The Junk Drawer

Trust me. This post title will make some sense in a minute.

We’ve got something new for the Food That Looks Like Stuff collection. This little guy was discovered in a pack of chicken fingers from Wegman’s in Bethlehem, Pa.

Taken on the whole, this looks like a sleeping dog to me. I’ve decided it’s a Basset Hound, though sadly, front legless.

Because I like to get second opinions when I’m not sure I’ve got a food that looks like something, I sent it to my sister Ann to examine. Here’s her response:

Is that God’s face on the right?! Or Zeus?  Full head of hair and full longish beard?!  OMG!

Do you see the face?

Taking a poll. Who thinks it’s a dog and who thinks it’s God/Zeus? Who thinks we’re seeing things?

Sleeping Basset Hound-God-Zeus Chicken Finger

Addendum, 4/29: OK, folks. Here’s where I see the face. Please don’t mock my graphic design skills. I have none.

There are two numbers I’m obsessed with: One, my weight, which never makes me happy. And, two, the amount of readers who’ve subscribed to my blog’s feed. Smiles all around. I’ve finally cracked the 100 mark!

Actually, I have three separate feed counts that total almost 150, but I don’t count the older feeds because I’m not sure there are active readers behind those numbers. I’m only eying the current feed, which sits nicely at 103.

I want to take a moment to thank everyone who subscribes to the Junk Drawer, or who comes in from a bookmark. Thanks also go to those who added me to their blogrolls. I appreciate the links that lead people here.

I’ve said on more than one occasion that it’s really my readers who make my blog what it is today. Yes, I write this thing, but something amazing happens when I click the Publish button. A party breaks out in the comments section.

People have asked me how I achieve such a high number of comments each post. Honestly, I don’t know the formula, but I know dumb luck is a big part of it. Somehow I’ve attracted the right mix of people who leave the funniest comments after every visit.

During a birthday party last weekend, my family was sitting around talking about things that go on in The Drawer. We remembered some funny stuff left in the comments and someone said “Huh? What are you talking about?” and another said “Oh my God! You’re not reading the comments? You have to read the comments! It’s a goldmine in there!”

Bottom line, if you’re reading The Junk Drawer, hugs and kisses. If you’re not reading the comments, you must change your ways because you’re missing out on a key element of the blog. You might chuckle at something I’ve written, but you’re going to snort something out your nose if you dig further and read what people dropped in the drawer.

Thanks again, everyone! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Blogging has been some of the most fun I’ve had in my life, and you’re responsible for that. Toast yourselves and have a great weekend!

Ahhh, bathroom issues at work. We either hear something we don’t want to hear, or see something we don’t want to see.

The two bathrooms nearest my office are single-use. You have to lock the door behind you because the only toilet inside has no privacy wall around it. The room has just the toilet, a chair, a sink and a trash can. And the toilet is at the farthest point from the door.

If you forget to lock the door, you’re in serious trouble. If someone comes in, unless you can cross the space-time continuum, there’s no way you can slam it shut before they see you.

Someone forgot to lock the door.

Here’s a run-down of the voice mail I got from a colleague who walked in on some poor sap.

Kath, the opposite of my worst fear happened to me. I walked in on a dude in the bathroom who didn’t lock the door. He was totally exposed, man. Just an island out there. He was an older dude. I don’t know who it was.

As I’m shuttin’ the door, I’m like “You gotta lock the door, dude!” He’s like “I know! I’m sorry!” Usually I’m scared I’m on the opposite end of that, totally prone! Dude. It was crazy. God! I have a 2:00 meeting. I gotta go. God!

When I met up with him later, he told me that in the split second he was witness to the horror, he could tell the guy was hunkered down for a long visit. He had the chair pulled up in front of the bowl and was reading! On the toilet! At work? The hell???

I will never understand why a man will take reading material into a bathroom at work, plan to stay a while, and forget to lock the door. Maybe he was so excited about the latest Wall Street Journal, locking the door slipped his mind?

When I use the ladies room, I probably check the lock four different times before I’m sure I’m safe. If someone walked in on me, I’d have to find a new job. I could never go back.

And let’s not forget there were two victims here. The obvious one, but also my colleague, whose eyes are still burning from the vision. No matter how brief the encounter, he’ll probably never forget it.

For the love of God, check the lock once, twice, three times if you have to. I’m not sure post-traumatic stress disorder is covered under my benefits plan.

Every few months, I go to my doctor to get an injection that must be administered at a ventrogluteal site. What’s a ventrogluteal site, you ask?

My big ‘ol smiling butt, that’s what.

I’ve gotten quite used to getting injections this way. It’s not painful at all, and subjects me to only a mild amount of embarrassment. Pants down. Inject. Band-aid. Pants up. Done.

Not the last time I went.

This time, I got Nurse Rached who was either in a terrible hurry to get me over with, or never got the instructions for making her patients feel comfortable in a vulnerable position, or both.

I got myself in position, leaning at roughly a 60 degree angle against the examination table. Pants down. Cheek in position. Knee bent. Ready.

I could hear Nurse Rached prepare the various paraphernalia necessary to give the injection.

Typically, the nurse will toss out the syringe plastic wrap, cotton ball and Band-aid behind her on a counter. Nurse Rached apparently felt it was too time-consuming to turn around and lay the items down behind her.

So she piled everything up in a heap on my butt. Yep, there I stood. Me and my ass table.

Plastic wrap. Check. Needle cap. Check. Syringe!!! Check. Used cotton ball. Check. Band-aid wrapper. Check. Got anything else you wanna throw on there? Your coffee cup? A phone, stapler and tape dispenser and you’ve got yourself an office.

Needless to say, I was mortified. Um, you almost done back there?

Listen, I don’t go around leaving garbage on her butt, so I’d really appreciate not getting her again for my next injection. Besides, I hope to lose 20 pounds by my next visit, so it’s possible there won’t be enough room for disposables.

Lady, check the nurse manual. I’m pretty sure it says exposed butts are embarrassing enough.

For those of you who think my junk drawer is too neat and clean, you haven’t seen my refrigerator.