A Life of Pie

I share custody of a pair of Nomex with this guy at work. His name is Big Bill. (The Nomex, that is, not the guy.) Neither of us have ever worn Big Bill, but it makes us feel somehow more... official to have him on hand. (And by official I mean, less like wussy office dwellers.) So we toss Big Bill in the back of a work truck from time to time and cart him around the countryside, making Tim the Toolman grunts and feeling all relevant to the world, yet never having to suffer the myriad indignities of actually wearing Nomex. The best of both worlds!

So when the safety plan for my field work this week told me that, in order to safely traverse some gently rolling grassy fields, I needed to wear about seventeen pieces of Personal Protective Equipment - including Nomex - I went right ahead and exerted my end of the custodial arrangement. Just as I was giving Big Bill a hug and telling him what a fun day he was going to have with mommy, it hit me: Big Bill is a bit of a misnomer. Big Bill is rather more along the lines of medium.

Or maybe even small.

And I'm, you know, not.

Seems that, while I'd had the presence of mind to share custody of a pair of Nomex with someone more or less my own height, I had never really considered whether there was any difference in our respective, er, circumferences - and let's just say that I've multiplied my diameter by a whole lot more pie than my esteemed coworker has. And I was leaving town in just a few short hours...

*ring ring*

"Marks Work WearHouse, Garrett speaking. Can I help you?"

"Hi, Garrett. I'm interested in purchasing some of your Ladies' Nomex."

"We certainly have some in stock, ma'am, would you like me to put some aside for you until you can make it in to the store?"

"Yes, please. May I have the tummy control panel and built-in shelf bra option, please? Oh, and I look so much better in green, it really sets off my skin tone, let's just do a nice fern or jade instead of that godawful blue for a change."

"... ..."

"I can tell by your silence that you're having trouble with the green - it's okay, I know you menfolk have difficulty with colour words, really it's a small price to pay for being straight don't you think? Honestly, anything but chartreuse is fine. Don't be shy. Use your discretion."

"Ma'am, I don't - I don't have any idea what you're talking about. Did you just request a tummy control panel?"

"Why, yes, it's a bit of a trouble spot for me, you know, and..."

"I'm sorry ma'am, nothing like that exists."

"Why - why, that's terrible, Garrett! What on earth kind of options do you have?"

"We carry both the 'Shapeless Lump' and the 'Saggy Crotch' models, in sizes from 'Room for Three' to 'Pinch the Tip Before You Roll 'Em On'. Blue is standard on all models."

"Well, I'm terribly disappointed in your selection, Garrett, but I'm in a bit of a rush so I don't really have time to comparison shop. It's much like a first marriage that way. Can I at least get some of those excellent slits on the sides, so when I try to put anything in my pocket it actually just falls straight into my boot?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's another of our fabulous standard features."

"Great, thanks. I'll swing by to pick them up shortly."

Sadly, Big Bill remains a field virgin. But really, it's best that I have my own pair now - it's unspeakably rude to pee on someone else's sleeve.

Birthday Dinner

I made DH a ginormous German chocolate cake for his birthday today. (He's 34, by the way. Which has nothing to do with anything except that he's doing the whole '29 again' thing, which annoys the crap out of me, so I'm going to go ahead and publicize the truth, which will annoy the crap out of him, and then we'll be even.) But anyways. I was standing in the kitchen just now while DH was puttering around upstairs, surreptitiously excavating a new surface on the cake and wondering if I'd be tastier to vampires because I eat so many sweets.

Yep: I've been reading the Twilight series. Busted. And of course, they're terrible, and surely my mind is more rotten for reading them, but - also of course - I totally loved them. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a love story. I may even be a Twihard.

Okay, so maybe not, but I will admit to being a little preoccupied with all things vampire this week. For instance, I don't even know what happened during the staff meeting on Monday, because I spent the whole time deciding which of my coworkers would make good vampires. You know, if there really are vampires, I'll bet they're pretty pissed at Stephenie Meyer right now: "Can you believe it, Vlad? That stupid human just told me I wasn't hot enough to be a vampire!" Which more or less spills the beans on my criteria, but what the hell. I'm just going on the Cullen model here.

After I read The Road I spent some weeks considering whether I'd make good steaks - it's a good bet that I'm well marbled - and I've always felt that a superior brain such as my own would be much in demand for the zombie gourmand. So, uh - do I have some kind of buffet complex or what?

Actually, I think it's my deeply pragmatic streak coming through: it'd be like recycling. Or something.

But you know, taken from a completely cannibalistic viewpoint, we North Americans are a pretty delicious-sounding lot: generally pre-plucked and obsessively cleaned for reduced prep time on those busy weeknights, not to mention frequently tenderized (think massage therapy). And personally, at the moment I'm sporting a rather significant quantity of choco-coconut-pecan stuffing and am slathered in a lovely vanilla-almond marinade. Heck, I'd eat me.

Hm, maybe I'll go run my new product description by DH and see if he feels the same...