I quite often catch myself yelling at the e-mails that I get from various suppliers and internal customers. Just now I yelled, “WHY ARE YOU SO STUPID?” at an offending message from a clueless person. And then had to get up and walk away from my computer for a bit, before I not only YELLED it, but also TYPED it and clicked SEND.
It must be quite entertaining indeed, to be my cubicle neighbor.
Calvin sat next to me on the couch for most of the day yesterday. He was home sick, and it was my regularly scheduled telecommute day. Apparently I sigh a lot, mutter a lot, and occasionally blurt out an, “Idiot!” or “Moron!” Not at him, at the aforementioned offenders. Calvin likes to say, “The more people you put in a space, the more the asshole ratio goes up.” That applies to stupid people, too.
Lots of people work with, and for, AcronymCo, is all I’m saying.
I’m pretty proud of myself. In the last fourteen days, I have worked out ten times. I’m working in weight training with cardio. Most favorite exercise? Triceps pulldowns. Least favorite? Pushups.
I fucking HATE pushups.
Because of the pollen count and subsequent HAVOC that it wreaks on my allergies, I’ve been sticking to the elliptical machine lately (indoors, natch) for my half-hour of cardio. Calvin has had to listen to snatches of random songs as I attempt to entertain myself with my iPod. I’m one of THOSE chicks that can’t NOT sing, a fact that causes Calvin pain, especially given the fact that 1) I’m rather atonal when I’m wearing headphones; and B) I don’t have enough breath to sing the whole song from beginning to end:
“…dun dun dun… Dun Dun Dun… DUN DUN DUN… oh let the sun beat down upon my face…”
:: pant ::
“…sheep go to heaven, goats go to hell…”
:: huff ::
“… see but I don’t get it, don’t you think maybe we could put it on credit…”
:: gasp ::
“… so don’t cry… one day all seven will die…”
:: wheeze ::
“… I feel so good if I just say the woooooord… su-sussudio! Just say the word, ooooohhhhhh…”
And so on. Poor, poor Calvin.
I’ll leave you with this question: Bloody Mary’s – love ’em or hate ’em? Seems to me some people are just as passionate about “their” version of a BM (heh) as they are about their recipe for potato salad. I don’t get the draw, myself. I’ve had one or two in my lifetime, and always think to myself, “Why?” They were a fixture in my early childhood memories of my mother – and now I know it’s because she was hung over most weekend mornings. I can’t imagine pounding one of those things down while hung over. GAAAAAH. Anyway. The question comes up because Calvin and I went to brunch on Sunday, and the restaurant featured a Bloody Mary bar, about which the patrons were stupefyingly excited.
Just give me a nice Grand Marnier mimosa, and Get Thee Behind Me, tomato juice concoction from Hell.
Apparently, the same jarring transitions I bring to my mix CD’s are carrying over into my writing, now.