FFS

I have a charlie horse between my shoulder blades, and have for the last twelve millenia hour.  The only way I can sit at my desk without being a bit distracted by the blinding pain is to contort myself like so: 

Via

Ironically, this is also the exact facial expression I have in all my middle school photos.


(True:  I was an ugly kid.  My school photos were all so awful and traumatizing that after the obligation of showing them to my parents, I would hide the packets under the washing machine.  When my parents moved my freshman year of college, they discovered all the waterlogged photos.  It was an improvment.)

Imagine Some Really Hot Chick with Her Mouth Open. That Might Help.

The disappointment, that is, because confession:  I am a huge tease.  And this is not a real post, so that's double the disappointment.

I hear "vodka" is Russian for "survival,"* though, so take a double shot and you're welcome.

But here's the tease part--are you ready for it?

Next week, I have a BIG ANNOUNCEMENT to make.  And it involves cool stuff and you're not going to want to miss out...



(True:  *I have a source for this--beer.  Although beer has lied to me in the past...)

Mr. Sampson would be so ashamed.

I am eating pizza/listening to the GodPod.  Because the two are mutually inclusive.  I have an electic mix of music left over from an ex-boyfriend whose iTunes playlist I raided.  It's got everything from classic rock to classical, and some that are a mix of the two.

Cue the opening bars of a recording. 

Internal Me:  Oooh, this is from Aladdin!  I loved that movie!

Me Me:  I don't trust you.  I'm checking what this piece is.

(Pause while I check out the GodPod screen.)

Me Me:  Wrong.  It's Tchaikovsky. 

Internal Me:  Oh.  Well, you know.  That's good, too.

Via

Via



(True:  The above dudes ARE NOT THE SAME, Mental Me.  Aladdin has more hair, and Tchaikovsky has more clothing.  Geez.)

The Circle of Life Can Suck It

As you may know, Prada had been coming to work with me there for a while during some work on my building.  Since it was reasonably warm, I could leave her out in the car without feeling too guilty.  (She's got a bed and a blanket out there, and she sleeps all day anyway, so don't feel too bad for her.)  And several times a day, I'd take her out to stretch her legs and go potty on the patch of grass in front of the building.

Near this patch of grass is a telephone pole.  After a couple days of regular potty outings, Prada had gained an observer:  a hawk that curiously enough only perched on that telephone pole around the times I took Prada out.

One more reason to keep your dog on a leash--your dog is less likely to be eaten.

Obviously, this story doesn't have a tragic ending--Prada is currently at home (yay, no more early morning hammering!), probably sleeping.  (I'm so jealous.)  Well, not tragic for Prada, that is.  Judging by the amount of feathers scattered on the lawn, either there was an epic pillow fight while I was gone or a small bird met a violent end.

Via

On a side note, if I hold Prada like Rafiki holds Simba, she dances.  I find it very amusing.  (She doesn't.)


(True:  My dad once hit a wild turkey with his car.  Do you know what happens when you hit a wild turkey going sixty miles an hour?  A blinding explosion of feathers.  Seriously.)

This is My Obligatory Thanksgiving Post.

I really hate Thanksgiving sap.  And Christmas sap.  And Valentine's Day sap.  And rom-com sap.  And that Folger's commercial with the young man coming home for the holidays.  And tree sap.

Maybe I'm just an ungrateful bitch.  Or maybe contrived sentiment just makes me want to puke.

There are, however, some things I am very happy to have:

• Caffeine, which gets me through most days murder-charge-free.
• My microwave, which is my second favorite enabler.
• My mother's pity for me and my lack of cooking skills. (I.e., leftovers.)
• Netflix, my first favorite enabler.
• My Sister the Lawyer not killing me when my phone's evil alter ego answered her calls seven consecutive times while simultaneously scrolling through every option and screen the phone has to offer--all while on key lock in my purse.
• This:

• And the fact that you read this blog even though I'm mental.

(True:  In the above poem, there really should be a semicolon, not a comma.)

Living to Tell the Tale

You guys, I'm sorry.  I have been MIA, and a very bad blogger.  (I'm so ashamed.)

BUT, I have a good reason:  I was in Cleveland.  Not for fun, because if I had enough money to go on vacation, I would go to a beach and drink rummy things with umbrellas, or New York and see a show, or DC and move into the Smithsonian.

I went for work. 

I have to say, Cleveland was pretty all right, all things considered.  We had some amazing food, saw some pretty incredible art, stayed in a very nice hotel, and did some work-related stuff, too.  Of course, the place where the workshop was held was in the worst slum I have ever seen.  We didn't get shot, though, so it's all good.

Though I'm pretty sure someone threw a rock at our car.


(True:  Seriously, though, if you ever go to Cleveland, eat at Felice.  Your tastebuds will thank you.  And the sassy lady who owns the place, Margaret, is definitely Prada Approved.)

Tips for Talking to the Person Who Is Not a Doormat

Because I've worked part-time in a bar, I've had my share of opportunities to talk to new and interesting people.  Ninety-nine percent of the time, it's awesome.  As Bill Nye the Science Guy said, "Everyone you will ever meet knows something you don't."  But every once in a while, there's that outlier that doesn't make the experience awesome...

(There is a disclaimer at the end of this post.  Some of the below experiences are borrowed from other people.  If that much bullshit were directed at me, I'd explode.)


** Personal space.  This is particularly important in a bar environment, because you probably have beer breath.

** There is a limit to how many times you can call/text/email her after one conversation.  Disproportionate attempts at communication will make her wonder if you are a stalker.

** Don't get upset if she doesn't call/text back immediately.  She probably has a life.  That's a good thing.

** Don't tell her who she can/can't talk to.  Talking is a particularly useful form of communication, and often means nothing more than a pleasant (or sometimes unpleasant) conversation.  Holster the jealousy or be prepared to be punched in the throat.

** Grabbing her ass will not be taken as an invitation to come home with you.  It will be taken as an invitation to punch you in the throat.  Same goes for the old slide-your-hand-around-her-back-and-under-her-arm-for-a-bit-of-side-boob squeeze.  You are not being subtle.  You are being a dick.

** Buying her a drink doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  A long conversation doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever.  Trading phone numbers doesn't obligate her.  In any way whatsoever, if you were still wondering. 

** If she says she has plans, you can probably assume that she has plans.  Accusing her of lying to blow you off will earn you a punch in the throat.

** And if she says she's not interested in going on that date you suggested, you can probably take that to mean she's not interested in going on that date you suggested.  Just a suggestion.  There is not always romantic subtext.  Sometimes, a conversation is just a conversation.  Try to force more, and you'll deserve more than just a punch in the throat.

** If she says, "No," or "Enough," or "Stop:"  No, you aren't going to change her mind.  She's had enough.  Stop.


Or, in other words, (Wil Wheaton's, to be exact), don't be a dick.


(True:  These are all experiences I've had, or friends have had, or friends of friends have had.  I've used the pronoun "she" because I'm a she.  And most of the friends/friends of friends whose experiences I've borrowed for this post are also shes (but not all).  Substitute pronouns as needed.  And you might notice that I'm giving these tips to a "you"--not a "he" or "she."  That's because dickitude is not exclusive to any one gender.  Neither are these tips specific to romantically-inclined conversations or situations.  Friends don't treat each other that way, either.  Get it?  Don't be a dick--whoever you are--to whomever you're speaking to.  End disclaimer.)

Ads, Schmads.

I do not click on the ads on my blog.  That would be click fraud, and anyone with hands as soft as mine really shouldn't be spending any time in the Big House.

But, I do like to check out what my adbot thinks makes sense.  Sometimes, it doesn't:

I'm sure it's a very nice family.  But I sort of resent the ad's attempt to look like a personal photo of mine.  I dress way better than that.  And my hair is better, too.  Sometimes.



After my recent (panicked) musings (pleas for help) regarding soda, it's only natural that I'd get some ads targeting other caffeine fiends.

But really, adbot?  This?

Ad reads:  "Discover how soda in moderation can be a part of your diet."

I have a few issues with this.  First--who said I was on a diet?  Are you calling me fat, adbot?  You are a jerk adbot, and I don't like you anymore.  You are not invited to my birthday party.  Second, I object to the word "moderation."  That word and my love affair with Mt. Dew do not belong together.  And not in a star-crossed lovers way, either.  In a full-on, everybody-hates-the-Heathers kind of way.  (I'm referring to the movie, not any Heather-named readers.  We're non-nomenist--I just made that word up--here at Five Legs Between Us.)  Third, soda and diets probably don't work too well together, either.  I declare this a "pipe dream" ad.

What weird ads have you seen--here or as you peruse the Internets?  I have the feeling everybody has a story...


(True:  Odd ads aren't limited to my blog.  I changed my Facebook status to "single" some months ago, and ever since, Google has been bombarding me with Russian singles ads.  And lighting ads, because that's what I do for a living.  It's a strange coupling, though, "Hot European Singles Want To Meet You" right next to "30% Off 35W MR16 GU10 Lamps!")

Hops in the Right Direction: Taking Advantage of the Circumstances (And Dealing with the Them)

While my new landlord has been rebuilding our fire escape/porches, Prada has been coming to work with me.  I am really ambivalent about this for a lot of reasons.

The Cons:

• Prada is already starting to expect to come with me everywhere, and throws a hissyfit if I try to leave her behind.  My neighbors are not amused.
• It's starting to get cold, and while my boss is very cool about Prada coming into the building every once in a while for a bit, she cannot be inside with me all day.  She spends most of the day sleeping in the car, bundled in her warm bed, with a blanket and in her sweater or fleece coat.  But I worry.
• She's starting to get a little tubby from all the treats my coworkers are sneaking her.

The Pros:

• She is getting a lot of great socialization with a lot of different people.
• We've been able to practice walking on "slippery" surfaces out in the warehouse--and we're starting to make a bit of progress.  (Woohoo!  She'll go a few feet at a time toward me!)
• I can cuddle her anytime I like, making the work days seem a lot shorter.

So.  I'm on the fence about whether I'm happy with the circumstances or not.  Regardless, there's nothing I can do about it, unless I win a million dollars and can afford to take her to doggy day care every day until the construction is done.  So I deal.  Because that's what you do.

I'm going to be out of town for most of next week, and my folks will be pet-sitting for me.  Hopefully, the week will act as a "reset" for the bad habits Prada has picked up, and if I'm very lucky, the construction will be done by the time I return.  Then I can start retraining Prada to remain behind calmly.

We'll figure it out, and we'll make it work.

That's what family does.

I Don't Care If You Call It Soda or Pop--This Is Still War.

They say that insanity is repeating an action and expecting different results.  I don't know who "they" are--probably the people carrying the fashionably long-sleeved white coat.  I think they're following me.

But, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of a full-time job must be in want of a caffeinated beverage.  Which is to say, don't even bother talking to me before I've started my first can on Mt. Dew--any appearances of consciousness are false.

Scene:  this morning, first thing, at work.  The soda machine informed me that the Mt. Dew was sold out.  This was bad, but not a catastrophe, because I can settle for a Coke in a pinch.  BUT, the machine spat out my dollar, same way it did for the Mt. Dew.

This was a problem.  If there is no Mt. Dew, and there is no Coke, my only caffeinated option is Dr. Pepper, and twenty-one flavors is just too many for me. 

It would have been better than nothing--but there was nothing.  So, what was I supposed to drink?  Orange juice?  Get out of here.  This was a catastrophe!  Had my life really come to this?  In desperation, I tried each of the caffeinated options a bunch more times, and kicked the machine for good measure.  (There may have been some chest beating and hair-pulling as well.)

Finally, the light came on--a literal light.  The indicator light for "exact change only," to be exact. 

Proof positive that acting crazy is not always the same as being crazy.

Update:  I wrote this on Monday.  As of 12:08 pm today, we really are out of Mt. Dew, Coke, and Dr. Pepper.  I'm trying unsuccessfully to drown my tears in a caffeine-free root beer.


(True:  SHUT UP, PEANUT GALLERY!)

A Word on Words

You know what's weird?  The English language.  It's a bit of a soapbox of mine, but I'll try to keep it pauciloquent.

Our idioms are strange.  I understand them, and I'm a word nerd, so I actually know the etymology of them, but there are still some very odd ducks. 

"Horse of a different color:"  I think of purple ponies.  Always purple.  I don't know why. 

"Mind your Ps and Qs:"  And Ds and Bs, because the lower cases all look pretty damn much the same.  (The whole beer thing is much happier.)

"Square meal:"  For some reason, our lesson on the food pyramid in grade school always included this phrase, prompting me to believe that diet and geometry were closely linked.

We've also got strange words like "blurb" and "oaf" and "quire" (i.e., two dozen sheets of paper). And what does "i.e." mean, anyway?  In other words (wink), what the hell are we saying every day?


I'm not the only one.  Check out these cool Internet thingers for more...

• The Oatmeal
• "Idioms and Axioms Currently Used in America"
• 26 Weird English Words from A to Z
• A weird index

(True:  Don't even get me started on ten dollar words.  None of us have time for that.)

Happy Halloween! (And Many Morgue...)

Ba-dum chick.

I'm sorry, I just can't help myself.

I was up an hour and a half early to get ready yesterday morning--my office does Halloween in a BIG way.  (As in, participate or else.) 




Your humble narrator and a coworker with a secret identity


After a full, twelve hour day in this ridiculous getup, I had a few thoughts...

1.  No one got it, and that's okay.  Not everyone is familiar is familiar with Roy Lichtenstein, 1960's pop artist.

2.  Better be confident anyway, if you're going to wear this type of costume--I can't even tell you how many chicken pox/acne/herpes comments I got.

3.  Wigs are itchy and best worn to bars.  Alcohol dulls the crazy urge to scratch.

4.  The expensive facepaint was worth it--it actually dried.  When I finally washed it off, the only issues were that the paint had melted away under the nosepiece of my glasses, and I had smile cracks on either side of my mouth.

5.  Go easy on the painted eyebrows.  Overdo it and you'll look a little like a drag queen.

6.  I would make a damn fine-looking drag queen.


(True:  I'm already plotting for next Halloween.  Is that sad?)