Boobquake??? Monday, Apr 26 2010 

I totally fucking forgot about dressing for the occasion today. That would be because when I woke up I remembered all of us bigwigs were cleaning the attic at work today. And it’s just hard to carry all that trash up and down three inch wide stairs…without having to worry about your boobs slipping out and exposing themselves (ala Beyonce) to every single human you work with.

So…good job to all those boobs who proved cleavage does not cause an earthquake.

Although, I am almost kind of sad. It would be kind of neat to be all angry and tell all of the female internets to show all their boobs which would then result in an earthquake…which would TOTALLY show my boss that I AM a force to be reckoned with and he should think twice before making me get up in the attic again and miss the next Boobquake.


Boobquake 2010 Sunday, Apr 25 2010 

If I’m going to show cleavage at work, I may as well have a great reason to do so. This, I dare say, is one hell of a reason.

Boobquake | Facebook.

To be updated tomorrow…if the earthquake aftermath allows.

In Which I Reveal My Reason for Blogging Thursday, Apr 22 2010 

I encounter a number of interesting characters on a daily basis. Something about me brings out the crazy in people. Or, perhaps, something about the crazy in people is drawn to the crazy in me.

Case in point: Once last summer I received a letter–yes, a real letter with a real stamp in a real unignorably yellow envelope–from a woman who was irate about a goldfish her daughter received. The woman chose to throw a very public temper tantrum. She felt the goldfish was being treated inhumanely and, like all good animal rights activists, she did the humane thing and threw it–still in its baggie, mind you–at someone. She then went home, daughter in tow, and pounded out the magnificent letter she then sent to me. Who had absolutely nothing to do with any aspect of the goldfish incident but who did enjoy receiving a brightly colored envelope in the mail and who enjoyed even more reading its scattered rants on animal rights and children who suffer from PTSD.

Additional case in point: It is my 3o-something-th birthday and I have plans to be greeted by all my loved ones at my favorite hole in the wall bar. I am looking stellar and driving toward the bar when I remember it is my last day to renew my driver’s license. No one likes to be driving home after a night of dollar drafts, only to be pulled over for a DUI only to get the added bonus of an expired license ticket, so I did the responsible thing and went to the DMV. On the last day of the month. In the last hour it was open. And there I was tapping my foot and checking Facebook when a overgrown, homeless drifter with possible¬†schizophrenia¬†began telling me the story of why he is no longer welcome at his family Thanksgiving dinners. When I finally received my new license, he chased me down and handed me five pages, single spaced, typed across many one-hour sessions on a library computer, and told me it was something he only gave to beautiful women. I actually read it at the hole in the wall as I downed dollar drafts one, two, and three. It was his epistle to women, urging them to wait for “real men” and included a helpful description of how to identify a “real man.” I found it surprisingly touching, though perhaps dollar draft #4 had something to do with that.

My friends tell me my stories are so good I should compile them and share them with the world. I am flattered, although I realize they mainly tell me this in the hopes of someday getting a word in edgewise as we sit there downing dollar drafts at the local hole in the wall (or, on rich nights, boxed red wine on a front porch). I have finally taken their advice and created this blog in the hopes that some of my crazy stories will give you reason to laugh from time to time.