Jay-Jay"Mama"
October 27, 1995 - June 22, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Thursday, January 03, 2008
Ain't Technology Grand?
How tech-simple have I become that I barely saw that I can e-mail blog posts to myself and post whatever nonsense I want under the guise of penning work-related correspondence? Then again, as a CAD monkey, any inordinate amount of typing automatically raises suspicion. After all, lines and circles don't require epics.
Soooo..... yeah..... And the excitement has worn off under the extremely heavy burden of writer's block. Yep. No writing for me lately. I think that may have a helluva lot to do with the fact that whenever the urge arises, there's always someone to interrupt, to want to know what I'm writing, to cause severe bouts of paranoia that somehow others will read what I don't want them to which in turn causes the socially acceptable tidbits to run and hide. It may also have a bit to do with the lack of sleep, the constant anger, the fact that everything I say in my personal life is written off as a joke/empty threat...
I began this as a way to clean my head out every once in a while, but maybe it can serve a new purpose, become a place to get the point that seems to be lost in translation from angry to anger-causing. (I'm generally so annoyed even my metaphors and personifications have gone idjit). After all if someone won't listen when they're right in front of you, maybe they'll perk up those ears when a whole single-digit (or possible fraction) number of people get to see it.
Soooo..... yeah..... And the excitement has worn off under the extremely heavy burden of writer's block. Yep. No writing for me lately. I think that may have a helluva lot to do with the fact that whenever the urge arises, there's always someone to interrupt, to want to know what I'm writing, to cause severe bouts of paranoia that somehow others will read what I don't want them to which in turn causes the socially acceptable tidbits to run and hide. It may also have a bit to do with the lack of sleep, the constant anger, the fact that everything I say in my personal life is written off as a joke/empty threat...
I began this as a way to clean my head out every once in a while, but maybe it can serve a new purpose, become a place to get the point that seems to be lost in translation from angry to anger-causing. (I'm generally so annoyed even my metaphors and personifications have gone idjit). After all if someone won't listen when they're right in front of you, maybe they'll perk up those ears when a whole single-digit (or possible fraction) number of people get to see it.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Take that!
Apparently, if faced with a horde of small to smallish children I could take on 30. How 'bout you? After all, it never hurts to know who'd have your back if kinders ever rose up and tried to rule the world. I'm all for the enforced nap time but no one tells me my clay-snakes are shite. No One!
http://www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com/
http://www.howmanyfiveyearoldscouldyoutakeinafight.com/
Monday, December 17, 2007
By Pure Accident...
I was cleaning my work computer up before the much needed replacement comes in,and I came across the following, oddly enough, by pure accident. Seems I was having a "PC-Parents are Idiots" day. Enjoy. Or don't. I'm having a "Don't give a toot" day, so there.... No, wait; I lied. Please enjoy it and comment and pretend like once again I haven't traded all my creativity in for a hefty paycheck and a 9 to 5 exceuse to wear clothes that don't fall under the PJ category.
By pure accident, I heard something interestingly disturbing this morning on the radio, the kind of disturbing that can make you question everything you went through as a child, every trial, every goal met and exceeded and failed miserably, every time your sister made you eat a quarter…
One of the morning DJs talked about a recent kid’s recital. Now, the term recital makes me assume it’s your basic childhood competition where there’s a first, a second, a third, and hopefully a bunch of other young, impressionable people motivated enough to try a little harder next time. In this instance, hopefully is where things fall miserably, despressingly, pathetically short.
It seems that right next to the picture station was a table laden with additional trophies…for sale… I’m not talking Honorable Mention ribbons with just enough Hoorah! to get them dreaming of excelling. I’m talking about actual, frickin’ trophies for sale so parents can make their kids feel good, even the ones who don’t deserve it. All children deserve praise, but aren’t you just belittling the handful of children that actually excelled at something, who worked their little (or possibly chunky) keisters off for a shiny bit of Better-than-You?
What kind of message does this teach?
Presenter: I’m sorry, Timmy; you really, really suck. You obviously didn’t practice and spent all of the competition trying to shove your flute up Williams’ butt.
Parental Idiot: How dare you?!? My son is a genius. Here you go, Timmy-sweety-peety,tweety-poo; here’s a trophy anyway. It says Mommy’s Little Pussy-Wussy, and is much better than what that mean old man was giving away to those loser children with nothing better to do than practice.
Lucky-Ass Timmy: You mean I didn’t even try, and in fact I went out of my way to just make it look like I gave a rat’s ass, even going so far as to smuggle a high school band nerd into my room in the evenings and have him play in exchange for sexual favors and pictures of dad in the shower, and I get a trophy? I could have been whacking off and violating the neighbor’s parakeet? This is sweet! Screw effort!
----------
June 13th, 2007
One of the morning DJs talked about a recent kid’s recital. Now, the term recital makes me assume it’s your basic childhood competition where there’s a first, a second, a third, and hopefully a bunch of other young, impressionable people motivated enough to try a little harder next time. In this instance, hopefully is where things fall miserably, despressingly, pathetically short.
It seems that right next to the picture station was a table laden with additional trophies…for sale… I’m not talking Honorable Mention ribbons with just enough Hoorah! to get them dreaming of excelling. I’m talking about actual, frickin’ trophies for sale so parents can make their kids feel good, even the ones who don’t deserve it. All children deserve praise, but aren’t you just belittling the handful of children that actually excelled at something, who worked their little (or possibly chunky) keisters off for a shiny bit of Better-than-You?
What kind of message does this teach?
Presenter: I’m sorry, Timmy; you really, really suck. You obviously didn’t practice and spent all of the competition trying to shove your flute up Williams’ butt.
Parental Idiot: How dare you?!? My son is a genius. Here you go, Timmy-sweety-peety,tweety-poo; here’s a trophy anyway. It says Mommy’s Little Pussy-Wussy, and is much better than what that mean old man was giving away to those loser children with nothing better to do than practice.
Lucky-Ass Timmy: You mean I didn’t even try, and in fact I went out of my way to just make it look like I gave a rat’s ass, even going so far as to smuggle a high school band nerd into my room in the evenings and have him play in exchange for sexual favors and pictures of dad in the shower, and I get a trophy? I could have been whacking off and violating the neighbor’s parakeet? This is sweet! Screw effort!
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
I Feel Finny
I have never been over the Mississippi. Ever. I've been at the asshole end in Louisiana, but never past it. It's like a big wall. A big wet wall that I never found the time or energy to wonder what was on the other side of. And now I have. The end.
I hate touristy, look-at-our-shiny-bits, news-reels-be-damned websites built by those whose well-being and livelihood rely on unsuspecting suckers traipsing about and looking foolish. (Note to self - figure out how to buy stock in fanny packs and ugly shirts). I want to know where the locals go (the less insane ones if I can catch 'em), or at least someone who isn't paid to peddle.
The Still Kinda Gruntled Nerd's Guide to Places that Might not Suck
My first foray into this unknown world of the mossy and the southern is Charlotte, North Carolina. Right off the bat, I'd describe it as kinda humid and slightly racist (I can't tan, people. Deal with it!)
I'm on loan from our home office in the nice, dry, less pretentious desert, and I never thought I'd miss it; but I do. Don't tell anyone there. 90% of them wouldn't understand you anyway.
Before heading out I requested suggestions of friends, both online and domestic. If I hear one more request for something NASCAR-ie I'm gonna drown myself in free hotel shampoo that smells oddly of Off. There were also great suggestions concerning restaurants I could try (something other than Mexican food is always greatly appreciated) and museum trips (my hometown's idea of a museum is pretty sad. I think we're one step away from a "Tortillas of the Virgin Mary" exhibit) and big purdy houses full of the rich and somewhat snooty (we've got teeny houses packed to the below-code rafters. How many cars do you have to park on your tiny front lawn before anyone becomes concerned?).
Southern Streets are not Built on Logic
They were built on moonshine and nonsense. 'East' and 'west' mean nothing here. You'd think they'd at least pay a little closer attention to the concept of 'north' and 'south' but nooooooooooooooooo. If I were a turtle and NC were the sea I'd get lost, never mate and swim into oncoming whales and end it all. Luckily the hotel has a bar and snacky food, so I won't starve.
Even tho the streets were planned by and for the cross-eyed (who is this Sharon person and why do all her streets and lanes converge at one point only to wander off and be named something else?) who don't mind stop signs blocked by shrubbery as long as it has flowers, the houses I got lost around were gorgeous. Oh and I won $10 on a NC scratch-off (I said 'on' not 'at'. I don't think I'd like to be anywhere near a scratch-off competition unless I had a hazmat bunny suit...complete with ears and fuzzy tail of course...then again it'd be more of a frizzy tail...stupid humidity... dear god, I'm tired...)
Most of my day has been filled with variations on the theme:
Did I mention I seen purdy houses?
I'm sitting in the Eastern time zone but my body's stuck on Mountain but it seems to have backfired.... I miss sleep... and offices where people actually talk and move around and do stuff other than clack clack clack on keyboards and shuffle papers about and work still gets done.... I need a Feeny hug and a Pi-Pi wake up 4 am wake up call... I need a Conner belly rub... I need a drink.
I'll leave you with this thought:
You're welcome. Donations are always appreciated. Then I might be able to buy a real map without cartoon caricatures of smiling buildings and streets that are directionally retarded.
I hate touristy, look-at-our-shiny-bits, news-reels-be-damned websites built by those whose well-being and livelihood rely on unsuspecting suckers traipsing about and looking foolish. (Note to self - figure out how to buy stock in fanny packs and ugly shirts). I want to know where the locals go (the less insane ones if I can catch 'em), or at least someone who isn't paid to peddle.
The Still Kinda Gruntled Nerd's Guide to Places that Might not Suck
My first foray into this unknown world of the mossy and the southern is Charlotte, North Carolina. Right off the bat, I'd describe it as kinda humid and slightly racist (I can't tan, people. Deal with it!)
I'm on loan from our home office in the nice, dry, less pretentious desert, and I never thought I'd miss it; but I do. Don't tell anyone there. 90% of them wouldn't understand you anyway.
Before heading out I requested suggestions of friends, both online and domestic. If I hear one more request for something NASCAR-ie I'm gonna drown myself in free hotel shampoo that smells oddly of Off. There were also great suggestions concerning restaurants I could try (something other than Mexican food is always greatly appreciated) and museum trips (my hometown's idea of a museum is pretty sad. I think we're one step away from a "Tortillas of the Virgin Mary" exhibit) and big purdy houses full of the rich and somewhat snooty (we've got teeny houses packed to the below-code rafters. How many cars do you have to park on your tiny front lawn before anyone becomes concerned?).
Small problem:
Southern Streets are not Built on Logic
or rock and roll
They were built on moonshine and nonsense. 'East' and 'west' mean nothing here. You'd think they'd at least pay a little closer attention to the concept of 'north' and 'south' but nooooooooooooooooo. If I were a turtle and NC were the sea I'd get lost, never mate and swim into oncoming whales and end it all. Luckily the hotel has a bar and snacky food, so I won't starve.
Even tho the streets were planned by and for the cross-eyed (who is this Sharon person and why do all her streets and lanes converge at one point only to wander off and be named something else?) who don't mind stop signs blocked by shrubbery as long as it has flowers, the houses I got lost around were gorgeous. Oh and I won $10 on a NC scratch-off (I said 'on' not 'at'. I don't think I'd like to be anywhere near a scratch-off competition unless I had a hazmat bunny suit...complete with ears and fuzzy tail of course...then again it'd be more of a frizzy tail...stupid humidity... dear god, I'm tired...)
Most of my day has been filled with variations on the theme:
*grumble grumble grumble*
frickin' humidity
*grumble grumble grumble*
curly hair
*grumble grumble grumble*
rental car agency maps slash placemats
*grumble grumble grumble*
Did I mention I seen purdy houses?
Oh and I was called a Yankee:
Clerk: Where you from?
Me: West Texas
Clerk: *mumble* Yankee Tourist *mumble*
Me: Do you sell maps of the US?
Clerk: Yeah, over there.
Me: Good, go look up Texas. It's the really big state souther than you.
As for the streets, all I ask is that when there are a 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th all lined up nice and tidy-like, 7th should not be allowed to meander about all willy-nillish so I end up 10 miles from where I was aiming before I realize it.
What makes 7 so special? Did someone a long-ass time ago, like in the 80's or something (sorry, I'm trying to not feel so old) think that the punchline "'cause Seven Eight Nine" was so frickin' High-lair-ee-us or, even scarier, a true and frightening tale of the awesome power of primes, that it deserved more respect than all the other numbers? Even more so than 8 who I hear is really a cannibalistic bastard intent on chewing away its own divisibles?
Oh, and one way streets are for weenies.
Viva la Little Mexico!
I think something in me broke when I crossed the Mississippi. Another traveler said they'd found a Super Wal-Mart and it was like he'd said god was giving out free enlightenment and Slush Puppies down at the in-convenience store and the first 30 people get a free Polaroid of Jesus during his nakey phase.
I'm sitting in the Eastern time zone but my body's stuck on Mountain but it seems to have backfired.... I miss sleep... and offices where people actually talk and move around and do stuff other than clack clack clack on keyboards and shuffle papers about and work still gets done.... I need a Feeny hug and a Pi-Pi wake up 4 am wake up call... I need a Conner belly rub... I need a drink.
I'll leave you with this thought:
[insert life-affirming notion of peace, love, happiness and free cable here]
You're welcome. Donations are always appreciated. Then I might be able to buy a real map without cartoon caricatures of smiling buildings and streets that are directionally retarded.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Random Bananas are Haunting Me!
On my commute I pass a local Social Security office every single day, and every single day there are 2 plastic bananas wired to one of the trees.
Why are there plastic bananas!?! I haven't gone to introduce myself to them yet, but really I'm just assuming they're plastic because they are still discernable as bananas. What if they aren't? What if some Social Security nut simply replaces the aforementioned bananas every morning to taunt me? And what does this craziness (theirs; not mine) mean in regards to my future retirement? If banana-man (sorry, Banana-Person) snaps a little more will my benefits be used to buy stock in Chiquita?
Why does no one else seem bothered by this? Am I the only one that can see the bananas?
What if there really aren’t bananas on that tree and in some screwy Matrix-knock-off kind of way they’re a marker for the daily transition I make from Dork-Grrl to CAD-Biscuit every weekday? This doesn’t happen on the weekend when I don’t pass them; so really, this could be a plausible anomaly of my existence that other than really tweaking my cookies could explain a great deal about the inner workings of my reality.
That or that stop light is way too frickin’ long.
Why are there plastic bananas!?! I haven't gone to introduce myself to them yet, but really I'm just assuming they're plastic because they are still discernable as bananas. What if they aren't? What if some Social Security nut simply replaces the aforementioned bananas every morning to taunt me? And what does this craziness (theirs; not mine) mean in regards to my future retirement? If banana-man (sorry, Banana-Person) snaps a little more will my benefits be used to buy stock in Chiquita?
Why does no one else seem bothered by this? Am I the only one that can see the bananas?
What if there really aren’t bananas on that tree and in some screwy Matrix-knock-off kind of way they’re a marker for the daily transition I make from Dork-Grrl to CAD-Biscuit every weekday? This doesn’t happen on the weekend when I don’t pass them; so really, this could be a plausible anomaly of my existence that other than really tweaking my cookies could explain a great deal about the inner workings of my reality.
That or that stop light is way too frickin’ long.
Friday, April 27, 2007
And My Clothing Continues to Torment Me
And no this isn't about the fact that a coworker misread my t-shirt and my new name is Stinky.
I have learned to never take clothing out of context... or would it be "used"? Whatever it is it was a bad fashion choice this morning. You would have thought that the memory of all my past mockage of people wearing sun visors and tennis wrist bands in movie theaters and malls would have come to my rescue, but noooooooo.
For the ill-fated softball games I bought a longsleeve Under Armour shirt. For those who have never heard of this stuff, it helps keep you cool when you're working out/in the heat for a while, which is a must for me considering this area has 102 degree summer days and very little cloud cover and I have a bizarre sun allergy that turns me into a drooling mass of delerious pain.
This morning I thought, "Hey, it's a $40 shirt and it certainly isn't going to be seeing any physical exertion until my knee heals up," and decided to trade my usual under-tee long sleevey shirt for this uber-science-like, so-far-beyond-cotton masterpiece of engineering.
While it is a lifesaver when out and about in the cruel, cruel sun, it is not, I repeat NOT prudent office attire. I'm freekin' freezing and I can no longer feel my fingers.
I have learned to never take clothing out of context... or would it be "used"? Whatever it is it was a bad fashion choice this morning. You would have thought that the memory of all my past mockage of people wearing sun visors and tennis wrist bands in movie theaters and malls would have come to my rescue, but noooooooo.
For the ill-fated softball games I bought a longsleeve Under Armour shirt. For those who have never heard of this stuff, it helps keep you cool when you're working out/in the heat for a while, which is a must for me considering this area has 102 degree summer days and very little cloud cover and I have a bizarre sun allergy that turns me into a drooling mass of delerious pain.
This morning I thought, "Hey, it's a $40 shirt and it certainly isn't going to be seeing any physical exertion until my knee heals up," and decided to trade my usual under-tee long sleevey shirt for this uber-science-like, so-far-beyond-cotton masterpiece of engineering.
While it is a lifesaver when out and about in the cruel, cruel sun, it is not, I repeat NOT prudent office attire. I'm freekin' freezing and I can no longer feel my fingers.
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