My Fresh Hell
Life in Scribbletown.

Meltin' Ole Dixie


Okay. Enoughís enough. I really must protest.

First, during one of my recent drives down I-95, I was behind a womanís mini-van. On the rear bumper was a sticker that read: Do You Love Candles?

In a word: Hell No!

Okay, that was two words but the sentiment is the same.

Itís things like that that make me want to wield an ice pick and start stabbing things. Specifically cars with stickers that must inform me that they love scrap booking and stinky candles and their A+ children and their Dear Lord Jesus and the unfertilized eggs residing in my ovaries.

Then, yesterday, one of our student workers (who, I swear is the human offspring of two basset hounds) popped his head into my office and asked,

ďDo you like candles?Ē

He was fund raising for some student organization. Iíve already done my bit by purchasing two rolls of wrapping paper for the PTA drive at a certain elementary school. Yeah, I know! Itís the only way to keep them off my back. I know fund raisers Ė I AM one! (God, sometimes I really hate myself.)

ďUm, not if they have a smell,Ē I told him as nicely as possible.

Fortunately, this pokey boy cannot be offended,

ďThen I guess you wonít want any Yankee Candles, huh?Ē

That would be correct, sir. And, I donít want any Confederate ones either. Unless they smell like a burning Confederate flag gripped in General Leeís cold, dead losing hand.

(Digression: Man, though, thatís exactly what I need! I would so love to have a candle with a Confederate flag etched into it so I could watch it melt! The only thing I donít hate about having to buy Red night-time pull-ups with princesses on the crotch is that Red pees on them all night long! Take that Snow White!)/digression

God, I loathe scented candles. Not only am I highly sensitive to fake odors but I suspect those thing emit toxic fumes that will soon cause some new and altogether deadly lung disease.

Death by candles.


It is such a joy to work in an office. Full of women. Women who are, shall we say...drama queens and immature and high strung.

Yesterday there was a micro drama caused by somebody (not me!) accidentally throwing away someone elseís salad from the communal fridge (not mine!). There was an apology. The wounded party ignored the apologizer and stormed out without a word.

What. Ever.

And while I was unaware of this while it was going on, the person who reports to me (the salad-thrower-awayer) felt she had to give me a blow-by-blow recounting of the whole sordid incident. She is an analysts dream. I am apparently one of those people whom other people like to come and spill their guts to. In one way, itís nice to know whatís going on via the grapevine. In another way, fuck just get out of my office and leave me the hell alone, is all Iím saying.

So, see? I can go a whole entry without a single word about my children.

Who just happen to be fabulous.

Oops. I tried.


10:49 a.m. ::
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