I’ve not been feeling funny lately. It’s due to a little bit of stress at work, and a little bit of stress at work.

What’s really not funny is steamed buns. More specifically, second degree burns caused by making steamed buns.

I don’t have a standard steaming rig. Being a disciple of Alton Brown, I did not find this to be a problem. A cooling rack, a big roasting pan, and four soup cans later, I had a steaming rig. I screwed up in the next several steps of the cooking process and wound up with . . . something that was not steamed buns, but not inedible.

The important thing here is that I was careless and the lid of the roasting pan swung up and tagged my arm giving me the aforementioned second degree burn. The burn was nearly an inch long and a half inch wide. Again, not funny. However, I tend not to think about physical injuries. As I’m wandering around the house naked (She doesn’t like this very much), She will often spot bruises. “How did you get that?” She might ask.

“I dunno,” is my frequent answer.

This burn hurt, but by the next morning I was not thinking about it. Co-workers asked about it. I spun a tale of wonder, action, and danger. Here is that tale:

Since ancient times house spirits have liked steamed buns, but are very, very afraid of steam itself. Offerings had to be placed outside the dwelling. For reasons unknown to me, the traditional place to put the offerings was a terra cotta jar shaped like a dachshund–especially since house spirits are , for the most part, cat people.

Anyway, Frank, the 10,000 year old spirit that was assigned to the apartment complex, is particularly fond of steamed buns. So much so that I have never been able to deposit a bun in the dachshund before it is whisked away. Since it had been a year since I last made steamed buns from scratch, Frank actually whanged right into the roaster lid, pitching it up into my arm.

Frank was caught in the steam and swept up into the vent fan. I haven’t seen him since, but I do have the commemorative burn.

Did I mention my co-workers think I’m really weird?

I live less than four miles from home. Yesterday afternoon, it took me 50 (yes, five-zero) minutes to get home. The reason? The White Stain returned, and people freak on the road. I blame the evil Californians who have moved to my state. They clog our roads and drive up housing costs! There is nothing redeeming about a Californian.

I shake my fist in anger at the creeping menace of THOSE kind of people. Let me be very specific. I’m not attributing any kind of judgement about the character of these persons. If the stereotype holds true, Californians and I share many political and social beliefs. However, there is one thing that prevents me from being kind to them. They were born in California.

This fact, by itself, is what causes all of the problems in the Great State of Washington.

To be fair, we native Seattleites aren’t used to snow either. I caused $7,000.00 in damage to the car back in early 2007 due to my inability to drive in the snow. Further, the love of my life was born in California. As the previous administration showed, without irrational angers, how can you ram through Constitution-bending legislation?

That’s probably not fair either. Again, this is not about fairness. This is about irrational anger. I keep it in my pocket to brandish whenever I think I can get a laugh. However this is not funny.

Neither is my fear of spiders.

I am not equating spiders to Californians. I mean you can’t squash a Californian with your shoe. Nor will your cat chase and eat a Californian. I am quite thankful that our cat will chase and eat them. Spiders. Not Californians. Spiders will also not walk around on their hind legs demanding cookie dough. Californians will. Or at least one will. Does.

I need to go and fix her dinner. Coming, Dear.

1) I have a day job. This is both a curse and a blessing. Mostly a blessing.

2) I work for a stable company. This is always a blessing.

3) I have way more work than I can handle.

I work for at least seven bosses. I get work thrown at me from all angles.

Lately, they really do have to throw, because I’ve started to growl and froth at the mouth when someone walks toward my cube. It’s kinda like the gopher in reverse. If I see a shadow appear in my cube, it is predicted that someone will lose their fingers.

Sadly, I’m not a big fan of fingers. Not a lot of meat on the bone, and the meat is pretty stringy.

It’s not making me popular. We have a dart board in the office, and most people take breaks playing darts. I’m never invited to play along. I don’t blame them. Especially when I throw the darts at moving targets and not the dart board.

It’s gotten so bad that my lovely, lovely partner has taken to filling a tranq dart full of whiskey. That does help me relax, but my thighs are beginning to look a lot like pin cushions.

Gotta sign off. Time to have the foam wiped from my chin.