Work Product, Example No. 15

(linked for bigness...and AWESOMENESS)

The First Annual Foofy Wine Party was, I should say, a whopping success. Jackson got half naked, Graham, Jessie, Andrew and Jackson squared off in Franzia Pong, I nursed a bottle of Possman's Apfelwein, Amy was absolutely blasted, and by the end of the night everyone went home happily besotten.

At work on Sunday I was playing my uke in the booth when this guy wandered up to me and started an odd little conversation:

"You play uke?" he asked, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. I glanced down at the finely crafted instrument in my hands before answering.
"Yes."
"Excellent," he responded, squinting his eyes at Tobias Funkulele, Jr. imploringly. "You gonna play me sommat?"
"Sure," I shrugged, launching into the recently learned 'Elephant Gun'. The stranger began tapping his foot in time, deeply inhaling his Camel and exhaling with a sigh. I finished the riff after a few repeats and stared back at him from my plastic chair.
"You from Washington?" he asked, opening his eyes and studying my features.
"No sir," I responded.
"You sure? You look like you're from Washington," he coughed a little.
"Nope, born in England, raised in California," I grinned, half wanting him to wander off, and half wanting to buy him a coffee and learn exactly why I looked like I came from Washington.
"Welp," he glanced to the left and nodded to someone I couldn't see, "You sure do look like a Washingtonian...mebbe even a Seattle-ite,"
"I...thank you?"
"Demm right it's a 'thank you!" He stuck out a calloused hand, fingernails stained with what looked like dirt and oil. "'Name's Ryan."
"Britta," I shook his hand firmly.
"Nice meetin' ya." And then he wandered off as quickly as he'd arrived.

The OC Marketplace is a fascinating study of the human race.

The Great Gift Basket Excavation

As promised, here is the photographic documentation of the Great Gift Basket Excavation. Enjoy.

The Gift Basket: so pure. Untouched. Soon to be raped.

I am very excited about this basket. In no way let the deadness of my eyes and the large fake smile attempt to fool you.

If only there were some way we could neatly open the basket...OH WAIT.

(complimentary scissors so that we may neatly open the gift basket.)

We excavate without waking up any undead mummies.

The Spoils:

1 box Crisp Light Crackers1 box Saraivanov Smoked Salmon

1 jar Saraivanov Caviar1 box Cassil & Klein Caramels

1 box Hathaways Caramels (same as the Cassil & Klein)

1 box Cassil & Klein Biscotti

1 triangle Cassil & Klein Cranberry Twist (trailmix)

1 pyramid Hathaways Sour Cherry Candy Drops

1 box Hathaways Old Fashioned Candy(coffee hard candies usually found in geriatric pockets)

1 box Hathaways Citrus Gems (squares of gelatin wrapped in a light sugary coat)

2 tubes Bonbon au Chocolat

1 box Dolcetto Wafer Rolls, Tiramisu flavour

1 box Aaron Bell Candy Berries

1 box Macadams White Chocolate Pecan Shortbread Cookies

1 box Brown & Haley Almond Roca Buttercrunch Toffee

1 container Toffee Peanuts

1 box Pretzel Crisps (suspiciously similar to Southwest Airlines pretzels)

1 bag Aaron Bell Pistachios

1 box Los Olivos Wine and Cheese Biscuits

1 box Aaron Bell Seasoned Crackers

1 triangle Camembert

1 container Dagoba Cacao Powder

1 bottle Chateau St. Jean Merlot

1 bottle Chateau St. Michelle Sauvignon Blanc

1 bottle Summerfield Cabernet Sauvignon1 pair Scissors (complimentary)

I won't lie, it's a lot of things one would find in a hotel minibar. Plus a pair of scissors.

So then Whitney and I decided to try the caviar.

Being the champ/thinkforherselfer/general person of AWESOME that I am, I went first.

(I will not be doing this again anytime soon.)

Whitney went second.

(I somehow doubt that she will be trying caviar again anytime soon, as well.)

I mean, it wasn't BAD, per se. The texture was odd and upsetting yet still doable, but then the pressing thoughts of the overall tininess of the eggs and their ability to slip down the back of your throat (funny how reproductivey things have the ability to-- nevermind) was upsetting. Caviar, as I would assume, is made up of dead fishy eggs, yes? But even then, some weird subcortex of my brain begins to wonder, "What if they aren't dead? What if little tiny fishies begin hatching and swimming around in my insides, their only way of escape through my urethra?! STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED!!"

On a related note: Plans for the Great Foofy Wine Party have begun being drawn up. Expect to dress nicely (dresses, ties, etc.) and drink your weight in wine until Bacchus gleams with vintneristic pride.