Fuck Yogurt

Also, I love my boss. Also, I'm going home to sleep now.  
__________________________________________________________________


From: Amanda K
Sent: Monday, October 24, 2011 11:57 AM
To: Kacey R (my boss ♥)
Subject:

Dear Kacey,

Enclosed, please find a dramatic reenactment of last night’s activities, and the consequences produced as a result.



Umm… I know the timing isn’t ideal, but I am really hurting. :c If I a) get everything scanned, saved, in the cart, etc. can I b) go home and barf in my own toilet, and then c) make up the time this week? If it’s a problem, let me know, and I will like… nap in my car at lunch or something.

I ate the yogurt last night and
then checked the date. This is a cautionary tale.

Thank you!

Best regards,

Amanda K 


__________________________________________________________________


From: Kacey R
Sent: Monday, October 24, 2011 12:25 PM
To: Amanda K
Subject: RE:

a)      Yes
b)      Please
c)       Yes

Thanks for the giggles at your poor tummy’s expense. Hope you get to feeling better.

Kacey R










...

Mr. Biffles' Big Day

I've learned quite a few things since becoming the proud owner of my fancy feline friend.

I've learned that yes means yes, and no means yes. "Get down from there" means "stare defiantly," and "Ow, those are my veins" means "bite harder." The most important lesson I've learned, however, is that this:



Actually means this:




That said, I've decided it's high time for Mr. Biffles to have that very special vet appointment.

After shopping around, I have decided to take him to a place in town called Pets Alive. Over all, I was pretty impressed with their services and prices, and they seem to genuinely care about the critters, which is always a plus. Admittedly, though,  I did find some things on their website that kind of... just....




Yeeeeah.

No, I did not photoshop this. This is the banner that slapped me across my chow hole when I first entered their site. I'll go ahead and link it, if you happen to think I'm lying.

I mean... I get what they're trying to say. But all I could really think after seeing that was something along the lines of


My favorite part of this is how I didn't even have to alter his face. He just... looks like the kind of guy who's fully able to support this claim.

I assumed that they just snuck in a funny slide in their welcome slide show and was fully prepared to forget about it. Until I saw the next one.




In other words, "This blog post basically writes itself, because come on. Really?" And in other other words:



I continued my pet ownership education on their website, reading up on everything I'd need to do to take proper care of Mr. Biffles pre- and post-op. It seemed mostly pretty standard,and potentially hilarious. Just think of the fun faces and pictures I could draw on an Elizabethan cone, should one be required. I know I am.


Oh, like you wouldn't.

Dare I dream. It's been way too long since I've had a good excuse to play with pipe cleaners and googly eyes.

There was, however, one bit of information that I was not expecting, which caught me off guard.




Um... say what, now??

I'm sure there's some logical explanation, and that it's beneficial in one way or another, but I'm not exactly thrilled about it. Hell, I don't even have a tattoo, and my cat is going to get one? Is my cat officially cooler than me? Don't answer that.

I wonder if they take requests.... Maybe something in a nice tramp stamp. Or perhaps something to make him seem like less of a mama's boy, should he ever find himself in the great outdoors. Something tough.




Oh yeah. That's the stuff.

Oh well. Whether or not they take requests, I'm sure they'll do a bang-up job destroying my cat's manhood and liveliness. And while I sincerely hope and pray that he emerges a more compassionate and calm soul... I hope he doesn't end up with this expression embedded permanently on his cute little furry face.




Seriously, who chose the pictures for this website? It's like I designed it or something.

(And no, I didn't.)

((But maybe I should have.))










....

I'm a creep


I have many redeeming qualities. And, like everyone, I have my flaws, too. But I also have these other... let's call them, "tendancies," to be, as the French would say, "weird as fuck."**
**I don't speak French. Leave me alone.

For example: Let's say you have an adorable kitten. And your friend says to you,


While some kind souls, like my sister, might see this request, and respond on my behalf by posting something adorable like this:


My typical reaction would be... something a little different.

Let's just say that if the last thing on your list of reactions to this request would be "photoshop Jennifer's face onto Mr. Biffles, making a terrifying cat-woman hybrid," then we are on two different wavelengths, my friend.


And, the close up:



No punchline. No explanation. It's literally, for whatever reason, the first thing that came to mind.

You got lucky, Jenniffles. Because if you're unfortunate enough to be acquainted with the likes of me on Facebook, and you're not careful, you could very well find yourself in an entire album like this:




And straight up, being careful can't even spare you. This came out of the blue for my friend Sara, and her cute pup Roscoe. I was just bored.



And I saw her pictures.



And I was feeling creative.



And by creative, I mean creepy as fuck.



For a couple days, she'd hear me giggling to myself. And she'd know it was time to go to Facebook, to see my latest abomination of her face and the things she loves. It's really summed up in the only comment on the album:



I don't act any more normal outside of photoshop, either. That said, I'm not entirely sure how I've survived 26 long years with any friends at all. But I did. (Hooray!) But make no mistake, friends: Even though I'm grateful for your loyalty, with great friendship comes great tolerance.



Thanks in advance.









..

A.D.D. Wednesday

Heads up: I'm all over the place today.

It could be that extra large cup of coffee I had for breakfast his morning, and the fact that we were out of creamer, so I just dumped in a shitload of hot cocoa. Don't judge. It was delicious. Diabetically delicious. I've decided to call it, "Hot Mochoa". It's pronounced, hot moh-coh, and rhymes with cocoa. You know... like... a combo of mocha and cocoa?

Shut up. It's brilliant. Just like all of the other words I invent which no one can seem to pronounce.

Sound it out, bitches.


Or maybe I'm just feeling hyper because today finally looked, smelled, and felt like fall is supposed to, instead of this prolonged summer crap. Gtfo, sunshine. We've had enough of your 90 degree bullshit.




Or perhaps, it was the fact that my previous once-in-a-lifetime experience has turned into a twice-in-a-lifetime experience. Yes, that's right, folks. Today, I received yet another... siamese McNug. I'm convinced that I'm some kind of Nugget Goddess at this point.


Dramatic reenactment

Whatever the cause, I have some serious ADD today. That's probably why all I could see out of this:



Was this:



At least I already have something at the ready for him to snack on.





Life isn't fair, weather guy. Unless you get double siamese McNuggets, and get to wash it down with some delicious hot mocoa. Then it's totally fair. At least for a minute or two.










...

I'm the best sister ever

And the most modest. But mostly, the best.

Some people get their sisters a manicure, or a bracelet, or some shitty gift card for their birthday. But not this Meteoroflgist. No, sir. My gifts come from the heart. Right from the heart, and right onto Facebook.

My logic:Why buy a cardigan? She has clothes already. What she doesn't have is a Facebook wall flooded with images that represent how I really feel about her.



How much I enjoy having her as a sister.



All of the fun times we've had together.



Or those wild parties we attended, before the spiders came.

It's from Arachnophobia. I sincerely hope no one besides my sister understands this photo.


And the lessons we've learned along the way, like never to arrive too early to a party.



And you thought Facebook was stupid and pointless. Poppycock, I say to you. Poppycock.


So yes. Happy Birthday, dear sister, and may these images be embedded in your Facebook archive and subconscious forever.



And on an incredibly related note, this is what you get for having a birthday in October in my world.










...

Somebody got an F in marketing class!

I'm lookin' at you, Taylor Swift.

Am I a big fan of Taylor Swift? Not really. She has that one song about breathing or something that's kind of okay, but I really only like that because Boyce Avenue covered it. I love Boyce Avenue, and I really wish they were touring closer than Chicago. But I digress.

Anyway, one thing I love even more than Boyce Avenue is free shit. I'm not the most wealthy gal in Indiana, so I really enjoy receiving free samples of things in the mail. I sign up for at least one free sample per day. And then, it's like Christmas every day! You know, if Christmas were some shitty third-world holiday in which you receive about a teaspoon of shampoo, fiercely rub your head for five minutes trying to make a lather with that little shampoo, and gain a perplexing and ultimately undeserved sense of accomplishment.






I had one of my free samples sent to work last week, just to mix it up a bit. It was a sample of Taylor Swift's new perfume. It's called Wonderstruck. I felt mysterious just looking at the envelope.



Don't mind if I do, Taylor. Don't mind if....



I... uh...



Hmm.

Really?

Why... of all the places on this entire card.... did we put the mystical gateway to Smell Good Land right on your... eh...



Yeeahhh...

I mean seriously... let's re-examine this:



Don't even try to tell me it wasn't intentional.



Seriously, if we're going to be this weird about our marketing, let's just complete the presentation with an equally awkward slogan. Something like, I don't know...



Yeah, that'll work.

At this point upon "enjoying" my free sample, I was laughing so hard that my boss literally came from across the building to see what was happening. Tears were streaming down my face. It was just so absurd.

And before anyone makes the argument that I'm just being immature, let me ask you this: If it's truly so innocent, then why was I immediately asked to remove it from the door to our room? By my supervisor, who happens to read this blog, and has an awesome sense of humor?



I rest my case. Someone is either a marketing failure, or a total perv. Or maybe both.



Probably both.






(oh, and yes, the sign on the left on our door is indeed about Mr. Biffles. )












...