The UPS guy thinks he’s a Comedian

I was having a lunch with a colleague and telling her about a thorny personal situation. We were winding up on our conversation as we got onto the elevator, where there was a UPS delivery guy. He was in his uniform from head to toe: starched brown shirt, cute shorts, dark socks and UPS-issued footwear.

He Looked Kinda Like This

He Looked Kinda Like This

As my friend got off the elevator to return to her office, she said to me with great gravity, “It’s all on your shoulders now. You know what you need to do.” The doors closed.

We went up two floors and the doors opened for the UPS guy. Taking the exact same stance as my friend Mary, he turned, looked me right in the eye and said,  “It’s all on your shoulders now. You know what you need to do.”

Thanks a lot, Mr. UPS. You’re a real riot.



Pancake Comes to The Office

The `Cake Comes to Work

On a quiet Friday afternoon, Miss Pancake came to the office with me. As you might imagine, no work was conducted once her little paws hit the industrial carpet of our office on 3rd Avenue. She was the object of so much attention and so many impromptu photo sessions, it was practically a coup!

She had a great time and I was very proud. But when we came home, we both passed out from the excitement.

Here she is at her 15 minute internship in the Photo Department. She is editing film.


My Hairy 4-Footed One Got me into Trouble with Kathie Lee!

I was on the TODAY show yesterday with Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotbe. We were talking about sex. Yeah, just the three of us girls getting down to it on national tv.

I don’t want to say that Pancake was there with us in spirit, but we had to hold up taping my segment because they needed to de-lint my pants. The Wardrobe Mistress de-linted me everywhere – and I mean everywhere! We were practically on a date with what she was doing!

While KLG and HK were looking on, she said to me, “Do you have a dog?”

Yes! I answered proudly.

It was only later I realized it was because my shed-free Pancake had, in fact, shedded on me.

But was I mad at my Cakey? No. Never!

Here’s how it went, if you want to see.


Crap. Now I’ve Hurt MY Back

I hope they have this modified straight jacket in my size. I knew I should have strengthened my core when I had the chance.

Hot Pants & I love to do things together, even though we live at opposite ends of the USA. However, I may have taken our closeness too far by throwing out my back in solidarity with HP’s own spinal troubles.

Uncensored yelps of pain have been shooting out of my mouth.

In retrospect, my pride at hauling in all five bags of groceries (and my pocketbook) in one mighty dash from car to house may not have been my smartest move after all. Since that Olympic-quality lifting episode, I’ve been lurching around like Frankenstein and barking out “Ouch”  – along with a roster of handy curses – at every step. Even lying down – quite possibly my favorite position in life – offers treacherous moments in my futile search for a neutral pose.

Adding mental anguish to my physical pain, I’ve learned that as a Shop Girl, my paid sick time expired at the end of the calendar year. Little did I realize that we worker bees must time our getting ill to the latter months when we can get paid for our suffering. Silly me, injuring myself in January.

"May I help you?" never sounded more ridiculous as I gasp for breath and clutch the counter. The customers want to help me instead.

The Lord & Master has been most solicitous, though lurking behind his concern is the fear that it may be eons before I’m physically able to engage in acrobatic sexual hijinks with him. (And given our mutual lack of fitness in general, we’re forced to invent ever more original poses to achieve the desired, ahem, …results.)

My husband wants his wanton wild wifey back.

Even sitting here at my desk hurts like hell. So, Dear Readers, I shall jolt my way back to bed with an ice pack, if you don’t mind.

I’m an Unapologetic Flood-It Fanatic

Utterly Addictive Color Play

It began so innocently. Sassafrass was home for the holidays and I asked her to show me something I could play besides my beloved Solitaire. Now that I’m crunching numbers at work, my idle moments require something new, something pretty, something colorful. And when Sassy clicked on “options” and I got to pick my fave array of hues, well, that was the livin’ end.

I don’t mean to imply I’m hooked, but I have stayed up until 5 a.m. compulsively moving through the 22 sacred steps allowed to clear that board.

Solitaire? What’s that? Books to read? Feh, it’s all Flood-It, all the time. Even my television habits are warped. Now I “hear” the tv while I’m glued to my game.

I hope my iPhone survives.

If I'm not playing, I'm recharging my overworked battery.

My Dog Has Surgery, Part 2

Little black stitches - they go with everything, right?

I don’t mean to imply that the Lord & Master has no future in the nursing profession – human or canine – but after one day in his care our dog Theo Fannybrice practially had a nervous breakdown. And we’re talking about a dog who’s so macho he refused to get into the carrier post-surgery. Instead, he heroically limped to the car.

The next day I toodled off to buy gold and silver as usual. By day’s end the L&M began peppering me with increasingly frantic phone calls.

“You’d better get here. He’s crying.” Just what I don’t want to hear while I’m waiting on yet another Oriental loaded down with 24K baubles.

“Of course he’s crying. He’s in pain. Don’t worry,” I soothed.


Here’s what I found:

That meat's looking mighty rare.

“Honey, where are Theo’s stitches.”

Silence. My bigger half was completely clueless that our pooch had made a craft project out of removing his own stitches. That’d make me cry, too.

But wait, there’s more!

“Are you aware you two are sitting in a pool of his pee?” I gingerly inquired.

Whereupon my normally mild mannered spouse launched into an impromptu performance of his long running hit one-man show, I Hate My Life. At full volume.

I banished him from the room while I stripped off the wet blankets and sheets, dried the fitted sheet with a hair dryer, and reassured the actual patient that everything would be fine.

Here's some of the soggy bedding.

Yes, it’s always been my dream to return home from a full day of dealing with the public and clean up a veritable lake of dog pee.

By the next morning, the vet had stapled Theo’s leg back together.

All in all, he’s been a real trouper. The staples are gone, he’s back with his pack at Fort Funston, and all’s right in his doggy world.

My husband’s busy reading, writing, grading papers, and otherwise sticking to his professorial duties.

Happy 2012!

Only In San Francisco: A Garbage Audit

Here, even the riffraff must be beautifully tossed.

The Boss convened The Staff to warn us we are having a Garbage Audit. No kidding, the local trash company – I’m not naming names – (Sunset Scavenger Recology) will conduct an inspection of our (black) garbage and  (blue) recycling bins.

Given our constant use of acid stained disposable gloves (garbage) and slips of identifying papers (recycle), we’re all aflutter to chuck properly. This has occasioned a major relabeling of all office trash cans. To the confusion of one and all.

Only in San Francisco. Even the trash biz is politically correct.

"Stop in the name of refuse. Where are you throwing that acid-soaked paper towel, Shop Girl?"

We don’t know if we’ve been targeted or if this is a random activity of the local sanitation company. If so, I’d say they’ve got a bit too much free time to be hustling up extracurricular activities like this.

We've picked up all the scraps and swill. What trouble can we stir up now?

What happens if we flunk? Do they stop picking up our rubbish?

Gee, that would stink.

"I swear, Your Debris-ship, I've never seen that paper bag before in my life."