Wednesday, August 13, 2008
If..
If anyone has, at any time, had even the slightest hint of a desire to punch me in the face. Today would be great day.
Friday, August 8, 2008
BeneFit of What, Exactly?
I really have nothing that important, save for my bitching...which is very important.
I went into BeneFit yesterday (for people who don't care, i.e. most of you, that's a makeup and face goo store) for no other reason than to replenish my mascara supply. Of course, before I can say Tammy Faye, I've got some 23 year old putting products on my face in the hopes that I'll see how less ugly I am wearing them, and buy them.
This is the tactic with all beauty products - telling you that you need something, but never coming outright and saying, "Good God, how do you go out in PUBLIC like that? Put this on, for all of humanity."
Ok, so I bought one of them. Whatever. I'm not made of stone.
So, as a reward for letting my checking account hemmhorage, I get a free sample of moisturizer. Thanks...didn't I just buy moisturizer? No? Ok, whatever, teen makeup queen.
The 12 year old behind the counter (it's true, they regress in age as you stand there, and you watch them get younger as you buy wrinkle cream) told me that it had a nice "pearlescent finish." In case I wanted to coat my walls with it. She then told me...
...that it was great for aging.
She said it more than once. She said it a lot. She said it so that it burned into my brain. You could say that she said it...I dunno...agey-seven times.
I finally said, "So, it's that obvious that I needed it, eh?" Without skipping a beat, the 8 year old squeaked, "We alllll need it."
Sure you do, fetus, sure you do.
I'm gonna go play shuffleboard and find ortho shoes on the intranets. You know, it's a series of tubes.
Sigh.
I went into BeneFit yesterday (for people who don't care, i.e. most of you, that's a makeup and face goo store) for no other reason than to replenish my mascara supply. Of course, before I can say Tammy Faye, I've got some 23 year old putting products on my face in the hopes that I'll see how less ugly I am wearing them, and buy them.
This is the tactic with all beauty products - telling you that you need something, but never coming outright and saying, "Good God, how do you go out in PUBLIC like that? Put this on, for all of humanity."
Ok, so I bought one of them. Whatever. I'm not made of stone.
So, as a reward for letting my checking account hemmhorage, I get a free sample of moisturizer. Thanks...didn't I just buy moisturizer? No? Ok, whatever, teen makeup queen.
The 12 year old behind the counter (it's true, they regress in age as you stand there, and you watch them get younger as you buy wrinkle cream) told me that it had a nice "pearlescent finish." In case I wanted to coat my walls with it. She then told me...
...that it was great for aging.
She said it more than once. She said it a lot. She said it so that it burned into my brain. You could say that she said it...I dunno...agey-seven times.
I finally said, "So, it's that obvious that I needed it, eh?" Without skipping a beat, the 8 year old squeaked, "We alllll need it."
Sure you do, fetus, sure you do.
I'm gonna go play shuffleboard and find ortho shoes on the intranets. You know, it's a series of tubes.
Sigh.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Sometimes I Write Like This
And they watched poetry read aloud in a bar. A backroom of a bar with tin ceilings and too much warmth and chairs that were very well upholstered.
And from watching poetry, short stories and humorous notes in bottles, she thought it poetic to begin entries with "and." She thought it made her sound deeper. She realized she was wrong.
She has realized a lot of things about herself recently, and more than just her penchant for speaking about herself in third person like Caesar. That, actually, seemed to help her be more direct about what she had learned, as it sounded like she was talking about someone else's problems.
She listened to lanky men in beards and too-skinny women read about love in very detached ways. Comparing it to pandas and bamboo, scenes in movies starring Wilfred Brimley and mockery of Kevin Costner films. Perhaps lack of food made them detached when speaking of love, as they may faint from over exertion otherwise. Perhaps they were, in fact, quite brave. When was the last time she stood in front of a microphone and talked about what love meant? When was the first time, for that matter?
And from watching poetry, short stories and humorous notes in bottles, she thought it poetic to begin entries with "and." She thought it made her sound deeper. She realized she was wrong.
She has realized a lot of things about herself recently, and more than just her penchant for speaking about herself in third person like Caesar. That, actually, seemed to help her be more direct about what she had learned, as it sounded like she was talking about someone else's problems.
She listened to lanky men in beards and too-skinny women read about love in very detached ways. Comparing it to pandas and bamboo, scenes in movies starring Wilfred Brimley and mockery of Kevin Costner films. Perhaps lack of food made them detached when speaking of love, as they may faint from over exertion otherwise. Perhaps they were, in fact, quite brave. When was the last time she stood in front of a microphone and talked about what love meant? When was the first time, for that matter?
Friday, May 23, 2008
'Nam.
Just like 'Nam, this is long. And a bit gross. And a little pointless. So if you're into that, keep reading.
GROSS PICTURE WARNING.
Just making sure you knew.
Most of my days, I walk around with a giant boot on so my feet look like this.
Yesterday, I had bandages removed from both sides of my feet and the toe they worked on. According to the xrays, it looks fantastic. According to my eyes, it looked like this.
What's that? You want a closer look at the wire that is partially coming out of my foot? Ok.
They then put bandages over the grossness after removing the stitches and sent me hobbling along my way.
This morning at about 3am, I sat straight up in bed with the most excruciating pain I have ever felt. It was coming from my wee toe, second to the last. The pentultimate toe, if you will.
Now, I am not a wimp about pain. I have a dead guy in my knee. When I fell and tore my ACL, I burned from embarrassment in a TaeKwonDo class, not pain. I believe that vicodin is a foreign term for "pill that makes alien baby rise from stomach," so painkillers aren't my bag. But JesusMaryandJoseph I thought my toe was dangling and ready to fall off. Because it had, at some point in the night, been dipped in hydrochloric acid. I was sure.
Scott once again sprouted wings and sprung into action - getting me another pillow to elevate, ice for my ankle and kisses for my forehead while he alternately told me to squeeze his hand and then remember to breathe. I forgot sometimes.
Finally, at 5AM, I decided the doctor should be called. I didn't want to go to the hospital again. They'd do something terrible like poke it for fun and show it to me. I knew they would.
The doctor called back within minutes. He told Scott to loosen the bandage.
Loosen the bandage? Well, sure. We probably have to look for the top of my toe. Unless it distintegrated, of course.
And so he did. And so the pain stopped.
I felt relief like never before. And stupid like never before. That didn't feel like a too-tight bandage. It felt like microscopic armies had declared war on my toe with spears. And...hydrochloric acid.
Not surprisingly, I was exhausted this morning and I made us late. Scott dropped me off at the Montrose stop, only for me to find out the elevator is broken. Hopping up I went. The train took off a little fast and I had to put pressure on my boot to keep from falling. I could have been incredibly grumpy. But then I realized that's all I've been for weeks.
I started to notice some different things. I was well taken care of, and I have been this whole time. That wasn't news, but it hit me rather hard. Also, other people - strangers - were behaving rather kindly. At least four people asked if I needed help on the way up the el stairs. Doors were held when I got coffee and oatmeal.
Then, when I got here, a co-worker asked how my foot was doing. Berl is an elderly African-American man who came on when we outsourced our Office Services department. Kind to everyone and mild mannered, I told him about what happened. He patiently listened.
He then proceeded to tell me that he completely understood.
"I don't take painkillers, either. I'm with you on that. I had a collarbone injury,"
he began, which already told me this was gonna be way worse than my pain.
"Because I was shot there in Vietnam. Now, to fix that, they also had to cut away part of the deltoid,"
Oh my God so much worse.
"and the bone,"
I am an asshole.
"So, for about a year,"
My toe hurt. My...my toe. That's it. Why am I complaining?
"I had to relearn to move my arm."
You know what? I'm...I'm fine. I really am.
On that note, have a great Memorial Day weekend. If you were planning on fucking off to somewhere, I hope it's somewhere good. If you plan, like me, to fuck off to a couple of barbeques, I hope they're delicious.
Just remember...nothing compares...to a 'nam wound. I really don't care how much you hurt. It's the trump card of pain.
GROSS PICTURE WARNING.
Just making sure you knew.
Most of my days, I walk around with a giant boot on so my feet look like this.
Yesterday, I had bandages removed from both sides of my feet and the toe they worked on. According to the xrays, it looks fantastic. According to my eyes, it looked like this.
What's that? You want a closer look at the wire that is partially coming out of my foot? Ok.
They then put bandages over the grossness after removing the stitches and sent me hobbling along my way.
This morning at about 3am, I sat straight up in bed with the most excruciating pain I have ever felt. It was coming from my wee toe, second to the last. The pentultimate toe, if you will.
Now, I am not a wimp about pain. I have a dead guy in my knee. When I fell and tore my ACL, I burned from embarrassment in a TaeKwonDo class, not pain. I believe that vicodin is a foreign term for "pill that makes alien baby rise from stomach," so painkillers aren't my bag. But JesusMaryandJoseph I thought my toe was dangling and ready to fall off. Because it had, at some point in the night, been dipped in hydrochloric acid. I was sure.
Scott once again sprouted wings and sprung into action - getting me another pillow to elevate, ice for my ankle and kisses for my forehead while he alternately told me to squeeze his hand and then remember to breathe. I forgot sometimes.
Finally, at 5AM, I decided the doctor should be called. I didn't want to go to the hospital again. They'd do something terrible like poke it for fun and show it to me. I knew they would.
The doctor called back within minutes. He told Scott to loosen the bandage.
Loosen the bandage? Well, sure. We probably have to look for the top of my toe. Unless it distintegrated, of course.
And so he did. And so the pain stopped.
I felt relief like never before. And stupid like never before. That didn't feel like a too-tight bandage. It felt like microscopic armies had declared war on my toe with spears. And...hydrochloric acid.
Not surprisingly, I was exhausted this morning and I made us late. Scott dropped me off at the Montrose stop, only for me to find out the elevator is broken. Hopping up I went. The train took off a little fast and I had to put pressure on my boot to keep from falling. I could have been incredibly grumpy. But then I realized that's all I've been for weeks.
I started to notice some different things. I was well taken care of, and I have been this whole time. That wasn't news, but it hit me rather hard. Also, other people - strangers - were behaving rather kindly. At least four people asked if I needed help on the way up the el stairs. Doors were held when I got coffee and oatmeal.
Then, when I got here, a co-worker asked how my foot was doing. Berl is an elderly African-American man who came on when we outsourced our Office Services department. Kind to everyone and mild mannered, I told him about what happened. He patiently listened.
He then proceeded to tell me that he completely understood.
"I don't take painkillers, either. I'm with you on that. I had a collarbone injury,"
he began, which already told me this was gonna be way worse than my pain.
"Because I was shot there in Vietnam. Now, to fix that, they also had to cut away part of the deltoid,"
Oh my God so much worse.
"and the bone,"
I am an asshole.
"So, for about a year,"
My toe hurt. My...my toe. That's it. Why am I complaining?
"I had to relearn to move my arm."
You know what? I'm...I'm fine. I really am.
On that note, have a great Memorial Day weekend. If you were planning on fucking off to somewhere, I hope it's somewhere good. If you plan, like me, to fuck off to a couple of barbeques, I hope they're delicious.
Just remember...nothing compares...to a 'nam wound. I really don't care how much you hurt. It's the trump card of pain.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Recooped Up.
Ok, so I'm bad at updates. I make everyone worry and then I run away giggling.
Don't worry. That last part isn't true. I can't run anywhere.
So Mom has headed to a short-term rehabilitation nursing center and has been discharged from the hospital. She's in Skokie, recuperating like a real Jew. I'm so proud. She loves it there. They are having her do physical therapy for her back and all kinds of other stuff she would normally hate and hit people for making her do if she weren't in such nice surroundings. The fact that she has no choice probably helps. As do the pain killers. I'm guessing.
As for me, I had foot surgery yesterday, the very day Mom was discharged and moved to the rehab center. The hospital folk assured me this would not happen and go ahead and have my surgery. Here's a tip: hospitals can promise you nothing. This is my lesson of the week.
As a result, Mom is moved and I can't move. See, my foot surgery went well. But not as planned. I was supposed to be on crutches for maybe three days and then in a walking boot. No dice. They couldn't hold the bone in place with a screw on one of the sides that were operated on, so they have to put me on crutches for three weeks. With a walking boot I can't walk on. It's heavy, but it's acting as a cast.
Seems that if you're on birth control, casts are bad. Blood clots are more likely, and no one wants that.
Birth control can apparently prevent more than one shock when you wake up. (rimshot)
I had twilight anesthesia for the procedure, which means I was pretty much asleep but not knocked out - and I wouldn't remember anything. That was mostly true. I remember going into the OR, thinking it wasn't as cold as I expected, then waking up and wondering if my hands were tied down or if I was simply too lazy to move them. It was the latter. I think.
I woke up at the end of surgery, it seems, hearing what must have been the doc and a medical Makita attempting to drill into my foot - and the doctor cursing like a sailor. I didn't feel a thing, but at least I knew something was wrong.
Today, my doctor told me that he was certain he was more frustrated by the incident than I was, but he was "ecstatic about the bone placement."
I imagine he walked away from the phone, sans crutches, so no. No he is not more frustrated by this than I am.
So. I'm homebound for a few days, and then it's off to compete in my favorite regional sport: See If People On the Train See Your Crutches and Surgical Boot. Here's a hint: they don't. Ladies, don't sweat the footwear. No one's looking, as people have actually kicked my boot or let me stand on crutches from past surgeries. Or maybe they just don't like my face. Whichever...those people can suck it.
Meanwhile, I will attempt to not embarrass Pasko by gushing over his kindness with all of this. But holy crap...I owe that man BIG. You're...you're something else, Scott. Thank you.
While I'm thanking, so many of you have sent well wishes and offers of help...thank you. I sure have some kickass friends. I knew that, don't get me wrong, but when you're forced to be as still...you have some time to think.
Ow...thinking hurts.
Don't worry. That last part isn't true. I can't run anywhere.
So Mom has headed to a short-term rehabilitation nursing center and has been discharged from the hospital. She's in Skokie, recuperating like a real Jew. I'm so proud. She loves it there. They are having her do physical therapy for her back and all kinds of other stuff she would normally hate and hit people for making her do if she weren't in such nice surroundings. The fact that she has no choice probably helps. As do the pain killers. I'm guessing.
As for me, I had foot surgery yesterday, the very day Mom was discharged and moved to the rehab center. The hospital folk assured me this would not happen and go ahead and have my surgery. Here's a tip: hospitals can promise you nothing. This is my lesson of the week.
As a result, Mom is moved and I can't move. See, my foot surgery went well. But not as planned. I was supposed to be on crutches for maybe three days and then in a walking boot. No dice. They couldn't hold the bone in place with a screw on one of the sides that were operated on, so they have to put me on crutches for three weeks. With a walking boot I can't walk on. It's heavy, but it's acting as a cast.
Seems that if you're on birth control, casts are bad. Blood clots are more likely, and no one wants that.
Birth control can apparently prevent more than one shock when you wake up. (rimshot)
I had twilight anesthesia for the procedure, which means I was pretty much asleep but not knocked out - and I wouldn't remember anything. That was mostly true. I remember going into the OR, thinking it wasn't as cold as I expected, then waking up and wondering if my hands were tied down or if I was simply too lazy to move them. It was the latter. I think.
I woke up at the end of surgery, it seems, hearing what must have been the doc and a medical Makita attempting to drill into my foot - and the doctor cursing like a sailor. I didn't feel a thing, but at least I knew something was wrong.
Today, my doctor told me that he was certain he was more frustrated by the incident than I was, but he was "ecstatic about the bone placement."
I imagine he walked away from the phone, sans crutches, so no. No he is not more frustrated by this than I am.
So. I'm homebound for a few days, and then it's off to compete in my favorite regional sport: See If People On the Train See Your Crutches and Surgical Boot. Here's a hint: they don't. Ladies, don't sweat the footwear. No one's looking, as people have actually kicked my boot or let me stand on crutches from past surgeries. Or maybe they just don't like my face. Whichever...those people can suck it.
Meanwhile, I will attempt to not embarrass Pasko by gushing over his kindness with all of this. But holy crap...I owe that man BIG. You're...you're something else, Scott. Thank you.
While I'm thanking, so many of you have sent well wishes and offers of help...thank you. I sure have some kickass friends. I knew that, don't get me wrong, but when you're forced to be as still...you have some time to think.
Ow...thinking hurts.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Ahem.
(traces small circle in dirt with toe)
(looks up sheepishly)
(back to tracing circles)
Um...sorry I was a sad sack of drama there. It's still rough, and I'm still not sure what's going on. But Woe Was Me won't help much. And...hey. I got off the train today realizing I had dropped my swipe card for work (GASP! HOW will they KNOW when I GOT there??), and a random stranger threw it out of the train at my feet as the doors closed. Thanks, random stranger.
Little things, people. Little things.
I am wearing heeled boots today, as I have foot surgery tomorrow and won't be able to wear heels for a long time.
Little things.
But the martini I'm gonna have after the hospital visit tonight and before my food/drink cutoff...huge.
(looks up sheepishly)
(back to tracing circles)
Um...sorry I was a sad sack of drama there. It's still rough, and I'm still not sure what's going on. But Woe Was Me won't help much. And...hey. I got off the train today realizing I had dropped my swipe card for work (GASP! HOW will they KNOW when I GOT there??), and a random stranger threw it out of the train at my feet as the doors closed. Thanks, random stranger.
Little things, people. Little things.
I am wearing heeled boots today, as I have foot surgery tomorrow and won't be able to wear heels for a long time.
Little things.
But the martini I'm gonna have after the hospital visit tonight and before my food/drink cutoff...huge.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
I Can't Dance to This
Because there really isn't an upbeat note here.
(Rimshot)
(Groan)
(Wayward tomato)
This is one of those Deep Sigh and Then Write blogs, so I'll apologize in advance. The last week has been a roller coaster of epic proportions, only without the part where you went there on purpose and it's fun.
Mom went to the hospital on Sunday. We took her there at her request, and she was sent home with a diagnosis of bronchitis, as well as a prescription for antibiotics, valium for the inflamed muscle due to coughing and an inhaler.
On Wednesday morning, she called me to tell me she had called 911 because she fell during the night. Thanks, valium combined with the nine other meds she's on. Thanks a heap.
I spent seven hours at the hospital yesterday, and my notebook is filled with worrisome scribbling about all the meds, all her illnesses and their potential interactions and the ensuing disaster therein. I was told by doctors that the benefits outweigh the risks. Up until Sunday, that's what my mom said about smoking.
Today is different.
As of today, she is better. As of today, she can sit in a chair despite a fracture in her spine. Today she can cough to get rid of the infection without hurting the tear in her shoulder muscle. Today, she gets breathing treatments every six hours and may or may not have to go into a nursing home for rehab for a while after she's released.
Today, I'm going shopping for groceries to bring her Mother's Day brunch in the hospital.
Today, I am bracing myself to see my sister again tomorrow. I don't speak to her unless my mother is ill. So I'll see her for Mother's Day...despite the fact that she doesn't celebrate it. Maybe she'll enjoy a banana muffin with cream cheese and not judge me. I doubt that.
Today, I am fighting with the man I love and I don't know why. Or maybe I do, and that makes me even sadder. I am not so easy to put up with, and when I'm in crisis I'm reeeeally not easy to put up with.
Today, I don't know what the statute of limitations is on difficult, but I'm waiting for it to run out.
Today, I will try and hang posters for an anti-suicide fundraiser I'm supposed to be helping with, but I need to go to Rogers Park and then Evanston for my mother. This has a tendency to put "helping" in a different perspective.
Today I will try to be a better person.
Because tonight, I will sing my fucking lungs out at Duke's with The Cain Mutiny. And then today can suck it.
But for now, Today, you have me. Fine.
(Rimshot)
(Groan)
(Wayward tomato)
This is one of those Deep Sigh and Then Write blogs, so I'll apologize in advance. The last week has been a roller coaster of epic proportions, only without the part where you went there on purpose and it's fun.
Mom went to the hospital on Sunday. We took her there at her request, and she was sent home with a diagnosis of bronchitis, as well as a prescription for antibiotics, valium for the inflamed muscle due to coughing and an inhaler.
On Wednesday morning, she called me to tell me she had called 911 because she fell during the night. Thanks, valium combined with the nine other meds she's on. Thanks a heap.
I spent seven hours at the hospital yesterday, and my notebook is filled with worrisome scribbling about all the meds, all her illnesses and their potential interactions and the ensuing disaster therein. I was told by doctors that the benefits outweigh the risks. Up until Sunday, that's what my mom said about smoking.
Today is different.
As of today, she is better. As of today, she can sit in a chair despite a fracture in her spine. Today she can cough to get rid of the infection without hurting the tear in her shoulder muscle. Today, she gets breathing treatments every six hours and may or may not have to go into a nursing home for rehab for a while after she's released.
Today, I'm going shopping for groceries to bring her Mother's Day brunch in the hospital.
Today, I am bracing myself to see my sister again tomorrow. I don't speak to her unless my mother is ill. So I'll see her for Mother's Day...despite the fact that she doesn't celebrate it. Maybe she'll enjoy a banana muffin with cream cheese and not judge me. I doubt that.
Today, I am fighting with the man I love and I don't know why. Or maybe I do, and that makes me even sadder. I am not so easy to put up with, and when I'm in crisis I'm reeeeally not easy to put up with.
Today, I don't know what the statute of limitations is on difficult, but I'm waiting for it to run out.
Today, I will try and hang posters for an anti-suicide fundraiser I'm supposed to be helping with, but I need to go to Rogers Park and then Evanston for my mother. This has a tendency to put "helping" in a different perspective.
Today I will try to be a better person.
Because tonight, I will sing my fucking lungs out at Duke's with The Cain Mutiny. And then today can suck it.
But for now, Today, you have me. Fine.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Schmancy.
I go to a fancy gym. I'll admit it. In fact, I did in an earlier blog, only this is a different and even fancier gym. I wouldn't have picked it myself, but it's what work gives me a discount on, and it's around the corner from my office - so I go.
They have good classes. I try to ignore the amazon model-like women wandering around, wondering where they put that tiny shred of emotion that crossed their faces for half a second during spin class. I try to forget that one day when I forgot my socks and they actually charged me $16 for a new pair - with a straight face. I just work out. I shower. I go back to work.
But I've been mildly disturbed today. I know, I know - today? Just today? Really, Corri?
Shut the hell up and let me finish or go write your own blog.
I was getting dressed at a locker right up against a wall. A wall that has a door. I have previously realized that this door goes to the executive locker rooms. I don't know anything about them other than that it costs extra, and there are probably ponies that take you to the eliptical trainer and you can drink a smoothie while the small Thai child you employ does your workout for you. I have no fucking idea what's in there.
All I know is that there is a contraption next to the door, and that contraption is a retinal scanner. Whatever is in there is so top secret, you can't have a key...no no. They need to scan your fucking eyeball so you can get in there, smell the laundry they did for you and wipe your brow with the nearest cleaning woman.
I'm just trying to dress and get to class before it fills up. Somehow, I managed to choose a class to like that is taught by a gay man who makes appearances on E! and various other networks from time to time, touting his fabulous...um...fitness...fabulosity. To the stars. Or something. I have no idea what he does other than ordering us to lunge right, then left, now lift the medicine ball. I digress.
As I'm dressing, I apparently got too close to the retinal scanner, and it ordered me to "please move up a little bit." It actually thought I was attempting to enter the sacred compound of executives.
This is where it's handy to know it's a retinal scan and not an olfactory one. 'Cause otherwise, it would smell the poor on me and probably punch me in the face for getting close to it.
Nothing says "I'm Important!" like an entrance blocked by DNA identification, but nothing says "Creepy" like getting dressed in front of an electronic peephole that tells you where to move.
They have good classes. I try to ignore the amazon model-like women wandering around, wondering where they put that tiny shred of emotion that crossed their faces for half a second during spin class. I try to forget that one day when I forgot my socks and they actually charged me $16 for a new pair - with a straight face. I just work out. I shower. I go back to work.
But I've been mildly disturbed today. I know, I know - today? Just today? Really, Corri?
Shut the hell up and let me finish or go write your own blog.
I was getting dressed at a locker right up against a wall. A wall that has a door. I have previously realized that this door goes to the executive locker rooms. I don't know anything about them other than that it costs extra, and there are probably ponies that take you to the eliptical trainer and you can drink a smoothie while the small Thai child you employ does your workout for you. I have no fucking idea what's in there.
All I know is that there is a contraption next to the door, and that contraption is a retinal scanner. Whatever is in there is so top secret, you can't have a key...no no. They need to scan your fucking eyeball so you can get in there, smell the laundry they did for you and wipe your brow with the nearest cleaning woman.
I'm just trying to dress and get to class before it fills up. Somehow, I managed to choose a class to like that is taught by a gay man who makes appearances on E! and various other networks from time to time, touting his fabulous...um...fitness...fabulosity. To the stars. Or something. I have no idea what he does other than ordering us to lunge right, then left, now lift the medicine ball. I digress.
As I'm dressing, I apparently got too close to the retinal scanner, and it ordered me to "please move up a little bit." It actually thought I was attempting to enter the sacred compound of executives.
This is where it's handy to know it's a retinal scan and not an olfactory one. 'Cause otherwise, it would smell the poor on me and probably punch me in the face for getting close to it.
Nothing says "I'm Important!" like an entrance blocked by DNA identification, but nothing says "Creepy" like getting dressed in front of an electronic peephole that tells you where to move.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Simple. Really?
We forget that things can be simple. And by "we," I mean "me," since I don't know that anyone else is reading this. I care not.
A friend of mine looked at me and said, "It's fucking ridiculous that you don't have an agent. But really, it's only because you haven't tried hard enough."
I was about to argue, save that I realized I couldn't. When it comes to that pursuit, and that one alone, I really haven't. She let me know just how many mailings she'd done. I have done considerably less, thinking that somehow I shouldn't have to do that many.
I never thought that consciously, mind you. But my actions spoke for me. Stupid actions.
If you want that, try harder. Do more. It really is that simple. I proceeded to have a complicated argument with a loved one later that night, made only more complicated by the addition of alcohol in my system.
I forget too often what simple means.
I need to cut that out.
A friend of mine looked at me and said, "It's fucking ridiculous that you don't have an agent. But really, it's only because you haven't tried hard enough."
I was about to argue, save that I realized I couldn't. When it comes to that pursuit, and that one alone, I really haven't. She let me know just how many mailings she'd done. I have done considerably less, thinking that somehow I shouldn't have to do that many.
I never thought that consciously, mind you. But my actions spoke for me. Stupid actions.
If you want that, try harder. Do more. It really is that simple. I proceeded to have a complicated argument with a loved one later that night, made only more complicated by the addition of alcohol in my system.
I forget too often what simple means.
I need to cut that out.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
This is...where I am...
I just glanced at an e-mail to one of our paralegals. I won't go into the boring details, but it was business related. They explained that they were sorry, but they no longer sold the item she was looking for.
"You may follow the link below to find lighted balloons:"
How helpful. Thank you.
A friend and co-worker just came up to me with a wrapper from her Dove chocolate. On the inside, it said, "You know what? You look good in red."
Stupid wrapper. She wasn't wearing red.
This morning at a meeting, a woman defended her choice to visit a tanning salon by saying, "Hey. Everything these days is going to give you cancer."
Since this was a health committee meeting for work, I said, "Yeah. But that's a cancer causer from way back. Kind of an OG cancer-causer."
At a previous meeting, she mentioned that there was an odd smell when she was tanning. I asked if it was cancer.
Hey, if she never would have gotten on my case for smoking while on that committee, I'd leave her alone.
I quit smoking. She's still tan.
This is all the creativity I have during the day. If I didn't fuck off at work to work on theater and career stuff, I'd be in trouble.
"You may follow the link below to find lighted balloons:"
How helpful. Thank you.
A friend and co-worker just came up to me with a wrapper from her Dove chocolate. On the inside, it said, "You know what? You look good in red."
Stupid wrapper. She wasn't wearing red.
This morning at a meeting, a woman defended her choice to visit a tanning salon by saying, "Hey. Everything these days is going to give you cancer."
Since this was a health committee meeting for work, I said, "Yeah. But that's a cancer causer from way back. Kind of an OG cancer-causer."
At a previous meeting, she mentioned that there was an odd smell when she was tanning. I asked if it was cancer.
Hey, if she never would have gotten on my case for smoking while on that committee, I'd leave her alone.
I quit smoking. She's still tan.
This is all the creativity I have during the day. If I didn't fuck off at work to work on theater and career stuff, I'd be in trouble.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Opposable Thumbs, Booze and The Want. (Observed)
She sits at the end of the bar, or rather the corner right before the end. It's an important distinction, as the man at the end of the bar is like a piece of flypaper, waiting for the women to get drunker and slide into his stickiness.
But she is cheerful, not really planning on being lured by the trap swaying at the end. She has her hands full, juggling a beer and her cell phone. She periodically puts the beer down so that she can send more text messages. It is this action that hinders the drinking process, though with each message received, the alcohol hits a little harder.
In the other room, the band wails away on tunes you love and you don't know when you'll hear them again. There is talk of a break, a hiatus, and the future is uncertain. Then again, when has it ever been anything else? So you avoid the crowd that you believe is capable of trampling you to death -unnoticed and with much vigor - and sit at the bar.
As she texts (a word you find you use as a verb far more often than you're comfortable with), she shares the content of her messages with you. You aren't surprised to find they revolve around a man. A man she wants, a man she's had, a man who is nonplussed by her appeals for second helpings. At one point, she tells you about a response he gave her to one of her entreaties for last minute sex. It was cold, it was unnecessarily cruel, and she told you to make certain you remembered the line.
You said you would, as you also promised to write a play about her.
"Write a play about me, about texting," she says. There's that verb again. She is clearly under the influence of too many messages. "Write about me and make sure you put in that line. That sums it up right there."
It is months later and you never got to her play. Worse, you find as you sit down to write that the line has also left your consciousness. And you don't know when that happened.
You feel as though you failed her. Someone who wanted you to write about her desperate search for someone to return the affection she gives. Not that you could give her what she needs, but to validate it...somehow...perhaps if you could write it...
But you can't. Not now.
********
She sits at the end of the bar. Past the bend. She is the flypaper, and each progressive drink makes her surface stickier and her reach even longer.
She texts. Of course. Though it's a different woman at a different bar, the want is almost exactly the same. Love. Affection. In copious, unconditional amounts. But there are negotiations. There are conditions.
There is almost a multitasking of her heart that she performs flawlessly. A gesture to the man she has been with, but is too young. An offer to a new one that could be now or never. The young one looks on, wondering when the shift happened. All the while, she texts. A date is set with the man on the other end of the phone, while nothing immediate happens in the bar. It doesn't need to. You've tried to wheel and deal for her, as you discover she'd be lousy in sales.
In sales, you shut up after your pitch and let the potential buyer decide. A quiet strategy of enticement. The longer you stay quiet, the better it sounds in their minds.
But she pitches early and often. Even after the sale. She will continue to sell and tap dance and TaDa when it is no longer necessary. If it were an actual sale, you'd be putting the money in her pocket for her as she tells the sucker they should buy immediately. Instead, you cover her mouth and tell her to shut up. Let you do the talking.
She licks your hand. You wipe it on her nose. This goes on. A text comes in. She shares it with you and you help her write the next line while she handles her incoming gestures and winks with ease.
And you are not above, you are not immune. You have your texts flooding in. You eagerly await the next. You refill your glass, thankful it is words across a screen rather than a face to face conversation. If it were, you'd have to have him see your red wine lips. Maroon crusted in the corners and smiling far too wide. You write and try to pour as much love into these tiny electronic words as you can. You want him to know. You want to make certain he understands. You love him.
Next to you, the flypaper sways a bit, luring in this one and that one. But in her heart, she is trying to pour as much love into these tiny electronic words and small gestures and wry smiles as she can. She wants to make certain they understand. She is love. She is ready.
As are you. It's time to go home and sleep it off.
But she is cheerful, not really planning on being lured by the trap swaying at the end. She has her hands full, juggling a beer and her cell phone. She periodically puts the beer down so that she can send more text messages. It is this action that hinders the drinking process, though with each message received, the alcohol hits a little harder.
In the other room, the band wails away on tunes you love and you don't know when you'll hear them again. There is talk of a break, a hiatus, and the future is uncertain. Then again, when has it ever been anything else? So you avoid the crowd that you believe is capable of trampling you to death -unnoticed and with much vigor - and sit at the bar.
As she texts (a word you find you use as a verb far more often than you're comfortable with), she shares the content of her messages with you. You aren't surprised to find they revolve around a man. A man she wants, a man she's had, a man who is nonplussed by her appeals for second helpings. At one point, she tells you about a response he gave her to one of her entreaties for last minute sex. It was cold, it was unnecessarily cruel, and she told you to make certain you remembered the line.
You said you would, as you also promised to write a play about her.
"Write a play about me, about texting," she says. There's that verb again. She is clearly under the influence of too many messages. "Write about me and make sure you put in that line. That sums it up right there."
It is months later and you never got to her play. Worse, you find as you sit down to write that the line has also left your consciousness. And you don't know when that happened.
You feel as though you failed her. Someone who wanted you to write about her desperate search for someone to return the affection she gives. Not that you could give her what she needs, but to validate it...somehow...perhaps if you could write it...
But you can't. Not now.
********
She sits at the end of the bar. Past the bend. She is the flypaper, and each progressive drink makes her surface stickier and her reach even longer.
She texts. Of course. Though it's a different woman at a different bar, the want is almost exactly the same. Love. Affection. In copious, unconditional amounts. But there are negotiations. There are conditions.
There is almost a multitasking of her heart that she performs flawlessly. A gesture to the man she has been with, but is too young. An offer to a new one that could be now or never. The young one looks on, wondering when the shift happened. All the while, she texts. A date is set with the man on the other end of the phone, while nothing immediate happens in the bar. It doesn't need to. You've tried to wheel and deal for her, as you discover she'd be lousy in sales.
In sales, you shut up after your pitch and let the potential buyer decide. A quiet strategy of enticement. The longer you stay quiet, the better it sounds in their minds.
But she pitches early and often. Even after the sale. She will continue to sell and tap dance and TaDa when it is no longer necessary. If it were an actual sale, you'd be putting the money in her pocket for her as she tells the sucker they should buy immediately. Instead, you cover her mouth and tell her to shut up. Let you do the talking.
She licks your hand. You wipe it on her nose. This goes on. A text comes in. She shares it with you and you help her write the next line while she handles her incoming gestures and winks with ease.
And you are not above, you are not immune. You have your texts flooding in. You eagerly await the next. You refill your glass, thankful it is words across a screen rather than a face to face conversation. If it were, you'd have to have him see your red wine lips. Maroon crusted in the corners and smiling far too wide. You write and try to pour as much love into these tiny electronic words as you can. You want him to know. You want to make certain he understands. You love him.
Next to you, the flypaper sways a bit, luring in this one and that one. But in her heart, she is trying to pour as much love into these tiny electronic words and small gestures and wry smiles as she can. She wants to make certain they understand. She is love. She is ready.
As are you. It's time to go home and sleep it off.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Could We Start Again, Please?
Ok, when I told people I would go back writing about when things annoy me, I apparently gave a big smoke signal to the universe to unleash the Annoying Hounds. I have been chased by their incessant whining, rug soiling and leg humping ever since.
So far, in the last two days, I have screwed up my face in unimaginable ways to keep from crying in public. Upon reflection as to how this looked, I probably would have been better off weeping. Instead, there have been reports of sightings of Unga the Mongoloid Girl riding the train and loping through downtown.
The weather is certainly a factor, here. Enormous piles of snow in your path act like a giant magnifying glass to your emotions, particularly when you're forced to trudge through it. Last night, after spending another train ride with a rubber face and squinty eyes, I walked through the slush. Cursing, catching short breaths, feeling generally soul-crushed. This morning, in better spirits, I laughed my ass off as I walked 3/4 of a mile in knee deep snow to get to the train.
Then I got on the train.
I live pretty far north, so a seat is usually a guarantee. Not today, kids. People slept on the train just to keep a seat - the commuter's version of the lawn chair parking space claim. Save that the commuter example is a fictional exaggeration, and the lawn chair is unwritten Chicago law.
So I was bumped and pushed a lot - fine. I can handle that. I'm used to it. I can handle that and drink my coffee, check my email and fix my makeup while you whack me in the hip with your Timbuktu bag, sure. But the woman with the mucous problem in the seat next to my standing spot was rather hard to take. Every five seconds, she'd let out a goober-gathering snort that lasted three seconds. With the remaining two seconds, she'd clear her throat in a way that sounded like she was trying to imitate a dying goose. Delicious.
I arrive at my office knowing it will be a short day, as there is an anniversary party for the firm, and I will be drinking by 4pm. Heavens, that will be helpful. Bring me a martini and we'll call it even.
It was, of course, cancelled. In its place, I was given a consolation prize of utter humiliation at the hands of a client. Seems like a fair trade.
Thanks to my system crashing a few days ago, the client received an erroneous attachment in an email that was sent, not once, but three times. I got wind of this via email first thing this morning. The client responded to every email to my boss, the last response reading, "That's three. I'd be embarrassed if I were you."
No problem. I'm waaay ahead of you, sir.
Before I could control it, my body gave me two choices when my boss came out of his office to address this issue: cry or get mean. Meanwhile, my boss was smiling, telling me it was fine and the client's a nice guy and I've worked with him long enough to know that. Others gathered 'round and offered their two cents on the matter, my blood rising to my face.
Naturally, I kept my composure. I stood with grace and dignity. I acted like a professional, having been in this business for ten years.
"He can suck a giant cock and he can swallow and I'm not working with him anymore."
That's what I said. To my boss. About this client.
I took a breath. He laughed it off. I decided it would be best if I just sat quietly for a bit. In order to help this along, every co-worker I have stopped by my desk for various reasons, ranging from cat advice to general office kvetching. No one ever stops by my desk.
I then discovered I was going to spend the rest of my day digging through twenty-some-odd patent files to find a document_ This day was headed for an iceberg.
I went upstairs to calm down. Maybe have a bagel that I'm not supposed to have, since my clothes are starting to leave marks on my body in protest to my expanding waistline.
Oh, did I mention I quit smoking a month ago?
Yes, I'm working out. Yes, it's temporary. But the weight gain makes me about as happy as Hitler at a BarMitzvah.
Yes. That unhappy. Don't you judge me, I'll punch you in the throat.
So I'm toasting my forbidden half bagel, then I decide "Fuck it! The day is already sliding straight to hell!" And I consume a half a custard donut while I wait.
This was underscored by two attorneys discussing their workout routine. Awesome.
As I leave the kitchen, another attorney sees my napkin filled with some foodstuff and says, "Surely, you didn't take a donut. You don't seem like the donut type." I don't even know what that means.
I think today is competing for a title of some sort. It can have it. And a sash. And a crown. And a parade. Just go away.
So far, in the last two days, I have screwed up my face in unimaginable ways to keep from crying in public. Upon reflection as to how this looked, I probably would have been better off weeping. Instead, there have been reports of sightings of Unga the Mongoloid Girl riding the train and loping through downtown.
The weather is certainly a factor, here. Enormous piles of snow in your path act like a giant magnifying glass to your emotions, particularly when you're forced to trudge through it. Last night, after spending another train ride with a rubber face and squinty eyes, I walked through the slush. Cursing, catching short breaths, feeling generally soul-crushed. This morning, in better spirits, I laughed my ass off as I walked 3/4 of a mile in knee deep snow to get to the train.
Then I got on the train.
I live pretty far north, so a seat is usually a guarantee. Not today, kids. People slept on the train just to keep a seat - the commuter's version of the lawn chair parking space claim. Save that the commuter example is a fictional exaggeration, and the lawn chair is unwritten Chicago law.
So I was bumped and pushed a lot - fine. I can handle that. I'm used to it. I can handle that and drink my coffee, check my email and fix my makeup while you whack me in the hip with your Timbuktu bag, sure. But the woman with the mucous problem in the seat next to my standing spot was rather hard to take. Every five seconds, she'd let out a goober-gathering snort that lasted three seconds. With the remaining two seconds, she'd clear her throat in a way that sounded like she was trying to imitate a dying goose. Delicious.
I arrive at my office knowing it will be a short day, as there is an anniversary party for the firm, and I will be drinking by 4pm. Heavens, that will be helpful. Bring me a martini and we'll call it even.
It was, of course, cancelled. In its place, I was given a consolation prize of utter humiliation at the hands of a client. Seems like a fair trade.
Thanks to my system crashing a few days ago, the client received an erroneous attachment in an email that was sent, not once, but three times. I got wind of this via email first thing this morning. The client responded to every email to my boss, the last response reading, "That's three. I'd be embarrassed if I were you."
No problem. I'm waaay ahead of you, sir.
Before I could control it, my body gave me two choices when my boss came out of his office to address this issue: cry or get mean. Meanwhile, my boss was smiling, telling me it was fine and the client's a nice guy and I've worked with him long enough to know that. Others gathered 'round and offered their two cents on the matter, my blood rising to my face.
Naturally, I kept my composure. I stood with grace and dignity. I acted like a professional, having been in this business for ten years.
"He can suck a giant cock and he can swallow and I'm not working with him anymore."
That's what I said. To my boss. About this client.
I took a breath. He laughed it off. I decided it would be best if I just sat quietly for a bit. In order to help this along, every co-worker I have stopped by my desk for various reasons, ranging from cat advice to general office kvetching. No one ever stops by my desk.
I then discovered I was going to spend the rest of my day digging through twenty-some-odd patent files to find a document_ This day was headed for an iceberg.
I went upstairs to calm down. Maybe have a bagel that I'm not supposed to have, since my clothes are starting to leave marks on my body in protest to my expanding waistline.
Oh, did I mention I quit smoking a month ago?
Yes, I'm working out. Yes, it's temporary. But the weight gain makes me about as happy as Hitler at a BarMitzvah.
Yes. That unhappy. Don't you judge me, I'll punch you in the throat.
So I'm toasting my forbidden half bagel, then I decide "Fuck it! The day is already sliding straight to hell!" And I consume a half a custard donut while I wait.
This was underscored by two attorneys discussing their workout routine. Awesome.
As I leave the kitchen, another attorney sees my napkin filled with some foodstuff and says, "Surely, you didn't take a donut. You don't seem like the donut type." I don't even know what that means.
I think today is competing for a title of some sort. It can have it. And a sash. And a crown. And a parade. Just go away.
Moon Pie. A History.
So this is my first entry on this site, and I've decided to dig up an old entry on the other site.
Perhaps not exactly a clean slate, but I'm putting something here to have something here.
As you can already tell, I am a master of the written word. Sigh. Here 'tis:
I don't usually respond well to orders, but a friend of mine once assigned me the task of writing about Moon Pies for no good reason. That was reason enough for me. After exhaustive minutes-long research, I responded to my task.
And I thought it might not be a bad inaugural blog post. So here you go.
My Assignment: Moon Pie
I have never understood the concept of a mud pie. Just because something is round and flat, why is it classified as pie? Pie should be something delicious that you would be proud to put in a windowsill to let cool…if anyone did that anymore. How on earth did we get a non-edible substance to be called pie? The solution must be children, for only they are excused for playing in mud and eating it without being heavily medicated as a consequence (we only do that if they daydream). So clearly, we all know as adults that just because it's round and flat, it isn't really pie and we're not eating it. We know better.
And yet...
You put a whole bunch of chemicals and sugar into a flat, round shape, slide it into a plastic sleeve and voila!! MoonPie.
Lemme just back up a sec...
Moon. Pie. Because on the moon, this is what a mud pie would look like? Because in the future (where everything has a "moon" prefix no matter when the "future" is for you), pies will be more compact and filled with marshmallow? Because in space, we lower our standards and believe that flattened cake is pie?
But logic doesn't matter, here. We're talking snacks.
And since I have the world wide web at my fingertips, I can look up the history of the MoonPie.
Ok, I just did. According to the fine folks at moonpie.com, the nomenclature of this particular snack was given because there was a full moon on the evening some hungry wild coal miners wanted something for their lunch pails that was solid and filling.
Apparently, they were also sick to death of nutrition.
So Capt. MoonPie (whatever his name actually was, I can say with near certainty that he would like to be known posthumously as Capt. MoonPie…I would) went to his bakery with this assignment of a solid, filling food that was as big as someone's hands framing the moon.
I think I'm gonna do that from now on. I'm going to go to bakers and other food artists and demand filling food that is about as big as something far away I can frame with my hands so that I can put a SearsTower Tart in my lunchpail.
While worrying his task (knowing full well that hungry coal miners will substitute blood for any food they desire and that they travel in packs), he handily noticed some workers putting graham crackers with marshmallow on the windowsill to dry.
Lemme back up a sec...
Not an apple pie cooling in the window, as we previously discussed. Not a loaf of bread. Some yahoos employed by a bakery were dipping graham crackers into marsmallow and putting it outdoors (in a coal mining town...mmm...sooty) to get stale. Clearly, he wasn't getting skilled labor.
So he did what any man in a pinch would have done: he layered it again and dipped the thing in chocolate in the hopes that no one would know that it was stale sugar and cracker underneath.
Apparently, these tooth reducing concoctions got so popular in the south that the phrase "RC Cola and a MoonPie" was very common.
Lemme back up a sec...
RC Cola. AND. A MoonPie. Carbonated sugar water and a chocolate-coated sugar cake.
This is why coal miners do not pinup models make. I'm just sayin'.
And as a bonus, apparently the same company that warded off a herd of angry coal miners also produced such products as the Peekaboo cookie and the Lookout Bran Biscuit.
As in, "Lookout!! It's a Bran Biscuit! That sounds healthy! Get me a MoonPie, an RC Cola, a tub of cotton candy and twenty sheets of rock candy. Stat!"
Ok, ok. Coal miners didn't say "stat". They probably couldn't. They didn't have any teeth left.
And today, as times change, the MoonPie sits on shelves eye level with a small child's eyes so they can reach for it with their grubby little hands that have mud all over them. Then they can hand it to their parent and ask for it by name.
"Mommy, can I have dis cake?"
"Pie, sweetie. MoonPie...and no, you can't. You had four mud pies already, you silly silly child. Don't touch me."
Perhaps not exactly a clean slate, but I'm putting something here to have something here.
As you can already tell, I am a master of the written word. Sigh. Here 'tis:
I don't usually respond well to orders, but a friend of mine once assigned me the task of writing about Moon Pies for no good reason. That was reason enough for me. After exhaustive minutes-long research, I responded to my task.
And I thought it might not be a bad inaugural blog post. So here you go.
My Assignment: Moon Pie
I have never understood the concept of a mud pie. Just because something is round and flat, why is it classified as pie? Pie should be something delicious that you would be proud to put in a windowsill to let cool…if anyone did that anymore. How on earth did we get a non-edible substance to be called pie? The solution must be children, for only they are excused for playing in mud and eating it without being heavily medicated as a consequence (we only do that if they daydream). So clearly, we all know as adults that just because it's round and flat, it isn't really pie and we're not eating it. We know better.
And yet...
You put a whole bunch of chemicals and sugar into a flat, round shape, slide it into a plastic sleeve and voila!! MoonPie.
Lemme just back up a sec...
Moon. Pie. Because on the moon, this is what a mud pie would look like? Because in the future (where everything has a "moon" prefix no matter when the "future" is for you), pies will be more compact and filled with marshmallow? Because in space, we lower our standards and believe that flattened cake is pie?
But logic doesn't matter, here. We're talking snacks.
And since I have the world wide web at my fingertips, I can look up the history of the MoonPie.
Ok, I just did. According to the fine folks at moonpie.com, the nomenclature of this particular snack was given because there was a full moon on the evening some hungry wild coal miners wanted something for their lunch pails that was solid and filling.
Apparently, they were also sick to death of nutrition.
So Capt. MoonPie (whatever his name actually was, I can say with near certainty that he would like to be known posthumously as Capt. MoonPie…I would) went to his bakery with this assignment of a solid, filling food that was as big as someone's hands framing the moon.
I think I'm gonna do that from now on. I'm going to go to bakers and other food artists and demand filling food that is about as big as something far away I can frame with my hands so that I can put a SearsTower Tart in my lunchpail.
While worrying his task (knowing full well that hungry coal miners will substitute blood for any food they desire and that they travel in packs), he handily noticed some workers putting graham crackers with marshmallow on the windowsill to dry.
Lemme back up a sec...
Not an apple pie cooling in the window, as we previously discussed. Not a loaf of bread. Some yahoos employed by a bakery were dipping graham crackers into marsmallow and putting it outdoors (in a coal mining town...mmm...sooty) to get stale. Clearly, he wasn't getting skilled labor.
So he did what any man in a pinch would have done: he layered it again and dipped the thing in chocolate in the hopes that no one would know that it was stale sugar and cracker underneath.
Apparently, these tooth reducing concoctions got so popular in the south that the phrase "RC Cola and a MoonPie" was very common.
Lemme back up a sec...
RC Cola. AND. A MoonPie. Carbonated sugar water and a chocolate-coated sugar cake.
This is why coal miners do not pinup models make. I'm just sayin'.
And as a bonus, apparently the same company that warded off a herd of angry coal miners also produced such products as the Peekaboo cookie and the Lookout Bran Biscuit.
As in, "Lookout!! It's a Bran Biscuit! That sounds healthy! Get me a MoonPie, an RC Cola, a tub of cotton candy and twenty sheets of rock candy. Stat!"
Ok, ok. Coal miners didn't say "stat". They probably couldn't. They didn't have any teeth left.
And today, as times change, the MoonPie sits on shelves eye level with a small child's eyes so they can reach for it with their grubby little hands that have mud all over them. Then they can hand it to their parent and ask for it by name.
"Mommy, can I have dis cake?"
"Pie, sweetie. MoonPie...and no, you can't. You had four mud pies already, you silly silly child. Don't touch me."
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