Maybe My Head’s Just Small

I have found that when in the midst of what we like to call, “A New Job Search,” it is VERY difficult to find ANYTHING interesting in our current jobs. Hence, I am posting twice in one day. The world of the Interweb reaps the rewards of my agony!!!

In my boredom I decided to search my company’s (which will remain nameless) server for pictures of myself, which illustrate my pain. Instead, I found a picture from a rather fun building tour.

MY GOD!!! CHECK OUT THE SAFARI HARD HAT!!! I knew it was big, but love of Jesus, that thing is flipping huge. I look like a lost storm trooper. I wondered why all of the engineers were snickering at me. Or maybe it was the fact that I was a…wait for it….it’s coming….a….a…GIRL!!! Girls aren’t allowed on job sites! We might try to put a bow on something.

Do you see what I mean by meaningless ranting about current job. So counterproductive.

Happy Birthday!

It’s my one-year website anniversary. Literally, one year ago today I posted the first entry on what would later become the Crazy Bananas phenomenon. Hooray for me! Let’s all have cake and drink beers. I think that sounds like a grand idea. Don’t you?

Happy birthday to me and my PowerBook “Macaroni.” This is our anniversary picture from one year ago. My, how we’ve grown. We’ve had quite the virtual year. Also, happy “interview for new job day” to me. Let’s hope I don’t say “fuck” during the interview. Or “poop.” Or “shit.” Possibly “crap,” but only under the right circumstances.

10 hours!!!

For the love of all things holy, when I’ve been working for 10 hours strait, and have to muster up some energy to go play/drink at sand volleyball, please don’t come up to me at 5:03 and say, “Um, do you think maybe you could stay for a bit. I have, um, some typing.” in a rhetorical question manner, which really means “Sit. Stay. Type.”

And if anyone asks me to get them beef sandwiches again, I may just burst a blood vessel in my eye.

And also, I don’t need to see pictures of your granddaughter in her wedding lingerie. She probably meant it when she asked you not to show it to anyone, and I really don’t need to be seeing her wedding-night thong! Sooooooooo not appropriate at work!!!!


So, now that the stench of the golf tournament has worn off a bit, I’ve regained some of my sanity. I’m sure some of you are wondering if we were rained out. No. We were not rained out. It was a GORGEOUS DAY FOR GOLF. In all honesty, it wasn’t that bad. I only wiffed the ball 4 times and my partner let me drive the cart! And I drank at least 8 beers, which definetely helped my skills. Although now I am dehydrated and sunburned, I have to say, it was better than being at work. Except for a particular someone making me go into the bathroom with them. That was scary, and very, very strange. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

Notice how I have a beer in one hand, a confused look and no golf clubs? OK, maybe a putter, but you know I didn’t really use it.

Also, I’ve uploaded some pics of Molly to Flickr. But if you think Rotweiler’s are bad/evil/mean/dangerous or any of the above, don’t bother to look because I don’t care what you think. Or look and notice the sweetness of Molly and realize whatever you were thinking before was obviously wrong and hateful. Then send me $20. You’re welcome.

S&B Golf Tourny Jitters. Oh Crap.

I hate khakis. I really do. I never thought I did, but I do. Khaki’s make me look like I have an ass the size of a small eastern European country. They also make me look like a bagger at a grocery store (sorry Hayley, but they do). I also hate forcasters who promise rain on the day of a dreaded outdoor event, and then THERE IS NO RAIN!!! Nice and cloudy, but NO FREAKING RAIN!!! Now the question is, do I hate golf? This I do not know, but I do know that any sport that requires you to wear khaki’s and polo shirts is a sport that should be banned from my life.

Today, I will embarrass myself in front of a bunch of engineers with little or no sense of humor. For the love of God, where is the RAIN??!!!

The Map as of 10:18 a.m. We leave for the club at 11:00. Can’t it hurry up a bit?!

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