

I imagine my friends, family and that guy trying to sell me insurance thinking this each time I don't return a phone call.

I think I may spend some quality time with my phone pressed against my ear this weekend since we are expecting snow. SNOW.

Hey, just don't get mad if I am on the can while chatting with you.

Such a kidder

Hey, remember that time I tried to get you believe that I was on strike just like those writers that make me laugh via their sitcomic genius?

I am such a kidder.

Here is the real deal... I am slowly getting my creative juices flowing again after having difficulty summoning them for a few months (sort of the dry-heaves effect). I am realizing I need this outlet to vomit out anything that is stuck in the crusty recesses of my brain that may cause future insanity.

I am also working with Queenie to design a look for my top pic (Is that called a masthead? I am so very blog savvy.). And guess what, I tried to update my template and the internets stole my old frog on a chair picture, my archives and that pic of my chubby fingers you now see on the left. Thankfully, I was able to get most of it back... geesh.

So, faithful blog audience family... I will return here with some regularity to entertain you soon.

Just in case you want to join the fun.

Just Wondering

Remember when the writers went on strike that one time and oh my gob, you got addicted to reality T.V. and are now in a 12 step program to beat that addiction (by that I mean there are 12 episodes left of the damn shows you have become addicted to)?

Remember how you missed the ramblings of your most beloved characters?

Remember how you almost cried when they announced that the strike was over?

Remember the elation you felt that one Thursday when Jim’s messy hair made its way back into your living room?

Remember that?

I was just wondering.

Confucius, you wacky bastard!

The best part of Chinese food is the fortune cookie (ok, not really but I didn’t know how to start this stimulating post. I mean really… I don’t write anything for months and then I vomit some drivel about a cookie… and could this be the longest comment in a parenthesis? My ability to digress is astounding!) Anyway, my last trip to Chef Chu’s produced this little gem:

Here we go. “Moo Shu Cereal” for breakfast with duck sauce.

What the?

I didn’t quite grasp what Confucius was trying to say with this bit of wisdom. I did however learn that my lucky numbers are 5, 16, 48 and 87.

My fortune deconstructed:


Here we go.
The use of “we” gives a sense of comfort. The reader knows Confucius is right along side of them.

“Moo Shu Cereal”
Is in quotes like it isn’t real. Research shows that it isn’t a real product. Confucius (who is right along with you) is one of those guys who mime quotes with his fingers. How annoying.

for breakfast
Signifies the beginning meal. He could have chosen lunch, but people do not have cereal for lunch… that is just silly.

with duck sauce.
The addition of a condiment gives a sense of companionship. The reader should feel that Confucius wants them to date.

?

I want to be an elf. Or at least have my head morphed onto an elf's body.

I originally titled this post: Things to do to yourself on the internet. I couldn't stop giggling. (Hee Hee. I am so twelve.)


This post idea started with this: CLICK HERE

I happened upon this obnoxious tool when I was visiting another person's blog. I couldn't resist adding my family to the dance party. Mom sure can robot! There are many things you can create to mimic yourself... if you have the time. Apparently I do since I checked out most of these.

During the Simpson's movie promotion, you could "Simpsonize" yourself. CLICK HERE

Queenie created this Simpson's version of the 4 of us:

Queenie, Mom, Me (I look a bit school marmy) and Beaner

CLICK HERE to visit a site that allows you to morph into a celebrity. I was morphed into Geena Davis (my celebrity doppelganger... allegedly). It didn't allow me to save it, but trust me when I say that the resemblance to Geena Davis is freaking scary!

CLICK HERE to make a virtual version of yourself.

CLICK HERE to make a Wee version of yourself.

Have fun kids. Go forth and play with yourself.

Stuffy La Fea

Friday evening - Q suggests we pick up a couple of flicks, some wine and a couple of extra, fudge chunk brownie mixes and hunker down for the weekend. Since I was just getting over some sort of bug that rendered me lazy tired and drug out and Queenie had just missed a day of work with the same bug, hunkering down seemed loverly!

We chose the first 2 DVDs of Ugly Betty season 1. Each DVD has 4 episodes which translates into roughly 8 hours of viewing pleasure. We also grabbed a movie (A Mighty Heart - rent it, it is powerful). So in toto - we were in for over 10 hours of staring comatose in front of a flickering box wearing our jammies... you would think this would be enough to keep a couple of gals (who were under the weather) content for an entire weekend.

You would be mislead.

The first thing we popped in was A Mighty Heart. We cried. We drank some wine and ate dinner. The hour was getting late, but we decided we should watch an episode of Ugly Betty - to get our spirits up.

8 hours later, we fell asleep.

We drug ourselves out of bed the next morning to go apartment scouting. We stopped by the video store and picked up 3 more DVDs... each containing 4 more episodes. We began watching them immediately.

Sunday morning around 2am, I fell asleep. Queenie followed 4 hours later. When we finally awoke later that morning, I caught up the 4 episodes I was behind and Queenie took a nap.

There was only 1 DVD left at the video store. We heard it calling out our names... begging to be watched. Queenie had a hair appointment (you should totally check it out, her hair is fabulous!), so she returned the 3 DVDs we had and rented the last one.

We watched the last one that afternoon.

I should tell you that we watched 23 hours of Ugly Betty.

Twenty!

Three!

We are seriously addicted. We are junkies.

And like junkies, Q and I are not quite sated. Season 2 is airing every Thursday evening smack in the middle of another show we watch. What are two addicted (albeit, good) gals supposed to do? The dealer that they used to get their first fix is all out of new drugs episodes and they have missed 4 fresh episodes of the season.

Q heard of this new dealer - he will give you bootleg copies for a fee, but I don't like his name, TiVo... sounds shady.

Word on the street is you can view them online. I think secretly Q is in her cubicle at work sneaking Ugly Betty fixes between projects. I can't quite prove it yet, but she is showing all the signs of a closeted junkie.

Why is U.B. so addictive? It can't be the realistic plots - Rebecca Romijn as Alexis who was once Alex, who now thinks he is still Alex, but looks like Alexis. Maybe it is because it is based on a telenovela (soap opera), Betty La Fea and I have always wanted to watch one.

Or it could be the deep message it is conveying in a funny and addictive way: What you look like on the inside is much more important than what you look like on the outside. Even if you are a bit hungover from drinking two bottles of wine when your immunities are low an your hair is matted to your head and your panties are all twisted under your sweat pants and you have old mascara caked under your eyelids because you didn't shower, you are still a diva inside!

Even if you thought this was a good homage to the 80's last Halloween.

You are still a diva inside...

100 Vomits, Outed Wizards and a Sleeping Cat

This is my 100th post!

100 random vomits put forth by my nimble fingers and my Swiss cheese brain.

100 stories of my cat, my phone and my tampons.

100 excuses to exploit my family and share cheesy photos.

In honor of my 100 posts, and for being such a great blog following family, I am announcing my first ever contest. In 100 words or less, write an essay detailing all of the fabulous things about me.

The winner will be chosen based on: sarcasm, use of the word "delicious", number of references to my spinsterhood and my cat, mention of my brown turtleneck, over analysis of my current hairstyle and of course it must contain references to my social life TV and movies. To be in the running, you must also include details of my freakish height, my family and my neuroses. The entries need to be received in the comments section no later than 5pm CST on October 31, 2070.

The prize is an autographed life-sized poster of this photo:


Good luck and happy writing!


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There is a revelation it seems stemming from a Carnegie Hall reading given by J.K. Rawling, author of Harry Potter, where a fan asked if the Headmaster Dumbledore ever found love. The revelation is that Dumbledore was in love with a man. He was in a wizard's closet. He was gay.

The question was: Did Dumbledore, who believed in the prevailing power of love, ever fall in love himself?

JKR’s respnse: My truthful answer to you... I always thought of Dumbledore as gay. [ovation.] ... Dumbledore fell in love with Grindelwald, and that that added to his horror when Grindelwald showed himself to be what he was. To an extent, do we say it excused Dumbledore a little more because falling in love can blind us to an extent? But, he met someone as brilliant as he was, and rather like Bellatrix he was very drawn to this brilliant person, and horribly, terribly let down by him. Yeah, that's how i always saw Dumbledore. In fact, recently I was in a script read through for the sixth film, and they had Dumbledore saying a line to Harry early in the script saying I knew a girl once, whose hair... [laughter]. I had to write a little note in the margin and slide it along to the scriptwriter, "Dumbledore's gay!" [laughter] "If I'd known it would make you so happy, I would have announced it years ago!"

What impresses me most is not that she proclaimed one of the most beloved characters in recent literature was gay, but that this fact neither changed nor dictated her book. It was a part of who he was, like the color of his eyes or the size of his heart. When penning this tale, J.K. knew Dumbledore’s sexual orientation. It was in her mind when she told his story and described his actions and conversations with Harry. She did not turn her book into a pro-gay work, but rather kept it a part of who he was. This lack of agenda makes it all the more profound.

It is a wondrous thing when open-minded people (a woman nonetheless) are blessed with a penchant for writing.

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Static must sleep atop things. Any things.

If a pair of shoes are on the floor...he is there. If you leave a couple of pizza boxes by the door so that you can take them to the garbage later...he is there. If your couch has cushy arms that are beige linen and show every speck of cat hair...he is there. If your coffee table has a nice table runner that was a little pricier than you care to admit and you would hate to have a fine patina of fur all over it... he is there.

I think it is residual behaviour from when cats were fierce predators. They would need to have the greatest advantage for hunting, so naturally they would need to be higher than their prey. Sleeping would have been necessary to conserve energy and they would have to at least have 22 hours or so. They would hear the tiniest rustle of leaves and it would awake them and with only animal instinct on their side, they would pounce. I like to pretend that Static is a fierce hunter... it totally cracks me up.

Crazy Duck Alarm Clock

There is this duck on my pond.

In the all too early hours of the morning I hear his maniacal “quack” mocking me as I try in vain to hold on to my slumber. Actually, his "quack" is more of a laugh, with a cadence like none I have ever heard. I think he is much like a character in a bad mob movie, full of odd flaws yet strikes fear into the inhabitants of the murky waters below my balcony. His build is squatty causing him much trouble keeping his pants up. As he waddles around, he gives them an occasional hike. A stubby cigar is clenched in his bill making the intonation of his voice that much crazier.

In the evenings, his rants become personal. He may give his cackle in response to me breaking a nail or dropping a dish. I swear I heard his distinctive guffaw when I couldn’t find my glasses last week.

The weather is tuning cold and my windows are shut, but I still hear a muffled chortle every morning.

Soon the pond will freeze and the miniature mob boss will have to make his way to Boca to torment someone else.

Fly safe duck…you crazy bastard.

Humid to Frigid

It was so hot and humid last Sunday that the Twin Cities Marathon was a bear to run. The temp was in the 70's and the dew point was 90! 900 people who began the race did not finish it. The Chicago Marathon was cancelled 3 and a half hours into the race and around 300 people were rushed away by ambulance.

I was also affected. The air conditioner ran full blast in my apartment that day and I was sweating during my walk to the mailbox. Okay, not quite the same thing.

Monday's high was 52. This morning it was 38.

I slept with socks on last night and I am contemplating putting on the heat. Queenie had on a sweatshirt and long johns when she groggily made her way to the bathroom. And speaking of bathroom... Nothing. I mean nothing is worse than dropping trow and exposing your toasty warm butt cheeks to the frigid toilet seat first thing in the morning!

I don't know if I should complain. I mean I did say that I love Autumn... blah, blah, blah, wool sweater...brown turtleneck, but I would like to fully pack my bikini(HAHAHAHA) away before I drag the the winter garb out.

Don't you agree Queenie?

Monday Monday

6 o’clock already? I was just in the middle of a dream. I was kissing Valentino by a crystal blue Italian stream…

Yes folks, it is just another Manic Monday…

Of course I woke up late. But, to my defense I somehow turned off my alarm instead of hitting the ‘snooze’ button the obligatory 4 times I do every morning. It was unfortunate too, because I was sent in the downward spiral that comes with starting the day off on the wrong foot.

I raced around to find the pants that required the least amount of ironing and/or cat hair removal. Once I found them, I had to choose a shirt with the same specifications plus an added feature of fitting over the tire that has grown in my midsection since last fall. This task can be a daunting one and I think the addition of a time crunch proved to work in my favor… perhaps I will sleep in tomorrow too. Once I matched my clothes, threw my hair into a damp ponytail/trendy knot concoction and slathered on some mascara, I was ready to depart. Since I was running late, I had no time to make coffee.

I arrived at work only 4 minutes late, but I felt like I had already missed hours. Everyone had already gathered to chat about the weekend in polite conversation and the coffee pot was almost empty. I say, “almost” because the last person to grab a cup left exactly enough java in the pot to fill my cup exactly one inch. I poured the pathetic dribble into my mug and drank it down – I needed it that bad. I started a fresh pot and then went back to my desk to wait for the slow drip of caffeine.

The usual Monday morning email trail helps me to plan out the day and I start to feel caught up…then, I remembered the hot coffee waiting for me in the break room.

I leap from my chair (yeah right, like I leap…ha) and race to the pot only to find it is being emptied into a carafe to take to the board meeting.

“What?” I say as the last bit of energy falls out of my body into a pool on the floor.

“It is for the board meeting.”

“O.K., I will make another pot.”

“Could you? Great!”

I make another pot and return to my desk. A few minutes later, I eagerly go to fill up my mug. This time another coworker is filling up the carafe and she says, “If you want a cup, better take it now. This is for the board.”

We exchange eye-rolls and I filled my mug and returned to read the remainder of my emails.

The rest of my emails were the same old stuff…do this now, do this later, do this when you have a chance and the one where my favorite tech guy is leaving.

I don't like to pick favorites. In fact, I have the utmost respect for anyone who is a tech-nerd, but this guy was THE tech nerd. He was the architect of most of what I depend on to do my job. There are other people in our organization who are smart and talented, but something about him being with us from the beginning made me feel grounded. I knew if he didn't know the answer, it probably was unsolvable.

He is like…he is like…hmmm, well he is like grass. You know how if you draw a picture and you have a sky, a house, a tree and maybe a puppy, but you forget to scribble some green on the bottom to ground the picture and all of the objects appear to just be floating with no where to grow from… Well, he is like that. Grass.

It is hard to replace grass. I have witnessed people spending thousands of dollars on sod (fake tech nerds grass) to try to replicate it, but it never is quite the same. I have also seen it where people try to put other things in its place like concrete or stone and it serves the purpose, but it isn’t the same.

I will miss you, grass man… not to be confused with ass man (blatant Seinfeld reference).

It is WENDsday...

Happy Happy Hump Day.

Hump Day sounds so naughty. I remember snickering at hearing it as a kid – probably because I had just learned the alternate meaning of the wore ‘hump’. Even though I thought I was being gross saying it, I definitely used it more often than the actual ‘W’ word. I struggled with that word. And before the fabulous discovery of spellchecker, I would use phrases like, “the day that falls after Tuesday”, “the day before Thursday”.

In my defense, the consonants are all jumbled. The‘d’ and the ‘n’ are clearly in the wrong place!

This got me thinking of other words that have plagued me through my life. And one jumps right to the forefront: license. This mutilation of consonants didn’t actually cause me strife until it was pointed out to me by a Driver’s Ed teacher in my 15th year.

IsterMay AetherRay (Pig Latinized as to protect his identity), said to the class on the very first day, “this word is very often misspelled, I will dock points from your tests if you misspell it.”

This one statement scarred me for life. I will forever second guess myself when it comes to writing it. Even now, I typed it in and ran it through spellchecker. I need a handy pneumonic device (see I can actually spell, I just typed pneumonic without stuttering).

Other words are: maintenance (maintainance???), receive (I totally know “i” before “e”, but for some reason this one always causes me to pause), even though (I like to make this one word).

This site shows a list of the 100 most misspelled words. It makes me feel like part of a phonetically challenged club when I see that 3 of the words I mentioned are on the list.

What are some words you will admit to misspelling?

P.S. I am working on Part Two of the Cabin trip... I hope you are not holding your breaths! If you are holding your breath, stop it… I mean it, purple skin does not look good on you

Hello October!

Goodbye September!

Don't let the door hitcha where the good Lord splitcha!

So Midwest. So Very Midwest!

Driving back from Uncle DadsBro's cabin last weekend, we were treated to this sign as we were in the drive thru lane at the DQ.

Something about his use of flannel and chubby cheeks in his brilliant marketing made me chuckle. I can easily picture Keith snuggled into a corner booth chattin' it up with the local flavor. In front of him is a plate of fried chicken and a glob of mashed potatoes straight out of the box.

This sign and restaurant could be anywhere in the midwest... I love it.

I couldn't remember exactly where Keith's Kettle was located, so I did a little searching and I was delighted to find Keith has a video.... A video!

When I pass that way again (Clearwater, MN) I will probably still opt for the DQ next door, but I will have a little more appreciation for Keith and his heatlamp buffet.

Guest author: Static

“I will write today!” she declares as she plops down in front of her laptop that is propped up on a pillow in her bed causing it to jar and threaten to fall. The air conditioner is blowing gusts of frigid air towards her legs and she pulls the quilt over her.

At this time Static, her fat and meddlesome cat, cozies up to the computer and bats his enormous paws at the screen trying to catch the cursor as his human pal types. His other mammoth paw rests on the keyboard and Stuffanie struggles to delete the random numbers and letters that invade her own typing. Static doesn’t notice the disdain and continues to chase the letters on the screen while indolently purring.





Something more interesting catches Static’s eye and he casually walks across the keyboard to make his exit off the bed.





1111dzzqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq louihy \\48





Stuffanie looks at the cryptic message left by his foot and wonders who “louihy” is and if there is any significance of ‘48’.










I am thinking this post solidifies my journey to becoming the scary cat lady! I need to get out more.

One intern is green the other intern is telling me I need to diet.

Since Queenie is away this week at a conference (“away” meaning she is in Minneapolis), I have a license to eat and possess food that she abhors. I have stocked my refrigerator with items that make her guts wretch and her nostrils flare in repugnance. Pickled beets in all their red-counter-staining-juicy-goodness and a nice piece of salmon have made me a nice meal or two. Yum. Salmon.

Note: In all fairness, there are a couple of items that I would prefer Queenie not having. For example, under no circumstances can a...dare I say it, dare I even imagine the repulsive stink – banana make a home on the counter. She can certainly purchase them and eat them but, the little yellow purveyors of stench are not allowed to reside any place that I may catch whiff of them. Oh and don’t even get me started on that sickening squishy slobbery noise made when you eat that devil fruit… shudder.

Anyway, along with the Queenie-detested food, the other change is smaller portion cooking mostly in the microwavable genre of cuisine. I purchased a couple of those new fancy pants, single serving vegetables with the light rosemary butter sauce and brought one to work today. It made a nice side to my leftover pasta.

I was busy heating my little pouch of veggies when one of the interns came into the break room. We chatted it up for 3 and one quarter minutes while my vegetable packet cooked.

She is about 10 years my junior and sweet and quiet. She was discussing her view on living ‘green’ and I was bobbing my head along with what she was saying as if I were interested. In reality, my thoughts were on rosemary butter sauce and if I should rent a movie tonight.

When the microwave beeped and I pulled out my miniature pouch of buttered lunch carefully as not to burn my fingertips, she said with some recognition, “That smells like rosemary.”

I said, “Yup, that is rosemary.”

“Are those individual serving pouches?” Pause. Nose wrinkle. The word individual said with extra emphasis.

“Yeah, I know not good for the environment.” Sigh. Fake concern.

”Ah, well just make sure you rinse it and recycle. I don’t mean to sound snotty, but I’m just used to thinking about things like that.”

“Yeah, ok.”

With her lecture over I resumed my lunch preparation rolling my eyes and shaking my head. As she exited our break room another intern came in. Also 10 years my junior. Also sweet and quiet.

Today was her last day with our company and as I inquired about what her future plans were, she too smelled the pungent rosemary wafting from my veggies.

”That smells really good,” she said. “I didn’t know they made individual servings like that. How convenient.”

Ready to defend my actions against the environment, I replied, “Yes, I think so too.”

“Since I live by myself now, I think I may try those. I hate cooking a lot of food just for me.”

“I know what you mean. I am used to eating for two, but now I am eating for one.”

“Wow, I didn’t know!” She said this with a certain congratulatory sound in her voice. I was not sure what she meant at this point.

After a couple of moments, I thought perhaps I should explain that I have a roommate and not a husband because I was sure that the “wow, I didn’t know” comment was just her reaction to the fact that her interpretation of my depressing single with one cat life was incorrect.

She must be thinking I am married. I mean, why would she be so startled at my suddenly making less food.

So I said, “My roommate is at a conference and I usually make enough for two, but this week I am making one portion meals. Just for me.”

“Oh.” She said nodding and looking in the direction of my belly.

This very unsubtle gaze at my midsection made me understand what was going on in her head.

As my cheeks flushed, I realized I said “eating” not “cooking”.

I once was Lost...

Wednesday night. Phone Rings. I run to get it. I miss the call...as usual.

Voice message: "O.M.G. (each letter said in slight pause)! They just killed Sayid, Jin, and Bernard! This is M by the way."

Knowing exactly what she was talking about, I searched for the remote. I found it lodged between my ass and the couch cushion and immediately turned it to ABC and waited for Lost to return from commercial break.

I had given up watching Lost after the first 2 episodes of the season. I couldn’t keep up with the water cooler chatter Thursday morning at work. The show became dull… and bizarre…and…well, I was well… LOST! But, hearing the frantic blurb from M (my 15 year old cousin who just got a new RAZR phone which she puts to good use texting and sending picture mail and hysterical messages) brought me back to that beach with the deserted pals I had deserted weeks ago. Why the panic? Why did I care? I am not sure.

I ended up watching ‘til the end.

If you don’t give a crap If you don't watch, you won’t really care about this next piece of info. Sayid, Jin and Bernard did not die. Charlie died last night. He drowned in an underwater hatch after scrawling a message of warning on his palm. He is now resting with the fishes with ink all over his hand. Well, maybe the ink has washed off now, being in the water and all.

I loved Charlie. Crooked mouth. Accent. Scruffiness.

R.I.P. you brave, once-drug-addicted-cutie.

That night, I also said goodbye to American Idol with much relief. I enjoyed this season, but I felt a slave to its power every Tuesday and Wednesday. That got me thinking about the many programs I watch and how I am relieved their season finales have all aired. I can actually emerge from my apartment during the hours between 7-10pm once again. It will take some time for my eyes to adjust, but I think it will be good.

There must be a twelve step program for T.V. addiction. There must be some type of support group that meets every Friday night (the only night of crap T.V.) with punch and cookies.

"Hello, my name is Stuff and I am addicted to T.V. It has been 2 days since my last viewing."

"Hi Stuff."

I at least have the summer to try to get over my addiction and maybe quit cold turkey come the Fall.

DAMN…. I forgot about the drug called Studio 60… it is returning (wahoo). I will have to get a patch or something, cuz I ain’t gonna’ miss this one!

Cuz? Ain’t? Gonna? T.V. rots the brain. Sorry, Miss Garnett.

Missed Lunch.

I actually missed lunch.

I also actually miss lunch... much like one misses their favorite childhood pet that has died.

Why do bad things happen to good people? How can a mealtime just slip by and go unrecognized? I guess I could examine what went wrong on this blog since I don't have anything better to write.

Let's see...well, first of all, the only cash I had was the 87 cents rambling around amongst the lint in the bottom of my laptop case and the delivery boy doesn't take my first born or credit cards. My day was filled with meetings, unrealistic deadlines, and phone calls from idiots misguided individuals that I was delighted to assist.

It was 3:30pm before I made this astonishing realization and that was entirely too late to remedy the situation.

It is true I had the Venti Cafe Americano earlier, but that has long passed through my guts and is resting comfortably in the Mississippi by now. It is also true that I had the yogurt that has been sitting in the employee fridge since last week (to my knowledge, this hasn't passed through any guts yet. i.e. I have not pooped.)

What am I to do? I suppose waiting until 5pm and rushing my fanny home and gobbling the entire contents of my freezer is a little unrealistic. As is driving through one of the 1/2 dozen fast food places and ordering the quadruple bypass sized fries and soda (not that I have ever done this... no, not me...never).

Nah, I will simply just go into my bag and get a piece of gum and wait it out until dinner. I can always cook my dinner a little earlier and eat cheese and chips and nibbles of whatever I am cooking while I am preparing.

But wait!

What is this?

Why, it is the low fat cranberry oat muffin I bought to go along with my Venti Cafe Americano.

I put it in my laptop bag for safe keeping. Safe keeping indeed!

Ah, sweet satisfying morsels of love and goodness.

I have been saved!

How do you get to the Big Valley Motel?

I am one of those annoying people that give directions with landmarks instead of road names or exits.

"Oh, I know where that is...you need to turn right at the traffic lights by Simpsons and then go a couple of blocks until the next traffic lights then turn left by Main Street Market Place and then you should see it on the left past the car lot."

When I ask for dirctions, it is even worse. I need to have visuals. I need a map. I need to have neon signs and if possible arrows pointing my way.

Imagine my elation when I saw this sign right off the highway.





And it looks pretty cozy too...
Yeah, cozy...if you are a flippin' badger or a field mouse!

Maybe I missed something...let me zoom out...
Nope. It is pointed to earth and twigs. Not even a valley. Nice.