5.24.2011
Problems? I find solutions. It's my job. It's what I do.
Answering phones at any business these days is kind of like being an exclusive club's doorman. You are hip tossing more douches to the curb than you are letting through the door. So many people vying for the chance to sell you something, requote something, get you a better deal, offer you a special promotion, anything and everything to get their foot in the door so that they can get the money that you are spending.
It is a skill. There are some people very well talented, very well versed, and very cunning in their approach and methods. That is also why it is a business. They hold seminars, give classes, write books, there are companies set up to teach others how to do only this. I have read more sales books on the matter than I care to discuss but it my experience as a bartender that provided me with the unique filtering ability needed to recognize phone sales people posing as current vendors, clients, old classmates, and even, the occasional friend (if one day someone were to call here professing to be the owners grandparent, I swear to all that is holy this would not surprise me at all). Bartenders have bullshit radar like superheroes on spinachB12crackmeth. You get something by them and you can probably bust into Fort Knox.
98% of these daily calls never reach my ears because Heather, our angelic office presence of love and light, who represents all the gloriousness behind this company by being the first face the first voice the first person to warmly cuddle you into the fold as a client, blocks the majority of the "bad guys" like a championship fighter with 2 million wins under her belt. Today however, the other slippery 2% slimmed their way to me and after it all, I was left staring at a very large camel lying on the ground moaning in pain and I had to help that camel, I did, I swear it to you now, I had to HELP. THAT. CAMEL. I had to slip into my Cape of Creativity and save our office from the evils of Solicitor X because GOD DAMN IT TO ALL HELL, I am tired of hearing about how much fucking money I can save on my car insurance.
Things that do not work: Logic. Reason. You cannot simply say, I do not want your product. They call, they call again, they keep calling, they keep calling, oh wait, there is a call on the other line, and its them again surprise. They can tie you up evading questions like: What is the purpose of your call? Who are you trying to get ahold of? What is this regarding? Can I help you with something? One guy calls on Monday, a girl on Tuesday, on Wednesday its an automated service (Thursday they give it a rest) and for Funtastical FTW Friday they bust out the overseas call with special special deals designed to knock your socks, shoes, bra and panties off!
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
The consulting company I used to work for spoke this as a MANTRA (stfu consulting brain damage, please get out of my head, its been years, go the fuck away, please, omg I seriously hate yoooooooooou) and now regurgitated here, I feel a little unclean and kinda douche-y. Just kidding. Not really. Sorry. Rewind.
So far we have employed wrestling and boxing as tactics. No more. Now, we dance. This afternoon, around 2:25pm, I created a fictitious Purchasing and Human Resource Manager who goes by the name of Britnee Schultz (BS, if you want to get right down to it). She is now in charge of reviewing all proposals prior to any decision making for the company in terms of copy paper, printer ink, office supplies, new medical or dental insurance, software purchases, dog fighting, gun control and imported Chinese heroin. EVERYTHING. SHE IS CURRENTLY REVIEWING IT ALL. We set her up an email account and are now going to put everyone is contact with HER, because its her fucking job now, not ours.
"Oh yes, Office Supplies, you need to speak to Britnee." "New printer catalog you say, the person to speak with would be Britnee, let me give you her contact information." "Oh, you don't say, fantastic rates for dental insurance, amen, we were just reviewing that, in fact, Britnee is your go to girl."
Did you hear that?
That's my horn, bitches.
Game on.
It is a skill. There are some people very well talented, very well versed, and very cunning in their approach and methods. That is also why it is a business. They hold seminars, give classes, write books, there are companies set up to teach others how to do only this. I have read more sales books on the matter than I care to discuss but it my experience as a bartender that provided me with the unique filtering ability needed to recognize phone sales people posing as current vendors, clients, old classmates, and even, the occasional friend (if one day someone were to call here professing to be the owners grandparent, I swear to all that is holy this would not surprise me at all). Bartenders have bullshit radar like superheroes on spinachB12crackmeth. You get something by them and you can probably bust into Fort Knox.
98% of these daily calls never reach my ears because Heather, our angelic office presence of love and light, who represents all the gloriousness behind this company by being the first face the first voice the first person to warmly cuddle you into the fold as a client, blocks the majority of the "bad guys" like a championship fighter with 2 million wins under her belt. Today however, the other slippery 2% slimmed their way to me and after it all, I was left staring at a very large camel lying on the ground moaning in pain and I had to help that camel, I did, I swear it to you now, I had to HELP. THAT. CAMEL. I had to slip into my Cape of Creativity and save our office from the evils of Solicitor X because GOD DAMN IT TO ALL HELL, I am tired of hearing about how much fucking money I can save on my car insurance.
Things that do not work: Logic. Reason. You cannot simply say, I do not want your product. They call, they call again, they keep calling, they keep calling, oh wait, there is a call on the other line, and its them again surprise. They can tie you up evading questions like: What is the purpose of your call? Who are you trying to get ahold of? What is this regarding? Can I help you with something? One guy calls on Monday, a girl on Tuesday, on Wednesday its an automated service (Thursday they give it a rest) and for Funtastical FTW Friday they bust out the overseas call with special special deals designed to knock your socks, shoes, bra and panties off!
The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
The consulting company I used to work for spoke this as a MANTRA (stfu consulting brain damage, please get out of my head, its been years, go the fuck away, please, omg I seriously hate yoooooooooou) and now regurgitated here, I feel a little unclean and kinda douche-y. Just kidding. Not really. Sorry. Rewind.
So far we have employed wrestling and boxing as tactics. No more. Now, we dance. This afternoon, around 2:25pm, I created a fictitious Purchasing and Human Resource Manager who goes by the name of Britnee Schultz (BS, if you want to get right down to it). She is now in charge of reviewing all proposals prior to any decision making for the company in terms of copy paper, printer ink, office supplies, new medical or dental insurance, software purchases, dog fighting, gun control and imported Chinese heroin. EVERYTHING. SHE IS CURRENTLY REVIEWING IT ALL. We set her up an email account and are now going to put everyone is contact with HER, because its her fucking job now, not ours.
"Oh yes, Office Supplies, you need to speak to Britnee." "New printer catalog you say, the person to speak with would be Britnee, let me give you her contact information." "Oh, you don't say, fantastic rates for dental insurance, amen, we were just reviewing that, in fact, Britnee is your go to girl."
Did you hear that?
That's my horn, bitches.
Game on.
5.23.2011
Post apocalyptic shirt, you my only friend.
"Why were you late for work today?"
"Uh. Because I was mending my shirt."
I bought this shirt for 4.99 two weeks ago. The shirt is awesome by my standards, which means it is plain in color, fits and doesn't make me look fat (to myself, I might still look fat to other people but I don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Total lie.). When I put this shirt on for the first time, I knew it was going to be one of "those" shirts, the kind I wore until it fell apart, the kind I passed out still wearing after a hard night of sex drugs and rock n roll, the kind I shoved deep into my vagina pre-coitus (anal sex, obviously. Half lie). This damn shirt, even at 4.99, should not have started falling apart within a day but fuck it naysayers, I am going to save this shirt with my bare hands, because if there is one thing I love to do, it is proving my worth post-apocalypse.
The problem area is a seam right below my right breast. Both materials on the separate panels are some sort of hybrid nylonish cottony something. It pulled apart not in the way one could simply sew it back together without having to remove the entire seam running the length of the shirt, then re-stitching on a machine. Uh, no. I didn't want to Frankenstein it, so hand sewing was out of the question too. My solution was stitch witchery magic. This invention is the mack daddy and the daddy mack. You place it between two pieces of cloth, heat with an iron, and WA LA, it acts as some sort of fantastical cloth glue. Problem here is that I didn't have two pieces of cloth to glue back together so much as I had a bunch of shredded fibers I needed to miracle into cloth again. Whatever: we shall overcome, we. shall. overcome. The seam that shredded is tiny, the material already pulled taut. So I figured, I might try and use the stitch witchery to bind it together by mimicking a layer of thinly applied glue to the back of the whole seam burst. Genius. Yes, thank you. I placed the two pieces of material together as close as I could get them, put a piece of the stitch witchery behind it and behind that, put a piece of wax paper. Be the glue. BE THE GLUE. Yes, this can work. This will TOTALLY work!
Iron. Heat. Wait. Inspect.
My shirt is now glued to the wax paper.
Fuck.
Fail.
Try again.
Same result.
Fuck.
Fail.
Flip the wax paper over?
Try again.
Same result.
Fuck.
Fail.
One might say I had wasted half an hours worth of time, but I counter that by saying a scientist's time is NEVER wasted (I am not a scientist). My fingers are tacky, the iron is pretty much ruined, the shirt smells a little like burned but fuck all if I don't look totally awesome having done all this experimenting while: bare foot, topless, wearing jeans and also a very nice hat. FTW! All you really need sometimes is to just feel like a fucking badass. Aw yeah, fuck you post apocalyptic shirt, I still got my smile.
Looking like Michael Jackson on his tippy toes, I grabbed my hat, leaned my head back, looked to the sky, my other hand reached into the air, and summoning all the power of GreySkull: I turned back to the garment, issued a soft high pitch sound like "YEEEEE", took the seam, added more stitch witchery, SHAZAAM went my fingers as I smushed it together (!), BLAZE went the iron as I blasted heat in its general direction (!), WHAM, BAM, ZIP ZOW ZOOM!!
TAKE THAT HA HA!!
Inspect. Uh. Ok. Right.
My shirt looks worse than had I Frankenstein-ed it with needle and thread, yea, and probably a torch too, but I got a cool hat on, so I totally put the shirt on ANY WAY.
I am gonna wear this bitch till it falls off me and blows away on the wind, like a frail leaf. One day, if you happen to be staring at my right breast and see a fucked up seam, you would be meeting my post apocalyptic shirt. Say hi. Patches? You bet. Frankenstein stitches? Hell yea. Next week it might require a tracheotomy. I intend to give it a quadruple bypass when necessary. This shirt may outlive your children.
I love you 4.99 shirt.
There is not a god damn thing I won't ever do for you.
KA-POW!
P.S.
Other things that make me handy at the End of the World.
1. I know how to properly select, chop and split wood.
2. I have built many tree houses, forts, and shelters from found material.
3. I have little morals, so killing in the name of defense or food is A-OK with me, pass the hammer boss.
4. I can catch, clean, and cook fish.
5. I know how to filter and sanitize water.
6A. I can sew cloth (+).
6B. Blood, guts, ooze and burns don't bother me, so if I needed to, I could probably sew your skin (double +).
7. I have teeth like a beaver.
8. My skin seeps a high caloric sugary substance.
9. I breathe fire, so we wouldn't ever have to worry about starting one by rubbing sticks together FUCK THAT I'LL COOK UP OUR MEAT AND KEEP US SAFE FROM BEARS!
"Uh. Because I was mending my shirt."
I bought this shirt for 4.99 two weeks ago. The shirt is awesome by my standards, which means it is plain in color, fits and doesn't make me look fat (to myself, I might still look fat to other people but I don't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Total lie.). When I put this shirt on for the first time, I knew it was going to be one of "those" shirts, the kind I wore until it fell apart, the kind I passed out still wearing after a hard night of sex drugs and rock n roll, the kind I shoved deep into my vagina pre-coitus (anal sex, obviously. Half lie). This damn shirt, even at 4.99, should not have started falling apart within a day but fuck it naysayers, I am going to save this shirt with my bare hands, because if there is one thing I love to do, it is proving my worth post-apocalypse.
The problem area is a seam right below my right breast. Both materials on the separate panels are some sort of hybrid nylonish cottony something. It pulled apart not in the way one could simply sew it back together without having to remove the entire seam running the length of the shirt, then re-stitching on a machine. Uh, no. I didn't want to Frankenstein it, so hand sewing was out of the question too. My solution was stitch witchery magic. This invention is the mack daddy and the daddy mack. You place it between two pieces of cloth, heat with an iron, and WA LA, it acts as some sort of fantastical cloth glue. Problem here is that I didn't have two pieces of cloth to glue back together so much as I had a bunch of shredded fibers I needed to miracle into cloth again. Whatever: we shall overcome, we. shall. overcome. The seam that shredded is tiny, the material already pulled taut. So I figured, I might try and use the stitch witchery to bind it together by mimicking a layer of thinly applied glue to the back of the whole seam burst. Genius. Yes, thank you. I placed the two pieces of material together as close as I could get them, put a piece of the stitch witchery behind it and behind that, put a piece of wax paper. Be the glue. BE THE GLUE. Yes, this can work. This will TOTALLY work!
Iron. Heat. Wait. Inspect.
My shirt is now glued to the wax paper.
Fuck.
Fail.
Try again.
Same result.
Fuck.
Fail.
Flip the wax paper over?
Try again.
Same result.
Fuck.
Fail.
One might say I had wasted half an hours worth of time, but I counter that by saying a scientist's time is NEVER wasted (I am not a scientist). My fingers are tacky, the iron is pretty much ruined, the shirt smells a little like burned but fuck all if I don't look totally awesome having done all this experimenting while: bare foot, topless, wearing jeans and also a very nice hat. FTW! All you really need sometimes is to just feel like a fucking badass. Aw yeah, fuck you post apocalyptic shirt, I still got my smile.
Looking like Michael Jackson on his tippy toes, I grabbed my hat, leaned my head back, looked to the sky, my other hand reached into the air, and summoning all the power of GreySkull: I turned back to the garment, issued a soft high pitch sound like "YEEEEE", took the seam, added more stitch witchery, SHAZAAM went my fingers as I smushed it together (!), BLAZE went the iron as I blasted heat in its general direction (!), WHAM, BAM, ZIP ZOW ZOOM!!TAKE THAT HA HA!!
Inspect. Uh. Ok. Right.
My shirt looks worse than had I Frankenstein-ed it with needle and thread, yea, and probably a torch too, but I got a cool hat on, so I totally put the shirt on ANY WAY.
I am gonna wear this bitch till it falls off me and blows away on the wind, like a frail leaf. One day, if you happen to be staring at my right breast and see a fucked up seam, you would be meeting my post apocalyptic shirt. Say hi. Patches? You bet. Frankenstein stitches? Hell yea. Next week it might require a tracheotomy. I intend to give it a quadruple bypass when necessary. This shirt may outlive your children.
I love you 4.99 shirt.
There is not a god damn thing I won't ever do for you.
KA-POW!
P.S.
Other things that make me handy at the End of the World.
1. I know how to properly select, chop and split wood.
2. I have built many tree houses, forts, and shelters from found material.
3. I have little morals, so killing in the name of defense or food is A-OK with me, pass the hammer boss.
4. I can catch, clean, and cook fish.
5. I know how to filter and sanitize water.
6A. I can sew cloth (+).
6B. Blood, guts, ooze and burns don't bother me, so if I needed to, I could probably sew your skin (double +).
7. I have teeth like a beaver.
8. My skin seeps a high caloric sugary substance.
9. I breathe fire, so we wouldn't ever have to worry about starting one by rubbing sticks together FUCK THAT I'LL COOK UP OUR MEAT AND KEEP US SAFE FROM BEARS!
5.19.2011
Score: 1 : 1
Fire: I AM HUNGRY!!
Fire: i have not eaten.
Fire: i want to eat.
Gasoline: i just had a hot dog
Fire: you bastard.
Gasoline: but i guess i could come down there
Fire: no.
Fire: i will just die here.
Fire: thats fine.
Fire: fuck it.
Fire: i will just DIE.
Fire: don't mind me smelling up the joint.
Fire: probably why i am in danger of murdering someone.
Gasoline: not really selling me on lunch here
Fire: i gotta sell lunch?
Fire: jesus.
Fire: help.
Fire: me.
Fire: stay.
Fire: alive.
Fire: its.
Fire: cold.
Fire: and.
Fire: dark.
Gasoline: ok ok
Gasoline: i will come down but no murdering
Fire: don't tell me what to do.
Fire: your chances of survival are high though.
Gasoline: i'm not telling you what to do
Fire: i give you 86% survival rate
Gasoline: i'm telling you what not to do
Fire: you just said no murdering.
Fire: no murdering is a directive.
Fire: do not murder.
Gasoline: no it's a condition
Fire: if i was in the process of murdering
Fire: which i am in a constant state of JUST ABOUT
Fire: then, it is a directive
Fire: DONT GRAB THAT KNIFE!
Gasoline: no
Fire: DONT MURDER!
Gasoline: no
Fire: don't argue with me on this one.
Gasoline: a condition
Fire: a condition if i am at rest.
Fire: which, i am obviously, not.
Gasoline: if you want me to drive down then you cannot murder
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: see
Gasoline: the conditional
Fire: its a directive.
Gasoline: no.
Gasoline: a directive is x:=x+1
Gasoline: a conditional is if x=1 then fuck off
Gasoline: see the different format
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: your programming skills leave much to be desired
Fire: dammit jim, im a doctor!
Fire: don't tell me what not to do.
Fire: better?
Fire: now, come get me.
Fire: my legs just went numb.
Fire: i have not eaten.
Fire: i want to eat.
Gasoline: i just had a hot dog
Fire: you bastard.
Gasoline: but i guess i could come down there
Fire: no.
Fire: i will just die here.
Fire: thats fine.
Fire: fuck it.
Fire: i will just DIE.
Fire: don't mind me smelling up the joint.
Fire: probably why i am in danger of murdering someone.
Gasoline: not really selling me on lunch here
Fire: i gotta sell lunch?
Fire: jesus.
Fire: help.
Fire: me.
Fire: stay.
Fire: alive.
Fire: its.
Fire: cold.
Fire: and.
Fire: dark.
Gasoline: ok ok
Gasoline: i will come down but no murdering
Fire: don't tell me what to do.
Fire: your chances of survival are high though.
Gasoline: i'm not telling you what to do
Fire: i give you 86% survival rate
Gasoline: i'm telling you what not to do
Fire: you just said no murdering.
Fire: no murdering is a directive.
Fire: do not murder.
Gasoline: no it's a condition
Fire: if i was in the process of murdering
Fire: which i am in a constant state of JUST ABOUT
Fire: then, it is a directive
Fire: DONT GRAB THAT KNIFE!
Gasoline: no
Fire: DONT MURDER!
Gasoline: no
Fire: don't argue with me on this one.
Gasoline: a condition
Fire: a condition if i am at rest.
Fire: which, i am obviously, not.
Gasoline: if you want me to drive down then you cannot murder
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: see
Gasoline: the conditional
Fire: its a directive.
Gasoline: no.
Gasoline: a directive is x:=x+1
Gasoline: a conditional is if x=1 then fuck off
Gasoline: see the different format
Gasoline: if..then
Gasoline: your programming skills leave much to be desired
Fire: dammit jim, im a doctor!
Fire: don't tell me what not to do.
Fire: better?
Fire: now, come get me.
Fire: my legs just went numb.
theoretical color mixing fail
Gasoline: I have a problem with The Wrath of Khan
Fire: what problem
Gasoline: two of them really
Gasoline: first up
Gasoline: there's the cheesy coincidence of names
Gasoline: Khan Noonien Singh is his full name
Gasoline: Dr Noonien Soong
Gasoline: is the creator of Data
Gasoline: Singh and Soong are pronounced the same
Gasoline: a little lazy there on the names
Gasoline: but the big problem i have
Gasoline: is that Kirk's son is white
Gasoline: after all the green bitches kirk fucked
Gasoline: why is his son white
Fire: overpowering genes.
Fire: and his mother is white.
Fire: not green.
Gasoline: bull shit
Gasoline: once you go green you aint going back to no plain vanilla bitch
Fire: but his mom is white.
Fire: are you missing this key fact?
Fire: doesn't matter if you dont go back or not.
Fire: if his sperm and her egg created him, he is white.
Fire: not, pale yellow.
Fire: or lime.
Gasoline: but im saying kirk wouldn't have fucked that bitch
Gasoline: that cant be
Gasoline: he would have knocked up a green or purple bitch with 4 tits and 2 pussies
Gasoline: i mean really
Gasoline: if you could fuck a purple dude with two well placed cocks that pushed your buttons perfectly would you ever go human again
Fire: BUT HE DIDNT
Fire: HE FUCKED A SKANKY WHITE SCIENTIST BITCH WHO ONLY HAD TWO TITS AND ONE PUSSY
Fire: MOVE ON
Fire: what problem
Gasoline: two of them really
Gasoline: first up
Gasoline: there's the cheesy coincidence of names
Gasoline: Khan Noonien Singh is his full name
Gasoline: Dr Noonien Soong
Gasoline: is the creator of Data
Gasoline: Singh and Soong are pronounced the same
Gasoline: a little lazy there on the names
Gasoline: but the big problem i have
Gasoline: is that Kirk's son is white
Gasoline: after all the green bitches kirk fucked
Gasoline: why is his son white
Fire: overpowering genes.
Fire: and his mother is white.
Fire: not green.
Gasoline: bull shit
Gasoline: once you go green you aint going back to no plain vanilla bitch
Fire: but his mom is white.
Fire: are you missing this key fact?
Fire: doesn't matter if you dont go back or not.
Fire: if his sperm and her egg created him, he is white.
Fire: not, pale yellow.
Fire: or lime.
Gasoline: but im saying kirk wouldn't have fucked that bitch
Gasoline: that cant be
Gasoline: he would have knocked up a green or purple bitch with 4 tits and 2 pussies
Gasoline: i mean really
Gasoline: if you could fuck a purple dude with two well placed cocks that pushed your buttons perfectly would you ever go human again
Fire: BUT HE DIDNT
Fire: HE FUCKED A SKANKY WHITE SCIENTIST BITCH WHO ONLY HAD TWO TITS AND ONE PUSSY
Fire: MOVE ON
LED Cancer Grafitti by The Antichrist
Read this fantastic graphic novel last night by the name of Wormwood.The Antichrist defying his father, a foul mouth, talking rabbit who harasses Star Wars fans online, Jesus who has a mild concussion and drinks Guinness, God a drooling and masturbating complete nutter... can this comic have been created totally FOR me? I laughed the whole time. Who knew I could seriously get addicted to this. I am geeking out, big time. Wow. Next I'll be downloading Linux and hackin' yourz internets while drinkiing Code Red and torrenting asian lesbian anal porn.
Hm.
BRB.
I also researched more urban street art. But not so much the beauty aspect of it. More like the How To's, you know, in the event I want to give spray painting some stencils on the sides of buildings downtown at 3am a try. Key would be to not dress like a criminal or carry anything that looks like a backpack with spray paint cans and such in it, this way if stopped, I am just a mild mannered housewife, walking home from, uh, something (not a crack house), or having stopped on the side of the road, uh, for something else (not crack). I will get one of those super cute beach bags from target, wear a sarong maybe, or a casual dress made out of cotton, flip flops. I work better in these types of uniforms any way, it serves a dual purpose here.
"What do you say officer? Spray paint? No, just a few beach towels and my Cosmo magazine in here."
When you take mania out of the equation, the end result is: I would like to get a couple of pieces of particle board or plywood for the backyard to create on. I tried this in 2006 and it was a total bust. I had no clue what I was doing, my spray paint creations looked worse than paraplegic kindergarten finger paintings.
Note: Since I stopped eating meat five years ago, I have steadily slid down a slippery slope of PC wordplay. I am not apologizing; this is merely an observation.
One of the things I learned last night was how to hook up LED lights to batteries and magnets so one could make them throwable and sticky to metal surfaces. I have been racking my brain trying to think how I can use this to my creative advantage somewhere in the city. Of course I can make and throw a bunch somewhere but that's not really the point is it? Or maybe it is. Maybe some time later I will decide that is the point. Either way, I want to make some. For something. Soon. They look so damn cool at night. Like fireflies.
All of this discussion around the house of bail and bondsmen got me thinking about death (there was some sort of linkage I cant recall at the time of this writing, a more flowy linkage too, not just "hey make sure you bail me out" and "oh about that whole end of my life shit"...). I think that somehow the knowledge that I am not dying of any disease, keeps me pretty much on the train tracks. If I was to ever be diagnosed with cancer, I am not so sure this would remain the case. 2 out of 4 family members agree, 1 family member was absent at voting time and 1 is too young to consider such possibilities of life, therefore one can arrive at a 100%, total agreement: if I ever come down with the cancer, tornadoes will make less messes out of their surroundings. Its almost appealing in a way, to have a set amount of time left, because, why wait to do anything; think it, fuck it, do it NOW now now now.
But I AM dying.
We are all dying.
So yea. Fuck it.
I hope I get to keep the orange jumpsuit and booties when I get released. They still give those out as parting favors, right?
5.18.2011
so money.
Who's the big winner today?
Almost finished with two multi media projects I have been plugging away at this month. One involves corks. Three times now I have had to beg for corks after running out and then running out again. Tonight, I am applying the last batch procured and am hoping beyond all hope there are enough to finish out. Who knew I didn't drink ENOUGH.
My hairdresser supreme emailed last night and wants to trade out some design work for some sultry mane fabulousness. The glory of being a freelance designer is the bartering I am sometimes able to do. And product packaging? Are you kidding me? My design on YOUR product? Sweet. SWEET.
I had a meeting on Tuesday afternoon with a key decision maker for a new outdoor festival. Not only was she impressed with the pieces I provided her but she is anxious to give me more projects with which to work magic. It means a lot to bring this kind of business to the company right now. There are so many elements she wanted included. I feel like I kept the designs clean, despite the amount of ingredients in the kitchen.
Who's the big winner today?
This girl is.
Almost finished with two multi media projects I have been plugging away at this month. One involves corks. Three times now I have had to beg for corks after running out and then running out again. Tonight, I am applying the last batch procured and am hoping beyond all hope there are enough to finish out. Who knew I didn't drink ENOUGH.
My hairdresser supreme emailed last night and wants to trade out some design work for some sultry mane fabulousness. The glory of being a freelance designer is the bartering I am sometimes able to do. And product packaging? Are you kidding me? My design on YOUR product? Sweet. SWEET.
I had a meeting on Tuesday afternoon with a key decision maker for a new outdoor festival. Not only was she impressed with the pieces I provided her but she is anxious to give me more projects with which to work magic. It means a lot to bring this kind of business to the company right now. There are so many elements she wanted included. I feel like I kept the designs clean, despite the amount of ingredients in the kitchen.
Who's the big winner today?
This girl is.
5.17.2011
Revised movie lines.
You had me at Jello. You had me. At. Jello.
YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TOOTH!
No one can eat 50 legs.
Show me the HONEY!
Frankly, my beaver, I don't give a damn.
I can't believe I gave my panties to a leek.
Say hello to my little blend!
Here's looking at you, squid.
May the horse be with you.
I pre spread people.
Heeeeereeeeee's Tawny!
There's no brace like foam. There's no brace like foam.
If you chill it, sea will come.
DEMOCRATICA! DEMOCRATICA!
A Martini. Bacon, not curd.
I'll get you my kitty, and your little blog too!
YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TOOTH!
No one can eat 50 legs.
Show me the HONEY!
Frankly, my beaver, I don't give a damn.
I can't believe I gave my panties to a leek.
Say hello to my little blend!
Here's looking at you, squid.
May the horse be with you.
I pre spread people.
Heeeeereeeeee's Tawny!
There's no brace like foam. There's no brace like foam.
If you chill it, sea will come.
DEMOCRATICA! DEMOCRATICA!
A Martini. Bacon, not curd.
I'll get you my kitty, and your little blog too!
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