Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Check this out:
BuzzSaw Husband - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
It should be noted that Mr. Zoom probably deserves an award for the amount of tomfoolery he puts up with (from me alone) - and the fact that I just called it tomfoolery.
Monday, August 28, 2006
All dairy and foods made with dairy. Milk, cheese, ice cream. Real butter. Even mashed potatoes if there's enough milk/cheese/real butter in them. That right there was enough to make me cry for a whole day.
Oats. Cheerios, instant oatmeal. Seriously people. I already can't have milk (in cereal), so now we have to take away the oatmeal too?
Wheat. Frosted shredded wheat is now a distant memory.
Peanuts, walnuts, actually, any kind of nut. I don't get the scary reaction that you've heard in the news, I just get hives/rash/itching that will.not.stop. Even my hair itches. NO PEANUTBUTTER. Do you even know what it's like to give up Trader Joe's chocolate covered peanut butter pretzels? DO YOU!?
And now we can add alcoholic beverages to the list. That's right. I am allergic to booze. Thank god I already fooled Mr. Zoom into marriage.
It's not the actual alcohol I'm reacting to - but it might as well be:
This is all based on my novice opinion and the 3,000 tubes/spray bottles of Gold Bond anti-itch savior sauce I've marinated in over the last year. All in an attempt to deny that this fact can actually be true.
And let me tell you something. You know how Claritin is "non-drowsey"? Maybe when compared to narcolepsy. Because when I have to take it for a week straight, It puts me down like a lawn dart. It is much better than trying to function on Benadryl, but it still isn't exactly the antihistamine alertness miracle.
And here's a new, lower level of reason to be bummed at the alcohol allergy. You see, ever since Mr. Zoom and I got married, our pals have created (so I've heard, anyway) a pool wherein money has been placed on when we will have a critter.
I really hope there's a square for "no critter" and someone puts a lot of money on it. Because WE AREN'T HAVING ANY KIDS. But nobody wants to hear or accept that.
Anytime I sit out a gathering among friends, they now think I'm pregnant. One weapon I could always count on to stop that silliness was DRINKING when I did see my friends.
I need to have pamphlets made. "I am not pregnant. We are sorry you won't be winning the bet - but we told you so. I am living this way because I am allergic to all foods/beverages fun. Please water me frequently. Feed me cheese less pizza, dry salad and plain or powdered doughnuts. With a side of steak."
Thursday, August 24, 2006
There are 3 buttons I must do/undo. Two of these three buttons do nothing but try and look decorative. And they refuse to go in or out of their respective button holes. Annoying. Like trying to crack a safe. Only you have to pee really bad and you can't go until the safe is opened. If they were some kind of convoluted pulley system that kept my britches from fleeing to my ankles without notice, I'd not hate with so much button hate. Sadly though, the only one doing any kind of naked preventing is the third hidden button. Which gives me no grief.
So I am at the office lootorium. My back is to the bowl as I struggle with my pants. In one motion I feel the button tension ease, and I hear a *kerplink* behind me. I looked down and one of the two angry buttons is gone. Both were free of their holes, but one was just plain missing. I thought "Get out. There's NO WAY my button somehow got away from me and landed in the toilet. There just isn't."
Oh, but there was. Don't ask me how it happened, because I don't know. When I turned around to look, I saw that button resting at the bottom of the toilet bowl. It looked peaceful, like a nickel someone wished on and tossed into a fountain.
I wished my button a nice trip through the sewer systems of California. I let it know that I hated it, probably as much as it hated me. I silently questioned whether it would actually flush, being somewhat weighted - and to my relief it did. The last thing I needed was to have a button from my pants resting in the office loo, unflushable without a stick.
Don't ask me why this seemed like such a horror, especially when I've got an anti theft TamPen on my desk, in my pen holder.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
That, combined with a spike in business for my particular group at work has made for infrequent posting by me.
So what's a girl to do? Turn the video feature on her husband. That's what.
It's hard to video him by surprise anymore. He's SOO on to me, that I can rarely evoke that sigh signaling his reminder program has been activated: "I married her. Voluntarily. Remember when you thought stuff like this was cute. REMEMBER!"
Last night at a shopping center Mr. Zoom went into a sunglasses store. He's been shopping for new ones for at least the last 50 years. Ok, maybe I embellish. It's only been about 3 years.
I tried to catch him trying glasses on, but he was too far away from me. The only thing I did get was when he finally saw me shooting video at him through the store's window, he did that sigh/head shake thing. Which makes me laugh. Which equals entertainment for me. Underwhelment for you.
Check this out:
fired - Custom videocodes by MyWynk
In previous sunglass browsing experiences, I've noticed the name PEOPLES. Of course, I didn't bother to read the OLIVER part. I said to Mr. Zoom "Wasn't that an actor in ... uh... the 80s or something? Didn't he have kinda funny hair or something? How does just anybody sell stuff now?"
Mr. Zoom cleared things up: "No knucklehead. That was MARIO VAN, not OLIVER."
Monday, August 21, 2006
Big Gay MoMo: "Where are you going right now?'
Z: "Back to my desk.?."
MoMo: "Really? mmm.. Because, well...."
Z: "Ugh. Just spill it. These talks never end well. You might as well just get whatever it is out there."
MoMo: "Ok. Well, JL is worried that you are going to tell on us because we were talking about boobs."
Z: "Um. What? You were? Do I care? I don't think so. What are you talking about?"
MoMo: "Well, he's paranoid. Did you even hear us talking about boobs? Because we weren't talking about yours. We were talking about transvestite boobs."
Z: "...No...I wasn't aware of any conversation involving boobs, mine or otherwise by you or anyone else. And even if I had, I'd laugh. I suppose you can go tell JL that I won't be reporting him for not talking about my boobs? Or transvestite boobs? Or whatever you need to tell him to make this conversation not happen again?"
Thursday, August 17, 2006
I even tried keeping a stash of pens in my desk drawers, but that didn't help. People know you are likely hiding them and will just go through your drawers when you aren't there. Sometimes they will do it even when you are sitting right there.
This week I found a way to keep my pens in their holder where they belong. Very cheap, and oh so effective.
One tampon, which shall remain in it's wrapper, placed strategically in my pen holder.
Turns out they stop more than leaks.
I've now placed one in each of my desk drawers. My extra stash of pens has remained undisturbed.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
"I've got internet VD!"
Turns out that I'm fairly compulsive with my need to convey information the very moment that Mr. Zoom appears to have reached consciousness. Or walked through the door.
Saturday night I had busied myself with the internet after Mr. Zoom went to bed. I was browsing blogs with the "next blog" button. Turns out there's a one.thousand.percent chance that when doing this in the wee hours of the morning - like 2 a.m. - that the "next blog" will be porn. Loud porn that runs little sound files that make you feel like You've actually stumbled upon Caligula's Myspace account. Username Priapus.
After hitting two or three of these in a row, my computer started protesting with a little warning box on my task bar "Your computer is infected! Click here to fix it."
I followed instructions, but the little warning wouldn't go away. I gave up and resolved myself to the fact that Mr. Zoom would have to fix it when he woke up. Hence, internet VD.
"Don't worry Zoom, I'll fix it." he said. Which he did.
Too bad he can't fix my biological computer.
Last night after watching a show off of the cheater tivo, I got to thinking that I hadn't seen him watch a particular game show recently.
I, of course, had also forgotten the name of the show. But no matter, I proceeded to speak the question I had for him assuming the name would just occur to me in time. Which it didn't.
"Did they stop making that Who Wants to Guess a Million Dollars in the Suitcase show?"
Mr. Zoom giggled and said "Deal?......"
"OOOOOOOOOOH yeah! Deal or No Deal."
Then I totally lost interest in why I'd asked in the first place and moved on to whining about not wanting to go to bed yet or something.
Saturday, August 12, 2006
This is the picture that goes with the post below, since Blogger suddenly stopped letting me upload pictures.
I probably nagged it to disfunctionality.
Oh well, it wouldn't truly represent me if it weren't completely difficult to use or understand.
Yesterday I went and got Slausen from his hotel for Mom and Dad, since they would be returning after pick up hours. Slausen used to be my cat. My baby. Because poor Mr. Zoom ends up in the hospital and nearly dying himself when exposed to cat for a long time...well, that's how Mom and Dad ended up adopting him. Because I had Slausen as a kitten, I knew he liked to ride in cars. When I got him safely in the truck I let him out of his carrier:
He doesn't know he's a cat. Wags his tail even while running to the various windows to look out. I'd bet he'd hang his head out the window too if I dared roll one down. Which I don't.
After leaving him fully petted, fooded and watered, I headed back to work.
This next picture is going to require a little explaining.
You see, I've got this thing about harassing Mr. Zoom into taking me to Canada on vacation. I don't even have much of a specific reason to want to go there, or a specific location within the Canada that I want to see. I just - for some reason - latched on to that idea and in true womanly fashion - will not let it go.
If there's ever an open ended discussion about destination - I'll illogically reply with "how about Canada?" i.e. "Where should we go to eat tonight?" "How about Canada?" Sometimes I'm more creative: "I need to find a place that sells ___________." "OHH, I bet there's one in CANADA!"
It's gotten to the point where he feeds me the lines now. "If we drove to __________, the shortest route there would probably be through ...." "CANADA!?" "Yes Zoom, Canada. I know you want to go there. I haven't forgotten."
I've now brought this unfortunate passtime to another level by wanting to obtain a motor home type thing and drive everywhere on vacation. Not just Canada. I have officially hit the crazy, old lady (sans cats) who wants a motor home age. I suppose this could be my mid life crisis.
So on the way back to work after replacing kitty in his castle, I saw THIS on the road:
Ok, originally the vision for this part of the post had the picture. But Blogger won't let me do it now so it's all out of order and the picture in the post above this one.
I want one of these Road Toaster Airstream thingies. Mr. Zoom and I looked on the all knowing internet, and we've determined that my new love is actually an Airstream Bambi. Although I can't ride in something called a Bambi, so I'm going to call it a road toaster.
I came home with this picture and all kinds of jibber jabber: "We could upgrade my truck with a tow package, buy one of these and GO TO CANADA!"
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Or, in my younger days, that which was called a Gift Certificate.
I love them. Honest. If I'm fortunate enough to get one, I'll sometimes put it on the table and peer at it through a heart shaped hand formation.
Ok, I lied. I don't really do that. The only time I've made that heart shaped hand formation (other than just now making that blurry picture) was when I brought the third season of Scrubs home on DVD. Apparently I also had an overwhelming need to show Mr. Zoom how unfortunate his choice in wifery was. Again.
But in all non-lying ness, I really love receiving a Gift Card. It's not that I like shopping, either. I hate shopping with a purpose. "Have to find a ______ for ________ to go with _________." What I love is being somewhere without an agenda, finding a thing that I believe I can't live without, and having a Gift Card to buy it with.
It should be noted that I am equally in love with gifts I have received that were of the non-gift-card type. A number of my favorite possessions were given to me in that retro "aha, there's something I bet she'd like for Christmas/Birthday/Happy Parole Party and hasn't bought for herself yet" kind of way.
I think both are wonderful gestures.
So many people are annoyed at Gift Cards. Not just annoyed, but downright offended. I've never seen something so clearly intended for good feelings go so wrong. Not since the last time I offered a piece of my steak to my best vegetarian pal in the world.
Maybe other people live in the kind of world where the friend/relative/secret santa target DOESN'T already have that particular item in the price range they are considering. Or that someone else hasn't already gotten for them. Or that they said they liked because someone's sister was there and would be offended if they told the truth, but they really don't want that thing. Sure, gift receipts are great for exchanges or returns, but isn't that really just a more complicated Gift Card when you are done with all of that?
I'm not saying everyone I know has the ability to buy everything they've ever wanted. Far from it. But, in this world of Target where you can buy multiples of just about everything you could ever want for what feels like less than what a #2 meal deal costs at Carl's Jr., it's really difficult to pick up an item that someone doesn't already have.
Even worse is the fact that the internet makes pre-ordering and hard to find items available to the giftee 24 hours a day. Even on the most notoriously impossible to shop on holidays "in real life." I don't have the time or energy to try and beat someone to the purchase, and I certainly don't expect someone else to do it for me in reverse.
Dear world: Stop complaining about how uncreative and unthoughtful the Gift Card you just received is. If it came from me, it is actually quite the opposite. It means I've considered the possibilities of my being able to make you smile, and I felt that this form of smileage was going to be the most effective.
I'd also like to point out that many Gift Cards now come in a downright cute, if not clever, design. Some with impressive holders to present them in. Presented to YOU. From ME. Quit it with the entitlement for a moment and whine to me about real injustices, like having your organs donated without your permission. Or being forced to meet my parents without an interventionist.
If you can't appreciate someone trying to give you an opportunity to chose something you'd like - send your cards to me. I might even make that heart shaped hand formation while I'm picking up a 20 pack of extra large granny style undies for you at Target. You're going to need them if you insist on wearing your head up your ass.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
I'm halfway through my second chicken taco when I hear "OOOH, we know the same restaurant!"
I turn around and it's a file clerk from our firm. And he's not just any file clerk. No. Of course he's the one who - I can say this because he's over 18 - he's hot. He's all of 21 years old.
While I hope to pride myself on being the kind of dirty old lady who is absolutely harmless - yet isn't afraid to acknowledge hotness (quietly in her own head and with full disclosure to her husband - as we share these kinds of harmless observations with each other), it's quite uncomfortable when said hotness is being all polite and junk out of the office. I want to appreciate hotness from afar. I don't need it walking up to me and having manners. I don't know what to do with social situations in general - adding manners nearly gives me anaphylactic shock.
He says to me "OH HI! Are you here alone? My goodness. Would you like to come over to our table over there? I'm here with so-and-so from the copy room and we saw you sitting here."
I smiled nervously and said "Oh, no thank you. That's nice, but no. I'm fine here." He said "Ok then, just wanted to see if you wanted company." Then he went away.
That's when I discovered what had have been an entire head of shredded lettuce and at least 3 black beans in my teeth!! Not JUST the back or side teeth, noooooo. THE FRONT ONES. Can you imagine? He probably ran back to his table and told his friend "Not only is she alone for lunch, but she has all this food in her grille! How sad. Is that what happens when you get old?"
I didn't know where they were sitting, so I tried to wait them out so I wouldn't have to pass them on the way out to my truck. Unfortunately, this backfired on me. He and his friend must have just left minutes before I did. They pulled out of the parking space in their own truck- which thanks to the math of "what are the chances" - is parked directly behind mine. They see me, I don't see them. They honk the horn and scare the lettuce right out of my teeth. He yells "NICE TRUCK!"
I waved and said to myself "I bet he's gay" just because I felt defensive, and now needed a change of underwear.
Of course we arrived at the office parking structure at the same time. I again tried to be clever and avoid having to do the uncomfortable walk to the elevator and ride up to our floor with him and the other guy. I guess they saw me drive in as well, and so they kinda waited. AGAIN WITH THE POLITE. So questions were thrown at me, and I answered them by showing as little teeth as possible and taking sips of my soda through the straw. As if to say "oh, sorry, can't talk....busy....drinking."
Of course we all rode in the elevator together.
I've never been so happy to see those elevator doors part. I waved and practically sprinted to my desk.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I will say the tunes are agreeable, and even Mr. Zoom is a fan of him/them. But, when the DM starts to sing I involuntarily siezure with teeth gritting and eye squinting. Stone me if you must.
Tonight after dinner Mr. Zoom and I got into the car to drive home when I remembered that a co-worker of his had told him to keep a specific weekend open this month. That particular weekend happened to be one we had already committed to do something, so Mr. Zoom had to turn him down.
I hadn't remembered to ask at the time what they were trying to plan, so I brought it up in the car.
"What was it that The Pilot wanted you to do on that weekend?"
"Oh, go see Dave Matthews."
"Oh, I hate him [DM]. Too bad. You could have totally gone to that if we didn't already have that other thing we said we'd go to."
"Yes, I know this. So does The Pilot. That's why he was trying to arrange it."
Right then, Mr. Zoom killed a very noisey clown. Normally these incidents pass with negligible odor. This time, however, windows were suddenly rolled down and Mr. Zoom made a noise that indicated doom was now a passenger in our car.
It took about 2 seconds for me to realize just how smelly our passenger was. I sqeaked "DRIVE AWAY DRIVE AWAY - hurry! before the car engine lights it on fire!" I had the passenger door open, hoping to draw in some slightly less polluted air. He drove and circulation finally relieved us of our unwanted passenger.
I don't know if my eyes were watering from laughing or from the burn of one very dead clown.
I turned to Mr. Zoom and said "You know, it's funny how we were talking about Dave Matthews when that smell came out of your butt."