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Showing posts from March, 2013

Cubicle tomb

I've come to the sad conclusion that I'm going to have a massive coronary one day. "Sad," you say? Normally a sudden fatal heart attack would be a welcomed way to check out. But I'm going to have mine in my cubicle. There I'll sit, hand on the mouse copying and pasting. Then, bam! By the time anyone even notices, rigor will kick in and I'll start to smell. The coroner won't be able to pry me out of the position I'm in. Buried, with my left hand on the keyboard, right hand in copying/pasting mode, sitting, for all eternity on my rotten 15 year old hand-me-down office chair.

Cold cream

When I was little, probably a toddler or so, spring and summer nights were special times spent with my mother. If you are lucky, you may remember getting your spring pajamas. I always got little blue ones. What were they made of, polyester? Cotton? Who knows. All I know is that they were awesome.

Now the only way that these memories are fused into my brain is because of my mother's makeup. Makeup, you say? Yes, makeup. Let's just say my mother more than the average suburban housewife. The base of her makeup was water, fire, and locust-proof. She didn't just wear a little blush and maybe some eyeliner. No, this was all-out Hollywood movie set, studio light-proof coverage. So, hence, this sort of cake requires lots of effort to take off. You're talking, a hundred years of paint layers on door molding.

After dinner, my sister and I, let's call her Jennifer, would get our pj's on and climb into my mother's bed. She would get out her tissues, cotton balls and he…