On the importance of checking your message twice, and possibly three times before hitting "Send"

Email from co-worker: 'Cyndi, thank you so much for making the travel reservations for me. I feel so spoiled!'

Cyndi's reply, draft 1: 'You are so welcome! I'm all about soiling people!'

My finger was literally in the downward trajectory to hit "Send" when I caught it.

Cyndi's reply, draft 2. You are so welcome!

Yikes.

I must admit the image of me being all about soiling people did make me giggle briefly.

Hee. And eew. And yikes.

-C

Stuff on My Desk

My desk is where all the cool kids hang out. Truly it's sort of competitive up here where all the executives live, and one can't underestimate the importance of having shiny objects to attract the attention of ones "higher ups." So here, for your pleasure, or abject boredom, is some of the stuff that lives on my desk.


These are the little creatures that live on my desk. I bought them at Borders, my hang out of choice, and yes, the C-level executives stop by and play with them frequently. So far George, the back-flipping frog, is the clear favorite.


These little guys are an homage to my art historian days, when I used to spend my time lurking in the deep, dark corners of the library researching obscure references to Greek and Egyptian imagery of a man-octopus who represented the forces of Chaos in tomb paintings. Interestingly enough, Chaos is named Seth in Egyptian mythology. Who knew? Well I knew, because I was enough of a nerd to spend a year and 57 pages of my life reading about him. Still, to this day, the name Seth only brings back images of Jeff Goldbum's character Seth Brundle in the Fly. That movie scarred.me.for.life. Anyway, yes. Figurines, art history, and nostalgia.


No desk is complete without a marshmallow gun. How else is one supposed to halt interlopers who have designs on entering the CEO's office uninvited? Also it is very handy for intimidating co-workers who stand too close whilst waiting for me to complete a fax. Impatiently tapping your foot eh? How about you impatiently tapTHIS! (sound of a marshmallow being forcefully ejected from my gun). That's what I thought. Hope you can dial 9 with one FRIGGIN EYE!


My African mask hat stand. A girl's got to have somewhere to hang her hat. And then forget to take it home for 8 months. Hee.


I affectionately call this "The Bird Feeder." It's just like hanging a hummingbird feeder out your window. Put out a bowl of candy and enjoy the wild life. Some creatures secretively squirrel away a large handful to sustain them through the winter. Others make the ever-so-casual-on-the-way-to-the-bathroom-drive-by. Others still prefer to hunt nocturnally. That is, you come into work each morning and the contents of your bowl have magically vanished. Poof!


This impossibly small Zen garden is a particular favorite. I had originally intended to use this for myself. The thought of dragging an impossibly small rake through a tiny sandbox and lovingly arranging the stones filled me with dreams of peace and serenity. The reality proved to be far less calming. Within five minutes of placing the box on my desk, I promptly upturned it with an errant swipe of my elbow, sending the wee little rocks and sand flying in a graceless arc through space. I did my level best to clean the mess, but spent the rest of my day shaking grains of sand out of my mouse. Needless to say, this was hardly a zen inducing experience. It now lives safely beyond my reach on the desk bar for other people to play with.

I'm in imminent danger of becoming one of those people who look like they live at their work. You know the kind. Several houseplants, bunny slippers under their desk, a plethora of placards bearing inspirational phrases, lamps, a couch, a cat. For now, I draw the line at toys. And food. And a zen garden. And decorative figures. And several jackets. Come to think of it, this is a pretty roomy cubicle. I'm sure a cat would be delighted with these digs...


-C

Things I'm Embarrassed I Eat

My culinary upbringing was, admittedly, an odd one. I believe I owe this largely to my parents, though it seems unkind to make them take credit for any of my (many) oddities. My mother is German you see, like her mother, my smokin-hot Grandma Marion. Germans are made of hearty stock and are not to be daunted by the odd vein or bit of cartilage when approaching a chicken wing. Indeed, having sat down to a few meals with my relatives from Cuxhaven, I witnessed a gleam in their eye not unlike what one might expect to encounter in the eye of Kveldulf the berserker (and also alleged werewolf) as he sat cagily waiting on the field of battle.

Coming from my father's side then, a love for odd and seemingly nonsensical food combinations that prove to be intensely satisfying. Peanut butter, jelly, and cheese sandwiches for example. In a particularly entertaining home video, my eight year old self (be-sweatered in a hot pink best embroidered with pandas, and no Mom, I still haven't forgiven you for that outfit. ; ) demonstrates how to make tuna fish by my father's recipe. The ingredient list is as follows: tuna, mayonnaise, dijon mustard (which I refer to proudly as "Grandpa mustard" as my dad's dad loved it so well), an onion soup mix packet, and crushed up Fritos. It seemed normal enough when I was a kid, but I'll be darned if I've ever seen such a concoction repeated in any of the many encounters with tuna I've had as an adult. A year ago in a bout of nostalgia I whipped up a batch of onion-soup-mix-Frito-tuna and by-passed the bread, opting instead to trowel it down my gob on a handful of Doritos. It was every bit as excellent as I remembered.

Fueled by love of food and an addiction to PBS cooking shows at an alarmingly early age, I did my level best to pass on my self-proclaimed sophisticated tastes to my younger siblings. One of my favorite summer games for us to play was "restaurant." I would draw up menus for their breakfast and lunch featuring exotic items given what I thought to be catchy and alluring names. The only one that stands out in my mind is the oft-ordered "Americana" - a piece of bread with melted cheese topped by Bacos (Bacos are essentially bacon-flavored corn flakes if you've never had the pleasure to experience them). Look out Jacques Pepin.

Oddly the menu never featured chocolate mousse as I had hoped; I being unable to reproduce what I'd seen on TV by relieving an entire carton of eggs of their whites, adding a goodly measure of chocolate Quik powder, and frantically assaulting it with a fork. Giving up on pillowy clouds of delicate chocolate mousse, I attempted to salvage the dish by doing the only other thing I knew how to do with eggs. Scrambling them. Needless to say, the unseasoned palates of my younger brothers were not as adventurous as I'd hoped, and my chocolate egg white scrambler was rejected outright. Strangely I also failed to be seduced by their chocolatey-eggy goodness as I attempted to demonstrate to my young wards just how fabulous a dish they were missing.

And so continued my pattern of tinkering around in the kitchen, slapping together odd conglomerations of foodstuffs while standing in the cool air in front of the fridge, squirreling away my prize to the den of my room/couch/wherever. In the comfort of my family home, all of this seemed very normal and reasonable, as do most things we do in isolation. It's not until we introduce an outside person not in possession of our treasured quirks that we perceive we have done something terribly, irrevocably odd.

The first challenge to my cultivated tastes came in the form of my dear friend Crystal as we sat at the breakfast bar in her kitchen eating chicken, she with a surgeon's precision, neatly extracting the bits of vein odd colored peices from hers, I chewing the delicious pocket of fat happily found at the end of the my drumstick joint. Her pert nose wrinkled as I moved onto the crunchy gristle. "What?" I queried. "I don't know how you eat that stuff. Nastiness," quoth she. I smiled sheepishly. Being a good friend, she still spoke to me in spite of my habit of eating like a member of the Mongol hordes.

The next encounter took place during my sojourn at Ricks college, and came in the form of my friend Heather's perfectly plucked brow raising in a suspicious arc as I loaded up a Dorito with a goodly knob of scooped out avocado flesh. "It's really good" I assured her, offering her a bite. Wonder of wonders, she liked it, and we ate it frequently at our pig-out gatherings thereafter. Vindication at long last.

Which brings me to the next bit: the not-so-fascinating list of things I'm embarrassed I eat. All these things I find to be utterly delicious, but without fail, if consumed in front of witnesses garner at the least a raised brow or more severely, full-on goggle-eyed querulousness.

Spicy Hunan egg rolls and chocolate milk - The oddness of this one lies not only in the combination of foods, but in the fussy and ritualistic way I insist on eating them. A bite of eggroll, a small sip of milk. Repeat, repeat, repeat. The spicy meatiness of the eggroll when contrasted with the cool creamy chocolate milk is exquisite. Warm/cool, warm/cool - delicious.
French fries dipped in a Wendy's frosty - This combination is a quadruple juggernaut of taste contrasts. Sweet and salty, hot and cold. Mmmm.
Cheddar cheese dipped in ranch dip or dressing - Ranch takes on a subtle sweetness when contrasted with the sharpness of a good aged cheddar, and finishes with a certain pleasant herbiness that cuts through the richness of the cheese. Plus it's fat on fat action so the flavors meld beautifully. But boy howdy. I ate this combination off a relish tray amongst in-laws on one occasion, and judging from their reaction, you'd think I'd just fished a fresh cat-biscuit from the litter box and popped it in my mouth.
Fat - I love the taste of fat. Go ahead and shudder your revulsion. I'll wait. Now then. Fat has a delightfully mellow flavor and melt in your mouth texture I adore. It's like a meat truffle.
Chicken skin - I've been known to pick boiled skin from the pot while I'm making stock, salt it, and bolt it down.
Burnt things - I'm blaming this one on my father, as he introduced me to the wonders of burnt toast. I apparently took it to levels he hadn't ever approached as I set marshmallows aflame whenever making s'mores and regularly filled our house with smoke as I incinerated my breakfast of English muffins. He accused me of being carbon deficient. At work I was outlawed from making popcorn as I would purposely add thirty seconds to the timer to produce those delectable brown-black pieces that dissolve into charcoal-y buttery loveliness on your tongue.

So there they are in all their shame and glory - my pet gastro-anomalous goodies. Mock if you must.

-Cyndi

I am a telephonophobe.

So I am afraid of phones. Particularly, of answering phones or making calls to people I don't know. I'm just socially awkward enough that this is regularly a rather painful experience. I stutter and stammer. I forget my own name and telephone number. I am regularly met with suspicion as the person on the other line attempts to figure out if I am either some sort of idiot or sometime pretending to be me. I would be happy to confirm for them that I am indeed a very specific kind of idiot, but they never ask. They only ask questions with increasingly obscure answers.

"What is your mother's maiden name?"
"What was your first pet?"
"Who do you know that has a third nipple?"

And so when most companies adopted an express system where you can punch a sequence of options and arrive at your goal without ever speaking to a human being, I was delighted. Ecstatic even. But my euphoria was short-lived. Something even worse has come to replace it. The pseudo-human triage system that regards you in its terribly insincere chirpy robotic voice and makes you speak out loud to a damn computer. Case in point, Dish Network.

I sit in my work building's terribly echoe-y atrium on a brief break trying to conduct a simple bit of business. I need my Dish Network account number. I dial the main number and wait.

Computer voice: "Thank you for choosing Dish Network, home of the super ultra mega basement dweller cable package. Tell me in a few words how I can help you today."

Cyndi looks around, speaks quietly into her phone. "Account number."

Computer voice: "Great. Member access, I can help you with that. If heard you right, say yes. If not, say no."

Cyndi: "No."

Computer voice: *Insincere laugh. "That's alright, my mistake. Tell me in a few words how I can help you today."

Cyndi, slightly louder this time: "Account number."

Computer voice: "Okay. Payments. If heard you right, say yes. If not, say no."

Cyndi: "No."

Computer voice: "I think I heard you say yes. If this is correct, just say yes. If not, say no."

Cyndi: "Er yes. I mean no. No."

Computer voice: "I'm afraid I didn't catch that. If I can help you with a payment today, say yes. If not, say no."

Cyndi: "No. No payment."

Computer voice: "Sorry about that. In a few words, tell me what I can help you with today."

Cyndi, louder and slower this time, noting the glances of the first floor receptionists with distress: "ACCOUNT NUMBER."

Computer voice: "Alright then. Account number. I can help you with that. If this is correct say..."

Cyndi: "Yes!"

Computer voice: "If this is correct please say yes, if not, say no."

Cyndi: "YES!" Cyndi notices a loud echo with chagrin, shrinks down on ugly print sofa.

Computer voice: "Great. I see that you're calling from a number on an existing account. I just need to verify your identity. Please tell me the address where you receive service."

Cyndi promptly forgets the first numbers of her address and frantically rifles through her purse, looking for a bit of mail she may use to tell her where she lives.

Computer voice: *Insincere laugh once more. "I guess you didn't hear me. I'd be happy to help you with your account number. I just need the address where you receive service."

Cyndi: "Um, uh..."

Computer voice: "I'm afraid I didn't recognize that address. Let's try this a different way. What is the last four digits of the primary account holder's social security number."

Cyndi: "xxxx."

Computer voice: "I thought I heard you say xxxx. If this is correct, please say yes. If not, please say no."

Cyndi: "Yes."

Computer voice: "I'm sorry, my mistake. Could you please repeat the last four digits of the primary account holder's social..."

Cyndi: "xxxx!"

Computer voice: "Your account number is: -blur of numbers spat out at five times the speed of human hearing.- "If you would like me to repeat this, please say yes. If not, please say no."

Cyndi: "Yes!"

Computer voice: "That number was - blur of numbers-l. Thank you for calling today. Is there anything else I can do to assist you?"

Cyndi: "Yeah, you can shove this system up your automated arse."

Computer voice: "I'm sorry, I'm afraid I didn't recognize..."

Cyndi: *click*

When it feels that good to hang up on a non-sentient system of voice prompts, you've got issues. I've got issues.

-Cyndi

More Random Trivia Guaranteed to Bore You

In answer to a tag from my beloved friend Heather, here are 25 random facts about me. I pondered long and hard to try and think of information not readily known to the 2 people that read this blog. Sadly most things people did not already know are either not-very-well hidden neuroses or negligible facts from my childhood. Enjoy. Or take a nap. I recommend the nap, for what it's worth.

1. I have serious textural issues. There are certain things I can't touch without jumping about, retching and much shame-inducing girly ado. Some examples are: Any food bits left in the sink after washing dishes - I have to fill a bowl or cup with water and splash it down the drain. Cold wet washrags/sponges - I seriously pinch the eensiest bit of the corner and I can get and fling it under the hot water before I can pick it up.

2.I hate turtlenecks. I don't remember which comedian said it, but he expressed my feelings perfectly. "Wearing a turtleneck is like being choked by a really weak midget all day."

3.Whenever I sit down to work on TEH BOOK I am writing, I can't manage a single word unless my kitchen is immaculately clean.

4. I can only eat a tomato when it's been freshly cut. If it's been sliced then put in the fridge overnight, I won't touch it.

5. When I make a sandwich, I have to put the lettuce between the tomato and the bread. If the tomato juice gets onto the bread, I have to pinch the piece of bread off and put it to the side.

6. I was obsessed with koalas when I was a kid. I had koala t-shirts, mugs, puzzles, socks, stuffed animals, you name it. I had a secret plan to run away to Australia and start a koala farm. How I was going to generate or maintain capital from said farm I have know idea. I only know that I was going to feed my koala friends eucalyptus leaves and ride them around on my back all day.

7. When I'm severely stressed out, I've been known to watch kid shows on TV (usually things on PBS. Caillou, Arthur, Reading Rainbow, etc.) or read young adult books (Goosebumps, anything R.L. Stine.) It's the equivalent of a Ferris wheel ride and cotton candy for my brain.

8. I've always hated Kool-Aid, even when I was just a sprout. To me it just tasted like crappy flat soda. Now I know that Mr. Kool Aid is just a tubby cover for a child-friendly brand of crack cocaine, I feel my ire more than justified.

9. I'm a repeater. I fixate on a particular song and play it over and over and over. Then I wake up one morning, realize I now hate the song, and move on to another.

10. One of my legs is 1.5 inches shorter than the other. It's not terribly noticeable until you look at my jean cuffs. The gimpy leg cuff is always dirty scraped and scuffed. The normal leg cuff usually never touches the ground.

11. My regular body temperature is usually between 95 and 96 degrees. I have suspicions that I am, in fact, a reptile masquerading as a human being. Ssssshhh!

12. I had four different majors during my college education. I originally applied as an English major. On a whim, the day of registration, I changed to fine arts since all the English major classes were filled. Following my first semester in college, after enduring the not so divine tutelage of a particular puke-faced professor, I decided that art was not for me after all and switched to psychology. Over the summer, it became readily apparent that I was by far the most mental person I know and probably ought not be dispensing psychological advice, and so I switched back to fine arts. After gallivanting through Europe in the summer of 2000, I decided art history was for me.I graduated in that field with a master's and have managed to stay largely un-useful to the general population ever since.

13. My given name is Cynthia, but growing up, my parents spelled my nickname Cindy. Feeling what I thought to be a streak of rebellion (later investigations revealed said streak to be latent nerdiness and a closet fixation for Cyndi Lauper), I started spelling it Cyndi. It stuck. I still spell it that way, but inherently, every other human being on earth spells it Cindy. I've grown too apathetic to correct anyone anymore. Meh.

14. Though I usually test 20/20 and 20/15 on vision tests, I am actually far-sighted. This means I can often see random things way in the distance but my eyes throw a hissy anytime they are required to read something close for extended periods of time. Oh they can do it alright, they just don't like to do it. For this reason, I usually help them out by wearing geeky reading glasses to help prevent eye strain as I sit parked in front of my laptop 9 hours a day.

15. I'm not a big fan of ice cream. Given, there are exceptions. Godiva's chocolate raspberry truffle or Haagen Daz creme brulee for example. But given a choice, I'd typically take just about any other dessert option.

16. When I was seven or eight years old, I had a massive crush on Mark Summers. Back then he was the host of Double Dare (my favorite show at the time.) I dreamed that we would get married and live in a house that contained an exact replica of the Double Dare obstacle course. Am I weird that I still think that would kick ass? Not the married to Mark Summers part, the obstacle course in my garage part. Yeah, I thought so.

17. I love burnt food. Burnt toast, burnt popcorn, burnt cheese on the pizza crust, etc. you burn it, I'll snarf it. When toasting a marshmallow, I carefully roast it to a perfect golden brown, then at the last minute, set it on fire, blow it out, and scarf it. Nom nom nom.

18. I can dislocate my own jaw and pop it back into place just by opening and closing my mouth. One of my favorite things to do when at a dentist's office is to wait until they tell me to open wide and...POP! Totally freaks them out. Heh heh heh. Wait a minute...Snakes can dislocate their jaws as well. Usually in the operation of masticating over-large rodents. Freakin hell. I am a reptile. This sucks. I don't even like rodents.

19. I suck at doing laundry. As any of my bestest friends could tell you, I am pretty much a perfectionist freak. I have very particular and orderly way of doing things, typically involving an over-complicated system of lists, check boxes, and sacrificing live chickens. But when it comes to laundry, I seem to have some yet undiscovered deficiency. I've dyed my white laundry pink at least 5 times in the past two years. And I swear to you that I check the colors. Honestly I do. But without fail some red bastard of a clothing item finds its way into the load and pow! Pink undies for everyone.

20. I hate any sort of candy with rice cereal in it. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of rice crispy squares. They are honest and open about what they are. Rice poofies, marshmallows, butter. I can handle that. But when you go to bite into a piece of chocolate and are surprised by irritatingly crispy aggregate matter...*shudders. Ick.

21. I always have one drawer at work and at home that is an utter mess. The resident crap drawer, or so I call it. It seems that no matter how hard I bend my diseased little brain around obsessively organizing, there are some items that just defy logic and end up homeless. These unfortunate cast offs lay sadly label-less and unalphabetized in whatever drawer is closest to the ground.

22. I can't wear socks without shoes. I simply can't stand the way they feel on my feet by themselves. Especially socks with loose toes. Bleeegh!

23. I'm a freak about eyes. It's not so much a pain thing, I can deal with pain. I've been tattooed (oh the follies of youth), pierced (oh the follies of adulthood), and surgeried (oh the follies of a asshat appendix)and done just dandy. I just don't take kindly to any sort of procedure that involves my eye. I dang near beat the snot out of the doctor who first introduced me to the puff a jet stream of air in to your eye test. It was bad enough to have to get close to all those metal contraptions. And then he did that. They had Demerol waiting for my next appointment. And a spatula to scrape me from the ceiling. And protective body gear. Wisely done, I thought.

24. The list of things I wanted to be when I was a kid: koala farmer (we've established this one), monster truck driver (still hoping), marine biologist (it just sounded cool), chef (I used to draw up menus for my brothers and they would order their breakfast and lunch from them during summer break).

25. Shows I do not follow: Anything on reality TV, Lost, Grey's, Heroes, 24, CSI Anything, Anything on VH1, MTV, etc.
Shows I do follow: Nigella Feasts, Nigella Express, Barefoot Contessa, Viva Daisy, Man vs Food, (see a pattern developing here), the Office, Battlestar Galactica.

I supposed to tag someone now, but being the pathetic dork that I am, I really don't have anyone to tag, seeing as the only person I would tag is the person who tagged me. If anyone other than Heather a.) reads this, b.) has a blog, and c.) hasn't already been tagged, consider yourself tagged!

Cyndi

Updates

Ever said to yourself, "I need "X" like I need another hole in my head" ? Well, a warm welcome if you please, for the new hole in my head. I dun pierced mah nose! And I love it. I now fully expect to find out what "X" is and why I need it. No, that didn't make any sense to me either, and I wrote it.

In other news, Doritos and half a king-size Hershey bar, while seeming like a most excellent lunch, are in fact, NOT excellent. At all.

You live and you learn.

Cyndi

Songs that are supposed to be romantic...but aren't

Songs that are supposed to be romantic but aren't...Volume 1 (I feel this may become a regular series as today's music industry is kind enough to provide me with such ample fodder.)

I get the distinct impression that today's young women become increasingly easier to impress. All an uber-sensitive whiny chap with mascara must do is slap together a few notes, paying special attention to engineering a chorus that stops a hairsbreadth away from devolving into WAAAAAAAAHHHHH!, and he has his very own gaggle of ravening, weepy, screeching girls who assign to him the status of Mega Ultra Super Romance God of the Universe. Honestly, does anyone listen to lyrics anymore? Anyone?

So with that I give you Secondhand Serenade's "Fall for You." Try not to expire from the romance of it. I know it will be difficult. I've honestly been out and heard a young woman shoosh her friend when this sodden Kleenex of a song came on. "Shhh! Oh my gosh! It's our song!" *Fans herself.* "Oh my gosh, Secondhand Serenade is sooooo awesome! They're deep."

They're deep alright, my young emo mall-rat friend. So deep I need a shovel for fear that a load of steaming piffle might find it's way into my ear. Let's begin, with the song's first stanza. And I quote:

"The best thing about tonight is we're not fighting,
Could it be we've been this way before?
I know that you don't think I am trying,
I know you're wearing down thin to the core."

Honestly,'The best thing about tonight is we're not fighting,'? Perhaps he's celebrating the much-anticipated commencement of his Thorazine drip. They're not fighting tonight. Hurray oh hurray!

Sounds like the hallmarks of a trailer park romance to me. What a momentous night indeed! The neighbors won't have to call the cops for once. No one will have to witness the spectacle of Jim Bob in naught but his boxers and stained tank top lurching about on the lawn, shouting drunken obscenities at the plastic flamingo as Jane Bob ejects his possessions from the trailer's front window. No, not tonight. Tonight Jim Bob can ruminate on the fact that they're not fighting.

"Woulda you look at that Jane Bob, we ain't even broke a dish tonaght! I think that maght jest be the best part bout tonaght. Other than this frosty Keystone a course." Oh the romance! Help me for I grow faint!

And just because this line is too droll to pass up, "I know you're wearing down thin to the core." Well yes clearly, he needed something to rhyme with 'before.' I can only imagine the choices he elected to pass on. Pore, spore, bore, gore, lore, more. No, none of them quite communicate the depth of the angsty angst that drips from this song. Really dude. Thin to the core? What, is she an apple? The earth perhaps? Does she have a liquid hot mag-ma center? Gar.

Ready yourself, for here comes the chorus:

"But hold your breath,
Because tonight will be the night
That I fall for you over again
Don't make me change my mind."

Don't make me change my mind? Is that a threat? Don't make me change my mind or what? She'll see the back of his pimp hand? And how will she make him change his mind precisely, by NOT holding her breath?

"Hay! Jane Bob, I dun told you to hold yer breath! Don't make me change mah mind now. I's said I's gonna fall fer you over again. Now get on in there and put on them cut-offs you hade awn when we first met down at them stock car raises. You know, the ones I spillt that beer awn."

Yes, Jim Bob sure does know how to charm a lady. But wait! There's more!

"Or I won't live to see another day!
I swear it's true!
Because a girl like you is impossible to find
You're impossible to find."

Ohhh. I see. So Jim Bob really only wants to patch things up because a girl like her is impossible to find. Uh huh. So what is she now? A Tickle Me Elmo at Christmas time? A quail in hunting season? It's hard work puttin down the beer and going out on one of them women-hunts. You're right Jim Bob. Better than to patch things up that actually put forth an effort. Good on ya.

Skipping forward a touch:

"So breathe in so deep
Breathe me in, I'm yours to keep
And hold on to your words, cause talk is cheap
And remember me tonight when you're asleep."

Boy, the rhymes sure were coming quickly when he composed this stanza. He must have felt like Stradivarius approaching the work table. Aside from the oh so deft rhyme schema, does this make any sense whatsoever? So breathe in so deep, breathe me in, I'm yours to keep. Breathe me in...hmm. Sounds like in a misguided attempt at romance, Jim Bob resorted to the ole covered wagon, which while utterly hilarious to him, would likely not have greatly impressed his lucky lady love.

Jim Bob and Jane Bob lay in bed together. Jim Bob suddenly pulls the covers over Jane Bob's head.
"Shoooeee! Git a load of that babydoll! I bet it was them deviled eggs I dun ate. Go on, breathe me in. All that is yers to keep! Yes m'am. Ain't you the lucky one."
*Jane Bob retches, flees for the bathroom.
"You better not be holdin yer breath baby, don't make me change mah mind!"

Continuing on, 'So save your words, cause talk is cheap.' Wait, so she can't talk, because talk is cheap, and therefore meaningless. Okaaay. Em, terribly sorry if I'm pointing out the obvious here. But, isn't this song, well, composed of...words? So would that mean this song is well...Oh never mind.

The song whines on for another couple choruses, of course, just so we fully understand that he won't live to see another day, he swears it's true, she's impossible to find, yadda yadda, blah bah. What can one do in the face of such linguistic deliciousness but yield to its solicitous sentiments?

Holding my breath,
Cyndi

UCGs and Other Random Facts

Before I begin to ramble, a couple of not terribly important things:

Firstly, I received a notification via email that I have officially reached the 1000 hit mark (this number reflects all the hits between June when I started tracking and now). Who knew my Mom and Dad were online so often?

Nextly, I'm just awful at remembering birthdays and anniversaries (I know how old I am, but only because I can do basic subtraction. 2008 minus 1981, carry the 3...wait. That's not right.) Being such crap at remembering these things, I am not at all surprised to announce that I missed my own Blog-versary on January 4th. Happy blog-versary to me! It's been one year of incredibly sporadic posts about things no one but me gives a goat turd about. Gives me a deranged sense of accomplishment really.

But neither of these insignificant items is what I wish to talk about today. What I wish to talk about is something that makes me, Scroogesquely, heave a sigh of relief when the holidays are finally over. UCGs. That's right. Unexpected Christmas Gifts. Please note that the gifts in question do not come from close friends or family members. Those you should see coming and reciprocate, unless you are a total jerk (like me). I am referring to totally unexpected gifts. Ninja-like gifts that leap from the shadows and nearly cause you to soil yourself. You know the kind I'm talking about.

There's a knock at the door. You wonder who it is. You're not expecting anyone. All the kids are off mugging old ladies, making origami from their homework, or watching mostly inappropriate shows in the basement. Your significant other is deeply engrossed in a sporting event of some kind. Yes, everyone accounted for.

You open the door, and there it is. A shiny and lovingly-wrapped parcel, grasped in the mitten-ed hands of a friend, neighbor, or co-worker, face flushed red with seasonal cheer and cold.

"Hi!" They shriek excitedly. "I just wanted to drop this by for you!" They extend the package to you. You stammer, you stutter. You forget to invite them in.
"Oh, thanks," you manage awkwardly. They blink at you. You blink at them. You frantically scan the nearby table for something that even remotely resembles a gift that you can present in return.

"Would you care for a fish stick?" You mumble stupidly.
"Oh no, I'm good" they say, patting their festively be-sweatered stomach. An awkward silence follows. "Well, I need to be on my way," they chuckle nervously.
"Yeah, sure. And...erm...thanks for...this," you say, feeling like the world's crappiest crap-hole.

This happens to me every year. I suck at sending Christmas cards. I don't make cutesy things to hand out to friends, let alone near acquaintances. It's not that I never think about it. I just never think about it in time. An idea lodges in the back of my muddled brain and only squeezes out until there is no time and no resources to make it happen. As a result, I have become utterly paranoid at avoiding these sorts of gift-givers at all costs. For an example of one of these interactions, please peruse the dramatization below:

*Phone rings, Cyndi looks uncertainly at a number that looks vaguely familiar and answers.

Cyndi: "Hello?"
Gifter: "Hey there! I was just wondering when I could stop by your house?"
Cyndi: *Cyndi recognizes work acquaintance's voice. Said acquaintance lives nearby as was discovered by a recent water cooler conversation. "Stop by? Why?"
Gifter: "I just wanted to drop something off to you."
Cyndi: "I'm sorry? Did I leave something at work?"
Gifter: "No, I just got you a little something for Christmas. It's not much but..."
Cyndi: "Oh no. You really don't need to do that."
Gifter: "I know I don't need to but I wanted to just..."
Cyndi: "No really, I'm good. Thanks though."
Gifter: "Look, it's really not anything big. Just tell me when you'll be around."
Cyndi: "You know, it's really busy right now and all. I'm just not sure when I'll be home. Probably you should just give it to someone else."
Gifter: "But the gift has your name engraved on it. I don't know any other Cyndies. Much less Cyndies that spell their names Cy..."
Cyndi: "You could change it. Maybe just scratch some of the letters out..."
Gifter: "Look. I could just swing by and leave it on your porch."
Cyndi: "Er...umm...that may not be such a good idea."
Gifter: "Why not?"
Cyndi: "Tapeworms."
Gifter: "Excuse me?"
Cyndi: "I have a tapeworm. They might be contagious within a 20 foot proximity. In fact, that's why I won't be around tonight. I need to uh, get it removed."
Gifter: "Don't they just give you pills for that?"
Cyndi: "It's a new breed of tapeworm, it's developed an immunity to medication.It's a...um, really big tapeworm. Highly evolved."
Gifter: "So how are they going get it out?"
Cyndi: "Um, make it feel unwelcome?"
Gifter: "Sorry?"
Cyndi: "Yeah, these new tapeworms are really sensitive. I think they said something about getting down near my abdomen and hinting about George having overstayed his welcome."
Gifter: "George?"
Cyndi: "I named him."
Gifter: "Will you be at work tomorrow?"
Cyndi: "Gosh darn it no. I'm done for the year."
GIfter: "Cool, I'll just leave it on your desk."
Cyndi: "Piss!"
Gifter: "Excuse me?"
Cyndi: "Hiss! Meow meow," laughs shrilly, "I was just talking to my cat."
Gifter: "Oh, that's em...nice. Well anyway, I hope you like the gift."
Cyndi: "Thanks a bunch."

Cyndi