lambie of the week

Once upon a time (about a year or so ago), I got very mad at my husband. I was with a girlfriend who was mad at her boyfriend too and as we walked into a national bookstore chain dissing on the boyz, I saw the cutest stuffed lamb in the window. Had to have it! My strange little brain said something like: "oh yeah? well, I'm getting myself a lambie! hmph!" I don't understand it either. But I loved him so much that I kind of wore him out, a la The Velveteen Rabbit. So I went on a lamb replacement search and found him again. It's called the Douglas Babba Lamb, and when I found him, my husband got me two, so I'd have a back-up when this one had his fur all loved off. Do you know of ANYONE else who has a back-up lamb? Didn't think so. Now I have three of them all told. So here's what he looks like. It's our first production. Douglas Babba Lamb says he wants his SAG card now, but he doesn't have any lines, so screw him. Besides, what he really wants to do is direct.

lambie of the week

I don't know about where you live, but it's a rather silly and kind of embarrassing holiday here called Thanksgiving, during which we celebrate duping the indigenous population of the time, whom we call American Indians, for some useless crap. No one does THAT anymore, do they? The American Indians have, however, gotten back at us recently, by luring us with lots of shiny things and loud noises in their casinos, where we usually give them all our money with pretty much nothing to show for it except maybe some useless shiny trinkets. Now why does that sound so familiar? I love symmetry, don't you?

lambie of the week- gay sheep

So I ran out of good sheep images and went surfing on the 'net and found this! What could be better than a good sheep picture? A GAY sheep picture! Cool! And you thought they weren't interesting. Hah! This was an article in the New York Times. They actually get paid to write stuff. Ooooh. If you wanna read the article, go here. I wonder if sheep know how many times to stamp their feet in the public restroom if they want gay sex. Hmm.

Thank You, Zia

Well, I had pretty much thrown in the towel for this blog thing after my recent brush with death. Oh... actually it was more of a horrible 3 week brush with respiratory trouble after a nasty cold. Dramatic license is what you call that.

So I got my first comment from someone other than my husband and it spurred me on, for good or ill, to write something new. I'd been at a loss for words, not to mention new sheep pictures, for a bit, but Zia has cured me.

I'm always curious about how, among probably zillions of very clever blogs, anyone ever finds mine. I hope you don't mind, gentle reader, all two of you, that I try to find out how you ended up here of all places. I'm well chuffed that you did, of course. It's amazing how people from all over the world wind up looking for the same bit of information that you thought only you were interested in, if you get the syntax of that.

I did get rather downhearted at the large numbers (large percentage-wise, considering I haven't had all that many total readers) of you who found me because of that Kyla Ebbert thing long after her 15 minutes of fame should have been over. It made me that much more cynical about the shallowness and stupidity of people, and quite frankly I was already pretty cynical about that.

So, I happened to google the google, so to speak, and found this fabulous site called RetailHell Underground, which was close to my blog reference about the hell of retail sales and how I survive it. If you or someone you know is a retail slave, go there! Yes, now! I bow to their superior wit. I'm not worthy.

According to their formula, I am not an insurance whore, but a retail slut. Retail whores are different because they like it. They'll explain.

Today, November 9, I foolishly substituted for another demo diva for the morning/afternoon shift, having no idea that a meeting had been called for every nutbag in my area to come to my retail establishment. I was very close to ordering a stun-gun by the end of my shift. Fortunately, I have learned to use such moments as an opportune time to take out the trash or wash something in the back, so that I don't maim the next rude maniac who stands there in my face for the next 10 minutes waiting to snarf free food only to bitch about it as soon as they get it. I considered that perhaps I was simply in a bad mood. It can happen. But when I talked to co-workers, they all confirmed my opinion and the customers were, in fact, some of the biggest nutters I've ever seen. I'm talking the type who I talk to once, let them espouse their strange beliefs, and then the next time, just back away slowly and go do something else for a while till they go away.

Remember Jim Jones in Guyana? Or who was that other guy who killed himself and all of his followers? Yeah, like that. Fa la f***ing la and happy freakin' holidays. And it's only November 9! Wise retail establishments would hand out thorazine at the timeclock from now till January 2, 2008. No, I'm not holding my breath waiting. But if a dreamy look suddenly comes onto my face while you're espousing your beliefs, remember that I work with knives for a living and my aim is excellent. It's only self-restraint...well, ok, it's that we need the health insurance, that keeps me from throwing sharp instruments at you in disgust. Fortunately, my apathy is a good balancing factor.