I'm finding it extremely difficult to get motivated today. Usually, I can go back into the deep, dark bowels of the office and find someone to yell at, and that gives me a quick pick-me-up.

You know, things like, 'What the HELL are you doing?'
or 'Why haven't you finished that yet? You think I'm paying you to sit on your ass and smoke cigarettes and drink coffee?!'
or 'Who do you think you are, putting those files over there?!' (even if - - especially if - - that's where the files are supposed to go.)

I even went into Luthereen's office to make fun of her. (Not Luthereen Flynn in Purchasing, because I'm scared of her, and not Luthereen Willis in Receiving. She's too new for tomfoolery. And not Luthereen Morgan in Advertising. I'm afraid she'd walk out.) It was Luthereen McIntyre over in Research and Development. She's always an easy target. Just the right kind of 'look' at her and she'll burst into tears!

Well shit!
I walk into her office, and there she is with a big, half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir. 'Luthereen, you look like hell today. Where did you get that thing you call a dress?'
She glared at me, a little bit of wine dribbling from the corner of her mouth, and shouted, 'Bring it on, bitch!'
I decided discretion was the better part of valor, so I left her office.

Then I ventured over to Otisette's cubicle. (Not Otisette Williams in Accounts Payable, not Otisette Meyers in Bindery, not Otisette Phillips in the Pressroom, but Otisette Eckersly in Data Processing - the gal with one blue eye and one green eye.) I started singing Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue. That usually gets her going. She arched her back like a cat, spit on the floor and yelled, 'Damn you! Damn you, you simpering little faerie!' Then she threw her stapler at me.

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On the phone last night, about 6:30 p.m.

Yip: Hi dad, what are you doing? How you feeling today?

Dad: Oh, pretty good. My legs are hurting a little, but I feel pretty good. Hey, I made a big batch of chili but it's way too thick. What do you think I should do?

Y: Well, I'd put in some tomato sauce, maybe crushed or diced tomatoes, and water. Of course, you're going to have to re-season it after it's diluted.

D: I made a whole shit pot full! Should I put in more onions?

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Yes, it's another inane, somewhat inappropriate, and often times sleep-inducing report of my happenings during the last Diversity Weekend.

Warning: The following is about as informative and entertaining as a head of cabbage.

We cannot be held responsible for you screaming 'Why the HELL does he write this shit?!' and throwing your computer out of the nearest window.
~~~~~
We gassed up the Yipmobile, made sure Barbie was safely ensconced by the front license plate (a trick I learned from Mitt Romney and his canine friend) and loaded everyone else inside. Queen Diva Luscious and Mrs. Manners bitched at each other all the way to Eureka. I knew it would happen. When those two get together, it's exceedingly painful for the rest of us.

M.M.: 'Mrs. Manners would very much appreciate a short visit to the Precious Moments Chapel. She simply adores those charming children portrayed in such a lovely medium! She also has a simple question for our driver - are we there yet?'

Q.D.L.: 'Why you talk like dat, bitch? Can't you jus say 'I wanna go dare'? 'Sides, ain't nobody wanna go dare but ol' people like you.
Yip baby, you gonna be stoppin at da adult video store, ain't ya? Ya know I gots ta see me some tits an' ass, baby. Who stole my ham samwich? You got it, bitch?
We be dare yet?'

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Picture it:

I'm sitting here at my desk, squirming.

It occurs to me that I'm squirming because I need to use the restroom. (Yeah, I'm kinda dense about some things. Frankly, some of you would probably edfanot want to 'picture it'. Don't think I'd blame you.)

Anyway, I make my way back to the spacious men's room here in the Yip building, on Yip Boulevard, in beautiful downtown Yip. I do my 'business'.
I shall refrain from offering specifics of the event.

*Mrs. Manners* Thank you.

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Last night, with nothing else in mind for din-din, I decided to make a beef stew (pronounced 'stoo') type of thing.

Aside: (This is important, people. Read it.) Whenever I have leftover veggies or beef gravy, I put it in a zipper bag in the freezer for times such as last night. After the bag gets a whole bunch of stuff in it, I cook up some beef, toss in the veggie/gravy stuff, and, Eureka! Beef stoo! (sort of)

Ok, so anyway, I'm getting ready to make the stoo. I remember me dear sainted Mama Yip sometimes including barley in soups and stoos.

As it happens, I have some barley in my extensively-stocked pantry! (By 'extensively-stocked', I mean there's 1 bag of penne pasta and a can of crushed tomatoes. I think there's a half-eaten Hershey bar and some kosher salt in there too.)

I throw a bunch of the barley in the stoo. After a while, dinner was served, with a glass or two (Ok, 7 glasses. Or was it 8?) of red wine - shiraz/grenache to be exact. Pretty damned good, if I say so myself! I mean, I'm no Bobby Flay. I'm no Ming. I'm no French dude (can't remember his name). I'm no Julia Child - though we do bear a striking resemblance. But all in all, it was pretty tasty.

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After a kitchen remodel, I had an old (ancient!) dishwasher to get rid of, along with some other crap (not 'good' crap, 'bad' crap) including a couple of broken patio tables, a patio heater, about 12 feet of duct work, and miscellaneous (bad) crap.

This was all stuff the regular trash pickup won't accept.  So, I call the city to make an appointment for what they call 'bulky item pickup'.  I'm told to have the crap out by the street no later than 7:00 A.M. the day of the appointment.

Being the clever lad I am (read:  to damned lazy to get up at 5:30 to move the crap to the curb), I put it out at about 8:30 the night before.   I showered, got all sparkly and shiny clean, and went out for an evening of no-no beverages and delightful dining with some other homa seckshuls.

I arrive back at Hell's Half Acre at about 11:00 that night.  EVERYTHING, except one broken patio table, is GONE!

Maybe that crap wasn't so bad after all!     Right now, somewhere in the K.C. area, some guy is thinking to himself, 'What am I gonna do with this crap?  Oh well, it was free.'

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The only Domestic Partnership Registry in Arkansas--and one of the few in the Mid-South region of the country--may soon be history, if one right-wing state legislator has his way.

But the City of Eureka Springs and DPR advocates, vow to vigorously oppose a move by Republican Arkansas State Rep. Bryan King to do away with it.

In only 22 months, 256 unmarried couples from 55 Arkansas communities and 14 other states have registered as domestic partners in Eureka Springs.

At least 28 of those couples came from neighboring Oklahoma and another 32 from Missouri, says Michael Walsh, who wrote the domestic partnership law that went into effect in June 2007.

Efforts to keep the resort town from officially honoring gay and straight couples is «transparent homophobia,» he says.

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I've been gone for a few days, but, just like the proverbial bad check, I've returned.

I'm not sure if the past few days have been a dream or reality.

In speaking with my shrink -- I mean, psychiatrist (not good to mention the word 'shrink' to a man during this cold weather, ya know) -- he's decided one of the following is my reality (in no particular order):

1. I've been engaged in a rasslin' match with a she-demon in the purple waves of the 9th astral plane.

2. I fell into a sink hole in the outer reaches of Hell's Half Acre. I subsisted for 6 days by eating bugs and worms, and squeezing water from the muddy walls of the sink hole. At one point, The Boy (Little Yip) passed by, spotted me screaming for help 32 feet below the surface, and shouted down to me, 'Piss off, old man! I found the car keys, I'm taking the cat with me.'

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In spite of Doris Day singing Que Sera Sera in my ear, these burning questions (in no particular order of importance) have been keeping me up at night.

What will 2009 bring?

A new Commander-In-Chief, for one thing.  Halle-fucking-lujah!!  Goodbye, Mr. Bush.  You will not be missed.

(And a personal note to Doris: Sweetie, I KNOW the future's not ours to see. I just think about these things, ok? So BACK OFF bitch.)

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