Someday my eyes gon' roll right out my head.

Among the things I think that gigantic stupid over-bearded fuck on the BART train last night should not have said to the seven-year-old girl whose mom he appeared to be squiring around: "You have to sit here [indicating a spot between him and the mom] so nobody can reach in and snatch you off the train and run off with you."

Because: What the fuck? What kind of thing is that to say? And no, he wasn't kidding, at all. He was deadly serious. And to my knowledge, there hasn't been a rash of BART child-snatchings lately or anything. Why would you put an idea like that in a kid's head? Why is it in YOUR head, Mister "Can't Be Bothered Wearing A Clean T-Shirt"?

And because also, Mom: Where's your brain? You're a reasonably attractive lady -- who is this assclown, and why are you allowing him to talk to your daughter like that?

And furthermore, you have other evidence of his idiocy: At Embarcadero, he insisted you all get on the Daly City-bound train, which he explained that you all would take three stops, then get off at Powell, cross the platform, and take the train going the other way.

Now, not all of you DK readers know about BART, so I'll tell you why that is the stupidest fucking thing I heard all day yesterday (and this is a day that included someone asking me to "leverage [my] learnings from the [X] meeting and put together a one-pager reporting out on the top-line goals [speaker] articulated going forward"): BART branches off a little once it gets to the East Bay, but for the journey through the city, it's a near-goddamn-useless single track -- no branches, no other lines, no alternative routes -- all trains make all stops in the one single path it takes. It's not like NYC, Paris, London, etc., where you sometimes have to travel the wrong direction to meet up with the train that takes you crosstown or wherever you want to go -- THEY ALL STOP THERE, NO MATTER WHAT THE ENDPOINT IS. You stand in Embarcadero station long enough, the train you want will stop right in front of your face eventually. So all this bearded fuckdongle did was make them spend an extra twenty minutes belowdecks getting Homeless Schmutz on their pants for no goddamn reason.

Well, that and plant nightmare seeds in a little kid's brain.

Ucccch, people -- people are the worst.

I mean -- not you guys. You guys're awesome. :-)

Rollin in my 5.0 with my ragtop down so my hair can blow

What is it with me and ice trays? Why do I so loathe emptying and refilling them? I do it -- I am not a goddamn BARN ANIMAL -- but I hate it sofa king bad.

Crack them (flecks of ice explode all over & stick to your shirt), dump them out, carry the tray to the sink, refill (either using too much water so the force keeps spraying the water out of the tray instead of staying the fuck in there dammit, or filling so slow you feel like empires are rising and falling while you stand there), walk them (spilling all the way) back to the freezer (which your husband has CLOSED because he is COMPULSIVE about that even though it's clear what you are doing five feet away for like thirty frickin seconds, so now you have to put one down to free a hand, or try with tray-filled hands, thus spilling it all, or get him to do it -- but probably he's already left the room to go back to his guitars, like he came out of there specifically and only to close the freezer and then bail on you, which is particularly annoying since you yourself have no quirks or annoying habits AT ALL, not even the bench in the bedroom piled three feet high [you wish that were a joke but it's true] with your clothes, which drives him bugfuck, heavens no, that's not annoying!), then put the depleted trays back in the freezer.

At least with cleaning a bathroom or whatever, you have the reward of shiny surfaces, neat organization and a peaceful, accomplished feeling of a job well done. But ice trays ... ugh. Just sittin in there, freezing, for to make you have to do it all over again.

Which I guess is why I like to take a cube out, on special occasions such as almost every evening, and pour vodka over it, right in front of its peers, and then drink it as it melts, so they understand what's what and who's who around here.

FM(W)L, vol. 2

True Tales of the Office: A Few More Things Either Spoken in My Presence or Emailed to Me Recently By Actual College Graduates For Whom English Is Allegedly Their First Language

"We are no longer resourced to that task."

"As noted in the deliverables grid here are the current timings (these dates will likely be adjusted and pushed out as we have been delayed in landing on the stylesetter designs)."

"I wanted to share some insights I culled from a session I attended at [company X] after work yesterday – where [they] provided their learnings of reaching and connecting with their users and customers as well as the media to influence their story externally. I think it’s good food for thought as we think about how we want to position our [work]."

"From what I recall, that was a call-out from [bigboss] to have a couple people report out on [that matter]. And because you’d been tapped, there’s probably an expectation for you to continue."

"Hello [people], thank you for your partnership and contributions-to-date on [project]. I am appreciative of the guidance and expertise which you have shared with our team. As you know, we recently went down two headcount on my team and therefore, available 'people' resources, which were slated against our {x} strategies, have been impacted forcing me to make some tough decisions."

"I’d itemize an action line around your being pro-active in reaching out to business partners. Otherwise, this document could be interpreted as [reacting] rather than taking ownership and driving."

"[Gleemonex], I’d suggest, in the future, not sending out thoughts like that to everyone here."

Two brothers who cruise and swing successfully

So I’m picking up coffee at the fabulous and wonderful Nas (that stands for “natural and superior,” which it is, but I call it “everything that’s right with America”). They got my drink started before I even asked, which is yet another reason I go to this place – they rule.

The guy behind me in line orders a “quadruple espresso,” and the counter lady shoots back, with a laugh, “There’s a penalty for changing your regular order!”

And the guy, completely flat and not at all joking, goes “I’ll TELL you what the penalty is. I’m not PAYING for it.”

The counter lady and I exchange a brief, mild “WTF?” look over the cup she’s handing me, and I go on my merry way.

And, seriously, WTF? You don’t have to say something knock-them-off-their-chairs funny, just something that indicates that you, a human, recognize that another humanoid life form has offered you a low-stakes social interaction, and you respond in kind. Why not say:

“Oh shit – back of the line for me, huh?”

“I have to shotgun a black cherry mocha with four vanilla syrups?”

“No coffee for you!” [Coffee Nazi]

Or just, “Ha!”

Why this aggro bullshit with the not getting of the joke? That guy, ucch. I bet he dates a Janice.

Martha Dumptruck

So what does it say about me that I felt oddly threatened and defensive when a little group of four absolutely lovely 13-year-old girls boarded the train home yesterday? They weren't all done up and hookery like most kids today -- they were dressed in an age-appropriate, cute way; their hair was simple and clean and unfussy; they weren't wearing makeup. And they were all so pretty, and none of them was doing a mean-girl thing, and they all looked like they were just kids livin' life.

So why the instant defensiveness on my part? I thought about it as soon as I realized it was happening, and I was like -- OMS, junior-high flashback whoooooa.

Amazing what shitty baggage we carry around, eh? Those girls are not the popular crowd at Cowburg Junior High in 1987, and I'm not the torqued-up Methodist Youth dorkess of the same time and place -- but every once in awhile a good cold hard flashback works wonders to make you appreciate adulthood (mortgages, grey hair and all).

FUCK YEAH, BEING A GROWNUP!

You Are A Target Market

Y'all, Trader Joe's -- they know who they're fucking dealing with at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday.

Specifically: Me (36-year-old Prius-driving advanced-degree-holding white married mom) and my kid (toddler who wears a Beatles T-shirt and sings a mashup of "I Love Rock 'n Roll" and "Rockaway Beach" while dancing around the banana tree near the entrance).

They put out those little shopping carts for the kids. They have stickers and sometimes balloons. They play a never-ceasing mix of good shit from the 80s-90s (with the occasional 60s, 70s or 00s tune thrown in for variety) -- basically my first 50 or so CDs on rotation (demographic targeting, WHOA). There's a sample bar, with something breakfasty for the kid and GOD JESUS SHATNER AND ALL THE SAINTS! coffee for me. The people who work there (at that shift, at least) either really do dig kids, or they are all super-high, and I do not even a little bit care which. Everything's organic, the fruit is so pretty it looks like candy, there's plenty of stuff at a kid's eye level that is actually OK TO GIVE TO A KID!

So weird to find myself -- an X-er who sneers at being marketed to -- pretty much the living embodiment of a marketing/merchandising sketch ... but the shit WORKS. I ain't spending my early-a.m. weekly hundy-and-a-half at Safeway, you know? It's like they're reading my goddamn mind.

Internet Fun Happy Question Time With Your Host, Gleemonex

In which I ask the unaskable, and answer the unanswerable.

Q.: How many times can you say “Rufus Wainwright” before it becomes “Wufus Wehnwiiigh,” like it’s Baba Booey instroducin de myftery gueft on Stern?

A.: Sober, twice. When vodka is involved, none.

Q.: Will there ever come a day when you are able to see or even think of this without springing instant tears of strangled, semi-hysterical laughter, and feeling like you might hyperventilate from the hilarity?

A.: I certainly hope not, and I’m kind of offended that you asked. For when a person is tired of Men Who Look Like Zach Braff, a person is tired of life.

Q.: How many times per day do you find yourself saying “Really?” in the “Really?!? With Seth & Amy” manner, either in your head or out loud?

A.: A minimum of once, and up to eight times. Some days I am more incredulous than others, but incredulity and bogglement do tend to find me at least every 24 hours.

Q.: Does it ever, ever stop being funny to say stuff about how this guy wants to watch the opposing pitcher weave and breathe his story lines, or how he plays like he’d never surrender?

A.: No. No it does not. At least, not if it’s me or Mr. Gleemonex making the jokes. If it’s the FOX commentators, it’s worth a spontaneous stabbing at least.

Q.: Of the six women on the elevator up this morning, including yourself, how many were wearing an outfit of which the top half was composed of a tank or cap-sleeve shirt with a cardigan over it?

A.: Six.

Q.: No, I said, including yourself.

A.: Six.

Q.: Really?!?

A.: Oh, shut up.

"Just ... shake it around until it shoots ... puffs of dust."

Enough Bitchin – Time For “Fun Shit, Lately!”

Party Down: You won me over with your casting of the comic genius that is Martin “Bill” Starr. Then you added Ken Marino (one of the gay demons from the late, lamented Reaper), Jane Lynch (well, until she left for Glee), Lizzy Caplan, and that idiotic blond guy whose name I can’t recall, add in some of the tightest, funniest writing in modern television, and goddamn, you got a near-perfect half-hour show that takes about an hour to watch because I have to keep pausing it because I’m laughing my fucking FACE off – how in the hell did Starz produce something this awesome?

Fridays off: My department is taking Fridays off for July. This is FANTASTIC and I highly recommend you do the same.

Tempera paint: Pretty much the funnest art/craft item ever (so tactile! so vibrant! so efficient an olfactory wayback machine to elementary school!), and it’s washable! Even off of toddler faces and linoleum kitchen floors!

Driving to Trader Joe’s at 7:50 in the a.m. on a Sunday, kid in the backseat, both singing along at top volume to George Harrison’s What Is My Life on the “Breakfast with the Beatles” show on Sirius.

FM(W)L: Assaulted by email

I did not write this. It actually happened to me just now:

Definitely agree, [BigBoss] -- do we know who the right people to tap are within the [divisions] who we can connect with to find out the process so that we can be looped in?

Hang on a sec while I die of death.

You yell “shark,” and we’ve got a panic on our hands on the Fourth of July.

So we’re in more or less standstill traffic on the way home from the mountains this weekend, and edging by inches alongside us is a large manly black-and-silver pickup with a muscular forearm sticking out of the driver’s side window, hand clutching a lit cigarette. A sticker on the back window said “POWERED BY JESUS.”

Thing the first: Mr. Gleemonex, out of nowhere, made a joke about the sticker that I can’t repeat here for fear you’d all get the wrong impression about us Gleemonexes – I laughed for like ten gridlocked miles, even after he said “It wasn’t that funny!” Because yes it was.

Thing the second: I hate stickers (and other similar pronouncements) like that. Come on. The automobile you’re driving is powered by FOSSIL FUEL, sir. If you refer instead to your soul, perhaps you could show, not tell, yes?

And on a completely unrelated note:

Apropos of a conversation Mr. Gleemonex and I had this weekend, this one’s for all you baseball fans out there: Dusty Baker manages pitching like a guy who blows every paycheck he gets at the dogtrack, working on his gut-based “surefire system” that he believes in his soul will someday win back all that lost cash and millions more. He ignores streaks, has no sense of a pitcher’s rhythm, manages short when time is long and long when there’s two outs left, blows out an arm that’s obviously failing and retires a guy that looks to the rest of the world like he’s got seventeen innings left in him that night. He does all these hunchy moves and double moves and countermoves, shuffling and dealing and trying to psych his way through – the net result is a big old steaming sack of pelican crap, and that is why he’s destined to disappoint every team he ever gets to be in charge of. The end.

Stuck in my craw. (As it were. Heh.)

Look out – Sandy-Vadged Old Lady ramblings ahoy!

1) Listen up, young people: When you are at table with me, put the GOD DAMN PHONE IN YOUR GOD DAMN BAG. My colleague and I were lunching with the new intern yesterday, and the girl kept her phone on the table the whole time, texting while talking, flipping through screens, the whole nine. I was like, why are we even here? This is supposed to be a business lunch, and she might as well have been at her little four-roommate pansexual-house-party/reality-show apartment or wherever it is you kids live these days. I mean, the girl is great, very accomplished and presentable and does good work, but holy app-downloading SHATNER is that rude.

2) My friend, the lovely and truthful J., told a story recently about a very large meeting at the Very Large Global Bank where she works, a meeting which has come to be known around the company as “The Basic Instinct Meeting.” What happened was: A senior-level woman in her late 30s/early 40s (i.e. old enough to know better) was one of the people seated on a dais on chairs that were hidden by no podium or table. The woman was wearing a skirt. There was a Basic Instinct moment. My question is: WHO DOESN’T WEAR UNDERPANTS TO WORK? WHO? WHO DOES THAT? I need to have confidence that the people with whom I work are WEARING UNDERPANTS. I don’t ever want to think about it – I just want it done. UNDERPANTS.