Works in Progress
Wavy scarf for Christmas present in Manos del Uruguay (mostly on the shuttle, so it's slow going)

Current Obsession

Last Google Search
Airline prices from Sacramento to Memphis - my parents have both sold their houses!

We have tickets for the Old 97's on October 16! Happy anniversary, honey!

My Netflix queue, which saves me from real TV

Burritos with home-cooked pintos, sharp cheddar and spinach

Roasted peppers with crumbled queso fresco

Garden stuff
My poor garden - totally neglected and dry.

April 2003
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You talkin' to me?
Amazon Wish List

Many thanks to:
Artwork © Lian Quan Zhen


i got a new attitude - September 24, 2004

- - September 22, 2004

- - September 20, 2004

Is this thing on? - September 20, 2004

- - September 15, 2004


2003-11-05 - 4:31 p.m.

Dear Boss #1,
Fuck you. Retire already.


Everytime I let my mind wander, it skips gleefully right over to the danger zone of more office-based blog reading. Do you know how stressful it is to stumble across something like zombiedoll while at work? Um, hello, banner for back-door nookie. How ya hangin'? Excuse me while I immediately close this window. Must remember to bring the IT guys a plate of cookies tomorrow. Bribing might be unnecessary, but it can't hurt!

I'm in a rockin' roller coaster of a mood; after a night and morning with Scratcher - and now a workday on 3 hours of sleep - you'd think I'd be as relaxed as a SoCal blonde with a brand-new Valium prescription. But no. I'm testy and tense and would cheerfully tell all five bosses to bite my frosty white booty were it not for the minor details known as a mortgage, credit card debt and pure financial dumbfuckery. (Writing convoluted sentences goes with the mood. Deal.) Sometimes I don't mind my job so much. It pays all right, and I have more independence than almost anyone in the office. But then something happens to remind me that having five bosses is at least three too many. To get three hours off on Halloween, I sent six damned emails.

I miss running the catering business, even with the stress of no income and no health insurance. I miss being outside at 2:30 in the afternoon on a sunny day, able to get in the car and drive to Tahoe. My clients loved me and I loved them. I prided myself on serving extremely reasonable food to non-profit organizations and working people. And damn it, there's profit there. Just not enough to keep someone without enought capital in business. Sigh. Money had me bent over and being fucked like a bitch named Sue**.

Is it a full moon or what? Everybody's being haunted by Asshole the Dwarf (Grumpy's older, pissed off cousin). Helen's being plagued by a Volvo-driving chunderhound. David's a little blue about some chick chicanery. In the office, L's also keistered, getting pushed from place to place by some mucky-mucks with inferiority complexes. What the hell is wrong with everybody?

Anybody who gets off on pushing others around should be condemned to eat nothing but canned peas for the rest of their lives. There's nothing more vile than canned peas - unless it's some dumbass who likes being a fuckmonster because s/he can get away with it.

Oh shit. There went all my composure. Here comes the freakout.

--What if Mom's MRI says cancer? She won't do the treatment again. And where the fuck does she get off getting angry with me for taking care of her last time?

--I have ten hours each day at work, Scratcher said, and I don't have to think there. So I've been thinking about you. I see us being together a long time; I wonder if you'll stop being afraid to get married. K, I'm starting to lo-- I leaned forward, squeezing thighs and inner muscles together, to shut him with kisses. Don't tell me that you love me. No. Time with him is so good. But love means pain.


**Can't take credit for this one. My high school buddy Cappy coined it. Sweeeeet.

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