my winning oscar equation

Simply A + B = C

Where A is my "prize" for predicting the most Oscar winners in 2002:

(Yes, friends, it's a cookie jar. In fact, it's a cookie jar that was broken in transit and glued together during the award ceremony, making it even more Classy.)


And B is the "trophy" awarded to me for predicting the most Oscar winners in 2004:

(This was originally intended to serve as our very own Oscar Stanley Cup of sorts. The Hostess planned to affix our names and dates of victory to the brim--until she "won" it last night and realized that she'd be saddled with displaying it this year. Now, I think it's being retired. Pity.)

And C is the fact that I succeeded in predicting the fewest Oscar winners in 2005, a feat for which I was awarded an obnoxious--but delightfully small--singing mouse, which can be neatly hidden in a drawer until I can unload it on a deserving recipient.

Though, I probably will miss watching dust collect on The Hat all year....

one of those days

Do you think the Warren Commission would consider reconvening to check out this splatter pattern?

First, the store doesn't have any of the best yogurt in the whole, wide world. Then, while I'm sitting at my desk enjoying the relatively tasty second-choice brand mixed with my coworker's nummy homemade granola, the yogurt cup gently slips out of my hand and plops on the carpet.

Plops. No rolling. No bouncing. Just a mild little plop. If the yogurt cup had been a Romanian gymnast performing a dismount off the balance beam, it would have stuck the landing.

And yet, look at that splatter! The yogurt actually traveled a couple of more feet out of frame, hitting about knee-high on the cubicle wall. Magic bullet? Maybe not.

sadly, we're nowhere near there yet

So what if I haven't had a day off work since the beginning of February? I was the Belle of the Unpaid Overtime Ball last weekend at the office, wearing my wicked spiffy t-shirt:

[Shameless commerce interlude -- Would you, too, like to wear the Coolest. T-shirts. Ever? Then, pay a visit to the wondrous glarkware. In addition to the faboo designs, glarkware is located in Canada. Some might call it outsourcing your casual wear, but I call it sending your hard-earned cash to the Land of the Free (to Marry).]

And we really are nowhere near there yet. For the first time in the 50-year history of our office, our workload is so freaking ridiculous that The Powers That Be have agreed to extend our Major Deadline. And it's still going to be a painful challenge getting all of the work finished in time. Translation: my office is going to be full of exhausted and cranky people until at least the middle of March. Phooey.

The good news is that the deadline extension allows me to attend The Oscar Party/Competition my friends host every year. A little Hollywood fashion trash-talking could be just the cure for my overtime blues. Yay!

overtime and the single girl

As I've already mentioned in passing, this is The Month of Wicked Bad Deadlines where I work. All of my coworkers and I have been spending extraordinary hours hunched over our desks. I've wasted pretty much the entire last three weeks of my life doing little other than speed-editing dull, complicated legal documents. (And I'm tired, so if this post is riddled with typos and grammatical errors? You can: (1) Ignore them; or (2) Bite me. Oh, and all this work is making me a mite cranky.)

I'm already out to all y'all as a big old dyke (yes, that's what the D stands for), but now I think it's time for me to step out of a much more personally painful and awkward closet: I am a state worker. A public servant. A cog in the mighty wheel that is supposedly democracy.

Do you still love me? I understand that you'll probably have lots of questions and painful feelings about this seemingly strange and terribly wrong "lifestyle choice" I've made. But I think, in time, you'll come to accept it. If you need help, contact Parents and Friends of Public Employees. Before you know it, you'll be attending Pride rallies and chanting "We're here! We're funded by your hard-earned tax dollars! Get used to it!" right along with all the other PFoPE members.

At any rate, that stereotype of the slack-jawed, lazy-ass state worker? Is a big fat lie. In our office, at least. I'm lucky enough to work with a group of fairly ridiculously thoughtful, talented and intelligent people. (Well, other than their career choice, they're smart.) And the only thing that keeps us sane during these long, stressful days? Kvetching to each other about how hard we're working.

Ordinarily, I'm not at all the sort who participates in competitive discomfort. (You know the type: Person A says "Boy, am I tired." Person B responds "You're tired?! I haven't slept in a week!") But recently I've been mentally one-upping my married/coupled coworkers. They at least have some small hope of going home and finding that a load of laundry has been done, or that dinner has been cooked, or that the recycling has been lugged out to the curb. After a very long day at work, they get to interact--at least briefly--with a person who isn't a coworker.

When one dear, sweet man in my office was gently complaining to me about how bad he felt neglecting his wife and kids while he worked all these crazy hours, I actually found myself thinking, Yeah, well, at least you've had sex this year.

Clearly, I need a day off.

Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam

Why you should never engage a true science fiction geek in casual conversation: A cautionary tale in three acts.

Act One (a couple of months ago)
I was working alone late one evening and bumped into the night janitor in our office. I complimented him on the vintage Star Wars t-shirt he was wearing. We went our separate ways.

Act Two (a couple of weeks ago)
I was alone, working late again and ran into our night janitor. He said, "I've been meaning to ask if you've seen the new Battlestar Galactica, because I just can't get behind the idea of Starbuck being a woman." I explained that I've never even seen the old Battlestar Galactica and that, although I'm admittedly a hopeless Star Wars goon, I'm not really a sci-fi buff. He responded by explaining at some length why the current Star Trek series isn't as good as the others.

Act Three (last night)
I was working late, along with all of my coworkers. I could hear the janitor making his way down the row of cubicles, emptying garbage cans and offering brief greetings to everyone. Then he got to my cubicle and, upon seeing me, bellowed (Seriously, it was earsplittingly loud. That strange noise you heard last night? Was him.) "HEY, IT'S MY SCI-FI BUDDY!"

Epilogue
Now all of my coworkers think I speak Klingon. Sigh.

slap on the wrist (or perhaps elsewhere)

I wasn't going to post about this, but it's been bothering me for a while now. So, here it is: We've had a serious breach of blogging etiquette here at D&K.

K changed something in one of my posts without telling me.

If there were an Office of Blogland Security, I would totally rat K out to the Internet G-men and send her to her Geneva Convention-less doom. But there isn't an Office of B.S. (ahem), so I'm ratting K out to you. Punish her accordingly.

Here's what transpired:

1. In a post, K referred to her ex/possibly future boyfriend as "Meaty Man."
2. In a phone conversation, I made fun of K for that.
3. K attempted to make fun of me for referring, in a post, to my ex/not possibly future girlfriend as "3of3."
4. I explained to K that "3of3" did not merit teasing in comparison, because "it's not as if I referred to 3of3 as '[admittedly wildly amusing meat-related nickname that will not appear here just in case 3of3 ever stumbles across this page].'"
5. K laughed. Lots. Too much.
6. I laughed, too. Because, well, it was pretty damned funny.
7. I forgot all about it.
8. K did not forget all about it, snuck into my post, and changed "3of3" to "[admittedly wildly amusing meat-related nickname]."
9. Aaaaand, I didn't find out about K's evil transgression for days. Days!

Betrayed by K. Sweet Mother of Pearle, who's a girl to trust nowadays?

Repeat after me, K: I will not edit my blogging buddy's posts because it is wicked, mean, and wrong. I will not edit my blogging buddy's posts because it is wicked, mean, and wrong....

(Ordinarily, I'm not one for corporal punishment. But in this case, do feel free to join in the public flogging by spanking K in the comments section.)

just ignore the fact that it's a volcano

I meant to post this right after K's "it's a beautiful day" post, but I have the attention span of a gnat, so I forgot. At any rate, here is some evidence of how achingly, amazingly lovely it can be here in the Pacific Northwest. I snapped this photo last summer near the end of a road trip that took me through southern Utah, New Mexico, Arizona and up the California coast. I saw breathtaking scenery just about every day on my travels, but I was happy coming home to our moody mountains.

If I do say so myself, it makes a wonderfully soothing image as computer monitor wallpaper. If you'd like the gigantic version (nearly 850K) that will fill up a 1280x1024 screen, send me an e-mail.

note to self: buy renters insurance

Something you do not want to hear your new landlord (a first-time homeowner) say:

Some people are afraid to do their own electrical work. They're all, "Ooooooooh! Electricity!" I figure, just turn everything off before you start. The worst that could happen is that when you turn it back on, it doesn't work. [short pause, upon noticing my eyebrow raise as an involuntary reflex] Or, um, I guess the house could burn down. But that's so unlikely. I'd rather pay someone to refinish the floors. They're fir. It's a very delicate wood.

Aiyeeeeee!
To-do (immediately) list:
1) Work on poker face.
2) Relocate irreplaceables.
3) Practice stopping, dropping, and rolling.