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Corn: It’s a movement. (But not like you think.)

25 Jul

I have a new-found respect for kindergartner’s art skills. Corn is not easy to work with.

So in the wake of my run-in at the farmer’s market, I decided to make corn a dirty word.

This should trouble you on many levels. Let me enumerate count them:

  1. I had a run-in at a farmer’s market. How is this even possible? 
  2. I already swear a lot. Do I need another word in my arsenal? Does a bear eat corn? Probably, if it is hungry enough. 
  3. Corn is a ridiculous word. Is it actually swear-worthy? For the love of corn, yes. 
  4. Really? I was annoyed enough that I need to seek revenge by starting a corn movement? Frankly, yes. 

You know the expression, “Mess with the bull and you’ll get the horn?” Well, my new motto is: Mess with me and you’ll get the corn.

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Mother Nature: *some* kind of magic.

12 Jul

This winter, as temperatures danced around below freezing, I kept proclaiming it was “colder than a witch’s titty!”

(Well, actually, I said “witch’s tit” and Alan corrected me, but you get the gist. In fact, I think this shows I can take feedback constructively, because I’ve used his wording. I’d like some gold stars for that. Alan, I’m looking at you. Gold stars. Pronto.)

Anyway, the mercury is now on the other end of the thermometer, pushing past 100 and trailing humidity to boot. You can’t even cross your legs in the shade without sweat pooling around your ankles in DC. Everyone I pass on the sidewalk looks like they’d hand over their first-born child if you could provide them with an air-conditioned gerbil ball to transport them to their destination.

(Note to self: patent air conditioned, human-sized gerbil ball tomorrow.)

I try to save energy by turning off my AC when I’m not home. As a result, there’s an uncomfortable lag when I arrive home every day, hot from my 1.5 mile walk, and my thermostat is registering 80.

(Side note: I would like to feel all cocky and Environmentally Correct about keeping my thermostat at 77, but I read that in Japan, businesses are keeping their office buildings cooled only to 82 to save energy this summer. Now go look at your thermostat — can you spare a degree?)

Anyway… last night, while waiting for the temperature to drop, I came up with a phrase that I believe perfectly captures how hot it is.

Out of curiosity, I did a few google searches to see if anyone else had coined it yet, and it seems to be an original. But I did find this article, which offers up some suggestions for capturing exactly how hot it is. Before I reveal my (soon to be catching) phrase, I’d like to highlight some of the more interesting suggestions from their list.

Here goes:

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Careful. I’m pretty sure you meant “figuratively.”

26 Apr

Ironically, I think that's a gerbil, not a mouse.

Alan and I both get a kick out of the word “literally,” since so many people use it incorrectly. An example? A colleague of mine recently said, “It was so hot I literally melted!”

My inner monologue then sounds something like, “Really? You literally melted? Then why are you standing here conversing with me? I would think you should still be in a puddle somewhere without lips. Literally.”

Anyway, we had gorgeous weather in DC this past weekend… it was 80 and sunny, so I spent a good amount of time outside. Just before we walked to Mike and Betsy’s place, I ran into the bathroom to pee.

I pulled down my pants and – there, on my leg, was an ant crawling around.

I literally had ants in my pants. Or – I suppose if we’re truly being literal – an ant in my pants.

So this week, whenever someone has asked how my weekend was, I’ve been responding, “I literally had ants in my pants on Saturday.”

I keep waiting for someone like me to call bullshit and say, “Literally? That must’ve been uncomfortable,” expecting to provide me with a lesson on the difference between something literally and figuratively occurring.

But apparently no one is that nerdy, because I’ve just gotten a bunch of puzzled looks. Which is, literally, a shame.

I’ve got your TPS report right here.

18 Feb

At work a few weeks back, we were discussing creating a document where we store data that multiple people needed to access for responding to RFPs. My colleague – who sometimes mixes up words – ran with the idea, suggesting we create a central suppository.

I almost fell off my chair at the time, but in retrospect, I think there’s something clever about it. At least it would be more polite to direct someone to a “central suppository” instead of telling them directly to shove it up their ass.

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You say tomato, I say Gestapo.

28 Sep

Saturday morning we ran to the farmer’s market so I could pick up some fruit and greens for a salad. (Side note: I discovered kiwi berries, which, if you like kiwi fruit but HATE peeling them, this is the fruit for you – think of grapes that taste like kiwis.)

On the way there, we were breaking one of my pet urban rules: we were walking three-across on the sidewalk. Fortunately, my mom was tuned into our surroundings, and realized someone coming up behind us would need to get around. She stepped aside, grabbed my dad and me by the shoulders, and loudly announced, “Let’s wait a second so this gentleman can pass.”

The thing is, that gentleman had breasts. No sooner were the words out of my mom’s mouth, than my dad and I exchanged an uncomfortable look and my mom clapped her hand over her mouth. We dropped back a few paces and let the woman gain some ground before we spoke again.

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