Shrimpy Scamps, Scampy Shrimps

In daily grind news, I bought a canister of butternut squash soup the other week because I saw it and immediately thought no one has ever had a butter idea in the history of soupmaking. I decided to save it for a savory occasion since it was a butter treat than a rare, expensive bottle of wine.

Well, this past weekend, I decided a bowl of soup might make a delicious and calming conclusion to a Sunday afternoon, so I asked boyfie to heat me up a small bowl, to which he dutifully complied.

I polished up my best silver spoon (plastic actually), and gave my heart and mouth the go-ahead, and I went forward for a sipparoo.

It. tasted. TERRR-EEEE-BLEEEEE. (i.e., This is terri-bullshit!)

Like a cloyingly sweet, thin veggie smoothie. Just really the worst pay-off for the most starry-eyed anticipation. Don’t get me wrong. I tried “fixing” it. Added pepper. Added crackers. Added limey tang. Added hugs. It was like a toxic broth that just absorbed everything wordlessly, and just added it to the angry abyss of a flavor. I had to dispose of the rest of it humanely (it wasn’t pretty unless you mean pretty ugly).

In other food horror news, my parents left the country last week for worldwide adventures but neglected to mention the tup of rotten shrimp they left for me in the fridge. I caught sight of it the other night, and Dared myself to open it (I would have chosen Truth, but I always ask the tough questions).

Tricky creatures
photo courtesy of Flickr and Eli Hodapp

The odor. Oh, the odor. I don’t even have words. It was a silent scream kind of odor. The kind that haunts your dreams but shows up wearing a bunny outfit with the eyes hanging out. I had to deal with it like an adult so I washed it out while praying and then took the contents, triplebagged them (didn’t help), and then threw the specimen away in a trashcan on a college campus (where questionable odors live peaceful existences in many a dorm room).


Finally, my computer went FLIMFLAM today, and I mean, really conked out completely (this was after weeks of foreshadowing freezes and crash hiccups). I had 17+ windows open at the time, and a lot of good faith at work. It then gave me a series of blue screens…no, not just one…several, as if to say, “This is how broken I am.” Then the IT guy charitably descended upon me merely to say “Yeah, this thing is done. This is not my day.” And I thought, maybe it’s not your day, but to be fair, it’s also not really the poor computer’s day. Ol’ faithful is to be replaced tomorrow!!! One more desktop picture change for good times’ sakes.

Today’s watchable video: For history buffs, but not those with pottytrained mouths. (Via Ham)

Gimme a Break (Room)!

The items that are up for grabs in our office kitchen are getting weirder and weirder.

Today when I entered said kitchen to peel an old, dried up orange, this is the sight that met my eyes (but did not meet them halfway―to be fair to reality):

  • An empty plastic container that, at the prime of its life, used to be full of Biscotti. However the lid was screwed on tight as if to say, “The goodies are gone, but the vessel is still ripe for the pillaging!
  • A basket containing one unopened 6-pack of regular-size Hershey milk chocolate bars, one pint of Half & Half, and some sort of a cleaning/cooking rag. Offensive.
  • Three supersized Pixy Stix. Nobody should consume anything of this size at work. Especially if said item is just concentrated sugar.
  • A small blue bucket full of raw peanuts (still in shells). No. Unacceptable.
  • Sad proof below…

    Giant Pixy Stik up-close:

    Giant Pixy Stik in all its glory: O rly, coworkers?! I know it’s finally Friday, but sheesh. Dropping red flags like these right before the weekend is just unnecessarily cruel.

    Anyway, it’s time to eat my geriatric citrus snack.

    UPDATE!!! The basket with the Half & Half and chocolate were actually not up for the taking! They were just part of a fondue assembly kit, and the basket has since been replaced with a tray of delectable strawberries and raspberries escorted by a earthernware pot of still-warm chocolate goo.

    The raw peanut bucket, however, still remains untouched. (Where did it even come from? Someone’s fever dream that happened to take place at an absurdist baseball game between Team Accounting and Team Sales?)

    You Have Got to Be Kidding Me

    Caution: I discuss my dreams below, and I’m just as sorry as you are about it.

    I keep having these dreams where I am watching someone’s stand up comedy act, but no matter who it is, it always ends in them incoherently yelling.

    But then the yelling is revealed to be the harpy shrieks of my alarm clock.

    Yet, time and time again, I never pick up on it right away. And I always end up saying, “What is this guy saying?! He is just yelling! This is unconscionable.”

    Real World Confessional/Depressional

    This past weekend I was in Chi-town living in close quarters with my improv group (more on that later), and one of my dear cohorts said the following after a day or two spent in entirety together…

    Anonymous Dear Cohort: Hey, do any of you guys ever listen to Aparna? You should! She says some really funny things.

    Ho-hum! *auto-blushing* They listen sometimes. It warms the cold brittle cube located in the part of my body where most people’s hearts are.

    Aparnabot initiating smile sequence followed by mild inner core meltdown, bloop bleep bloop.
    photo courtesy of Flickr and pusgums

    You Can’t Change the Weather, But You Can Change the Subject*

    *Advice I should have taken five prontos ago.

    Society has deemed the classic small talk topics to be weather and sports (i.e., the Jurassic but well-intentioned “How bout dem Yankees?” or the earnest soulwrencher “How great has this weather been?”). Everyone jokes about these goodies because they’re the lowest (of the low) common denominators of conversation. In fact, they’re so universally accepted as not-big-deals that people will even throw them around sarcastically in verbal battles with good friends just to unnecessarily communicate how very comfortable they are with themselves in acknowledging awkwardness that may or may not have actually occurred.

    How about that new local weatherteam?!
    photo courtesy of Flickr and CarbonNYC

    Here’s the thing though. Some of us wouldn’t even be allowed to socialize with other humans without small talk. Case in point: me. So I take it pretty darn seriously. My half-arsenal doesn’t even have space to accommodate the wide berth of two subject areas because, let’s be grimly honest, sports takes time, enthusiasm, and mild research. Weather just requires leaving the house occasionally. Even just once every few days is enough. In fact, for the love of cumulonimbus (the real purdy ones), a window will do just fine.

    I hope there isn’t a snow day, because I’m snow banking on some real gems of verbal exchanges on the morrow!!
    photo courtesy of Flickr and foto3116

    The point to which I’ve used the weather as fodder for any and all informal conversations with my office coworkers is beyond acceptable. It’s the only thing I will in fact allow myself to talk about in the company of all except my inner circle (i.e., my BFF Mr. Fax Machine). I feel my mouth open, and I immediately run through the temperature stats for the past few days, decide whether I should focus on local or national coverage, consider any and all recent global national disasters (poor taste, but there’s more than a few to choose from), and decide whether precipitation should be a starter subject or a winder-down. I actually get excited when the temperatures suddenly shift, especially if it gets cold (I mean, I thought this was summer, people!) because I’ll have something to jibber about in the break room. Sometimes I’ll even just shout some recent weather trivia (i.e., 30% chance of brisk rain on Saturday!) at someone to show that I’m prepared and ready should they choose to engage with me.

    Prematurely gray sky? Well, actually, I knew this was going to happen. That weird girl at work predicted it.
    photo courtesy of Flickr and romulusnr

    But it doesn’t end there. I will actually dominate the conversation so that the person cannot take credit for any of the weather knowledge or factfinding that I am so diligent about. If they try and hint at something, I will brashly suggest otherwise. As in, “ha! I’m pretty sure you mean a drizzle, not a downpour, my dear Carol…It is Carol, right?” Or “Hey Steve, be safe driving home! Limited visibility. Chance of fog. That’s my boy!” I don’t know what I’m trying to prove really, but I think I’ve proven something else entirely. Something else, indeed. I am.