JBot Mania

Upon opening my current birth control method, I actually read the directions on the package:

Per vagina, eh? I have multiple vaginas then? Like ears? Can I alternate between the two? What’s the other one like? It must be mint since I didn’t even know I had it and thus, have never used it.

Also, the suggestion that I store it in a cool, dry place seems to be a bit antithetical to the intended usage. If it’s cool and dry, then we need to talk.

I am also glad that they suggest that I ONLY use it in my vagina since I WAS considering putting some sugar crystals on it and calling it a ThingPop™.

When having a debate with someone (or all of society as it may appear at times) don’t cite specific information or those new fangled “numbers” people are using these days. Numbers can lie.  What you should do instead, is cite past examples when people were wrong. Don’t address the difference in methods used to arrive at a conclusion or differences in available data from one time to another, just cite the wrongness - because once you are wrong, you will always be wrong - even if you were not, in fact, wrong, but some guy, say, across the country, whom you have never met and who happens to be interested in the same things as you are is wrong. You might then, in fact, be doubly wrong… forever.

Believe me, this kind of point of view sounds pretty good to people in such a PC society - almost good enough to make them consider what you’re saying as refreshing, you know, because it’s contrary. You will definitely be the class risk-taker and people will hang on your words as if they come from some other orifice than where normal bullshit comes from.

Here’s an example situation:

“Honey, I think the milk is expired.”

“Darling, 10 years ago you thought the mayonnaise was expired and it wasn’t. I fail to see how you could possibly have a valid opinion about the milk today.”

“But it has already turned to cheese and the date on the bottle says last week.”

“Yeah well, sometimes those dates are wrong, and do you honestly know at what point you can really classify that as cheese? Look, you were wrong about the mayonnaise and I am affraid that that makes you wrong about the milk. It really is just that simple.”

God, I wish she knew just how WRONG she had been. Then she wouldn’t dare to be right. 

Our next lesson will be entitled, “The Willing Suspension of Disbelief and Other Coping Strategies For When You Are Not Wrong, Just Not Right”

The one known as Muffin Face, comes from a long line of Muffin Faces owned by the plumbing supply baron, Lionel “Happy” Titsky. The origins of the name “Muffin Face” itself are somewhat obscure, but it is a well known fact that Lionel, himself, was known as “Muffin Face” for many years. It has been suggested that the origin of Muffin Face had something to do with a predilection for ladies panties and / or the fact that Lionel may have been a pock marked young fellow, although photographs of the man suggest the former.

Upon turning 40, Titsky came to the realization that he would not marry, and decided to continue his lineage in the only way he knew how–with cats. From the years 1965 - 2005, Titsky owned a total of 11 cats, some of whom met unfortunate ends while wandering his plumbing supply warehouse or ascending the legendary heap of women’s undergarments in the basement of his sizeable Brooklyn brownstone. Each Titsky “Kitsky”, as they were known to his friends, was given the name “Muffin Face” to commemorate Titsky.

In the few years before his death, Lionel Titsky slowly began to lose his mind. Below you will find one of the last known images of Titsky wherein it is apparent that he has just realized there was, in fact, an opponent across the table from him and even worse, that he was playing chess–not completing a crossword.

When it became apparent that the end was near, Titsky gave his last remaining Kitsky to a friend in Connecticut, who, upon his death, was so grief stricken that he had to relinquish the 11th and final Muffin Face, to the Danbury Animal Welfare Society, located conveniently and logically in Bethel, CT.

The rest, as they say, is history. As far as I am concerned, the story has just begun.

So, a couple of years ago I had the pleasure of working in yet another open cubicle environment. This time, my prison came with 3 1/2 walls. The number of walls, however, is irrelevant in this post because the subject of this post existed completely outside the bounds of such trivial physical limitations. We will call him Carl because, like so many, that was his name.

Carl was a man whom I can only speculate lived with his mother for far too long or, at least, was breast fed until the age of 12. As far as anyone could tell, he was certainly not married and most likely lived quite alone. He was, and perhaps still is, in his mid-forties and quite bald.

I can guarantee that I have never met a man who could out-gossip any hairdresser this side of LA– and do so almost compulsively. I will never forget the day, alluded to briefly below, where I actually heard him tell the same story to nine people and then say to the tenth, “Now don’t let this get around but…”

The real reason that this Carl was the bane of my existence at this job was not so much what he said, but at the volume at which he did so. There are no decibal measures for the volume at which my soul was shattered on a daily basis.

My thanks to Lewis Black is in regards to his schtick about the phrase “But for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in college”… It really spoke to me in this case.

I was finally able to move away from this blowhard and on the occasion of my release, I sent the following to some co-workers. The names of the innocent have been protected– the innocent being anyone but Carl.

“Subject: Thoughts on moving
Body: Well, my moving day into [associates]’s office has been set for next Tuesday at 8:30 am. As I sit here listening to Carl explain to yet another
person that he cannot order 50 of something for two sites because there
are only 60 total in inventory, and that he’d like to just order 30 for
each, but that he really needs to find the woman ordering them so that
he can know for sure if that’s okay because like he said, there are only
60 in inventory… I think how much I am going to miss this. The slow
dying of my brain as the same phrase repeats over and over again until I
go to sleep wherein I have a dream with the same words over and over…
I wake up and I say to myself “but there are only 60 in inventory”.. I
then drift off into other fond memories of other stories ingrained deep
within my consciousness, my soul and will to live slowly fading away -
stories about being overcharged for items printed ‘on demand’. My
favorite statement “now don’t let this get around but…”. Oh, those
were the days - the days in which I contemplated physical violence only
to laugh myself silly with the irony of such phrases. What will I do in
my new found paradise without being reminded every day that my life just
isn’t that bad apparently. That there are others suffering EVERY DAY
with such obstacles. The only solution I can think of is perhaps a tape
of  just one more inane conversation about binders or tabs or printing
‘on demand’.  Carl ‘on demand’ if you will. Oh what a glorious world it
would be then knowing that I have the ultimate power to silence him with
a press of the Stop button.

Oh well, I guess I will just have to find some other way to relive these
precious moments.”

Recently I was asked to provide a description of where I see myself in three years as far as my current job is concerned. I provided the following.

“Scenario One: Senior Monkey Wrangler

As the company grows, I believe that we will see an increasing need for the monkeys and chalk that we use to create our auto response emails. As this need grows, it will become imperative to manage the nutritional needs of said monkeys in an efficient manner. Also, as the number of monkeys increases, so does the likelihood that they will join together in attempts to gain their freedom. All of this being said, we will need a Senior Monkey Wrangler to not only feed the monkeys, but to supply them with chalk and to monitor them for signs of mutiny. I would be this person – with bells on.

Potential Side Job: Primate Feces Conversion Specialist

As an extension of the Wrangler position, I could also start research into the conversion of monkey feces into fuel, as we will have a wealth of it should we grow to be a very large company with a need for many automatic email responses. I also expect said feces to be hurled at employees on a regular basis, which should make collection not only rewarding, but enjoyable.

Scenario Two: Fleet Mechanic

As our company grows, I foresee the need for a fleet of company vehicles to shuttle our Curriculum Coordinators and various support staff to what will be an overwhelming amount of training sessions. As Fleet Mechanic, I will be responsible for maintenance and frequent diagnostic related driving of said vehicles. Our vehicles will most likely be a variety of Fiats, Gremlins, and Delorians – all of which are not only reliable, but extremely practical. They will all be painted attractive combinations of blue, orange, and white. The position will require an onsite garage with lifts to perform maintenance. I will also require a lackey whom I will call Paco regardless of his actual name. I will be highly successful and moderately efficient in my repairs. My efficiency will depend entirely on my level of Cheeto consumption.

Scenario Three: Master of Generally Everything

In three years, I would hope that I would not be doing programming as my main function, if much at all. I am not entirely sure what I would be doing but it would be more interesting to develop ideas of how to leverage the site with its current features and develop ideas for other features. I would focus on the user experience and probably have gotten a degree of some kind in that area. I would like to be the resource to which people turn for advice as to how the site should work and that my opinion would carry a significant amount of weight as I would have proper training. I would also like to be involved in marketing strategy to some degree. Barring this, I expect to be an auto mechanic at a garage somewhere in the greater Fairfield County area where I will be extremely successful as the only female mechanic in the area that tells it like it is.”

Last night began another round of hippy food shopping. Thankfully I have found a Trader Joe’s within reasonable distance from my house. Another plus to my trip. I discovered that Trader Joe’s is actually reasonably priced and my designer rice cakes were priced more like designer outlet rice cakes. Sadly they had no rice bread to speak of, although I will speak of it, so I will have to mix my own plaster if I want any sandwiches this week. Currently this puts a damper on my tuna plans for tomorrow.

I was also happy to find yet another suitable marinara sauce on my quest to find the ultimate sauce that fits within my little regimen. Perhaps this one will be less oniony. I will post my results later, along with appropriate photos and let you decide. Chances are, you’ll just buy the same old Classico you bought before.

Along with this gem, I also found a whole new world of what I had formerly considered pretentious hippy food. You know, something that would have been served at Smith College for dinner. Something that would have had everyone who hadn’t showered that day and/or wanted to date my sister, not that I have one, saying in a tired, burned-out-from-the-troubles-of-being-rich voice “Oh, I can’t wait for dinner. I loooooove hummus… I know this place in the city…” yadda, yadda, yadda.

Anyway, up until this moment something as unimpressive as hummus, was foo foo mush. Taboulie…taboulie I envisioned as some kind of dried meat product and Baba Ganoush was some kind of children’s fantasy much like Santa Claus. Luckily, my boyfriend’s family is from one of those countries where recipes contain no less than five items I have never heard of, many of which have been dried or pickled or are on the verge of being at any moment, and usually require at least a fortnight and perhaps some kind of dance to complete. So, he’s a little more adventurous and dare I say, educated, in this regard, and to my surprise, the hummus he grabbed turned out to be a delight. Now, it may be because it has a similar texture and color to cookie dough, or the fact that it contained garlic, or even the fact that it gave my “Nut Thins” crackers a purpose in life, but I admit - I gorged myself on hummus last night.

And you know, it turns out taboulie is made entirely of some of my favorite ingredients and Baba Ganoush looks promising as well - well, maybe sounds promising. None of these things look anything like promising. I even had flashbacks to the mediteranean place we went to in San Francisco and now I understand a little better what everyone else had ordered while I had the Plain Jane Chicken Kabobs. Now I know I missed out, and indeed, there were no snake babies or quail eggs being eaten that night.

So we’ve determined that I like food that contains words ending in ‘ose’, beginning with ‘trans’, and possibly containing many hyphens. It has also become clear that a lack of these makes me a little less tolerant of life’s misfortunes. But, despite a small breakdown in my mother’s driveway over my car that has been less than perfect and involving the words ‘I just want some pie’, I have come to the conclusion that I can do this - probably with a little less whining, although an Ode to Rice cakes really shouldn’t be passed up for being too negative.

Day 4 brought the following cravings - warm sugar cookies, McDonald’s cheeseburgers, and beer battered onion rings from that place across the river. If I were pregnant I am guessing the cravings would be the same only everything would be dipped in perhaps, mayonnaise. Having mentioned these cravings, I could now enter them as cravings for Day 5, as well.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of eating puffed brown rice cereal for breakfast with rice milk and cut up bananas in it. The bananas not only solidify the possibility that I am, in fact, eating something, as the puffed rice leaves that in doubt, but also reminds me of many a morning in Albany with grandma who would sometimes make me a bowl of something much more appetizing like corn flakes (yes, something more appetizing) and slice a banana over it. For lunch there was a cob salad from the diner which, for the most part, fell within the realms of my diet, minus a few slivers of cheese that were clinging to the lettuce. I, of course, made every effort to eliminate it… Dnner was pretty good with a bunch of strawberries, blueberries, salmon, and green beans - although not together or in that order. This was all thanks to my mom who could see that not only was I tired of this diet but that my boyfriend was also most likely starving after being fed some of my crazy food for the past few nights. She fed us both - well.

Day 5 will be a new day with more exciting cravings and perhaps a slightly smaller feeling of hopelessness despite waking up each day and thinking “I could get up early and go to Dunkin Donuts on the way to work” but realizing that until they make rice based donuts with brown rice extract frosting, it’s no more donuts for me. Then again, if they came up with rice based donuts with brown rice extract frosting, it would most likely be a sign of the apocalypse and perhaps my fettish for donuts would then not be quite as important.