So Rogers has decided that my computer is full of evil viruses, and is threatening to cut off our internet again should I risk exposing the world wide web to its diseases by reconnecting my wireless. Hence, my recent absence. But due to having an hour or so to kill and having perfected my history deleting technique, I'm writing this on my parents' computer. Howdy.
I have a multitude of things I could kvetch about, but I just can't find the energy to get worked up about any of it right now. I will point you to this Man vs. Clown entry, which, if it were possible, makes me love Peter Lynn even more. Calling pre-teens dirty liars is one of my areas of avid interest. Also, if you're male, check this out for some sympathy cringing. If you're female, go and laugh at Mr. Carlson's expense.
In recent Susan news, I've signed up for some ballroom dancing lessons with an old friend. Who thinks he's a pirate. I know the strangest people. Class starts in a week and a half; I'll keep you posted.
You know what depresses me most about my life right now? The fact that I have money to buy clothes, but no time or place to wear them. Stupid uniform. I, in fact, should probably go shopping soon to buy another pair of work pants and some less heinous work shoes. If I'm going to be living in them, they might as well be less clompy.
*Name that quotation! Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?
Friday, September 29, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
fish and chips and vinegar, vinegar, vinegar...
Here's the thing: we have to make sure that the salt and pepper shakers in our sections are completely full before we leave work, right? But why? Do people get offended when they see that someone who sat at the table before them used a bunch of seasonings? Are they going to think, damn, this food must not be very good if anyone who has ever used this table before needed to spice 'er up a little? In addition, for soups and salads we are to bring a pepper grinder to the table and ask if the "guest" wants any. This, before whoever it is has even tasted her food. So most of the time it's not even a taste thing. Some people just like their pepper.
Really, my point is only that I have a degree, and it's demoralizing to have someone check to make sure I've filled up the shakers before I'm allowed to leave.
Oh, and as to the "guest" thing: I don't demand that actual guests in my home pay for things, and they, in return, don't treat me like crap. So let's just call them customers, shall we? At least I've gotten out of the habit of calling them cussies.
Really, my point is only that I have a degree, and it's demoralizing to have someone check to make sure I've filled up the shakers before I'm allowed to leave.
Oh, and as to the "guest" thing: I don't demand that actual guests in my home pay for things, and they, in return, don't treat me like crap. So let's just call them customers, shall we? At least I've gotten out of the habit of calling them cussies.
oh right, and...
If you desperately want to see any of my old posts, let me know, and I'll point you in the right direction. I may reinstate the old blog in its entirety; not quite sure yet.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
hey there, hi there, ho there
So, here I am, cautiously ready to post again. Google seems to have lost the scent; that doesn't mean that I still haven't been made (I'm thinking of incorporating TV criminalese into my daily conversation to make myself more interesting. Or more dorky... whichever comes first), but what the hell, now is the time to live dangerously.
Speaking of living dangerously, it's something I've been thinking about lately. There's this post that my dearest Jowie wrote a while back, and the ridiculous things I did in Europe... and something quite foolish that I'm contemplating doing. You only live once, right? And all that dance like no one's watching crap... well, apparently it plays on my cynical soul more than I thought.
Sometimes I really wish I were the kind of helpless mook who falls desperately in love easily, does idiotic things, and has to pick up the pieces of herself after every time she broke. But I think that I have a different brand of self-respect--maybe I take myself too seriously. And it seems like a great deal of effort to care for someone that much.
One of my coworkers asked me a "what would you do if you were me?" question about her love life. My answer, unfortunately, was that I sincerely doubted that any relationship I was in would ever make it to a year, so I'd have been long gone before anything like her situation cropped up. I just can't picture the guy who could sustain my interest for longer than two months. I start to feel trapped pretty much the minute I realize it's heading in the general direction of coupledom. I'm sure there's an interesting psychological reason behind all that, but let's steer clear of delving TOO deeply into my twisted psyche right now, shall we?
Good gravy. Enough of this useless introspection. To lighten the mood, some hilarity from a man whose children I would seriously consider bearing:
Speaking of living dangerously, it's something I've been thinking about lately. There's this post that my dearest Jowie wrote a while back, and the ridiculous things I did in Europe... and something quite foolish that I'm contemplating doing. You only live once, right? And all that dance like no one's watching crap... well, apparently it plays on my cynical soul more than I thought.
Sometimes I really wish I were the kind of helpless mook who falls desperately in love easily, does idiotic things, and has to pick up the pieces of herself after every time she broke. But I think that I have a different brand of self-respect--maybe I take myself too seriously. And it seems like a great deal of effort to care for someone that much.
One of my coworkers asked me a "what would you do if you were me?" question about her love life. My answer, unfortunately, was that I sincerely doubted that any relationship I was in would ever make it to a year, so I'd have been long gone before anything like her situation cropped up. I just can't picture the guy who could sustain my interest for longer than two months. I start to feel trapped pretty much the minute I realize it's heading in the general direction of coupledom. I'm sure there's an interesting psychological reason behind all that, but let's steer clear of delving TOO deeply into my twisted psyche right now, shall we?
Good gravy. Enough of this useless introspection. To lighten the mood, some hilarity from a man whose children I would seriously consider bearing:
Thursday, September 14, 2006
a change
Alright, due to the unfortunate fact that you can find my blog by searching my last name (NOT COOL, DUDES), I have started messing around with it. Bear with me. I've moved the old junk off to a hopefully secure location (on a related note, I'm beginning to be very worried about Google and their world domination plot... I mean, they HAVE to have one), and I'm going to see if search engines can catch up with that. Incidentally, if anyone knows anything about this sort of dealie, help? See, my last name showed up in some comments that people posted, not in the blog itself. But hiding the comments hasn't seemed to do what I wanted it to. Google will still helpfully point you right at my blog anyway.
For those of you wondering why, precisely, this is such a big deal, I'll enlighten you a little. There are exactly seven people with my last name, two of whom are deceased. I am ridiculously easy to find. It's not like I'm super worried about some rando stalking me from across the planet; I'm just not wild about my parents, future employers (hell, past and present employers, too), and assorted other unsavoury types traipsing through my ramblings. And one hears unpleasant things about internet creeps--as scrappy as I am, putting my picture, approximate location, AND full name up on the 'net seems like tempting fate. Particularly as a female who values her independence.
If my last name weren't quite so distinctive, I'd have no problem with signing it to everything I write; even if what I wrote was more abstract, like political opinions or even observational humour, I'd 'fess up. But since I traffic in my daily doings and nefarious neuroticisms, it just seems too personal for comfort.
So here we are. Maybe I'll just shift my whole focus and write about other things entirely. Maybe Google's bloodhounds will get off my back and I'll be able to move the old blog back here without deleting some of my personal history from the last year and a bit. Maybe I'll just stop this madness entirely, and go back to the security of the pen and paper.
Thoughts?
For those of you wondering why, precisely, this is such a big deal, I'll enlighten you a little. There are exactly seven people with my last name, two of whom are deceased. I am ridiculously easy to find. It's not like I'm super worried about some rando stalking me from across the planet; I'm just not wild about my parents, future employers (hell, past and present employers, too), and assorted other unsavoury types traipsing through my ramblings. And one hears unpleasant things about internet creeps--as scrappy as I am, putting my picture, approximate location, AND full name up on the 'net seems like tempting fate. Particularly as a female who values her independence.
If my last name weren't quite so distinctive, I'd have no problem with signing it to everything I write; even if what I wrote was more abstract, like political opinions or even observational humour, I'd 'fess up. But since I traffic in my daily doings and nefarious neuroticisms, it just seems too personal for comfort.
So here we are. Maybe I'll just shift my whole focus and write about other things entirely. Maybe Google's bloodhounds will get off my back and I'll be able to move the old blog back here without deleting some of my personal history from the last year and a bit. Maybe I'll just stop this madness entirely, and go back to the security of the pen and paper.
Thoughts?
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