Think pink.

Can anybody guess what gender New-Vo will be?

It's actually pretty easy being green.

We lucked out this week, and were able to buy a Ford Escape Hybrid without the usual 3-6 month wait. The color is growing on us...


Mommy car? Maybe. But it's a HYBRID with SATELLITE RADIO and an IPOD ACCESS THINGIE, which means that it is still hip driving while NOT sliding all over the poorly-maintained roads of MyCity.

Sheer genius.

This sign is posted outside of my office building:


Caution!! The ice MAY be slippery! Or it may not!! You never know!! We won't take responsibility either way, because NOW YOU KNOW IT COULD BE EITHER! You've been warned!

Speech by Skeetch: Priceless

Hey everybody! Skeetch is coming to MyCity in late February to speak about Why Botswana Kicks Ass, or something to that effect. The only kicker is that it costs $10 to get in.

Which leads to me to poll the mob (with a shout-out to Bob Saget on 1 Vs. 100):

Is hearing Skeetch yap about Africa worth $10? Keep in mind that every time we heard Skeetch make a speech at OAM, it probably cost us about $6000. So $10 post-graduation is quite the bargain in comparison.

I think I'll skip the Skeetch speech and just hit the (free) reception instead. I'm such a cheap-ass.

I think my new favorite phrase is any variant of "Skeetch speech."

Freaks of the world, read my blog...

Apparently, way more Scientologists read my blog than I was previously aware. Welcome to my world of SP's, freaks!

Timecard update

Apparently, I am still failing to fill out my timecard appropriately.

Last week, I worked a 12-hour day. I was unhappy about this, therefore, as a mark of protest, I noted on my timecard that I worked said 12 hours.

I was informed today that, "If you write down that you worked 12 hours, you're going to get paid for 12 hours, so just write down 8 hours, which is what you're contracted for."

My frakking point exactly, clowns. I'm contracted for 32 hours/week, just frakking pay me for 32/hours a week and don't ask me to write down how many hours it actually is. Because apparently if it's MORE, I get in trouble. I would venture to guess that I would also get into trouble if it were LESS.

I was also told, "the reason you're supposed to fill this out is so we can keep track of your vacation days." Because it would be so much more difficult to have me complete a card stating, "How many days off did you have this week?"

Idiots.

Because I really want more skin showing than usual while I'm knocked up.

Maternity clothes suck, for the following reasons:

• too short
• too loud
• too low-cut
• too expensive
• cheaply made
• too casual
  
• or they look like they were made for a pregnant 14 year-old.
  

Oops, I did it again....

I let the Green Bay Packers get my hopes up again, only to see them dashed against the green walls of the Frozen Tundra 3 minutes into overtime.

Sigh.

Maybe next year....

Shit-tastic.

I had a pretty g-d shit-tastic week last week. Even though the wounds are slowly being healed by the fact that Packers are playing for the NFC championship AT HOME this week, I'm still not feeling very pithy. Or wry. Or profound. So here are some pictures for you to have a moment of Zen with me:


This was the view from our back deck this morning.


I made these roast pork BBQ buns yesterday.

Bueller? Bueller?

Anybody know what this:

"bekijk de afbeelding op ware grootte"

means?

It better not mean "nasty, skanky grocery store buffalo porn."

Of course it is.

The posterior pituitary is a resilient little bugger!

Ya think?

I'd like to think that, in the event of a massive psychotic break with reality that culminated in me locking myself and A-Vo in the bathroom, resulting in T-Vo calling the police to break the door down and involuntarily admit me to the psych ward, that my mom might take a break from her busy week of whoring my sister out to the media to actually fly to the same time zone in which I'd just been committed. I mean, that might be nice.

Are you listening, Lynne Spears?!?

Love the ass-sitting.

It is highly gratifying to know that my blog-reading peeps are not out putting me to shame on New Year's Eve by wild carousing, naked dancing, and drinking champagne out of their shoes while I'm at home, sitting on my ass, watching a Planet of the Apes marathon. The numbers don't lie! Let's hear it for ass-sitting-in the new year!

We got skillz.

A-Vo and I have a knack for persuading people to let us use their secret bathrooms...when I was preggers with A-Vo, in DC visiting TOWWAS, a kindly Metro employee took pity on the poor, almost-incontinent J-Vo and allowed me access to the fabled, secret Metro bathroom before I pulled a Fergie in the middle of the station. It was a scuzzy, nasty bathroom, but at that point, I would've been happy with a hole in the ground. And yesterday, A-Vo started doing the "I have to go potty NOW" dance, complete with a stilted walk (which means you know disaster is imminent) at a small market in town that doesn't have a public restroom. When I inquired about the availability of a potty, you could see the clerk's mental machinations, weighing the risks of her allowing us to use to secret employee's bathroom vs. the risks of A-Vo crapping all over her store. Thankfully, she chose wisely and the crap ended up just where it should have.

Wish I could talk myself out of traffic tickets like I can talk myself into the can.