Belly Laffs

This? Made my Sunday morning.



You're welcome.

So there's that,

Laura

Head to desk, then smack lips three times.

I'm sleepy...can't I just get an alarm clock and curl up under my desk like George Costanza did that one time?

 

Ungh, there's boxes under there.

 

I wish I had one of those mobiles above my cubicle.  Something with fluffy cakes and milkshakes dangling from it, rotating whilst a tiny music box slowly plunks out the Motown hit, "Gravy (for my mashed potatoes)" - which is my theme song, bee tee dubs.  Has been for months.

 

Doesn't it suck so much since George Carlin died last week?

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Butternutty Pudding

This recipe doesn't have butternut squash in it.  I just like the word "butternut."

 

Butternutty Pudding

Serves 4

 

1 package Jell-O fat free, sugar free butterscotch pudding

2 c cold fat-free milk

Sweetened coconut

Sliced or slivered almonds

 

Prepare pudding according to package directions.  In four fancy glasses (or not fancy, whatevs), sprinkle some coconut flakes.  Then add a few spoonfuls of pudding.  Then more coconut.  Then more pudding.  Then put some almonds on it.  Then some more coconut.  Let chill for at least 5 minutes and serve.

 

Isn't it good?  I even like putting a baby sprinkle of salt on the top....mmmm...butterscotch, nuts, salt....man.

 

So there's that,

Laura

In Bad Taste

Over the past few days, I've seen the commercial for this more than once.

And it makes me sick.

Does anyone else think this is just wrong?

I tracked down the commercial on youtube so you can see it in a larger view:



I'll post more thoughts on this later. Feel free to discuss.

So there's that,

Laura

Dick Move

I was doing my laundry tonight, and the person who was using the dryer before me left her clothes in 3 of the 4 dryers.  Guess what?  I needed all 4 dryers.

 

The rule in our laundry room is that you should promptly remove your clothes so things like this don't happen. 

 

Now I understand if you can't be there at the exact minute your drying cycle ends.  That's why I put my clothes in the empty dryer first.  Then I waited a minute or so before unloading the stranger's clothes from the other dryers.  Once it was apparent this person wasn't coming, I started emptying each dryer, one at a time, and filling them with my clothes.  This way, if that person got there, I won't have removed any of her items if I didn't have to.  That's awkward.  I mean, I don't want to touch your underthings just as much as you don't want me to, but I'm on a schedule here, too.

 

The person didn't get down there by the time I finished, so I thought I successfully avoided the awkward apologies for touching her clothes.  At least.

 

When I was emptying the last of my quarters into the dryers, I couldn't help thinking how great it was that I had JUST ENOUGH quarters to do my laundry.  I practically dusted my hands together in accomplishment.  I even double-checked that I pressed the start button on each machine.  If I don't do that, then the red power light will stay on, but the machine won't run, and I'll have wet clothes in an hour.  I've done this before.  It sucks.

 

So, how do you think it felt when I went to retrieve my clothes promptly after the drying cycle, only to find that not one, but THREE of the dryer doors were opened slightly?  And guess which three they were? 

 

That's right:  The ones that had that chick's clothes in them. 

 

Opened, just a teeny bit.  Cutting off my drying cycle.  There was no red light on the dryer; I had no drying time left.  I had no quarters.

 

It was clearly an act of revenge, as each door was opened about an inch.  Each load had the same level of lukewarm dampness.  And none of those dryers had shoes or anything of the like that could blow the door open from the inside.  This was standard laundry, and no such thing had happened before in my 1.5 years in this building.  It was, in short, a dick move.

 

Now I'm up here in my apartment, fuming, because I have to run to the currency exchange where the scum of the earth find ways to haggle over the balance of their Link Cards while I wait in line, feigning patience.  But I can't run to the currency exchange until my Thai food gets here.  Shrimp noodle soup I ordered to be perfectly timed with the accomplishment of folding my clean laundry.

 

Good grief.  I want to retaliate somehow, but I can't.  It was an anonymous crime.  All I can do is let it out here, and hope that by the time my food gets here and I run down the street for more quarters, feed the machines, and run back upstairs...my soup will still be warm.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

The Most Dangerous Game

I was washing my hands in the office ladies room, when I took notice of the odd way a woman's feet were positioned in one of the stalls.

 

What does this matter?  There is a problem at this office with women who hover whilst relieving themselves.  You would think that, working in a healthcare organization, people would be more sanitary, but no.  Just yesterday I went into my favorite stall to find the seat sprayed with thick yellow urine.

 

GROSS.

 

So I noticed this woman's stance:  feet spread wide, legs an odd distance from the seat.  I thought that I should give her the benefit of the doubt; maybe she has a tampon ritual.  But then I heard it.  Loud pee.  Pee that hit the water sounding like it was dropped at least a foot away.  Pee that echoed uncharacteristically because legs weren't covering the open bowl.

 

I sound like a pee scientist.  No.  A pee detective.

 

Detective or not, I decided not to hang around the bathroom long enough to see the culprit.  Partly because I hate awkward bathroom conversation, and partly because I don't want my image of this woman (if I work closely with her) to be sullied by this incident.  I noticed someone leave the bathroom once without washing her hands, and I haven't felt comfortable around her since.  God, I'm a loser.  This is my Zodiac, my Son of Sam, my Carmen Sandiego.  I don't have the balls to look her in the face?  She was mere feet from me!

 

So now I'm on the hunt for a pair of shoes - orthotic-looking mary janes, probably worn with knee highs.  The woman is slender of leg and short of pants.  All Points Bulletin!

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

 

 

 

 

Mistakes Were Made

Last week was a great week. I stuck to my workout schedule, brought my lunch everyday. Even flossed regularly.

Then I went to the Stevie Wonder concert on Saturday night.

Oh, sure the concert was awesome. Got to spend the beautiful evening outside, meandering through a big, friendly crowd at Taste of Chicago. The Wonder played for 3 hours - vastly outperforming the younger acts I've seen in recent years.

Sidenote: I went to see Th' Legendary Shack Shakers a few weeks ago, and I patiently sat through way too many songs from The Lawrence Peters Outfit before finally seeing the Shakers' 60 minute - albeit mindblowing - set. The opening act wasn't unbearable or unenjoyable; it was just long, and I had the runs, and I wanted to see the main event. Point being? I was at the venue for close to 3 hours, and I only got to see the headliner for 60 minutes. Suck.

But Stevie Wonder. Was. Amazing. I went with Shana, and we nearly chickened out on account of the claustrophobia-inducing masses. But...we made it in, decided to tunnel through the people, ended up in a spontaneous "electric slide" line that grew exponentially throughout the song, "Superstitious." We chanted with our new dance partners, "Ain't no party like a Chi-town party, cuz a Chi-town party don't stop!" I felt like I was in an urban step battle.

It was the concert of the year! So far!

Then we decided to go to the loop for ribs, because we didn't want to get suckered into the Taste of Chicago prices. That's where I met my food demise.

For $13, I got a rib-tips lunch box at Ronny's Steak House - a kind of soul food cafeteria. Sounds meager, right? It's just rib tips, right? Not like it's a rack. And it came with vegetables: a baked potato and side salad. That can't be bad...unless the potato is served up with the butter already melted into a yellow oil, and the salad comes with a quarter cup of ranch dressing. My tray weighed more than 10 pounds. I betcha any money. But...it did all come on some heavy dinnerware.

And it? Was good. Oh yes.

I couldn't finish it, so I took the leftovers home and prayed that I'd run into a homeless person I could foist the guilty evidence upon. Wouldn't you know it? The ONE time I need a homeless person in my path, I can't find one. I even took a long route from the train to my apartment, passing 2 liquor stores, the burrito house where I'm always accosted late at night, and a few of their camping zones. Nothing. I guess I had to keep them.

I got home and took a sominex to come down from the excitement. Mistake. I slept until 3 the next day, and I felt like I could sleep some more. It was like the kind of Sunday that follows a night of heavy drinking, though I hadn't had a drop of alcohol in a few weeks. I felt lazy. I felt like I wasted a day. I felt...warmly sleepy. I needed to wake up, though. I needed to eat something, didn't I? So I nuked the ribs and they were perfect.

Then I decided I needed more ribs. Having told Shana that my favorite place for ribs - named, believe it or not, Art of Pizza - has a rib special every Sunday (an offer I have taken advantage of occasionally....every other Sunday), I had rib special on the brain. Fall off the bone rack of ribs for $9.95, with fries and a side salad, delivered straight to my door.

So I let a few hours pass, hoping the craving for ribs would leave as silently as it arrived. It didn't. I called it in. I ate those bastards up in mere minutes, my cuticles red with the tangy, peppery evidence of food sex.

This of course started the slippery slope. Yesterday I went out for Potbelly subs for lunch, though I chose the turkey instead of the standard wreck. And I know I had something else "terrible" that I can't put my finger on. BUT I didn't surpass my calorie budget, and I worked out.

Today, though...today was BAD NEWS. Amy and I went to the food court in Chicago Place mall on Michigan Ave. I didn't know a food court like this existed so close to me for so long. It was like a dream only the suburbs could make come true. You know what I had? Great Steak and Potato Company. Chicken Teriyaki Sub (it's just chicken, right?), hand-cut fries (split 80/20 with Amy; guess who got 80?). This was a trip down memory lane, to Penn Station (same company) on Sundays in college, when calories were for adults. I savored every moment of it.

And we had coupons for frozen coffee beverages from Seattle's Best in Borders Books that expired TODAY, so we HAD to take advantage of them, right? Now, I'm a Frappucino Lite girl at my best, but what would it hurt if I got the full sugar/fat milkshake for grown-ups?

It would hurt. A lot.

Immediately after leaving Steak and Potato, I felt like I was sweating fry grease. After my first sip of frap crap, I could feel my innards roiling. Bad News.

Once back at the office, I checked out the companies' websites for nutrition information.

The it's-just-CHICKEN sub? 900+ calories, 50+ grams of fat. The fries? 600+ cal, 30+ grams of fat. The frappe? 400+ cal, I'm passing out now grams of fat.

You know that part of the Goonies when Chunk tells the story of making a batch of fake puke and taking it to the movies?





Hoo-AHH, Hoo-AHH, HOOOOO-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

That's what I felt like. Not in the bulimic way, but in the "there are over 100 oily grams of fat in your system right now and you haven't had that much fat in one sitting in quite some time so your bowels are treating you, well, like shit" kind of way.

Long story short, I got a long walk home tonight.

So there's that,

Laura