Monthly Archives: August 2007

Uh, what?

Is there seriously someone else out there who used to be as afraid of Zelda as I?

Do I talk about weed/getting high a lot on my blog (btw, I have never even TOUCHED weed in my life. Ever. So the “getting high” talk wouldn’t be from my own personal perspective)

Because look:


Seriously, now.


The cast of characters

You may have noticed that I encounter quite a variety of characters in my daily life.  I’ve decided to make a list of them, along with short descriptions and links to longer entries about them.  I may even sneak in a couple of new ones.

1. Pentagenarian: the 50-something lady with whom I work.  Known for wearing short skirts and clicky shoes and walking REALLY fast around the office.  Hasn’t been  mentioned around The Fresh Cracker lately because she seems to be starting to comprehend the fine line between inquisitive and nosy.

2. Lady Criesalot: The early 20-something coworker who calls her parents “Mama and Daddy” even in conversation with others.  Cries almost daily over ex-boyfriends, current boyfriends, and her daddy being mean.  Likes to bust into my office yelling “Hola!” at the exact moment I’m furiously typing to get shit done.  Doesn’t get the hint when I continue typing and do not look at her.  Also, gets mad when I don’t have time to go to her office and show her basic HTML skills that a monkey could learn.  Google is your friend.

3. Gary Coleman: The very heavy and loud female coworker who looks like Gary Coleman but is somehow very cute at the same time.  Can get rowdy.  Sweats a lot and frowns on stairwells in favor of the elevator.  May keel over at any moment.  Is overall a sweetheart whose vocal cords are just a bit too developed.

4. Bible T-shirt Girl: The bane of my existence.  Okay, she’s not THAT important, but this [quite large] girl bugs.  Lately taken to repeatedly kicking her desk [which, incidentally, used to me MY desk until she bamboozled me one night. Desk is right beside me through a heaven-sent divider] and, making “I’m in tremendous pain” faces, making lists of “cool names” like EUGENIA (believe me, I saw it), and clucking like a chicken while at work.  This is when she ISN’T throwing snot rags at the lady adjacent to her. The lady adjacent to her is our next cast member.

5. Bad Singer Who Likes Tigger: Unfortunately, I have no previous entries about BSWLT.  Not that she isn’t becoming a MAJOR player in the cast of characters.  BSWLT can almost be combined with BTSG into one huge, stinking, noisy, annoying entity. That I would like to kill. She participates in snotrag volleyball with BTSG, sings/hums as loudly as possible, and, just last night, eyes me while mumbling incoherently as I walk into work.  Did I mention that she has Tigger cutouts and pictures frames all over her desk?  Like I told my coworkers the other night: Tigger is for five-year-olds and retarded people.  No offense to retarded people.

Continued: The weirdest week of my life aka I’ve almost died like four times

For part one, go here

Sure enough: the formerly parked white jeep was careening toward me at an unnatural rate for a car with no driver [must’ve been a five-speed].

I jumped/ran out of the way and stopped.  The driver of the car that hit the jeep was sitting in her car, mouth bleeding, steering wheel smoking, sideways in the lane.

I yelled out “Are you okay?” and ran over to her, telling her she should probably get out of the car. (Remind me sometime to tell you about the great car-turned-fireball-on-the-side-of-I-40 fiasco of 1999)

She stumbled out, wearing one birkenstock, and went, “Whew! I was just reaching down for my cell phone! What happened?”

And then she spit blood.

“Um, you hit that jeep.  Do you wanna sit down?”

I said this as I was opening my cell phone to dial 911.

“Yeah. Oh, should I move my car?

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her car wasn’t moving by itself for a VERY long time.

At this point, about thirty people from surrounding doctors’ offices had come out to gape at the wreck.  One nurse yelled out, as I had the phone to my ear, “Are you calling 911?”

No, lady, I’m calling Katie to see what she wore to work today.  OF COURSE I’M CALLING 911.

Dumb bitch.

So, the crowd of people come down to the street, basically SWARMING, and a nice-looking nurse says to me, “What happened?”

I pointed to the jeep: “She hit that”

“Was it parked there?”

At this point, some random guy comes walking up and says, “No, it was parked THERE” and points SEVERAL yards away.

It was then that I realized the jeep had landed RIGHT where I’d previously been standing.

So I turn to nice-looking nurse lady and say “Are you gonna be here, ’cause I gotta go to work.”

And left.

And called my mom and almost threw up because I was thisclose to being hit by a flying car. But not a Delorean.

The next morning, I decided to walk over to the cafeteria to get breakfast, and my boss went with me.

As we returned to our building, I went to open the door.

And the handle came off in my hand.  I could only stand there, shaking my head.

That night, I went to nightwork and we finished waaay late.

I walked out the door about two minutes before L and S and noticed a guy walking from underneath the fire escape.

“Hm. Probably sitting under there smoking weed or something”

He walked to his car, parked near mine.

I vaguely recall him backing out and leaving.

The next thing I know, L and S are next to my passenger window, gesturing in the rapidly departing car’s direction.

I excused myself from my phone conversation and rolled down my window.

“Did you see that?!?!?!”, they cried.

“What, that guy?”

“Yeah, he almost hit your car! If you had been standing behind it, he definitely would’ve hit you.  He gunned it backwards, then slammed on brakes and sped off.”

“What?! Well, I DID see him come out from under the fire escape. Maybe he’s high.”

“Um, so don’t leave by yourself again, ok?”


I resumed my phone conversation and, after regaling the person on the other end with details of what had just happened they said, “Um. It’s possible he was waiting under the stairs for you.”


The next day at work, my boss and I walked somewhere together that involved hopping off a small ledge on our return.

“Be careful” she warned.

“Oh, I hop off this thing all the time.”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly having the best week.”

The rest of the day was uneventful [well, unless you count getting word that I didn’t get a job I applied for, but later on that in a minute].

The next morning I arrived to work in my cute blue pants that are starting to fit looser [double-pump].

After a trip to empty my bladder, I decided to check out my own ass in the mirror.

Oh, come on, like you don’t do it too.

As I turned to look, I saw something: a big rip down the middle of my pants.


At least I live five minutes away and was able to go home and change after showing my boss and having her say, “Yeah, you need to change probably.”

That was the end of the bad things.  After that, good things have been coming at me just like that white jeep from before.

While I WAS passed up on a job for which I was CERTAIN I interviewed well, I decided to turn it into something positive: I emailed one of my interviewers letting her know that I appreciated her time and did she have any suggestions for me in the future.

She wrote back that they had hired internally [something I’m looking for in my next place of employment: mobility within] and that it was a tough choice, but asked me to continue to check their jobs and apply.

So today, I did. And once I was finished applying for a job, I looked at my profile.

“Send to Manager” was written beside a job I’d never even applied for.  “Send to Manager” means “book an interview”.


While I was on my way to my car to go home for lunch, my voicemail alert went off.  I had a message from the company asking me to call about the job I’d applied for maybe two hours earlier.

Double yesssssss.

It ended up that the recruiter was going to call me back to set up an interview, but when she looked in the system, she saw that I was already being considered for another position there.  She called me to tell me that, and said she’d put my interview process on hold for now.

Three considerations from a big company in one month?

I think I can handle that.

The weirdest week of my life aka I’ve almost died like four times.


Ok, so I’m a total klutz and I know it. It gives me great stories to tell people and they are sometimes amazed that I haven’t:

a) become one huge walking scab
b) ever in my life actually broken a bone
c) spontaneously combusted
d) been hit by a car
e) fallen off a building.

Or maybe it’s just me that’s surprised, since half the time I klutz out when I’m by myself.

Anyway, the weirdest week of my life began on Tuesday.  I got up, took a shower, actually dried and semi-styled my hair and got ready to walk out the door.

But wait, there is a bill I need to pay to  my orthopaedist who attempted to aspirate my ganglion cyst [to no more avail than a large amount of blood and my near-fainting spell].  It is neatly magneted to my front door [I love having a metal door on my apartment], I must mail it!

So I stop, grab the mail, lock my door and head over to the mailbox.

I step on one of the round pavers placed there to prevent soggy foot when the mulch gets waterlogged.

And immediately fell over. Onto my ass, and then my back.

As I lay there, looking up at the sky, I shouted “You have GOT to be kidding me!”

This is something I utter on a regular daily basis. Mostly while driving.

After I laid there for a few seconds, I rolled my eyes upward to make sure no one in the neighboring building saw my graceful descent to the mulch. I saw no one.

But maybe they were hiding.

I got up and brushed myself off, noting the variety of scrapes I had acquired on my right pinky, back, and elbow.

I hopped in my car and drove to work.   After I got out of my car in the parking lot, I noticed some stickers with someone’s full name, DOB, and a barcode on them. HIPAA VIOLATION! I picked up the sheet of stickers, ready to chuck them in the shred box because, hey, I’d want someone to do that for me if it were MY personal info laying on the sidewalk.

But, I digress.

As I made my way through the tunnel, I saw that the fire alarms were blinking, but not beeping.  I emerged to face my office building and most of my coworkers standing outside.

Gary Coleman decided she would play mother hen that morning and chided me, “Don’t go inside! Stay outside for the fire drill!”

She is large, so I obeyed her.

Lady Criesalot was there [and she actually hasn’t been crying as much lately. until today] and said, “Hey, what is that?” pointing to the stickers.

I showed her and Gary Coleman peeked over my shoulder.  “Ah, they can print them some more!”

LC and I just looked at each other and she said, “Um, I get it.” and we both rolled our eyes at Gary Coleman.

Finally, I decide to defy the great child star and go into my office, since I had students waiting.

While we were doing that thing we do, I decided to excuse myself and go ask for a bandaid for my split-open finger.

The lady handed me TWO bandaids, and I walked out. Then looked at them. And they were fucking Bugs Bunny bandaids!

Here is one of them, modeled on my pudgy hand for your reference:


Now, I’m all for colorful bandaids with cartoons on them. The problem is this: I HATE Bugs Bunny being printed on ANYthing.

In fact, the same goes for Taz and Tweety Bird.  I just associate them all with rednecks. Maybe it comes from a lifetime lived as a non-redneck Southerner, forced to gaze upon Tweety Bird tire covers and Taz mud flaps on every truck in the county.

Again, I digress.

After finishing orientation, the day went pretty well.

Until it was time for me to go home.

As usual, I put in my ear buds, turned on my mp3 player, and commenced to jamming while walking to my car.  I’d gone home for lunch, so I couldn’t get a spot in the lot when I came back: I had to park down the roooooooad.

The sidewalk ends about halfway down, so I carefully stepped into the bike lane and continued walking.  I had just passed a parked white jeep in the last parking spot before the bike lane starts.

About three seconds later, I heard the loudest boomcrash I’ve ever heard in my entire life.  My first thought was, “Oh shit! Someone hit something and now it’s going to come sailing my way!”

…to be continued because this bitch is getting long.

Putting the wrong emPHASSis on the wrong syllABle.

One thing I forgot to tell you about Woodchuck: she tries to make people think she’s highly intelligent by putting the wrong emphasis on the wrong syllable [see title for details].

Once, while she was regaling me with details of her date with a coworker (during this account she repeated “Illusions are false” … no shit, Woodchuck, that’s why they’re called “illusions”) she started telling me about how she and the coworker began “connecting”.

He apparently kept showing up in her office, bringing her her daily mail, etc.  Then, he asked to borrow her copy of Ulysses.  You and I know it as “you-LISS-ease”; Woodchuck, on the other hand, calls it “YOULL-iss-ease”. Throughout the [rather one-sided] conversation, Woodchuck repeatedly referenced “YOULL-iss-ease”. Repeatedly.

At first, I just chalked this up to Woodchuck being kind of insane and in a bad mood because of her horrible date with coworker boy.

That is, until last week.

I was in Woodchuck’s area [no, not THAT area. and i HAD to be there. it wasn’t by choice] and she was doing some major asskissing after the “big mouth” episode.  We were chatting about how some of our building got flooded and how disgustingly moldy everything smelled.

“Not a very healthy work environment, eh?” I said.

“”Yeah with the mold and there may even be ass-best-OHSS stirred up.”

I was so tempted to say “You mean ass-BEST-ohss?”

It’s like the time someone I know pronounced Paul Klee’s last name “Kleeee” instead of “Klay”.

I even googled that shit to make sure I was right.

And I was.

I just want to go to Canada

OK. You know I live in the Southeastern United States and that I, for the most part, love it here.

But lately, I just want to take a week off, get a plane ticket, and fly to Canada.



a) it is about 70 degrees there and that, to me, equals awesome
b) I’ve heard Canada is super clean. like SUPER.
c) it’d be a hell of a lot cheaper than Europe, and they probably don’t hate people from the U.S. there as much.
d) did i mention the weather?
e) did i mention that with the heat index it’s about 109 degrees (F) here?

I also heard you can get milk in a bag in Canada. I want to see it.

A confederate nazi statue?!?!

I live in a Southern town.  An OOOOOLD Southern town.  That was a base for Confederate blockade runners during the Civil War.  And also had major race riots in 1898.

But this is 2007.  People have [for the most part, I hope] wised up, grown up, and gotten less ignorant.  I can sit with one of my best friends, who happens to be black, in a restaurant, or walk down the street hugging him, or whatever, and get no sidelong glances.

Our town is pretty progressive-seeming, gay-friendly, multi-cultural, etc. etc.

But then, there is the statue.

Oh, the statue.

I’d heard people discussing it years ago in college after someone rammed into it with their car during a bout of idiotic driving.

I didn’t know details and, frankly, didn’t care that much.

But, last week on my way downtown to go to work, I took a different route and passed by the statue.

The light turned red, I was a few cars back, so I had a chance to study this monument that sits, quite precariously, actually, on the median of one of downtown’s busiest streets.

Now, I was pretty sure the statue had something to do with the confederacy.  I thought maybe the daughters of the confederacy had something to do with it.

But what I didn’t know was that the statue depicts some war hero’s right arm held straight out above his head, fingers slightly curled, but almost as an afterthought.

As in, the gesture basically looks like he’s “Sig Heil”-ing our entire downtown area.

And what’s worse: no one else seems to notice this or say “Hey, couldn’t you have made a statue that looks a little less like Hitler? I mean, we have enough trouble convincing people we’re not backwards and hate-filled idiots as it is.”


Thothe people with lithpth

Oh. My. Gah.

I just realized that there is a FOURTH person- grown-up person– that I know who has a lisp.

And I also realized this: all four of these people work in very close proximity to me.

What if lisps are contagiouth…?


Thith lithp ith worthe than otherth I’ve heard.

Seriously, now.  Didn’t these people have speech therapy in elementary school?

What else is weird, though, is that I also know THREE people who obviously used to have a lisp, but DID undergo speech therapy.  They have a weird non-lisp with some ssss-y undertones.

I can’t quite explain it, but if you’ve ever heard it, you know EXACTLY what I’m talking about.

It’s “those” people. Or is it me?

Why am I a weirdo magnet?

I feel like everywhere I go [ok, mainly everywhere I WORK] there are weirdos just waiting for me.

Just like BTSG.

And just like a girl who works for my dayjob company. Let’s call her “Woodchuck” because, yeah.

I, idiotically, let it slip to her that I had some good news.

Bad move, Cracker. VERY bad move.  In my own defense, though, this girl has done and said so many “OMG please be my friend” things that I was pretty sure she’d keep her lip zipped.

Nothing doing.

Later that afternoon, Woodchuck’s coworker [we’ll call her Amazon] saunters down to talk to my coworker [the one who looks like Gary Coleman] and looks over at me.  This comes out of her mouth, “Woodchuck said you have some exciting news. What is it? We’re wondering if you’re pregnant.”

There are SO many things wrong with what she just said.  First, Woodchuck needs to keep her big woodchuck teeth in her big woodchuck mouth aka not talk about my biz [I know, I know, I spilled it first, but I didn’t tell her to share it!].  Second: do you HONESTLY think that being pregnant would be GOOD news for me? I can barely feed myself, let alone a fetus that will eventually become a needy, needy child!  Third: are you wondering about my possible state of pregnancy because you’re BLIND?!?! I’ve lost weight, Amazon!  I don’t have puffy ankles, I don’t eat NEARLY as much as I used to, and my midsection is not quite so convex as it once was!

After her oh-so-I-could-kill-her questions, I replied, “That girl (meaning Woodchuck) has a BIG mouth.”

The next morning, I got this email:

Hi Freshcracker, 

I wanted to apologize for yesterday… Amazon and I were talking and I just casually mentioned that you had some good news and I was anxious to hear what it was.  I am sorry.  Please forgive me. 


That email has “loser” written all over it.  I won’t even go into the other things Woodchuck has said to me, on the false premise that I actually give a shit.

I think my reply was, “Don’t worry about it.  I just don’t want everyone knowing my business.”

The. End.

What’s even BETTER, though, is the encounter I had with Woodchuck this morning:

I was sitting there, reading some fluff magazine like US or something, and she casually walks over to me and asks, “So what’s your big news?”

WHAT? Woodchuck, you are a damned idiot if you think I’m going to answer that question.

I just looked at her and said, “Um, I’m not telling you.”

Woodchuck: “Awww, but Amazon and I were just talking and I was excited and…”

Me: “Well, I really don’t want people broadcasting what’s going on in my life.”

Woodchuck: “I’m sorry.”

Me: “It’s not a big deal, I just don’t want everyone knowing my business.”

Woodchuck quietly walked away after that.

She probably will go home tonight and throw out the floor pillows she bought because, she told me, “I know how you like to sit on the floor.”


I’ve been to her apartment ONCE, about a year ago, and I’m never going back.  Psycho.

Speaking of psychos, BTSG has done it again.

Last night I walked into work and, after a two day absence, there she was. SITTING AT MY FUCKING DESK.

I went over to CW/S and said “What the fuck, dude? She’s sitting at my desk.”

I go over to my rightful desk and grab some supplies.  BTSG has the audacity to look over and say, “Yeah, they moved me here today.”

According to CW/S, nobody moved shit that day, so BTSG apparently took it upon herself to invade my workspace.

So, hoping that the particle board divider would keep her at bay, I duly ignored her presence, took the desk next to her, and got to work.

But I couldn’t concentrate.  I HAD to tell someone about it.

So naturally I went into another part of the office and called my sister so we could “OMG” together.

“She probably is trying everything she can to be near you, Freshcracker!  Watch out that she doesn’t wait for you after work and try to follow you home!”

Seriously, sis is right.

Later, she wrote me an email that said, “Well, her taking your desk and then lying about being moved could’ve been worse: she could’ve patted the chair and said ‘There’s room for one more!'”

I almost vomited at the thought.

After a few “WTFs” with some coworkers, I really cracked down on my work.  There was one “she’s about to ask me a question” scare that turned out to be her just scanning the room for someone else to complain about, and a period of about 20 minutes where we were blessed with her absence.

Then BTSG went home.

As soon as she was out the door, coworker S rolled her chair over to me.

“Did you just see that?”

“What?” I asked.

BTSG just waved bye to you.”

“Um. What? Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure. She was waving in your direction and no one else’s.”

Oh, God. Please don’t let me have another stalker.  Especially a female one who could probably kill me after just a few short minutes of sitting on my head.

And, as my brother would say, “I bet that butt stinks.”