Happy Leap Year!

It’s February 29, and a Friday to boot! I forgot to call in my prescription for my pain meds yesterday, and my fibromyalgia is eating me alive. Mr. Borealis and I had a pretty strong argument last night, which I believe was the impetus for my pain and exhaustion today.

This isn’t what the argument was about, but he’s gone next week. All week. And then he’s gone for another two weeks around the start of April (coming home for the weekend in between), and then gone for a good part of the last week of April. Yikes, am I going to be lonely. I’ll probably be splitting the time between my parent’s house and Q’s (as long as that’s okay, Q—I know you’ve been pretty hen-pecked lately and I’m partly to blame for that, and I’m a strong believer in alone time as a healer).

My guest room is coming along—still no pictures yet, but I’m hoping to figure out how to upload from Mr. Borealis’s camera soon. I’m putting out all of the artifacts from my travels (and some from family members’ travels) that mean a lot to me, and it’s turning very much into an “inspiration room.” I haven’t been able to find the canopy for my canopy bed since moving out of my parent’s house, so I’m going to make one this weekend, and hopefully get another few boxes out of the basement. I put up a clock on the wall, but unfortunately didn’t have any batteries in the house for it; they’re on the shopping list of things I need to pick up tonight.

I have midterms next week, so I’m probably going to take some time off from work to prepare for them, though I’m doing pretty well this semester. Better than last semester, anyways—that was three months of disaster.

I’m struggling to get myself back into the gym to lose some weight. My doctors pretty well agree that working out is good for my fibro and even better for my BJHS—I can already tell the difference in the reduced pain in my knees just from the weight I’ve already lost. I kept telling myself I would get back in the swing when I lost enough that my knees stopped hurting just from walking down stairs, but now that’s almost happened and I just feel so tired and achy all the time. I’m really hoping it’s stress from midterms, and maybe I’ll be able to get back in week after next.

About Mr. B's New Job

The verdict is in, ladies. Mr. Borealis started back to work yesterday, and he apparently LOVES his new job. He's got an extremely upbeat boss and the pay is what he used to make and then some. Truly rediculous how good these government jobs are--as I may have mentioned, it's a job that requires a lot of travel. They pay him per mile he has to drive for work, they cover his hotel stays when he is away, and he apparently gets more than ten dollars per meal per day while he's traveling to cover food expenses. And that's on top of his salary pay (ridiculous!).

BUT.

It's a big but. Speaking of, I'm down a full 5 lbs. on the diet.

It's a lot more travel than I thought it would be. When I was a kid (and even to this day) my dad had a lot of business trips. He was around a lot, but sometimes (frequently when I was a teen) gone more than half the time. Don't get me wrong--my dad's a cool guy and we have an awesome relationship, and he always found time for me and my siblings, but my point is that I don't know how my mother dealt with it.

When Mr. Borealis told me the job involved travel, I was thinking a few overnight trips here and there. He apparently has a 50% chance of spending an entire week in Pueblo in March, already. And then there will be a similar manadatory trip to D.C. in April (Q, I have him checking dates today--I apologize profusely if this throws a wrench into wedding planning).

I'm already lonely.
Alula

I'm confused.

What do normal young ladies (as in a younger version of someone you consider a lady) do for fun? I've been myself for far too long and am bored enough where I am that I'm thinking of having a go at being a normal young lady. I think most of the hobbies I have are too private (like knitting, reading, and playing around on the internet) or too bizarre (roleplaying etc) to be normal young lady hobbies. So I need help. Please?

My car

Ah, my lady friends—Q especially. Given the way the wheel was getting hard to turn and a green substance was leaking out of it, you told me my car would die someday. Someday, apparently, was yesterday.

Yes, yesterday I went outside and got in the car to go to school. And the car, sadly, did not start. I went back in the house and asked Mr. Borealis if I should stay home to get my car fixed, or if he would be willing to do that for me (seeing as he sits on his widening butt all day anyways). He looked at me, with this misty expression on his face, and asked “How am I supposed fix it?”

Now, generally I don’t like to critique people’s parenting skills, but this man could not tell a washer from a dryer when we moved in together, either. God forbid his parents teach him how to call a tow to a mechanic.

He assures me “he’ll call his dad and they’ll get around to taking care of it,” I take his car and go to my first class, thinking “Great—so the guy who can’t take half an hour to pick out a bathroom vanity and the guy who would take three months to install said vanity are going to ‘get around’ to fixing my car.”

This thought distracted me all through my first class, especially since Mr. Borealis starts back to work Monday and we’ll *need* two cars. So I skipped my second class to come home, where I found Mr. Borealis still in his pj’s on the couch watching television, not having called anyone about my car.

I then exercised some girl power to get some home repairs finished, got his butt off the couch, got his dad’s butt in my garage, and guess what?

My car is now fixed. And even though he doesn’t say so, my husband respects me a lot more.

Amazons Unite!
Alula

The Count Down Begins

Ah, the countdown begins. Mr. Borealis starts his new job on Monday, and I’ve got to say—I’m freakin’ ecstatic about that fact. He’s been hanging around the house doing next to nothing for almost two months now, and I’m starting to twitch.

You see, dear readers, this home we live in was a foreclosed home, and we’ve put a lot of time and effort into making it nice. We did a lot, but incomplete projects still exist. These include, but are not limited, to:

-putting the handrails up in the stairwells
-putting knobs back on all of our closet doors so they can be opened
-putting covers back over the vents
-finishing the downstairs ¾ bath, which still lacks a shower and sink
-unpacking the rest of our stuff from the basement
-cleaning out the garage
-setting up the downstairs guest room(the one with an attached “bathroom” that isn’t really a bathroom, hence I term it the “toilet only” room)
-removing the garbage from our front courtyard

Now, as a practice I do not believe in nagging. Nagging is the enemy—I’ve seen nagging destroy more relationships than politics, money, and religion combined. So I do not nag, and I’ve almost got Mr. Borealis trained to not nag me as well.

In our home the practice is to politely ask, and if it doesn’t get done, you assume that your lovely spouse forgot or was too busy to get to it, but that the chore was not maliciously not done to annoy you. If it bothers you that much, just do it yourself. But folks, let me tell you, after him having two months where he literally sat on his butt on the couch all day, I’m a little perturbed. Especially since I’m not asking him to build the Taj Mahal, I asking him to get a screwdriver and put vent covers on gapping holes in the wall. Especially since he won’t let me clear out the courtyard on trash day because he wants to “recycle” it—which would be commendable, if it ever actually happened.

So I asked about the piles of cardboard and packing foam and the removed bathroom sink and vanity in the courtyard, which have been sitting since last November. He said, like he always does, that he would take them to the recycling place “soon.” Finally having had it, I rolled my eyes and said something to the effect of, “You mean like sometime in the last three months?”

Well, yesterday I came home, and the sink had been moved to the opposite side of the courtyard. And one of the two larger boxes of cardboard and foam was gone. He told me he took it to a local grocery store alley and left it in their dumpster.

Sigh. I guess it’s a start.

Alula

Where's Ginger?

Hey ladies. I was feeling a little down today so I decided to go looking through the family photo albums to cheer myself up. I came upon this image of my mom's dog incognito.
Enjoy!

Alula

Wetpaw

I have a new roommate!

He moved in with Mr. Q and myself last week and so far we have not butted heads on too many things. Wetpaw (his name- that I will explain in a bit) has always been I know it all. He has to be right with every subject and he can debate for hours. We have been friends with him for years but I was really unhappy with the idea of having him as a roommate. Mr. Q and I are a few months away from getting married and three weeks after that he is leaving for Military duty for a year. I was really uncomfortable about having a male roommate with my husband on the other side of the world; but Mr. Q “trusts me”. Apparently him trusting me is enough to override the way I feel. Its not that I do not trust myself for example if Wetpaw and I were the last ones on earth, I would stay around him for company but on the hole the human species had its problems and is just not worth starting over. He is a very nice guy on the hole when he goes out he asks me if I need anything. He seems to be good about opening tuff jars and carrying heavy things with out being asked. We have always gotten along with him very well, despite his need to be right. He Also handed me the deposit and the first months rent in cash before he moved anything in. I just do not have much time to be with Mr. Q after we are married and not I have to share with Wetpaw. I think anyone who has tried to live with there husband and a roommate will understand. Mr. Q thinks we need the extra money from the roommate but we could have gotten along just fine with out; and he is not the one that will be living with this guy for the next year! Sorry I think I better stop before I start really ranting about how sorry I feel for myself.

Alas I now have a roommate that I really do not want and I must learn how to live with him. This is going to be great!

Now how we came to the name of Wetpaw- I have discovered that Wetpaw does not wash his hands after using the bathroom! This is a disaster! This is something that needs to be put in the prescreening from now on! I will get some sort of scanner that I will run over there hands and test for cleanliness!

So I have been spending the better part of the week trying to figure out how to make the house feel clean again! The impulse was to use Bleach to clean the whole house but that can damage things and it has a strong order!

But then I remembered the 1:30 bleach, it’s a measured watered down solution that will kill the bacteria with less order and harshness. It can fade fabric and you do not want to get it into your eyes but it’s a good fix to a bacteria ridden home! To mix it you need 1 part bleach to 30 parts water. The easiest way I have found to make it is to find a spray bottle that holds thirty ounces and just eyeball a extra marker at the top the you can fill up to the first ounce with bleach and the rest with water! Then you can be like me and bleach your home when everyone is asleep!

(Mis)Adventures

Down 4 lbs. from start of diet.

I don’t know why, but today whilst carpooling to work I found myself getting a little sentimental and reflecting on the time I got lost in Florence, Italy. Florence is a beautiful place—old churches and sculptures everywhere you look. Some of the sculptures are duplicate replicas of the genuine articles because Napoleon (or, as my tour director liked to refer to him, “The Short Man”) came in and took it all to France. France, by the way, to this day refuses to give many of these originally Italian works back. The Mona Lisa, for example, still resides in the Louvre.

My tour director was rather insistent and bitter on this point—she gave a half-hour rant one time about the immaturity of the French and how Napoleon set the president for the artistic migrations that followed. According to her, all the great wines, fashion designers, perfume makers, and other artisans were Italian, but because Napoleon had set the venue to France, these items were meticulously grown and crafted in Italy and then moved to France for presentation, ultimately giving France the credit for said creations in many people’s minds.

For the record, I have no clue if this is how it really works, and I hold no grudges against France or the French (please note that I have known some very friendly citizens of that country in my day), but I found it an amusing story none the less. Now, back to my misadventure.

I got lost in Florence when the tour director decided to give us some free roaming time to explore the city on our own. I just turned around and everyone was gone. So there I am, in Italy, knowing how to speak only American English and French, one of which was a highly dis-preferred language due to the political climate of the time and the other I perceived to be dis-preferred for the aforementioned reasons. Plus, my French isn’t that great.

Long story short, I eventually found a cab, gave him the name of my hotel, and was thankfully saved after near an hour of full-on freaking out.

The get-a-cab method saved me a few years later while vacationing in San Diego with Mr. Borealis, too, but that’s a lengthy (and, to me, funny) story for another day. Maybe I’ll tell it when the topic turns to stories of the apocalypse—no, really, that’s how scared Mr. Borealis was.

But my point here is that since Florence, I’ve never been scared when I got lost. One time I was trying to find my way from Aurora, Colorado, to Broomfield, got turned around somehow, and found myself staring at a sign that said I was almost to Garden of the Gods (if you’re not familiar with the region, you’ll have to look at a map to see how bad at directions I am). And instead of freaking out, I just enjoyed the ride.

My advice for travel: always have the address of where you’re going. A car charger for your cell phone doesn’t hurt either.

I need a map,
Alula

Valentine's Day

Hey ladies. I meant to post this on February 15, but was away from the internet. Pictures forthcoming, here it is:

Forgot to weigh myself this morning, but I’m betting I put on from Valentine’s.

The day after Valentine’s Day—it ranked better than last year, that’s for sure. Last February both of our rats died, one on February 4th and the other ten days later on Valentine’s; oddly they died of completely unrelated things, with Kate going by what was either a stroke or a brain tumor that reached critical mass and Emma then succumbing to the issues she’d had with her lungs her whole life. It’s odd how animals can attach to each other like that; so many times I felt that the only thing keeping poor little wheezy Emma going was Kate and her spunky attitude.

It’s like old people and the way they seem to just go for no reason when their life partner passes. I don’t think it’s sad, though, because it’s kind of like passing gently; like your life’s mission is over, and now you can peaceably move on to whatever’s next with your loved one.

But on a happier note, we’ve had our new rat babies, Clover and Lexis, for just over a year now, and the four of us had a lovely Valentine’s Day. I was on campus for most of it, but came home to Mr. Borealis cooking dinner. I think it’s the only time in the six-year history of our relationship he has actually “cooked” dinner for me; he made spaghetti, the only fancy thing I think he knows how to cook. He set up the table with a bunch of mismatched candles, candy and flowers; it was very cute. Even romantic by our standards. He even bought sparkling cider and turned the dimmer down on the chandelier.

He got me an orchid (I love growing things) and a really nice vase. It was really sweet of him, especially given that Mr. Borealis generally doesn’t do holidays—it’s an illness prevalent throughout his family.

I’m feeling a little sick today; possibly due to all of those beautiful flowers. I’m allergic to every pollen and dander on the planet, but it’s not going to stop me from enjoying the flowers and snuggling my rat babies. I’m feeling the crave for some potato chips to get an energy boost, but hoping I can make it through the day without.

Alula

Q I think my powercord is at your house

Down 3 lbs. from start of diet.

Yep, I just finished downing a bagel with cream cheese. My boss offered, so I couldn't refuse. Also, today is turning into what I call a "high creativity day."

Yep. It's one of *those* days.

To summarize my morning: Woke up on time, went downstairs and couldn't find my usual morning weather program. Decided to make my own coffee instead of buying to save money. Couldn't find my usual mug so wound up using Mr. Borealis's. Went upstairs to find my pants, could not find said pants, emptied hamper looking for said pants before finding them in the wardrobe where they always are. Put on elusive pants, then could not find deodorant. Look at clock and realize that despite being up on time, I am now running 5 minutes late. Open a new deodorant, apply, finish dressing. Go downstairs, grab coffee, briefcase, notebooks, phone, and keys and head out to the car.

Get halfway to Mr. Q's residence (we carpool), and realize that even though I stared right at it, I left my laptop sitting in my office. Turn car around to retreive laptop and arrive at my residence exactly when I'm supposed to be at Mr. Q's. Call Mr. Q while retrieving laptop to say I'm still coming, he does not answer, call Q to see where Mr. Q is, she does not answer. Get back in car with laptop and drive like hard-to-find pants are on fire to get to Mr. Q's, arrive 15 minutes late.

Mr. Q's car is gone--I've missed him.

Decide to drive to work myself, find Mr. Q pulling out of of coffee joint on the way, chat briefly through the car windows and decide to drive separate so as not to make us both more late.

Start driving to work. Almost immediately spill self-made coffee down my front because the mug is unfamiliar. Brain autopilots and I somehow wind up Westbound (the way I go to school) instead of Eastbound (the way I go to work). It takes me 5 minutes to figure out I'm going the wrong way, I pull off and turn around. An accident on the road causes a 15 minute delay.

Finally arrive at work, thinking the madness is done. Oh no, dear reader, it is not.

Drop my phone getting out of the car. No significant damage, but some scuffing. With keys in pocket and wedged between my own SUV and the one I parked too close to next to it, and now ladden down with notebooks, coffee, laptop, briefcase, and cell phone, I slam locked car door shut and the strap of my briefcase becomes lodged in locked car door. I have no way to free briefcase without dropping everything, so that's what I do.

I manage to get in the office door--by some miracle, only 30 minutes late, and only mildly stained by the spilled coffee. Go to my office to set up, and discover that the powercord to my laptop is not in the bag, and I've lost my flashdrives somewhere. Have to borrow a colleague's computer for the day, which is always extremely awkward.

Oh joy. I can't wait to see what happens after lunch!

Case Point: I'm allowed to have a bagel on a morning like this. And Q, I think my powercord is at your house.

I'm buying a lotto ticket later,
Alula

I get Garfield

For the longest time I never understood why Garfield hated Mondays. I personally never liked Tuesdays, and Thursdays were pretty bad too. On Monday, I was normally refreshed from the weekend, and ready to get on with the week, even more so when it was a week of learning. This is all until recently, when I started working in a pharmacy. (We've had a letter go out on one of our signs so at night, my store is a harmacy.)

Ladies, do not go to the pharmacy on a Monday. I'm begging you. Unless you like pure untamed chaos. Then just go hang out there. Or if you want to play a prank on the staff, pull out some copy paper and ask how long it will take to wait on 12 prescriptions, and watch the person at the window faint.

On a Monday a pharmacy is dealing with a whole weekend's worth of problems along with a rather busy day's. All the dr's offices, the wholesalers, and a bunch of insurance companies are closed over the weekend. So nothing gets taken care of until Monday.

The crazies also tend to come in on Mondays as well. Thankfully no one has handed me a bag of lice yet. But I've caught the crazy, since I want to go to pharmacy school.

Since both of you have posted crafty things, I think it's my turn. For my entry I have:

A hat that looks like a pineapple.

Dieting partners in crime

Ah, my lady friends—Lilly, I saw your comment.

Question: What am I eating?
Answer: A lot of yogurt, fruits, and vegetables. And, of course, that ultra filling daily horse pill of a multivitamin, my pain killers, and OTC allergy medication.

And yes, I’m exhausted from my lack of carbs. And yes, I’m cheating the diet whenever I can make the evidence disappear, as was the case with the super yummy lite coffee I was naughtily privy to this morning while carpooling to work with Mr. Q. That evidence will be going in Q’s kitchen garbage later. And for goodness sake, Q, do not tell your man I’m supposed to be on a diet—he might join forces with Mr. Borealis and then I’d really be stuck in the fruit department without a candy bar.

By the by, I’m down 1.5 pounds from start of diet. Whoopty freakin’ doo. I think 1.5 in 3 days is a little much, but hey—I actually don’t feel like I’m starving, and I’m thinking maybe I was just really full when I first weighed myself. I’ll have to keep an eye on that because I think I run a moderately high risk of heart attack already (high BP and cholesterol in my family, and a history of heart disease), so I’ll have to keep an eye on losing too much too fast. I learned that from watching a medical drama on television, so of course it HAS to be true!

On the topic of cheese, my doc didn’t mention cheese. Probably because *I* didn’t mention cheese, which probably could have maybe occurred because I knew if I brought up the topic of cheese, my doctor would bring up the topic of my not being allowed to eat it. As warped as it is, in the end my mind this boils down to one thing: my doc didn’t say I couldn’t eat it, so I am therefore still allowed, per se.

In other news, my boss is wandering the office unusually much today. It’s kind of freaking me out because the way my cubicle is set up I can’t see people coming, so my first indication that someone is behind me is when they decide to speak up. Creepy…

I can’t wait for us to move offices at the end of this month. Maybe I won’t get the “easy prey” cubicle design again.

Ladies, a quick tip if you share this annoyingly-surprising-at-random-times situation: bring a mirror or picture frame with high shine to work. Then angle it so you can see behind you like the ones they use in gas stations and quick stop shops. I recommend the glass picture frame over the mirror because it’s harder for people to tell what you’re accomplishing.

Signing off, just thought I’d share with the world the quilt I’m putting together for my nephew:

Sitting duck at my office,
Alula

Adventures in the Kitchen

I seem to be following the steps of out domestic ancestors the house wife. Don't get me wrong ladies, I will be one of the first to stand up on a soap box and chatter on for hours about equality. I will also ream a man for telling me I would not understand because I am a woman. Still I find me self rather enjoying the thrill of cooking for guests and Mr.Q. Being young and not schooled in the art of cooking I find myself more often than not faking it! At Christmas I was baking cookies and messed up the recipe rather than tossing it out; I boldly trudged though the batter adding for flower then eggs and what ever I could think of, till it looked like Chocolate Chips. As fate would have it, it worked but I was left with a double batch of cookies. Darn!

The other day however I was attempting to make Pineapple Upside Down Cake for the very first time! Its a trick ladies, after the cake is done you have to flip it onto a board and remove the baking pan. This went off with out a hitch as I was aided by the assistance of Alula. However this was a Birthday cake for Mr. Q and I was eager to have it ready and waiting for him when he came home from picking up the Bacon. He came home right after we flipped it. I greeted him and put the Bacon in the fridge; and with out a thought Alula and I started putting the candles in the cake so we could set it on fire! (you know cause he is getting so old...giggle) As we are counting out the candles I confess that I once found myself eating birthday candles as a child. Not licking them, eating them. How do children ever survive? About minute in the candles start to go all cati-wampums. "Well that strange I think to myself" I pull out one of the candles to put it back in upright; half of the candle is gone just the string remands! Eeg-gads, Alula and I stuck wax candles in a hot cake!

So I think it goes with out saying the item to be learned in this story is to bake earlier in the day so your sure to be able to re-bake before anyone sees your mistakes.

I want you to know we ate the cake. It had some pretty colors in it from the candles and we kinda ate around the wax.

Screaming Bacterium

My boss walked up to me and thanked me today. I still have no clue what for.

Thanks to Mr. Borealis’s recent employment, I went grocery shopping for the first time in a month yesterday. I was supposed to buy yogurt because my blood work came back a few days ago and my triglycerides were off the charts. To clarify, I actually bought yogurt because Mr. Borealis has an annoying habit of opening my mail without asking first. There’s nothing like coming home to “Hi—your pap smear came back normal, and you’re going on a diet.”

My doctor says my diet has not been good lately, and I generally agree with her—when Mr. Borealis lost his job, the cookie mix and bacon came out. My doctor’s advice? As penance for past offenses, I am now to become a vegetarian on the Atkins diet.

That is correct. I have been instructed to stop eating all animal fats via meat AND carbs—not just bad carbs, but as many carbs as I can stand to lose because my triglycerides are shootin’ for the stars.

Yippee, doc. So yogurt is what I’ve got. A whole bunch of yogurt and fruit and vegetables. And a multivitamin every day. I think I’m actually going to look forward to that vitamin, pity me.

I sit down this morning to eat my first serving of yogurt, and I notice it says “live cultures” on the side. I stop and cock my head like a confused dog because I’ve never considered yogurt a living entity before, but there it is—yogurt is alive. And I am going to eat it.

In my tired morning stupor a vision of old Godzilla films flashes into my head where there are a bunch of tiny little yogurt culture bacterium screaming in high pitched little voices and running through a pasteurized city before their futile efforts result in the inevitable, and I gobble them up like a giant animatronic T-Rex.

At this juncture I realize I haven’t had my coffee yet, and then I realize that caffeine is on my no-no list as well. Dear readers, I am not going to be a happy blogger for a while now.

I warn you all: get to the mail box before anyone else does, or this could happen to you.

Signed,Alula the Bacterium Ravaging T-Rex

When taking lunch orders...

So today I’m at work, getting a little bored and cranky, a little hungry—and, as the rest of you know, Mr. Alula Borealis just became employed again ending a month-long seize on my ability to eat out without feeling guilty about wasting the money. So I’m feeling this buzz of a headache starting and I start to think, “huh, Alula’s taking a break now. Alula wants a burrito.”

So I start to get up from my desk, and my boss looks up from his computer expectantly, asks if I’m heading out for the day (I set my own hours), and I reply that no, I’m just going to get lunch. The look on his face and the fact that he’s reaching for his wallet tells me I’m bringing something back for him. And I’m thinking, okay, no biggy, I’ve never taken lunch orders before but I think I can remember one extra order. So he rattles it off, hands me a ten, and I start to leave the office again. I immediately pass the office of another co-worker, who is essentially my second boss after my first boss, and I know because the two offices are right next to each other that she had to have heard that I was 1) getting lunch for myself and 2) already getting food for someone else.

I ask if she wants food. She politely declines. Whew.

Another employee has heard me, darn it all! I ask him if he wants lunch. He thinks out loud for several minutes, my tummy getting ever more grumbly and my headache getting more poundy, then scribbles a barely legible order onto a piece of paper.

Ah, geez—Now the whole office knows I’m taking orders. Two more scribbled orders and twenty minutes later, I’m finally on my break. I head out the door, to the restaurant, and pull out my cheat sheet. I immediately screw up the first order because someone decided to tag “no rice” at the END of the order instead of the beginning, but recover quickly and then suddenly remember my boss had an order too. And, like an idiot, I didn’t write it down.


Now, my boss is a nice guy. Probably one of the best bosses I’ve ever had. I really like him on a personal level and respect him on a professional level. He’s introduced me to his kids and I like his wife. So I’m standing there, racking my brain, slowly putting his order back together. I think I have it—I order—and I’m out the door.

And then, dear readers, as I’m walking out the door, that nagging feeling creeps up on me. It’s slinking into my brain, telling me I’ve screwed up his order. I assure myself this isn’t the case. But then, like gaseous build up on the bottom of a lake, one little blip of memory film comes right to the surface.

He wanted that burrito without the tortilla and in a bowl.

So I’m standing there in the doorway, weighing whether or not I’m going back in for another burrito. I’m going to look like an idiot getting back in that line. I’m going to look like an idiot if the boss’s order is the only one I screwed up. He’s my boss. He’s an understanding guy. I really should save my money. I really like my boss. If you pay in cash, Mr. Borealis never has to know…

So what did I do? Hint: I’m sitting here at my desk with two burritos.

Kids, always write down the order.

A Generic Welcome

Welcome to the blog, gang! You can see the intended topic of posting. I have to give credit to Q for coming up with the name; I believe we originally wanted to use it to share with the world the average life span of a leech. Alas, we have been unable to locate this information, so the world will have to do without. If you or any of your friends happen to know this information from a reputable source, please inform us so we may feel that our lives are in some respect more complete.

A quick reminder to all that this is to be a CLEAN site! This means no jokes about pigs and mud! But really, please keep it PG or I will have to hunt you down and slap you with a ruler. And those of you who know me know how cranky I get whilst hunting people down.

But that’s about the only criteria I have for the site. Keep it clean, and please have a point. No pointless posting. Pointless stories are okay as long as they get a laugh. Otherwise the ruler comes out.