Molly Goatwax

More Advice

Now, I have never been traumatized by a goat. It may be that Annabelle, the miniature goat pictured, seems menacing to you, but she and I reached an understanding. If I had ever developed a phobia of goats, it is unlikely that I would have adopted the alias given to me in part by my former mother-in-law. However, if you have an unnatural fear of goats stemming from an agressive goat's actions while you were a wee tot, I highly recommend The Childhood Goat Trauma Foundation. They may help. My personal recommendation is to simply surrender the beer the goat craves should she attack you while holding one. I mean, why else would a goat go after you?? (Thanks to Good Grief, who stole the link from BBspot.)

Day 3

While I remain hobbled at work with nothing to do, I expect software training tommorrow. There's only so much time one can spend on 2,834 pages of pdf policies and procedures before fighting the urge to nodd off. Meanwhile, the home technologies have been upgraded with a high speed connection, but the digital camera is knocked out and also possibly the 35mm, I'm hoping it is just a spooling problem with a roll of film misloaded. I'm sorry to be such a bore, but would you rather hear about the delays in the Harbor Tunnel and how I got lost (again) on the way to work? I thought not. At least I wasn't the poor sod with the breakdown. At least I didn't get punked by Shatner in Iowa. Or wait a minute. Was I in Ohio?

Observations

My new supervisor (team leader, or TL in corpspeak) has a giant bottle of antacid tablets on her desk, a bottle of pink stomach tonic in her cabinet and fingernails chewed down to the nubbins. Another new recruit and I sat all day in our cubicles waiting either for software training or tasks to engage us, to no avail. The TL popped by and promised us updates only to vanish for the rest of the day. I spent the day perusing the online policies and procedures manual with my feet dangling a few inches from the floor, which kills my knees. Those who may wonder why I don't lower my chair have never faced the alternative, which is to have the desktop level with my armpits, which is undignified at the least and killer on the hands and arms when keyboarding. Because it took a year for my previous employer to get me a custom desk and I don't expect any more rapid response from the corporation, I will take in a box on which to prop my feet soon. In addition to unlimited ice and filtered water, the corporation does provide us with coffee, tea and chocolates from a large American candy company. In a year I will qualify for tuition re-imbursement should I decide to persue a graduate degree in finance or a related field. "Business Casual" is very loosely interpreted at this branch, so I could probably wear my cork soled German sandals without ruffling any feathers. If I get over my shyness and periodic low self esteem, I may discover that my fellow employees are really very nice, if, um, mainstream. Or not. There may be other weirdos lurking amongst the cubicles. It's not as bad as my spoiled side anticipated, but it ain't no villa in Tuscany.

A new day

Normally, Hubby and I don't have much tension with each other, but when I returned home from my first day at my new company and he asked me if I would be returning tommorrow, I was a little short with him. Yes...I will go back tommorrow. They have an ice machine. I'm sorry. That's the nicest thing I can think of to say about it. I could use a little cheering up.

Back in Baltimore

Among its other spectacles, Las Vegas has its own special way of chewing dreams up and spitting them out to wither in the hot desert sun. That's why the pavements smell so fetid. Just yesterday, ensconced en suite with a variety of marzipans and a pair of cheetah print socks from the Hard Rock casino shop, (are you sensing any recurrent themes here?) things were looking very promising, indeed. Our meetings with various city, county and state licensing officials had gone very well, I had a wad of cash won at gaming and my very first cup of Starbucks coffee. (Hey! I really don't get out that much.) Well, the cash went back to whence it originated, the interactive web/tv keyboard let me read this space but not post, I didn't care for the coffee, someone slipped some pistachio paste into one of my marzipans and my plans to bring poetry readings and marionettes to the big bad bikers' dive on the Boulder Highway are all for naught. Some one beat us to it, and I don't think they've got plans for paper mache puppets. At least I have a nifty set of socks, and a pair for the seven year old, too.

Frank, Motherly Advice

Never take multi-vitamins with a carbonated beverage
If you think it's too revealing, it's worse than that
Never go shopping on an empty stomach or a full bladder
Don't date someone because you feel sorry for them
Read the whole contract before you sign it and X out any blank spaces
If it locks, keep it that way

Now, you be good, boys and girls! I have to drop everything and pack my bag, I'm off to Las Vegas to drink lots of exotic adult beverages with strangers and conduct some, ahem, business. Now, where did I fling my spangly little dress?

No lumps today

Tell it to me strait, folks...is there really only one place in town (Mueller's on Harford Road) that sells chocolate coated marzipan bars? I don't want those colored, stale, overpiced fruit and vegetable shaped almond paste lumps, nor do I want a baker's tube of raw material. That's like eating cookie dough. You may be into it, and more power to you, but I'm not. I would simply have gone to Mueller's but I didn't have my debit card nor time to go back to the house for it on my way to my appointment at the boobie smasher's office, and I was so very, very happy that they dismissed me without another round of abuse ( Getting a second set of films is bad news! ) that I stopped by a nearby German baker's and was roundly, sorely disappointed by the almond floret they sold me. For 2.50, my tart was soggy, the filling was too sweet and it did not taste of almonds. Picture a middle aged midget stamping her maryjanes and pouting. Oh well. Might as well crack open a German beer to celebrate, and please hoist one of whatever you'll have with me...Hooray! No lumps today!

What a Lucky Gal

Hubby is my greatest source of Joy. He's so much better than that other husband I had.

What a Lucky Man

You know what tommorrow is? I mean, besides Talk Like a Pirate Day, Hubby and I will be observing our 12th wedding anniversary! After I went to an office superstore to purchase a leather "padfolio", which he requested, I decided to go to the Lucky Seven Bail Bonds office to get him a tee shirt, which he has been coveting loudly for eons, every time we drive by the place. Imagine my surprise as, after I open the chiming door and step into a plushly carpeted showroom, I see case after case of hand-blown pipes lit from below, shelves of exquisite art-glass water pipes and bongs and tidy racks of rolling papers and incense. Whoa! Lucky Seven's a high end head shop! A wholesome looking young woman popped out from a rear office and asked if she could help me. I told her I had come to buy a tee shirt for my husband, motioning towards a circular rack near the entrance. Imagine my crushing disappointment when she told me they weren't for sale! They are promotional items for customers only! Wondering if I would have to get arrested or buy drug paraphanalia (Which is illegal in Maryland. This is gotten around by including a small packet of tobacco with your purchase.) to get a tee shirt, I tell her that Hubby's been wanting one for years and years and I finally stopped in to get one for an anniversary present because it would be so special! She told me that she was not allowed to sell them but I could certainly have one for him, so I dove at the rack and prompty-and loudly- whacked my head on a shelf full of glass. You'da thought I was a regular customer. It's a good thing I'm so used to people looking at me funny. Arrrr...

Espantoonville

Baltimore is so special! Police officers the world over carry night sticks and billy clubs, but here if they whack you upside the head while resisting arrest, (or, as happened to a friend many years ago while I watched, refusing to stop making a plaster cast of a fire hydrant) they do it with an espantoon. The link provided serves merely to illustrate that I'm not making this up, because you won't find it in any of the on-line dictionaries I've tried. My 1966 unabridged Random House Dictionary of the English Language has this entry: "es-pan-toon (a proununciation I haven't the characters for), n. (in Baltimore) a policeman's nightstick. [alter. of SPONTOON]" Now, you may quibble that it does not differentiate the Baltimore in Maryland from the Baltimore in Ireland or find the sexist reference to a law enforcement officer offensive, but, hey! A better question might be; "Why do you still have a 1966 dictionary hanging around?" or better yet; "Molly, don't you have anything else to do?" Yep. Excuse me while I go call the Visionary Arts Museum and see if they want my valentines yet.