Tag Archives: postaday2011

The Underwear Made Me Do It.

27 Jan

It wasn’t until 5:06 pm yesterday that I realized I wasn’t wearing one, but two pairs of underwear.

I noticed it as I was getting changed from my work clothes into my walking-home-clothes and stood in the handicapped stall (the executive suite of the bathroom world), staring in utter disbelief.  How could I have gone all day with 2 pairs of underwear and not noticed? 

I visited the restroom numerous times yesterday thanks to my recently enacted boycott of Starbucks and my tendency to fill the void with Diet Coke.  After all that pulling down and yoinking up, you’d think I’d have experienced some slight discomfort or noticed that I was actually grasping two layers of fabric instead of one.  I blame the mind-numbing nature of the corporate machine.

Even more mind boggling is that I took a shower yesterday morning and not the night before, which means that I didn’t change from pajamas into my work clothes.  I was buck naked, put on a pair of underwear, did my makeup, and put on another pair of underwear. 

I like to walk home from work most of the time because 1) I’m fat and it’s good for me and 2) It clears my mind and helps me flick the switch from Work Jackie (a terrible beast that froths at the mouth and is almost unrecognizable to Dave) to Regular Jackie (marked by strange quirks, most notably an affinity for self-expression through cartoon voices).    My favorite part of the walk is the large bridge that sits high above a series of winding creeks and bike trails, partly because it’s beautiful to look down and see the paths made through the stark white snow, and partly because the thrill of contemplating the jump makes my veins jump in excitement.  Not because I want to kill myself, but because there’s something so intriguing about imagining the fall downward.  I would never do it, but I have to admit that I stand there staring for an unhealthy period of time.  I’ve considered several times going skydiving to help satisfy this nagging feeling, but the idea scares the bajeezus out of me.

I am an onion with beautiful, nonsensical layers upon layers.

And so on this particular day, I found myself staring at a long way down and readily equipped with a newly discovered extra pair of underwear.   Which, of course, made me want to put them on over my pants and stand on the railing of the bridge with my hands on my hips, wind blowing my hair toward the traffic that was bound to crash at the sight.

But I only released my grip on the rail and trudged onward with my regret.

This morning, I tucked an extra pair of underwear into my bag.  And if you’re on a certain bridge at a certain time of day, you just might see a superhero. ♣

Image above belongs to nataliedee.com, where you can buy cool t-shirts featuring her quirky pictures.  Click on the image and browse away.  Or check out her blog. She’s kind of a big deal. 
 
 

Tags: , , , ,

10 Reasons You Should Give Obama a Break

26 Jan

Last night, President Barack Obama delivered the State of the Union address.   Today, millions of Americans will attack him.    And  so today I present to you a common-sense guide entitled:

Reasons You Should Give Obama a Break

1) The man spends his workdays genuinely attempting to solve issues for not only America, but the world.  Big things.  Things like immigration, foreign policy and international relations.  Things like education, the economy, job growth, and sustainable energy.  Now think of what’s on your daily to-do list.  I don’t know about you, but some days I have a hard time just convincing myself to take a shower.

2) Chances are, he’s not the one you should be mad at.  It isn’t just the President who runs the country, folks.  He’s just one branch of a three branch system.  And by the way, we vote for those people.  Well, kind of.  Quite frankly our voter turnout is pretty pathetic.  About 30% of Americans don’t even bother.  Malta rocks a 95% turnout.  Malta! Do you even know where that is?!  And for non-presidential elections, that number is even more frightening, in spite of the fact that it’s our local legislatures who make the most difference in our daily lives.

3) He’s just one guy.  Yes, a big important guy that we expect to perform when we put him in office.  But one guy nonetheless.  It takes an entire government to make legislation.  Even if Obama agrees with every single belief and agenda that you do, he is unable to get those things accomplished without the help of others.  And those others tend to argue.  A lot.

4) We have a lot of problems.  And we can only work on so many at one time.  Yes, immigration needs addressed.  Yes, we need better education and a higher percentage of high school graduates.  Yes, we absolutely need sustainable energy and jobs and infrastructure and lower national debt and on and on and on.  Unfortunately, we can only do so much at once.  Think about all the things you need to improve about your life and all the things on your to-do list.  Aren’t you incredibly overwhelmed and amazingly ineffective if you go at them all instantly and with equal fervor?  Now increase the urgency on them by 1000%, add millions of people who think you should start their action item first, and only give yourself 4 years (minus campaigning) to accomplish all of them.

5) He has an incredibly difficult job.   Have you ever considered that in the midst of all this, he’s just a human?   He’s just a dude.  A regular dude trying to solve the problems of an entire country and somehow find time to be with his family.  Every single thing he does is scrutinized.  Even his iPod playlist.  That’s right: We got on Clinton for sex in the Oval Office, and we go after Obama for his affection for Lil Wayne and Nas.  

6) He has to know a lot of stuff.  Because we pretty much expect him to know everything, don’t we?   Think about how much you paid attention in your Civics, World History, and Politics classes.    Everything you ignored you expect him to know. 

7) He can’t fool around.  If he doesn’t do what the President is expected to do, no one else can step up and complete the task for him.  Think of all the things you put off at work.  Think about the time you spend browsing on the Internet or checking your phone or having a headache or being cranky.    Think about the tasks you are assigned that sit on the back burner or hide in a drawer or you convince someone else to do.  A lot of those things just simply aren’t options when you’re the leader of an entire nation.

8 ) He can’t stutter.  How are you in front of crowds?  How about big ones?  How about big ones full of important people, some of whom hate you before you even speak your mind?   The number one phobia in America is still public speaking, and that typically refers to speaking up in small crowds, standing in front of auditoriums, or simply stating ideas aloud for criticism.   Now think about all the words you mispronounce, the pressure you feel when you have to answer a tough, unexpected question, and how difficult it is for you to write a speech.  You don’t expect him to have those problems.

9) Americans aren’t doing much to help.  Well, some are.  Are you?  When you were upset about health care reform (either its enactment or its repeal), did you complain to your friends and neighbors or did you call your representative?  If you think illegal immigrants should get the boot, have you done any sort of research to realize what that entails? Have you come up with any ideas? Because I don’t know if you’ve been listening, but the President has been asking for ideas ever since he entered the office. 

10) No, really – Americans aren’t doing much to help.  Not just with ideas, but with doing our part.  Volunteer locally.  Donate or rally for causes you support. Go get some exercise and help cut down your state’s disgusting obesity rate (which is hanging at above 20% unless you’re from Colorado or D.C.).  Pick up a piece of litter.  Recycle.  Don’t drive somewhere if you can walk there.  Help someone.  Encourage others to do the same.  We’re all suppose to be trying to make things better, not just staring at a bunch of old farts on Capitol Hill and waiting for one of them to turn into our nation’s fairy godmother.  ♣

Share

Tags: , , , , , ,

Ice, Ice, Baby

25 Jan

Dun dun dun digg-a dun dun.
Happy Lollipop Tuesday!  If you’re still unclear about how awesome Tuesdays on thejackieblog are, check out my handy dandy new page on the top, titled “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?”  Welcome to the party.  Sit down.  Have a beer.
 
I have had the nagging desire to go ice skating since I first moved to the city to go to college.   Being the antisocial, anti-change, anti-courageous dumpling that I am, I’ve never been able to muster the mojo to go.  It’s been 5 years.
 
But hey – there’s nothing like the pressure of Freshly Pressed and some serious new traffic to turn on the heat.  So last night at 8pm, I waddled myself out onto a large, intimidating slab of ice.
 
I’m slightly alarmed at how easily the general public is allowed to strap on a pair of thin steel blades and go gallavanting on a manmade ice pond.  I feel as if some sort of training is in order.  Or a permit. 
 
At least a tutorial on how to put the skates on.  I consider myself to be a generally intuitive person.  Rental Ice Skates, however, are not intuitive.  To be frank, they’re more like medieval torture devices than ice skates.   Dave, concerned about my ability to ice skate when I can barely demonstrate balance with sneakers in the cereal aisle, decided it was best for my safety to make sure I was strapped in good and tight.  Something about ankle safety.  I couldn’t really tell you; I was focusing on my newly acquired vice grips and the lack of blood going to my toes.
 
Donning my bright blue slippers of death, I slowly inched toward the gladiator’s arena.
 
And I mean inched.  Like a one-legged penguin.
 
When I finally arrived to the ramp, I was glad to see that there were very few people partaking in the hidden joys of ice skating that particular evening.  What I wasn’t glad to see was that they all appeared to be Olympians.
 
People were skating in circles, backward, forward, in couples, legs in the air, speed skating… it was a jungle out there.  A big, scary, icy jungle of doom.  And I was right in the thick of it, waddling.
 
I started out slow.  Mostly because the majority of my brain power was replaying videos of Nancy Kerrigan in my head in beautiful tiny skater lady dresses and sparkly tights (and larger than average nostrils).   How could she…how could anyone be graceful in this getup? 
 
Dave was a champ.  He was the third wheel to my tricycle and he lovingly pretended that he didn’t know what he was doing because he knows how hard it is for me to suck so terribly at new things.  But when I pulled him every which way so that I weebled and wobbled but wouldn’t fall down, I got the nagging feeling that he was no beginner.
 
My suspicions proved true when, after I’d thrown in the towel, he took a few laps on his own, quickly, balanced, and even doing a tight little spinny thing to get to the carpeted ramp.
 
Damn actors.
 
I really did stick at it, and for that I can say I’m proud.  I started at a firm, slow waddle and holding onto Dave for dear life.  I finished unattached, at a decent speed, and slightly balanced.   I’d say I was a level 1 when I started and when I finished I was a solid level 3.
 
I’m so sorry about those darn Dungeons and Dragons references.   They just creep up on me.
 
For some reason I got it in my head that I couldn’t truly say that I had experienced ice skating unless I experienced falling.   But, scared to death to fall because I’m as fragile as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas (sans sewing skills), I couldn’t just make it happen.  It had to happen naturally.
 
And it did.
 
I’ll be sporting a minor limp today at work, due to the massive and super awesome wipeout I had in the center of the rink. 
 
So it’s official: I can cross this one off my bucket list.  Five years of fear was conquered by one fairly daunting subscriber base.   Wow…Who knows what the pressure might drive me to do by week 52.  ♣
 
 

Tags: , , ,

I Blame Old People

24 Jan

I’m convinced that the world would be a much safer place to live in if old people didn’t have cell phones.

Or maybe just less annoying.

Listen, I’m really sorry to have to be the one to say this because making fun of old people supposedly shortens your life expectancy, but I’m willing to take one for the team.

I constantly hear people complain about “these kids and their cell phones” on the road, in conversation,and at the dinner table.  And I certainly agree that unfortunately technology develops and improves faster than the rate of our etiquette.  Remember how long Facebook was out before we all collectively decided it just wasn’t okay to run around poking people or plastering personal information of an embarrassing or degrading nature on each other’s walls?  And we’re just finally getting to the point where we are pressuring people to stop posting personal, individual-related, emo status updates. 

So I understand.  I really do.  I don’t like a gum-chomping, oblivious teenage cell phone driver any more than the next guy.  But I have to admit that when I look around on the roads, I see a lot more old people doing it.

When I’m stuck behind a car that isn’t hitting the gas within 3 seconds of a green light, it’s not always a youngin in the front seat.  And when I’m out in social situations, it isn’t just the kiddos who are pulling out their cell phones in the middle of conversations. 

 I was attempting to cross the road to my house the other evening and spotted an older woman in a minivan full of children (presumably her own) approaching an intersection with her texting phone propped up on the steering wheel, eyes fully locked on the keyboard.

I’ve also heard far too many times that “these kids” constantly google things on their phones when in the middle of a conversation.  And that is definitely true.  I’m not really sure how it’s considered a flaw to want to end a debate quickly with the introduction of fact, but that’s another issue entirely.  The point is that we aren’t the only ones.

Dave and I had the pleasure of a few friends visiting us this weekend, one of whom was a baby boomer and came with his iEverything in tow.   Within the course of three hours, I witnessed him walk around my house scanning the barcodes off of random products in order to demonstrate an app’s ability to find the lowest price available in the local market for that item.  He also used his iPhone to google something and end a slightly charged debate about the date of Leslie Nielsen’s death.

And when we were at dinner, he couldn’t resist scanning the barcode on his beer bottle.  You know, just to see.

So stop blaming us.  Because as much as cell phones may be a product of our generation, we are not solely responsible for bearing the social and safety foibles that result from it.  We all are.  And for every kid who thinks they can eat fast food, drive stick shift, and text their buddy at the same time, there is an old fart attempting to read a text from her best friend while running through an intersection with a van full of kids.

And don’t get me started on the inappropriate things that old people post on their children’s walls.

So hey – I’m not solely blaming old people.  I’m just blaming them enough to balance out the blame that has been thrown onto young people’s shoulders all these years.    All of us are very excited about the cool things we can do with mind-bogglingly tiny gadgets.  And we are all very excited to explore their possibilities at all hours of the day regardless of whether it is a social faux pas or a safety hazard to those around us.

So let’s just stop pointing fingers and start spending our time updating our rules of etiquette.  Because I think we could all benefit from agreeing on a few things.  Let’s start with agreeing on how we’re all to blame. ♣

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Orinoco Flow

23 Jan

Last night I got stressed and listened to Enya.

You know – pale faced, same-hair-for-20-years, Sail Away Enya.

It’s okay – I’m not ashamed.  There’s something very soothing about her carefully orchestrated harmonies with her own voice.   I mean, I have to admit that I have no idea what she’s saying half the time and I have absolutely no desire to change that.  She could be chanting some crazy Celtic witch curse into my ears and it would still calm my nerves at the end of a high blood pressure day.

I remember when I first heard an Enya song.  It was for a CD called “Pure Moods” that had its own infomercial trying to get people to dish out $17.99 plus shipping and handling (or $15.99 for cassette.  Cassette!) for what it called “the perfect soundtrack for your way of life.”   I wasn’t quite sure what that meant.  There’s a lot of chanting, humming, and tubular bells on this particular compilation.  What could America possibly have been doing in 1997 that made the Pure Moods Marketing Team think that this was the perfect soundtrack for its way of life? 

Apparently a lot of horseback riding and meditating in rooms full of candles.    Enya herself is featured in what appears to be a chalk pastel with a random hummingbird over her shoulder. 

Go ahead, take a look.  I’m sure you’ll remember it → Pure Moods

 No really, go ahead. I’ll wait.  I want you to experience the enchantment.

…

…

…

You really can’t beat the tactics there.  Did you hear what he was saying?! My favorite line is “Set adrift with the timeless pleasures of Tubular Bells”  I didn’t realize that Tubular Bells was a timeless pleasure.  And quite frankly I’m not so sure that I’m okay with people labeling things as timeless pleasures all willy-nilly like that.

A commercial like this really brings me back to the good ol’ times with my first cassette, which I stole from my older brother – Ace of Base.  Which I’m also not ashamed of.   Because the combination of their thick beats, sassy lyrics, and European chicks was too much to resist for almost anyone in the 90’s.   I specifically remember the junky little cassette player and headphones I had.  I would sit around flipping and playing it over and over again while penning in grammatical corrections to the lyrics on the insert.

Yes, I’m really that anal.

And yes, my brother was very, very unhappy with the discovery.

I’m curious – and after 2o something posts, I have yet to do one where I ask you about yourselves.  So tell me: what was your first record/8-track/cassette/CD/wondrous invisible music download?

Regale me.   I want to be regaled. ♣

Tags: , , , , ,

Snap, Crackle and Pop

22 Jan



I am being terrorized by my own apartment.

Every single move I make generates some sort of electric activity. 

At first I thought it was a recipe for a good time.  I ran around the house in my little sweater booties trying to generate as much bad mojo as possible and then go after Dave like a heat seeking missile.  I was powerful.  I was magical.   I was a real life Palpatine, shooting arcs of lightning from my fingers and devastating others with the blow.

Okay, so if I back off the hyperbole, I was really just annoying Dave and putting my cats in a very, very bad mood.

But after all the impish fun wore off and everyone ignored me, it was just me and my newfound powers.  Alone.  All the time.   And you know what?  I’m really, really tired of it.   I want to be able to turn lights on and off again.  I want to be able to touch metallic surfaces.  I want to stop recoiling in fear every time Dave approaches me.

Last night I attempted to turn off my bedroom light only to be greeted with a massive lightning arc from Zeus himself which shot from the switch to my finger and up my entire right arm.  The snapping sound was so loud that Dave heard it in the kitchen. 

…There are two rooms between the kitchen and my bedroom.

The worst is when I take all that bad carpet rubbing mojo to the sink.  Sometimes I turn on the water to the unnerving sensation of a wave of electricity rippling ever so slightly through my forearm.

It’s the radiators.  I know it’s them.  I can hear them spitting and hissing their terrible dryness into the air.  My apartment sounds like it belongs to the Mad Hatter, with full pots of tea at a high whistle at all hours of the day and night. 

I tried the humidifier thing for a while, convinced it was the answer to all my troubles.   I filled it up every single night and put it beside my bed in hopes that one day I would wake and my tongue wouldn’t be an arid, cracked desert of misery.  But all it did was add a bubbling noise to my bedroom teapot choir and confuse my cats.   I spent most of my time before falling asleep trying to explain to them that steam isn’t actually tangible.

I don’t know what else to do.  I thought that perhaps my humidifier was subpar so I faced my fear of stupid people one weekend and trekked to a department store only to be greeted by a variety of strange devices that don’t look well-equipped for the job.   Since when do people want vaporizers and humidifiers that look like zoo animals? I can’t trust an elephant that shoots steam out of its trunk to understand my problems.  I just can’t.

I need to find a solution.  I’m going through skin cream like I own stock in it and waking up ten minutes earlier each morning just to allow enough time to reintroduce saliva to my system.  Separating my sheet from my comforter when making my bed is the absolute worst part of my day. I’ve abandoned my sweater boots for bare feet in an attempt to minimize my confrontations with Zeus and I’m experimenting with flicking light switches with different body parts until I find the one that has the least pain associated with the zap.  I can probably publish my findings in an attempt to aid other dry-dwellers across the land.

Whatever the solution, I need to find it quickly.  Because I’m almost considering going outside to ease the anxiety. 

And that means it’s serious.  ♣

Tags: , , , , , ,

Kitty Cocoa Puffs

21 Jan

Those look like Cocoa Puffs. I wish my cat barfed Cocoa Puffs.

 

Of all the days to barf on my coat, why did my cat have to choose today?  It snowed, for Pete’s sake.

I suppose I brought it on myself.  I should have hung it up.  Inevitably, when my jet black peacoat is left out on any flat surface, my obese felines only have two options: 1) take up residence on it, leaving a thick fur trail as evidence of their shifting during their nap  2) barf on it.

This morning, it was the latter.

You know, for a moment I had some kind of a sick satisfaction about it.  Because about a week ago, I bought a Groupon for drycleaning services and today’s event proved it was a wise investment.  

But it’s the gatling gun effect that really gets me.  You know, the gatling gun effect: walk-stop-barf, walk-stop-barf.  The first pile of kitty krunch an owner finds is seldom alone.  It’s joined by a series of other unfortunate incidents which are scattered around the house  and must be carefully and thoroughly sought out for fear of the dreaded puke-in-the-toes.  Sometimes this is a result of a hard-to-reach hairball in the deep recesses of their kitten throats.  Sometimes, they just like to take a leisurely stroll while they puke.  Like it’s no big deal.

And so I suffered in the harsh, cold winter air of the city today.  Let it be known that when faced with the choice between barf-stained coat or no coat at all, I will take the high road.  

I just wish that my cats had a little more consideration for me.  After all I do for them, this is how they repay me.

I sound like a wounded mother.

And you know what? Maybe I am.  I can name without effort numerous occasions where my cats have shown a blatant lack of respect for me.

Like the time I came home from a weekend vacation and found that the bamboo jar on the entertainment center had been knocked over and onto our new television, sending it into a poltergeist-like flurry of unstoppable channel flipping, volume adjusting madness.  A chunk of fur was found in the vase and submitted to the court as the incriminating evidence. 

And then there are the times that they dash into the refrigerator when I’m thinking about what to eat and absolutely refuse to come out unless by brute force.

Or last night, even.  Hobbes claimed the coffee table as his own and systematically began pushing everything out of his way: magazines, coasters, cups, controls…  As a final act of defiance, he pushed the candy dish off. It fell to the ground, spilling a pool of foil-wrapped wonders all over the carpet, which my other cat, Lola, proceeded to spastically bat around the living room. They’re an unrelenting tag team of terror.

But there are little things they do on occasion that make them absolutely irresistable.  The belly-up pose in the living room, the taking-up-residence-in-the-bathroom-sink, the frequent visits to my lap and assault on my hands as I curl up to relax, and (my favorite) the adorable cat nap that inspires a human nap.   Surely, the ultimate win for my crazy cat lady antics is being able to curl up to a warm kitten, forget all my worries, and drift off to sleep.

Until I wake to the sound of its regurgitation. ♣

 

So some of you were grossed out by yesterday’s post.  And understandably so. U.U.S.S. is an unfortunate and unpleasant reality for millions of suffering Americans.  And I promised you the hope of a more pleasant post today.  …But it has just now occured to me that I posted about cat barf.  I’m deeply sorry for this oversight.  Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write about freshly laundered linens and rainbow sprinkles.

Tags: , , , ,

U.U.S.S.

20 Jan

My battle with underarm unpleasantries runs my life.

In fact, I would almost call it dehabilitating.  Really.  If I could make one of those terrible pharmaceutical commericals, I would show people from all age brackets beyond puberty dealing with the heavy, personal burden of underarm skunk, barred up in their bedrooms out of fear.  After a montage of these folks being suddenly accosted by the sweat storm brewing in their greasy pits, I would offer solace – a golden beacon of light behind a perfect antiperspirant, one offering both salvation from wetness and odor.

Unfortunately, this product does not actually exist.

Really – it can’t.  It can’t possibly exist.  Because I’m pretty darn sure I’ve tried everything – women’s, men’s, spray on, rub on, powder, prescription, clinical strength-and I still trust no product enough to be able to shop for blouses in confidence.

You know what I’m talking about.   There are certain materials that are not underarm friendly and as a result cannot be purchased by sufferers of U.U.S.S. (Unavoidable Underarm Skunk and Swamp).    Thin cotton? Forget it.  Fine Silk? Ruined in 30 minutes.  My pits are an unstoppable sweaty stinky force to be reckoned with.

I once knew a girl who had a procedure to remove the sweat glands from her underarms.  It sounded to me like absolute euphoria.   I could imagine no greater aspiration than my freedom from the cold, lonley cage of pit perils.

I later found out that a natural side effect of removing underarm sweat glands is increased perspiration in other areas of the body.  Gross.

Once, last year, I thought I would try the complete opposite and see if it helped my cause.  Yes, that’s correct; I went an entire day with absolutely no underarm aid whatsoever.  Just fresh, clean, Jackie dew.  And you know what? I was actually all right.  For some reason I sweated less, and the sweat that I had didn’t even stink.   I was startled and confused.

Of course, I dropped the practice the very next day for fear that I had finally flung over the full-fledged hippie fence and I haven’t looked back since.

Next thing you know, I’d stop shaving my underarms and start a nice set of dreds.  My family would undoubtedly disown me.  I’m toeing the line as it is.

And so I must trudge on with my personal burden.  It is mine to carry and so I shall.  Long gone are the days when I could slather on “Teen Spirit” and a smile to face my day.   I’ve reached a new chapter in my life.   And until I turn on the T.V. to a sincere female voice describing my social inhibitions and everyday struggles as a result of U.U.S.S., followed by a brilliant beam of light and a life-saving product, it appears this new chapter will be a damp one.  ♣

Tags: , , , ,

Starbucks Pastries: Little Dough Devils

19 Jan

The Den of Sin

Starbucks pastries get me every single time.

I’d like this think it’s not my fault.   After all – I’m pretty convinced that nearly anything can look divine on a white pedestal behind a clean glass case.   Mere humans are helpless against its mysterious power.  But I’ve done this too many times.   I should know by now.

I walk into Starbucks chanting to myself inside my head “Venti Soy No Whip Mocha. Venti Soy No Whip Mocha.”   If I don’t focus on this phrase intently, I will inevitably blurt out something ridiculous when the barista confronts me.  Like “piggly wiggly” or “boobface.”  The pressure of high-speed food service takes a very serious toll on me.

Halfway into my inner Gregorian chant, it happens: my eyes lock with the pastry case.   Cinnamon scones with more calories than a quarter pounder, muffins the size of my face, and danishes that put waddle on my arms with a mere glance.  Every single time I fall for it.  And every single time I throw it away after two bites.  Because Starbucks pastries are just big doughy wads of disappointment.  They parade themselves like beautiful sinful indulgences, but deep down they’re empty, tasteless soul-crushers. 

I thought I had a brilliant solution to this the other day.  I was going to write Starbucks and tell them to outsource their pastry cases to local bakeries.   Local bakers get more business, Starbucks streamlines its cost of goods sold, and Starbucks customers everywhere can pick from the case without fear.

But then I stumbled upon this site and read that  John Moore, who was a corporate marketing manager at Starbucks in 2002 and now writes the Brand Autopsy blog says, “If taken solely as a retailer of pastries, it would be the largest in the U.S.”

Apparently I’m the only one who’s unimpressed.

You know what? I don’t even like coffee.  I drink coffee when I’m faced with the reality of my head hitting the keyboard while I’m at work.  I drink coffee because sometimes it’s the only thing that will kill the images of oversized plush surfaces inside my brain as I long for the sweet nectar of sleep.   I drink coffee only out of a very deep and very sad reality that the night before, I thought it was a better idea to watch 18 episodes of Arrested Development than to go to bed like a responsible adult.

And so I will have to say goodbye to Starbucks.  I can no longer bear the weight of the disappointing pastry case.  And unless all of America is under the same trance as I that accounts for my constant patronage of their sweets and treats, it appears that my suggestion for outsourcing to local bakeries is unnecessary.

I have nothing to offer you, Starbucks, and I can see clearly enough now to know that you have nothing to offer me.  This is clearly an emotionally abusive relationship and I will no longer take part in it.

Here’s to 5 Hour Energy: Bottoms up. ♣

 

P.S.  Thanks so much for your support through Freshly Pressed, guys – I feel all your warm squishy love.  Hiya to my new subscribers – thanks for checking me out.  Now the pressure to post every day is seriously, seriously on.

Tags: , , , , ,

Craft Fail 101: Fat, Lumpy Sock Bunny

18 Jan

Ladies and Gentlemen, Happy Lollipop Tuesday.

If you’re new to the beauty that is the Lollipop Tuesday series, check out a brief explanation here.  Otherwise, onward!

Today’s new attempt: Completing a craft tutorial.   Task:  A bunny made out of a sock.

Before I post my pathetic account and my failure of a bunny sock, I should submit a disclaimer.   I attempted the “Quick Little Bunny Tutorial”  featured on Elsie Marley’s Blog (linkity link) without 3 important things –  a baby sock, sewing skills, and patience.   Because after all, the joy of Lollipop Tuesday is in how much I absolutely suck at new things.   I will learn to embrace it.  You will be inspired.

Okay! To start, I had no baby sock.  Thus, I found the smallest sock in my drawer and went with it.  Let the record show that I am a big girl with big feet.  Size 10 feet, to be exact.  Thus, my bunny is… fatter… than the originally intended design. 

Since my sock was a grown-up sock, it was white and dirty and gross.  So to start, I dyed it black.   In honor of Martin Luther King’s birthday.

Those are my good kitchen tongs.

 I was presented with a rather large problem after this dyeing session.  Namely – where to put the dye.   An attempt at rinsing it down the tub dyed the tub black, a security deposit blunder that I’m still trying to undo with a good old fashioned bottle of Clorox even as I write this.

I freaked out, ran to Dave, and asked him what to do with the evidence.    Without hesitation, he replied that I should flush it down the toilet.  And you know what? It worked.

All right – sock is dyed, dye is down toilet, bathtub is soaking.

I have absolutely no patience for anything in life, and didn’t feel like waiting for the sock to dry… so I stuffed it and sewed it while it was dripping wet.   Besides a bad case of granny fingers, I saw no negative repercussions to this.

For some reason, the logo "Hue," which was green before the dye job, turned bright yellow. Chemistry is a bewildering magic.

I feel as if I should reiterate that I have absolutely no sewing skills.  So every time Elsie’s tutorial said “make a running stitch,” I just ignored it and ran the thread around, through, up, and down every which way until it kind of looked like it was supposed to. 

Behold the Big, Fat, Lumpy Bunny

And voila: A big, fat, lumpy bunny made out of an old sock.  I think it speaks volumes about the clarity of Elsie’s tutorial that I did not pursue this project with any degree of passion and had absolutely no sewing skills and yet somehow my end result actually resembles an adorable bunny.  Minus the adorable.

 End result: Down one security deposit, up one useless sock bunny.  Bids start at a penny. ♣

Tags: , , , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started