Soon to come: A blog post about how much I dislike pictures of feet.
Nonetheless, these shoes of mine are rather spiffing
in the JFSB
for 4 out of 5 classes.
Please overlook the unclear ambiguity of that last sentence and just be chill and stuff . . . and things.
My AP English teacher would murder me over this post
in the JFSB
for 4 out of 5 classes.
Please overlook the unclear ambiguity of that last sentence and just be chill and stuff . . . and things.
My AP English teacher would murder me over this post
Blood is gushing everywhere
On the blacktop, feet in air
Finger has a heartbeat - ouch!
Watching Tron upon the couch
Lifetime stores of gauze from mom
Now my finger's going numb
Asian roommate is the bomb.
Last Friday night
Dumpster diving in the dark
Causing bedlam swift as larks
Ordered waffles: caramel, hark!
Last Friday Night
Slammed my finger in the car
Nearly passed out, hardy-har
Waffle tasty, up to par.
Now let's do it all again?
Let's not do that e'er again.
*As a post scriptum, I'm not a fan of this song (Katy Perry or Simpleton rewrite), or the lack of a decent camera in my life. If you stick around 4 months for my birthday, I might be able to upgrade from the webcam.
Dottie treated me to a desktop calendar this Christmas.
I wake up to one of these puppies (I can never determine when these puns are intended anymore) every morning.
Makes my day. Every time. No fail.
Marie treated me (again with the dang puns!) to a Ziploc bag full of banana dessert pops.
The best part is the prop in the background.
The next best part is the fact that this really is just a frozen banana.
No sugar added, but it tastes like a creamsicle.
I think there are like 80 of these in the freezer at my ex-apartment. I wish I were that cool.
And not "cool" in the sense that my apartment is kept at 64 degrees, although I'm finally almost used to that.
Let's just say the Snuggie and I have been spending some excellent quality time together lately.
Let's just say the Snuggie and I have been spending some excellent quality time together lately.
As drafted 2 weeks ago. Also, I added the "Your Simpleton" tab up above. Check it if you haven't.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Instead of sleeping in until noon and watching Christmas movies all day long, I've been working 9-hour shifts and massaging my feet like I'm married to myself.
. . . ?
Luckily, I work at a place where only the best of humanity makes a showing.
FOR MY MALE READERS--
If you are anything like my {male} brothers, you probably don't understand what is up with girls and flowers. "Why would I buy a girl flowers?" You have asked yourself on more than one occasion. "I don't care how much I like her or how many of my children I would like her to birth, flowers are going to die next week and are therefore a waste of money that could be used elsewhere . . . like such as on my routine Little Debbie fix and testing center late-day fees."
Yes flowers can be pricey (although a $2 stem of daisies will do the job just fine). Yes they will die next week. But that's the point!!! It's that you are willing to spend your money on something so fleeting and temporal for her happiness that will mean the world to her. Think about it. I know I know, you're a guy, but we may get some wheels a-turnin' in that noggin yet. Backing away from the soapbox (and your death glares) now.
Thursday December 22, 2011
Customer 1: A Dozen Boxed
Roses place behind lilies in my book, but that doesn't stop a presentation of boxed roses from being the single most romantic gesture on the entire planet. There's just something hopelessly swoon-worthy about the idea of receiving a dozen (or even a half dozen) roses in a classy boxed-up package. Gents, save yourself the $20 extra for a vase arrangement with filler and get it in a box.
Customer 2: Hollywood Engagement
I think I sabotaged a marriage proposal on accident. It's probably fine. I'm sure his Sunday School lesson this week will be on the Law of Forgiveness anyway.
It'd be safe to say the man had never bought flowers before in his life. I wrapped up his daisies and roses as he told me of how he would visit his girlfriend in LA tomorrow, take her on a hike to the Hollywood sign, and pop the question. His genuine excitement caught the sappy little girl inside of me off-guard and it wasn't until ten minutes after he left that I realized there's no way a bouquet of flowers will weather 30 hours, a flight, and a hike, wearing only water tubes. Don't worry, man's fiance-to-be (or not-to-be), it's unlikely that these shriveled beauts are a symbol of your love. It's not you, it's the flower shop girl.
Customer 3: The Weird Guy
Some guys who come in like to order bouquets of carnations for girls they've likely only spoken to once and have already set on the run. These guys don't want a card pick in their ribbon please and thanks; they are not the card-writing type. Of course not, noob. Man up and pen some words! But please avoid words about fate and wishing on stars and metaphorical resurrection from soul suicide. Gag. On. Nuggets.
Customers 4-7: Adorable Romantic Traditions
There's this funny elderly man who comes in every month on the date he was married to buy a single rose for his wife. Another grandfatherly figure buys his love a bouquet each year on the anniversary of their fist date. Yet another elderly couple arrived together this afternoon to collect Christmas bouquets. They looked more in love than any HBLee couple I've ever tried not to see, and they both wanted to know all about my life, addressing me by my first name as appears on the fancy name badge.
Old people are the bomb diggity. They pull at my heartstrings even more than the tall, attractive British men who often grace my flower-shop presence. In some ways my job is the worst: so many attractive men, all buying flowers for other women. In most ways my job is the best: no expansion needed.
 |
| Arrangements chilled and ready for delivery. Yes, I do these for several hours a day. Yes, I'm blessed. Work is my favorite part of the day. |
Then I didn't bother to change into real clothes for a webcam picture.
Then it was the craziest finals week ever.
Then I wore no belt. Scoff.
Then I had light blue fingernails.
Then Dottie was the awesomest and bought us the roommate favorite: Chocolate Silk.
Now I'm figuring out that the left side of my face is more photogenic than the right side of my face. I think the webcam flips the image, but it doesn't really matter because all I see when I view these photos anyway are my beautiful sources of lactose-free calcium. Simple Pleasures.
Another Simple Pleasure: Halelujah, by Rufus Wainwright. Stick to the classics.
Then it was the craziest finals week ever.
Then I wore no belt. Scoff.
Then I had light blue fingernails.
Then Dottie was the awesomest and bought us the roommate favorite: Chocolate Silk.
Now I wear clothes to lure my new roommates into a false sense of security.
Now it's the first day of a fresh, though still crisis-ridden semester. I'm learning that such is life.
Now I wear two belts: one for accessorization, and one to prevent yet another embarrassing underwear story.
Now I have dark blue fingernails with silver glitter accents.
Now my mom is the awesomest and bought me a housewarming gift to try:
Silk Nog--second only to Chocolate Silk
Another Simple Pleasure: Halelujah, by Rufus Wainwright. Stick to the classics.
To the lowest bidder. Seriously, that girl is getting one smack-fabulous discount.
For the price she'll be paying for monthly rent, one might expect her to be living in a public restroom.
Perhaps that public restroom would look like the one where I work.
You know, the one with a row of ghetto lockers, because what self-respecting lady working part time in a vending/floral building wouldn't need a safe place in which to keep all her nose-powdering equipment?
The one that you enter into through a swinging stall door instead of a regular, sturdy wooden door, because one more stall door is just exactly what every public restroom needs.
If only the "arranging flowers" part of my job was as glamorous as the "special breaks" part of my job.
Oh wait.
For the price she'll be paying for monthly rent, one might expect her to be living in a public restroom.
Perhaps that public restroom would look like the one where I work.
You know, the one with a row of ghetto lockers, because what self-respecting lady working part time in a vending/floral building wouldn't need a safe place in which to keep all her nose-powdering equipment?
The one with a sketchy bed and chair in a dark corner, because honestly, why wouldn't you want to nap on a disease-infested blanket in the same place your boss takes her special breaks?
Oh wait.
Elise from Elise's Pieces birthed a Dear Boys segment on her blog (the button links to it).
Normally I don't do link parties, but ehhh, why not?
Dear Goliath,
Why hello. We haven't spoken since 2008, but I noticed your muscles are looking quite vast today. Even moreso than in this picture of you saved as my desktop background . . . er, Dottie did that. Ya. I tried to stop her, the creep.
Maturely Yours,
Notta Stock R.
Dear Ex,
Don't forget about our lunch date next week. We can talk about your biceps and new girlfriend.
Your Friend,
Shut Up, This is Healthy
Dear MIA
If you write me a witty letter I'll smuggle you some boxes in which you can send me European chocolates and pocket-watches and maybe a drunk little man to sing jolly lullabies.
Cerely (sin is bad),
The Selflessest
Dear Elder Freddy,
Don't poop your pants. Again. Congrats on reaching new categories of public mortification for potty tails. Er, tales.
Your BFF,
Oh Holey Knight, My Pants are Ripped and Mooning.
Dear Samwise,
FAT JOKE.
Love,
I'll write you when the bathroom scale stops reading "to be continued."
Dear Kind, Witty, Chivalrous, and Loaded:
WHY ARE YOU SO 5'7"!???!??
Regrettably Yours,
5'9"
Dear Lil' Brudda,
Poof, you're a sandwich.
With Contempt,
Make One Yourself
In the garage, I found six bags full of various Christmas evergreens and pinecones to be used for greening holiday vases.
What made a good thing better was learning how said stuffed bags came to be.
Apparently mother is a forager. She wanted my help in making holiday arrangements for neighbors, so she made it happen. No she did not find pine sprigs to snip from in our own backyard. Please, don't be silly.
Apparently mother is a forager. She wanted my help in making holiday arrangements for neighbors, so she made it happen. No she did not find pine sprigs to snip from in our own backyard. Please, don't be silly.
She actually wandered through multiple neighbors' properties and removed entire branches from their saplings and shrubs. Don't worry, "they've been in a retirement home for almost a year now. They won't miss anything."
Please let this become an annual holiday tradition.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)