|Mr Toad's Wild Ride
||[Nov. 20th, 2010|04:22 pm]
That was one of my favorite rides at Disney. Haunted Mansion, then Mr. Toad. It was JUST scary enough. Like a carnival ride, but clean and with cool characters and art. It's gone now...sniff. But you rode in your jalopy car at a reasonable clip and each room had things that were going to fall on you or jump on you, or you were suddenly going full tilt at another car or the wall or something and at last minute you'd be jolted in another direction or the wall would burst open and you'd sail on through. It was closed quite some time ago at DisneyWorld to make way for Winnie the Pooh. Pah. Bother is not strong enough. But if you're too young to remember, or never went...|
Yesterday was my three year anniversary at work. Or, as I like to call it "Two more years until I get another week of vacation day". My assigned area of concentration is not the sexiest. I do not get cool samples like the seafood guy, or even the bottled beverage chick. I don't get to tour shrimp farms in Thailand, or visit avocado groves in Florida and California. Instead I tour plastic-making factories stuck in the middle of a bloody desert. Paper Mills in Wisconsin. In December. Don't even get me started on the smells. But on the other hand, I am now firmly in place, dug in like a badger. No one has ever had my assigned area as long as I have and no one has ever "known" it to the geeky level that I have achieved. I am now officially hard to replace. And miracles of miracles, instead of beginning to plot my exit strategy and next career choice, I am working on get a couple of "very's" inserted in front of "hard to replace". I rarely last this long without at least yearning for something else. One year to figure it out, one year to get good at it, one year to get bored. That's my usual. Instead, I see several years ahead of getting better at it, and then, I can switch to a whole 'nother area. Let's just hope the pursetrings loosen at the yearend reviews, because if something more than a moth doesn't squeeze out, I'll have to look at options.
After weeks of careful consideration, in this part of the country, I have decided that Nittany apples are the best. Crisp, tart. As a former Penn Stater who had a severe lack of school spirit and pride, and mostly remembers Nittany Valley as being Pennsylvania's Northwest -- rain, rain, rain, grey, grey, sun, grey, grey, grey, rain, rain...but with more bloated, dying worms than say, Portland. Plus, it's sort of rectangular, which I find disorienting in an apple. But, still, it's the best in the mid-atlantic by far, assuming that like me, you want an apple to taste like an apple instead of SUGAR.
CouldN'T care less, couldN'T care less, you idiot! If you could care less...well than obviously you DO care, because you can still care a little bit...less! Some days it takes all of my humanity just to fly into someone's cube and choke them to death with their telephone cord.
For several years, a friend who'd had one of those gorgeous complexions -- all very English Rose-y -- has been threatening to kill me because she had all sorts of crow's feet and I didn't. Well, we're on more of a level playing field now, that's for sure. And I feel like I should do something about it. So, I read somewhere a decent review on some product that was reasonably priced, appeared to not have placentas, or dead babies, or other nasty bits, was easily available in your typical drugstore/supermarket. And the review said it actually delivered. Okay, fine, it's time. Right now my "moisturizing regime" consists of patting the leftover hand lotion on my hands, under my eyes. So I go to the store, look for the brand and...expletive. There are like seven different options. The pre-treatment, the rougher up, the smoother down, the nighttime the daytime, the eye area one, the...and you're supposed to several of them consecutively. Seriously? I'm going to get more wrinkles from squinting to see which is which and when the hell I'm supposed to use it. Screw it. I'll just get old. Gotta be less stressful.
How do I know the faire season is over for now? I have no idea what the weather will be three days from now...or this weekend...or tomorrow. Ha! F-it! Go ahead. Rain! Ha!
I had a really hard day yesterday. On the way home I stopped at the grocery store and when I got back in the car, I thought I'd pull a can of Dew out for the ride home. But I fumbled the can, wound up tossing it in the air a bit and managed to retrieve it just before it rolled under the passenger seat. (Dear State of Maryland, Seriously, we'd all be safer if you'd just let me talk on my cell phone. It keeps me from doing other, more distracting stuff, like driving down 270, mining for soda cans.) But here's the sad thing. I got it and opened it. Immediately. Yes, the Old Faithful of Diet Mountain Dew, all over me and the car interior. (See, Maryland, even all over the windshield, obscuring my view. Please issue me a sticker that say "authorized to use hands-needed device" because I just get up to worse trouble.) The worst part is that I KNOW the foam subsides after 30 seconds. I used to do the Penn and Teller trick at conferences ALL the TIME. Hell, I counted on it to pay my bar tab from time to time. Sigh. Then I went home, started to make dinner (ground bison and butternut squash sauted with onions, garlic, tomatoes, black beans over pasta) and first, in tossing the onions during the initial saute, managed to wing them all the way to the other end of the kitchen. So, I really wasn't shocked when, right after adding the beans, instead of using the utensil to stir the beans into the mixture, I whacked the end of the utentsil and catapaulted 1/2 the beans all over the stovetop. The Captain poured me a cider and told me to go sit down and drink until the alcohol dulled my reflexes. Good man, good plan.
You may be wondering what the hell is going ON in this post. This is what happens when words get bottled up and there's been no where to really channel them. I always thought that I wasn't a writer because THEY say if you're truly a writer, you feel compelled to write every day, no matter what. Which I didn't. But then again, I've always had lots of place to channel my words. This past week and a half -- almost two weeks, I haven't. And this is the result.
I don't remember the topic that I was going to work the word "gelignite" into. My notes say Ssltzer,Gelignite, look up pronounce. Well, okay, they WOULD say that, if I hadn't been scribbling them onto the back of a deposit slip while driving, in the dark. (See, Maryland, hands-free is NOT the best choice for me. For the sake of the other people on the road...) I don't remember the bit I was going to write, but I do remember that I realized I didn't actually know how to pronounce "gelignite" and I needed to look it up. Despite the fact that I was only going to WRITE about it. Yes, folks, this is all a running voice track in my head. And for some reason, I need to be able to pronounce the word in my head before I can write it. Of course, gelignite can be pronounced two ways, hard g and soft g. Of course. Naturally. Oddly enough in looking up "gelignite pronounce" the first listing was "how to pronounce gelignite in Italian". Which makes me reconsider that trip to Italy.
Now, I may well be skating up against the word limit in FB, plus my cider is empty. Ta.