Snow Patrol

I’m sitting here, nibbling on a sandwich and listening to Snow Patrol on my boss’s iPod. I can’t get enough of that song, Run. You know, the one that goes:

Light up, light up
As if you have a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice
I'll be right beside you dear

Louder, louder
And we'll run for our lives
I can hardly speak I understand
Why you can't raise your voice to say

Slower, slower
We don't have time for that
All I want is to find an easier way
To get out of our little heads

I’m diggin’ it.

A Tale of Two Titties

I would like to take a moment to thank Pdawg for alerting the Internet to my disproportionately large left boob.

Thank you, Pdiddy, for making everyone aware that I cannot possibly own a bra that fits me properly.

I have several bras that fit the right girl just fine; however, these bras cause the left girl to pooch out of them like a S’more heavy on the ‘mallow. I also have a collection of bras that fit the left girl just fine; however these bras cause the right girl to flop loosely about like the last potato in the sack.

Hi. My name is Zam, and I have a lopsided rack.

Zam's Dirty Pillows

Overheard on AIM:

Zam: I've gotta tell ya
PDawg: Tell me
Zam: I couldn't wear a normal bra with that stupid bridesmaid dress I had to wear because it was backless.
Zam: I had to get one of the stick-on bras. You know the ones that you just tape to yourself?
PDawg: Yup.
Zam: Ok! Good! Well, it was a three-woman operation to get my GIANT left boob into that freakin' thing!
PDawg: (you could have gone free-boobin'...)
PDawg: lol
Zam: (heck no!)
Zam: It took me, my mom, and my niece to get that thing tucked in there.
PDawg: oh my...
Zam: And my mom kept going, "Where the hell did this ONE big boob come from? You didn't get that from me!"
PDawg: lol
PDawg: Ol' Loppy
Zam: You ain't kiddin'
PDawg: How do you keep from appearing like Quasimodo of the Breast?
Zam: HAHAHAHA!
Zam: I have no idea. I can't buy a bra that fits me right.
Zam: There is an entire cup size difference.
PDawg: You're weird.
PDawg: That's a lotta boob that's unaccounted for.
Zam: Tell me!
PDawg: Hey, I could come and punch you in the small boob a few times in the hopes that it might swell....
Zam: Funny!
Zam: *slap*
Zam: Ok. Enough about my Quasimodo Titty...
PDawg: Titti-modo
Zam: LOL!
Zam: I'll run into Victoria's Secret and yell: SANCTUARY!
PDawg: LOL!!!
PDawg: Maybe you should start calling your boob "Merrick"
PDawg: like The Elephant Man...

How we haven't died from late night fits of laughter yet is a mystery to me.

This Post Is Brought To You By the Makers of Comic Sans Font

Comic Sans: Satisfying all your retaliatory needling urges since 1995

This post is not just for those of you who like to wail about consistency and productivity during a period of time when you have little to do. *ahem*

No, friends, this post is for all of you reality TV whores who share in my excitement over the beginning of a new season of Survivor. Twelve new weeks of lying, cheating, backstabbing, whining, and bickering begin tonight. Twenty (not sixteen, this time) new personalities to loathe, and discuss in the office how much you loathe them because they are so loathsome. And stupid.

As usual, I have subjected myself to certain frustration and disappointment by tossing my name and money into the Survivor Office Pool (SOP) hat. Unusual is the fact that PDawg’s name also appears in the very same hat. And if you thought that this blog wasn’t big enough for the both of us, I cannot wait to share with you the trials and tribulations of sharing a hat with her…with an exorbitant amount of money at stake (thousands upon thousands of cents).

To keep things fair and balanced, Survivors are assigned to SOP participants using the Random Drawing Technique (RDT). This season’s SOP RDT has yielded the greatest travesty of justice since I was given props. Call it what you will, but when PDawg (an SOP virgin) manages to wind up with Hot and Hotter, while I get stuck with Broomhilda and Blondie, I find cause to climb to the rooftop and yell, "BULLSHIT."

Perhaps using her penchant for gambling to con her into watching Survivor with me was an error in judgment. Either way, Thursdays are about to get interesting around here.

Allow me to point out...

...just WHO is doing all the posting here.

That would be *ahem*...ME.

Just so we're, you know, clear.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

Smoking cigarettes and watching Captain Kangaroo

Well, according to my compadre, there should be a flurry of activity between this blog and my own little corner of the internet. This is because I am completely bored out of my mind at school for the week. I am in the process of administering the state standardized writing test to my 11th grade classes.

Here's how the class period goes:

• Kids come in the room and sit down
• I hand out test booklets and pencils
  
• I read the 2 sentences of instructions from my administration guide
• They write for 40 minutes; I sit and watch
  
• I collect test bookets and pencils
• The bell rings
• They leave

Lather. Rinse. Repeat 6 times each day.

F-U-N.

So, hold on to your socks. I have some spare time on my hands.

Finally, I will know what a day at work feels like for her.

(Don't deny it, either, you freak. I know how much you email me in one day.)

I Have a Posse...On Crack

Good evening. Dorothy Zbornak here... Or, wait... maybe it's Maude. Zam never bothered to tell me which Bea Arthur I was.

Either way, rest assured, Gretchen, I sound nothing like Bea Arthur. As a matter of fact, quite the contrary.

Everything that Zam has described is probably as close to the truth as she will ever get. My voice is shockingly normal. Especially when compared to her freak voice...

To tell the truth, I think that a "double dawg dare" was what drove me to call the voice mail that day. Well, that and the fact that it had become increasingly clear that telling a story is much easier when you aren't limited to 160 characters at a pop. (It sort of takes the wind out of the sails when you have to break the story up into 17 text messages, ya know?)

I dialed.

Several rings passed. My palms were sweaty. My throat, dry. And then I heard it.

The world's longest voice mail greeting. And it was being spoken by an excessively mature sounding freak-voice. Completely NOT what I expected--likewise, based on sundry pictures I had seen prior to said call.

First of all, she sounded nothing like the correct voice that had been assigned to her in my brain, by my brain. It messed up my WHOLE perception of reality. Secondly, she TOTALLY didn't have the Northeast accent that my brain said she was supposed to, despite having lived all her life in the South; she sounded like a Southerner. How dare she! Lastly, where the hell did the mature voice come from? She sounded...like an adult or something creepy like that.

Anyway, I left a long rant on the voicemail. A few razzes for good measure. But what I got in return was unspeakable...

A message EN ESPANOL.

For spite.

To this day, I have that message saved on my voicemail, and one day, I will figure out what in the holy hell Zam said to me on the other end. It's like the Rosetta Stone of voicemails.

I will decode it.

Anyway, it wasn't long after that when we finally grew some cojones. And now we act like idiots out loud with each other.

Chickenshit

The scads of you who like to read this blog may find it interesting to note that PDawg and I, having known each other for 3 years, only recently mustered up the courage to speak to each other on the phone. "Recently," meaning within the last couple of months.

For three years I had no voice in my head to go along with the miles of electronic communication between us (AIM, e-mail, text-messaging). Well, I did, but it sounded sort of like Bea Arthur...on crack. We always threatened to call each other, but neither of us had the cojones to do it. We even went so far as to dial each other’s numbers and hang up after just a couple of rings, to "scare" one another. It worked. Then, one day before Christmas, I received a text-message that said, "I just left you a voicemail at work."

*gulp*

I dove for the phone.

What I heard absolutely floored me. PDawg’s voice was so shockingly normal and disproportionate to the pictures I had seen, that I had to replay the message several times just to convince my brain that my ears were hearing what they were reporting. And, what was even more funny, was that it was apparent that she had called with some sort of script in mind as to what she might say to me, but became flustered by the sound of MY voice so much that she just rambled for several minutes.

This was the first example I had of the sound of PDawg: "You’re a freak with a freak voice..." She also accused me of sounding way more mature than she had imagined. What the heck is that supposed to mean?

Still too chicken to actually speak to her live, I made her promise that night to turn off her cell phone so that I could respond to the accusations. The next day, she waited until I left the office and retorted to my voicemail. This ridiculous game of voicemail-tag went on for a couple of weeks before we actually worked up the nerve to speak to each other LIVE.

Yes, friends, we are THAT retarded.

PROPS?!? PROPS?!? HOW DOES SHE GET PROPS??!?!

Overheard on AIM:

Her: Check this out! I got props!
Me: How did YOU get props?
Her: Heck if I know!
Her: This lady left a couple of comments on my blog about "what a great writer I am." pffffttthhhhh!
Me: *SIGH*
Me: I never get the recognition I deserve...
Me: ;)
Her: Perhaps if you would post more than once a month...
Me: *slap*
Her: Ouch! The truth DOES hurt!
Her: ;)
Me: I posted TWICE recently!
Her: I know. I'm just giving you the recognition you deserve...