I am going to Hawaii. I will not be entertaining you all for a week. I’m not sure how you will make do but rest assured any survivors of my hiatus will be rewarded with more of my pathetic rambling as soon as I return. In the meantime I suggest these exercises to hold you over . . .
1. Imagine that you have the ability to blink one and only one person in the world from existence. The catch is, they must be alive now and it cannot be anyone you know personally. (You know them personally if they have ever had any phone number of yours) You could pick the guy who bags your groceries or the crazy lady at Nazi Teriyaki (all you North enders know what I’m talking about) You could choose a political leader or the bum who bugs you for change every day. Just respond to this post telling me who and why.
2. Try to sing at least one verse of “Zippity-Do-Dah” with a whole Banana in your mouth. (Tip: breathe through your nose and don’t laugh)
3. Chose one friend or co-worker whom you have known for a long time and suddenly begin calling them by the wrong name. Do this until they correct you. At that point, explain that you think the new name suits them better and they should probably have it changed.
If you are still bored you can try the banana thing again with a different song or you can just think about how much fun I am having in the sun, on the sand, dehydrating myself with drinks that have 10 syllables in their names and come with their own parasols. Just know that I won’t be thinking about you at all. Not even a little.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
I have been tagged
I know it is risky with such a new blog and zero readership but I am protesting this whole “Tagging” thing. I refuse to participate. I did those damn E-mails in High school and college where you write down everything trivial and meaningless about yourself and send it to everyone who never cared and I am done. So I’m sorry. I would live to fill out that list and post it for everyone to read but. . . um. . . I just don’t want to.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
How to Get Started Getting Un-Fat
I take it back. You know when I wrote in the post about the Violent Femes show that I had never paid so much money to be so uncomfortable? Well I have set that record again. After my first personal training session it hurts to type. After my first work out I was forced to attend what my friend T referred to as a “get un-fat rally” Where they had little stands and lot of streamers and talked about commitment and improving your life and everyone there was way bigger than me and kept telling me how thin I was. You would think that would make me happy but it in fact does not. I can deal with packing on a few extra pounds and I can deal with having to work them off but I cannot deal with being told I am crazy for thinking that I could lose some weight. I used to be ok with being crazy when it was part of my “I’m hot and barely legal so you will put up with me even though I’m insufferable” routine. Since then I have grown a brain and some very large thighs. I have quit smashing beer bottles, threatening men with castration (at least in public places), and thinking that I look hot chugging Jose Cuervo out of ½ gallon bottles. I am not fat AND crazy.
So back to my “get un-fat rally” All the trainers were there and they each had their own little stand and they each got to torture you in their own special way. It started with the measurements. A woman who actually goes by the name Xena because of her striking resemblance to the TV show (I am not making this up I swear) character pulled my clothes around and shouted my measurements at a timid looking blonde guy who wrote them down and handed me the paper.
I was then shuffled off to the next station where a woman named Mallory who actually had the Air Jordan symbol tattooed on the one calf and the Nike swoosh on the other (still not making this up) put me on a scale and asked “how much do you weigh?” Um. . .let me think. . . Oh if only we had a scale. Hey what is this I am standing on? Look, a scale! Seriously, isn’t she supposed to tell me that? But I humor her and say “140 maybe a bit more” to which she replies “what did you just eat or something?” “no” I say and for the first time in an hour of standing in this echoing gym everyone seems quiet as Mallory the human billboard says “Do you weigh yourself naked or something” like that is strange or any of her business. I took my paper back from her and she had written my weight down as 141. Was that one pound really that big of a deal? No wonder the line was moving like molasses.
On to the fat pinching man. With a pair of calipers, this man found every roll of fat on my body and measured it. When he got to my hips I told him to do the left side because I have uneven hips and that results in uneven love handles. I always have the left side measured for accuracy but he had to sneer at me and ask “is that side bigger?” and jab my right hip with his claws of torture. “no” I said “the left side is the fat side” he stood back to stare at my love handles and then went on with his job, sufficiently satisfied that I was humiliated (and a little fatter on my lefts rather than right side.)
After that they give you a meal plan that says you can under no circumstances eat anything on the table of snacks that is your next stop. So as I walked past the table of food I could not have (but had totally been charged for) I drank some more water out of a Nalgine bottle that said “I’m so happy I could shit” on it. That sticker had never made so much sense to me before.
At the next stand sat Trainer. The same stupid smile was plastered on his face as he calmly explained to me that he was going to take my “before” picture. I do not remember this being part of the deal. Suddenly I did want to smash beer bottles and threaten him with castration right then and their in public and then I would probably need to drink heavily enough to chug Jose Curevo out of whatever container it was offered to me. But I refrained from doing any of those things (mainly because I had no beer bottles knives or Tequila on me at the time) and instead tried to smile for the camera.
After dogging the high pressure salesmen at the vitamin counter I turned in my stat sheet and Polaroid and went home where I loudly told my new meal plan to “go fuck itself” and had cheesy eggplant parmesan lasagna and a sparks for dinner. I’ll eat dry tuna and rice pilaf tonight.
So back to my “get un-fat rally” All the trainers were there and they each had their own little stand and they each got to torture you in their own special way. It started with the measurements. A woman who actually goes by the name Xena because of her striking resemblance to the TV show (I am not making this up I swear) character pulled my clothes around and shouted my measurements at a timid looking blonde guy who wrote them down and handed me the paper.
I was then shuffled off to the next station where a woman named Mallory who actually had the Air Jordan symbol tattooed on the one calf and the Nike swoosh on the other (still not making this up) put me on a scale and asked “how much do you weigh?” Um. . .let me think. . . Oh if only we had a scale. Hey what is this I am standing on? Look, a scale! Seriously, isn’t she supposed to tell me that? But I humor her and say “140 maybe a bit more” to which she replies “what did you just eat or something?” “no” I say and for the first time in an hour of standing in this echoing gym everyone seems quiet as Mallory the human billboard says “Do you weigh yourself naked or something” like that is strange or any of her business. I took my paper back from her and she had written my weight down as 141. Was that one pound really that big of a deal? No wonder the line was moving like molasses.
On to the fat pinching man. With a pair of calipers, this man found every roll of fat on my body and measured it. When he got to my hips I told him to do the left side because I have uneven hips and that results in uneven love handles. I always have the left side measured for accuracy but he had to sneer at me and ask “is that side bigger?” and jab my right hip with his claws of torture. “no” I said “the left side is the fat side” he stood back to stare at my love handles and then went on with his job, sufficiently satisfied that I was humiliated (and a little fatter on my lefts rather than right side.)
After that they give you a meal plan that says you can under no circumstances eat anything on the table of snacks that is your next stop. So as I walked past the table of food I could not have (but had totally been charged for) I drank some more water out of a Nalgine bottle that said “I’m so happy I could shit” on it. That sticker had never made so much sense to me before.
At the next stand sat Trainer. The same stupid smile was plastered on his face as he calmly explained to me that he was going to take my “before” picture. I do not remember this being part of the deal. Suddenly I did want to smash beer bottles and threaten him with castration right then and their in public and then I would probably need to drink heavily enough to chug Jose Curevo out of whatever container it was offered to me. But I refrained from doing any of those things (mainly because I had no beer bottles knives or Tequila on me at the time) and instead tried to smile for the camera.
After dogging the high pressure salesmen at the vitamin counter I turned in my stat sheet and Polaroid and went home where I loudly told my new meal plan to “go fuck itself” and had cheesy eggplant parmesan lasagna and a sparks for dinner. I’ll eat dry tuna and rice pilaf tonight.
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Work It Good
Yesterday I started a new fitness routine. I know that I did that about a month and a half ago but that one is not working. The old plan was missing something called self motivation. In the new plan, self motivation is replaced with over priced training sessions. That way when I don’t want to go to the gym I think “but I paid for it” and there is nothing like money to motivate me. Also I don’t want to embarrass myself in front of my new trainer. This is funny to me for many reasons.
First, after meeting Trainer (that word will now be used as a proper noun referring to the specific trainer assigned to me) I think that he may have created so much muscle mass that there is not enough room for his brain and he might have had it removed. The man reminds me a bit of my high school boyfriend from sophomore year. He was the captain of the wrestling team and a very nice guy but not the brightest crayon in the box. I mean he spent his free time squeezing and struggling with other guys on large blue mats wearing lace up, rubber bottomed socks mysteriously defined as “shoes” every weekend for the entire 3 months we dated. Like my high school boyfriend, Trainer seems very friendly. He is genuinely happy to help me. He is excited (way more excited than I am) that I want to look more “athletic” although I worry about what this wall of muscle mass might consider athletic looking.
Second, I get the feeling that he already regards me as he would the nice but unattractive sister of his best friend who wants to ride his motorcycle. Oddly, I would be upset if he mistook my renewed interest in my health as interest in him yet I am insulted that his idiotic form of kind professionalism indicates he is in no way attracted to me. I want to be forced to kindly ask his manager if I could have a female trainer. “No, it’s not Trainer’s fault.” I would smile sympathetically like this happened to me all the time. “I would just feel more comfortable with a woman.” But we would all know that Trainer had thrown himself at me. To avoid an unsightly law suit they would give me a free membership for life and transfer Trainer to Arizona.
Third, as much as I value the thimble of knowledge this man has in his head, I doubt that much of what he has to say to me will affect my behavior in any way. I have www.fitday.com and a scale. His role in my life could easily be filled my some type of monetary penalty system. Like, if I don’t go to the gym at least 3 times a week they charge me $50.00. I’m sure this would result in my quitting the gym, not in my going more often but there is always the chance that Trainer will have the same effect on me.
Mostly I just can’t see myself NOT laughing at his serious and sincere face as he tells me “That’s good, just a little more, that’s it. Yes! Yes! Push harder! One More Time! Oh, Awesome! That was Awesome!” I just have one question for him. Was it as good for you as it was for me? I hope not because I’m not paying you to have fun bitch!
First, after meeting Trainer (that word will now be used as a proper noun referring to the specific trainer assigned to me) I think that he may have created so much muscle mass that there is not enough room for his brain and he might have had it removed. The man reminds me a bit of my high school boyfriend from sophomore year. He was the captain of the wrestling team and a very nice guy but not the brightest crayon in the box. I mean he spent his free time squeezing and struggling with other guys on large blue mats wearing lace up, rubber bottomed socks mysteriously defined as “shoes” every weekend for the entire 3 months we dated. Like my high school boyfriend, Trainer seems very friendly. He is genuinely happy to help me. He is excited (way more excited than I am) that I want to look more “athletic” although I worry about what this wall of muscle mass might consider athletic looking.
Second, I get the feeling that he already regards me as he would the nice but unattractive sister of his best friend who wants to ride his motorcycle. Oddly, I would be upset if he mistook my renewed interest in my health as interest in him yet I am insulted that his idiotic form of kind professionalism indicates he is in no way attracted to me. I want to be forced to kindly ask his manager if I could have a female trainer. “No, it’s not Trainer’s fault.” I would smile sympathetically like this happened to me all the time. “I would just feel more comfortable with a woman.” But we would all know that Trainer had thrown himself at me. To avoid an unsightly law suit they would give me a free membership for life and transfer Trainer to Arizona.
Third, as much as I value the thimble of knowledge this man has in his head, I doubt that much of what he has to say to me will affect my behavior in any way. I have www.fitday.com and a scale. His role in my life could easily be filled my some type of monetary penalty system. Like, if I don’t go to the gym at least 3 times a week they charge me $50.00. I’m sure this would result in my quitting the gym, not in my going more often but there is always the chance that Trainer will have the same effect on me.
Mostly I just can’t see myself NOT laughing at his serious and sincere face as he tells me “That’s good, just a little more, that’s it. Yes! Yes! Push harder! One More Time! Oh, Awesome! That was Awesome!” I just have one question for him. Was it as good for you as it was for me? I hope not because I’m not paying you to have fun bitch!
Friday, August 19, 2005
I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty. . .
It’s Friday. I have my hot new jeans on. I am skipping the gym to go to happy hour. I have a great dress to wear to the wedding tomorrow. It is so great I am going to wear it to my parents’ Anniversary party on Sunday too. I got a spray tan and my hair is freshly dyed. The world is beautiful and so am I. Have a good weekend!
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Splenda or Aspartame? Fuck it; I want Jameson’s on Ice
I would like a drink. I am at work where I am over worked and underutilized (meaning I have way to much to do and none of it requires any skill level beyond using a paperclip properly without causing injury to oneself or others) the point is I could do this drunk and it would be more fun. Right now all I have is a Coke Zero. Don’t get me wrong, I love Coke Zero. It is one of the few things I can drink that has no calories and doesn’t make me want to die. That is mainly due to the over popularity of Splenda. Splenda is like that girl in high school who called you a (insert juvenile and derogatory title here) for 4 years and told her friends that they were fat and threw parties to which you were not invited where the good looking boys shotguned Mickey’s Ice in the bathtub only to puke it up on her out-of-town-parents’ oriental rug. Just like you could not fathom understanding her popularity, you will never know what is so fucking great about Splenda, you know that deep down inside everyone else hates it too but no one would ever say that out loud so you suffer in silence while all around you others are raving about that sick feeling they get in their stomach whenever they get within 20 feet of some. The point is that Coke Zero does not have Splenda. It has Aspartame. Aspartame may give you cancer and taste like shit but at least everyone knows that and openly admits it. Aspartame is more like that pothead chick who refused to wear nice clothes and came to school drunk at least once a week. You knew what to expect from her. It’s not the greatest thing but you are used to it and fully aware of its faults and it doesn’t act all superior.
What I really want right now is a Jameson’s on the rocks. Unlike the fake sweetness of diet soft drinks (and high school girls) good whiskey on the rocks is complex and rich. Drinking it is like discovering that you have always been in love with your best male friend. It is so cool yet warms you up inside. It is not too sweet but never leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It comforts you, excites you, and your girlfriends will love it once they give it a chance and really get to know it.
Yeah, I really need a good drink.
What I really want right now is a Jameson’s on the rocks. Unlike the fake sweetness of diet soft drinks (and high school girls) good whiskey on the rocks is complex and rich. Drinking it is like discovering that you have always been in love with your best male friend. It is so cool yet warms you up inside. It is not too sweet but never leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It comforts you, excites you, and your girlfriends will love it once they give it a chance and really get to know it.
Yeah, I really need a good drink.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Love It or Hate It; Here Comes the Bride(s)
I think that when I get married I will do it on a Thursday in October. That way it will catch people off guard. I will throw caution to the wind and get my off season discount on everything. Mainly I am just bitter that every weekend I have in August and September is taken up by someone and their wedding stuff. Whether it is the actual weddings or the bachelorette parties or a party for my parent’s anniversary, everything I am doing for 2 months worth of weekends is wedding related.
It is for this reason that I have come to the following conclusion. There are 3 kinds of women in this world. Those whole live for weddings and those who hate them and the sneaker, bride-zilla types. No one is causally unopinionated about weddings.
Take this quiz to find out what category you (or your girlfriend) fall into
When you get a wedding invitation your response is A) Yippiee! A wedding! B) There goes $100.00 and a perfectly good weekend.
Your decision to attend a wedding is based primarily on A) how close you are to the Bride and/or Groom B) Whether the event is dry, Wine and beer only, or open bar.
You have fun shopping for wedding presents because A) you enjoy the warm glowing feeling you get from giving someone you care about something they will love B) you can make fun of the bad taste of others.
When you are asked to be an attendant in a wedding you feel A) honored B) Obligated
When people get married in a far away place and just come home and have the reception are you A) Disappointed B) Grateful
If you answered mostly As then you love weddings
If you answered mostly Bs you have one more question. . .If you were to get married (or when you did) Would you expect people to get excited, be honored, buy you shit with gladness in their hearts and over all love you enough to love coming to your wedding?
If you answered no then you just pain hate weddings. But if you answered yes then you are a Bride-zilla in the making.
Sadly I must admit that I don’t just hate weddings. I hate that the entire event is an attention fest and I am not the center of it. Even worse is that If I try to make myself the center of it, then I’m a pathetic asshole and while I am comfortable being an asshole I have yet to come to terms with being pathetic. Because of this, I realize that when I do tie the knot, I will be a terrible person. I am a Planner for a living. I am a Virgo and thus a perfectionist. I am cheep and picky. I will be a tornado of hurt feelings and a micro-managing mess. I know this about myself which is why I’m being nice to everyone now. Well, at least I’m not being mean.
It is for this reason that I have come to the following conclusion. There are 3 kinds of women in this world. Those whole live for weddings and those who hate them and the sneaker, bride-zilla types. No one is causally unopinionated about weddings.
Take this quiz to find out what category you (or your girlfriend) fall into
When you get a wedding invitation your response is A) Yippiee! A wedding! B) There goes $100.00 and a perfectly good weekend.
Your decision to attend a wedding is based primarily on A) how close you are to the Bride and/or Groom B) Whether the event is dry, Wine and beer only, or open bar.
You have fun shopping for wedding presents because A) you enjoy the warm glowing feeling you get from giving someone you care about something they will love B) you can make fun of the bad taste of others.
When you are asked to be an attendant in a wedding you feel A) honored B) Obligated
When people get married in a far away place and just come home and have the reception are you A) Disappointed B) Grateful
If you answered mostly As then you love weddings
If you answered mostly Bs you have one more question. . .If you were to get married (or when you did) Would you expect people to get excited, be honored, buy you shit with gladness in their hearts and over all love you enough to love coming to your wedding?
If you answered no then you just pain hate weddings. But if you answered yes then you are a Bride-zilla in the making.
Sadly I must admit that I don’t just hate weddings. I hate that the entire event is an attention fest and I am not the center of it. Even worse is that If I try to make myself the center of it, then I’m a pathetic asshole and while I am comfortable being an asshole I have yet to come to terms with being pathetic. Because of this, I realize that when I do tie the knot, I will be a terrible person. I am a Planner for a living. I am a Virgo and thus a perfectionist. I am cheep and picky. I will be a tornado of hurt feelings and a micro-managing mess. I know this about myself which is why I’m being nice to everyone now. Well, at least I’m not being mean.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Just one Screw
Last night I went to the Violent Femmes show at the Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle. Seattle seems to have this bizarre obsession with summer concert series. It all started with the whole “Summer Nights at the Pier” which was good but now it is just “Summer Nights” and while it is a little warmer at South Lake Union Park, it’s really not the same. Anyway, the success of summer concert series is completely apparent. They still have “Summer Nights” and now they have “Zoo Tunes” at Woodland Park, there is some series at the Chateau Ste. Michelle winery, there are concerts at Marymoor and Alki. . . It has just gotten out of hand. I think that one of the reasons theses things have become so popular is the ridiculous accessories one is allowed to bring to these events. Unlike a traditional concert, where you are forced to eat their food and drink their drinks while sitting in their chairs all under their roof, at these outdoor summer things you bring a blanket and/or lawn chairs and your own food and (non-alcoholic) drinks are permitted. Some people bring shade umbrellas or rain umbrellas since there is no protection from the weather. You can show up with side tables, camp stoves, stemware, laptops, sometimes even your dog. While all that is strange and a little intimidating to a person who generally views concerts as sans handbag events, the most disturbing items allowed (for free I might add) into the Violent Femmes show last night were the children.
I like Kids. I like them in the same way I like boats. Other people have them and I enjoy them immensely when they are around. I would like to have one or two when I get older and can afford them but for right now I am happy to use other people’s and hand them over to their owners whenever they need care, maintenance, or lodging. The problem with all these kids was this, I am totally socially inappropriate and so are many of the Violent Femmes’ songs. I sat there with my friend R*****, shivering in the dwindling sunlight, watching little people who should have been in bed, bounce and dance around while Gordon Gano asked “why can’t I get just one screw” repeatedly.
I have never paid so much money to be so uncomfortable.
In response to my discomfort I decided to talk to R*****. Wrong move. It started out innocently enough. She asked about my friend G** and I said she could not come out tonight because she was at the rehearsal dinner for a person I do not know. I then went on to gossip shamelessly about this person I do not know, explaining that her wedding was a “Knock and Rock.” This remark was met with death glares from the man in front of me. He leaned over his baby girl as if to shield her from my offensive personality. This maneuver of his effectively redirected the pre-toddler’s attention to the stage where they were performing a song about a man who kills his daughters and then hangs himself. I like how I am the bad guy here. But my tolerable behavior did not end there, no no it went right on discussing the drug habits, affairs, scandalous moments and general indiscretions of my friends and acquaintances all the while cussing like a sailor. I was trying to be PG, I swear but I have nothing to talk about that isn’t al least a little tabloid-esque. Also I kind of feel like it is not my responsibility. You brought your kid out in public and this is what you get. I’m public. I’m not even the worst of it. I don’t spit or smell. I don’t heckle or steal. I don’t even cuss as much as the people on the stage were. Still I did commit the ultimate sin. I did not bring any children with me and I did not pretend to be glad they were there. What can I say, I’m a bad person.
I like Kids. I like them in the same way I like boats. Other people have them and I enjoy them immensely when they are around. I would like to have one or two when I get older and can afford them but for right now I am happy to use other people’s and hand them over to their owners whenever they need care, maintenance, or lodging. The problem with all these kids was this, I am totally socially inappropriate and so are many of the Violent Femmes’ songs. I sat there with my friend R*****, shivering in the dwindling sunlight, watching little people who should have been in bed, bounce and dance around while Gordon Gano asked “why can’t I get just one screw” repeatedly.
I have never paid so much money to be so uncomfortable.
In response to my discomfort I decided to talk to R*****. Wrong move. It started out innocently enough. She asked about my friend G** and I said she could not come out tonight because she was at the rehearsal dinner for a person I do not know. I then went on to gossip shamelessly about this person I do not know, explaining that her wedding was a “Knock and Rock.” This remark was met with death glares from the man in front of me. He leaned over his baby girl as if to shield her from my offensive personality. This maneuver of his effectively redirected the pre-toddler’s attention to the stage where they were performing a song about a man who kills his daughters and then hangs himself. I like how I am the bad guy here. But my tolerable behavior did not end there, no no it went right on discussing the drug habits, affairs, scandalous moments and general indiscretions of my friends and acquaintances all the while cussing like a sailor. I was trying to be PG, I swear but I have nothing to talk about that isn’t al least a little tabloid-esque. Also I kind of feel like it is not my responsibility. You brought your kid out in public and this is what you get. I’m public. I’m not even the worst of it. I don’t spit or smell. I don’t heckle or steal. I don’t even cuss as much as the people on the stage were. Still I did commit the ultimate sin. I did not bring any children with me and I did not pretend to be glad they were there. What can I say, I’m a bad person.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Penis-Pop Pushing Crank Caller Invites Me on Rafting Trip
The other day I got a call from a woman I did not know. Usually I don’t get calls from anyone except people that have loaned me money or had sex with me at some point. So this person immediately made me nervous because at least when other people call me I already know what they want. This woman is very chipper and she knows my name. She asks for me with the same anticipation that a 5 year old waiting for Christmas morning has. My first thought was “did I forget to pay my master card?” I though about telling her that the person she was looking for had been eaten alive in a tragic accident. You know. . . she was getting out of the bath and. . .um slipped on some spilt massage oil because she. . .uh was not paying attention. . . and then she was eaten by a. . . um wild gorilla, yup a man eating gorilla that lives on the peninsula, was in town for a conference and came running through the house and ate her head spitting out the hair as he jumped out the back window. “Hello?” ever so loudly and politely the egger little voice on the other end of my phone brought me back from my scheming and I admitted that I was indeed the person she was looking for.
I braced myself for some sales pitch or scolding. “Great!” She exclaimed so loudly I was thrown to Idaho from the noise (I’m still walking back). Did I win the lottery? Did this woman? What the hell was she so happy about? You can ask my friends, getting a hold of me can be a bit challenging but we don’t need to shit our pants about it. I was once as happy as this woman sounded, right after my ex-boyfriend proposed to me. Her having the same reaction to our phone conversation (all 10 words of it) seemed a bit overzealous.
Moving right along she says “my name is J****, and I am a Friend of A*****’s! I am planning her bachelorette party! It is on such-and-such a date! Are you planning on coming!?!” Now I have to admit that the idea of running around with a bunch of women who need to get out more, sucking on penis shaped lollypops, and making PG-13 jokes about male strippers is pretty much right up there with freezing warts off my feet while being forced to watch “Family Matters” reruns; but A***** has been my friend since we were 12; so I try not to sound like someone has just kicked me in the crotch so hard my intestines are bubbling out of my throat while I say “OF COURSE!” in an terrible imitation of J****’s happy-fun-time voice.
She excitedly delves into the details. We are going to Oregon and the hotel will cost this much and the white water rafting trip. . . Wait. Hold on just one second. We are going White Water Rafting? I interrupt Mrs. Sunshine long enough to clarify that we are not heading off on some sad, pathetic attempt at reliving the wild college party days that ½ of the attendees never had the stomach for to begin with. She said that we could go out for drinks afterward but nothing drastic. All of the sudden I realized why I have been friends with A***** for so long. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is an idiot. That forced fun time can actually end up being fun. I’m looking forward to a great day on the river and a few cold ones to finish off the day. I think this is going to be so much fun that you might even convince me to try one of those Dick-pops, but only after I have had a beer.
I braced myself for some sales pitch or scolding. “Great!” She exclaimed so loudly I was thrown to Idaho from the noise (I’m still walking back). Did I win the lottery? Did this woman? What the hell was she so happy about? You can ask my friends, getting a hold of me can be a bit challenging but we don’t need to shit our pants about it. I was once as happy as this woman sounded, right after my ex-boyfriend proposed to me. Her having the same reaction to our phone conversation (all 10 words of it) seemed a bit overzealous.
Moving right along she says “my name is J****, and I am a Friend of A*****’s! I am planning her bachelorette party! It is on such-and-such a date! Are you planning on coming!?!” Now I have to admit that the idea of running around with a bunch of women who need to get out more, sucking on penis shaped lollypops, and making PG-13 jokes about male strippers is pretty much right up there with freezing warts off my feet while being forced to watch “Family Matters” reruns; but A***** has been my friend since we were 12; so I try not to sound like someone has just kicked me in the crotch so hard my intestines are bubbling out of my throat while I say “OF COURSE!” in an terrible imitation of J****’s happy-fun-time voice.
She excitedly delves into the details. We are going to Oregon and the hotel will cost this much and the white water rafting trip. . . Wait. Hold on just one second. We are going White Water Rafting? I interrupt Mrs. Sunshine long enough to clarify that we are not heading off on some sad, pathetic attempt at reliving the wild college party days that ½ of the attendees never had the stomach for to begin with. She said that we could go out for drinks afterward but nothing drastic. All of the sudden I realized why I have been friends with A***** for so long. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is an idiot. That forced fun time can actually end up being fun. I’m looking forward to a great day on the river and a few cold ones to finish off the day. I think this is going to be so much fun that you might even convince me to try one of those Dick-pops, but only after I have had a beer.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
It’s Not Over Until The VP Steals Car Your
Every once in a while I look up from my work in a panic. I can just feel the poser police and I know they are coming. I have been working here since May. I am less than one week away from finishing my 90 day probation period and getting a raise. Someone must have found out how incompetent I am by now.
I have spent all morning dividing up almost 400 acres of and belonging to about 25 people. I am deciding who gets to develop what land in what ways. I graduated college about 5 seconds ago. No wonder America has a land planning crisis! What do I know? Sadly I think that most people are like me. I have been trained to do my job as well as anyone is. I went to school, I had an internship and the support people in my office often give me perplexed looks when I ask them to do things for me. I take that as a sign that I at least know bigger words than them. I have some general knowledge about my field and I sometimes get my work returned to me covered in angry little post it notes (their aggressive nature hidden by their pastel colors). I like to think that means even if I did mess up, someone would notice before it became a disaster.
The disaster that is me however, is another story. Somehow no one has noticed that I totally suck at my job. In fact I am told by others (including my boss) that I am good at it. Right. You are just trying to lull me into a false sense of security. I know that as soon brake down and by a WRX I will be fired on the spot; probably before I even drive away from the dealership.
Running full tilt, the VP of our company will dive into the car after I open the door for the first time. All 300 lbs of him will land in my new car and drive away after handing me a pink slip and tossing the confetti he as made out of my pay check in my face. This is a sort of waking nightmare I have every time I am tempted to look at cars online instead of working. Maybe I should just admit that I would feel more secure in my job if I spent more time working (and less time daydreaming/bloging) and that I have a great fear of buying large ticket items.
I once wanted to buy a new car. Nothing fancy, just a normal, sedan. I decided to get a Hyundai. I did a lot of research and finally took my friend whose cousin worked at the dealership with me to buy the car. I signed all the paperwork, got the keys, and drove home. 3 days latter I took it back. Serious buyer’s remorse. I ended up buying a car from my parents.
When that car broke (we don’t need to get into how or why) I was going to get a nicer car. I still planned on getting a used car but something that I would need to make payments on. I did a lot of research. I narrowed it down and went shopping. I even took one on an overnight test ride. At the last minute I bought a station wagon from a friend for $1,000.00.
I was going to buy a house. I got approved for my loan and had an agent. I was looking at houses and even made 2 offers. When it came time to do or die in the negotiating I whimped out, got my earnest money back, and rented a duplex.
Basically I will spend the rest of my life surfing the internet while I’m at work, renting a duplex and driving a car I can honestly say I don’t need comprehensive insurance for.
I have spent all morning dividing up almost 400 acres of and belonging to about 25 people. I am deciding who gets to develop what land in what ways. I graduated college about 5 seconds ago. No wonder America has a land planning crisis! What do I know? Sadly I think that most people are like me. I have been trained to do my job as well as anyone is. I went to school, I had an internship and the support people in my office often give me perplexed looks when I ask them to do things for me. I take that as a sign that I at least know bigger words than them. I have some general knowledge about my field and I sometimes get my work returned to me covered in angry little post it notes (their aggressive nature hidden by their pastel colors). I like to think that means even if I did mess up, someone would notice before it became a disaster.
The disaster that is me however, is another story. Somehow no one has noticed that I totally suck at my job. In fact I am told by others (including my boss) that I am good at it. Right. You are just trying to lull me into a false sense of security. I know that as soon brake down and by a WRX I will be fired on the spot; probably before I even drive away from the dealership.
Running full tilt, the VP of our company will dive into the car after I open the door for the first time. All 300 lbs of him will land in my new car and drive away after handing me a pink slip and tossing the confetti he as made out of my pay check in my face. This is a sort of waking nightmare I have every time I am tempted to look at cars online instead of working. Maybe I should just admit that I would feel more secure in my job if I spent more time working (and less time daydreaming/bloging) and that I have a great fear of buying large ticket items.
I once wanted to buy a new car. Nothing fancy, just a normal, sedan. I decided to get a Hyundai. I did a lot of research and finally took my friend whose cousin worked at the dealership with me to buy the car. I signed all the paperwork, got the keys, and drove home. 3 days latter I took it back. Serious buyer’s remorse. I ended up buying a car from my parents.
When that car broke (we don’t need to get into how or why) I was going to get a nicer car. I still planned on getting a used car but something that I would need to make payments on. I did a lot of research. I narrowed it down and went shopping. I even took one on an overnight test ride. At the last minute I bought a station wagon from a friend for $1,000.00.
I was going to buy a house. I got approved for my loan and had an agent. I was looking at houses and even made 2 offers. When it came time to do or die in the negotiating I whimped out, got my earnest money back, and rented a duplex.
Basically I will spend the rest of my life surfing the internet while I’m at work, renting a duplex and driving a car I can honestly say I don’t need comprehensive insurance for.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Enough About Donuts
It is almost 3pm as I start this and I don’t usually post this late but I have spent ½ the day coloring and drawing all over perfectly good looking site plans and the other ½ explaining why I did that in letters to people I have never met. I kind of reminds be of elementary school. You steal someone else’s work, draw all over it, claim it is better now that you have done so and then have to explain yourself to scary, old men who have the only actual offices in the whole building. I wish someone would have told me this was what I would be doing for the rest of my life. I could have saved a lot of money skipping college.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
Donut Inferno
Today I feel great; which is a strange thing to say considering my morning. Today I had a big meeting at 8:00 am with the development team for the largest project my company has EVER landed. Not that I am entirely essential for this meeting. In fact I spent most of my time spacing out while my boss and the VP talked and everyone else took notes. The point is that when you have a meeting someone has to bring the food. That way everyone knows it is a happy meeting and that no one is supposed to get canned. I refuse to make coffee because of the social implications. I am not an administrative assistant (I should get a bumper sticker that says that too, although I may not be prepared to face the wrath of every administrative assistant I park next to at the grocery store. God forbid they happened to pick up some eggs.) I will however buy donuts if it means I get to come in late. So last night I took money out of petty cash and prepared to come in a bit late.
Now if you are not an idiot like me, you can already see it coming. Like the marriage of a money grubbing whore and a jealous overnight millionaire or smoking during a gasoline fight, it was going to end badly. As big and ugly as a disaster of such synchronized beauty could be. Watching ill fated high risers fall is a glorious catastrophe to watch no matter how lowly the actors were to start.
To me “a bit” late means I get to leave 15 min later than normal. After I leave I will have to stop and actually BUY the donuts (I has just now struck me how asinine this tragic comedy is but I will continue). That means that I should get here no later than 30 min after I normally do. I usually get here at 7:00 and the Meeting is at 8:00 so that would give me 30 min to set things up. So I get up, put on my favorite suit (which is black) with the only black pumps I have (which are stilettos) and head out to the store. I decide to go to the store near work so I get right on the freeway.
My commute is more confusing than most peoples but at least it is shorter. I spend about 5 min on about as many highways/freeways. First it takes me 5 min to drive to the 705. Then it takes me 5 min on the 705 to get to the 5. Then it takes me 5 min on the 5 to get to 167. Then I am on 167 for around 5 min before I get off and it takes me another 5 min of surface streets to get to work. All in all, less than 30 min. Well not today. Apparently, leaving 15 min later will add 15 min to your commute. I was stuck on the 5 for 20 min today so after getting donuts I was not 30 min latter than normal, I was 47 min latter than normal. Easy translation: I had 12 min before my meeting.
Picture this, I sit in my car becoming more and more enraged by the idiots in cars around me and less and less interested by NPR’s Report of the senate’s reaction to Georgie boy’s latest antics about John Bolton until I finally get to 167. I speed all the way to the store where I jump out (sideswiping no less than 3 stay at home mom’s with small children) and run, slip-sliding on my heels, into the store. I crash into the donut stand and narrowly avoid a scene in which I end up bloody and squirming on the floor, the victim of another brutal donut beating.
Random assortment of donuts in hand, I run out of the store, throwing some money at the bag boy and yelling “keep the change” as I peel out of the massive parking lot in my very dirty car that has expired tabs and still has studs on it (yes I know it’s August, that’s how I know the tabs are expired.) Arriving at work I shield my self from the venomous daggers coming out of my bosses eyes with the box of donuts. “Main conference room?” I ask and don’t wait for an answer.
Sitting in my seat, thinking about how I could really go for one of those donuts that I can not comp because I forgot to get a receipt it occurs to me that this was not worth the extra 15 min of sleep and I would not say that about many things.
The point, if you can call it that, is that donuts are from the devil and I’m going to hell, if not for my bad deeds then for the sheer strength of my own stupidity.
Now if you are not an idiot like me, you can already see it coming. Like the marriage of a money grubbing whore and a jealous overnight millionaire or smoking during a gasoline fight, it was going to end badly. As big and ugly as a disaster of such synchronized beauty could be. Watching ill fated high risers fall is a glorious catastrophe to watch no matter how lowly the actors were to start.
To me “a bit” late means I get to leave 15 min later than normal. After I leave I will have to stop and actually BUY the donuts (I has just now struck me how asinine this tragic comedy is but I will continue). That means that I should get here no later than 30 min after I normally do. I usually get here at 7:00 and the Meeting is at 8:00 so that would give me 30 min to set things up. So I get up, put on my favorite suit (which is black) with the only black pumps I have (which are stilettos) and head out to the store. I decide to go to the store near work so I get right on the freeway.
My commute is more confusing than most peoples but at least it is shorter. I spend about 5 min on about as many highways/freeways. First it takes me 5 min to drive to the 705. Then it takes me 5 min on the 705 to get to the 5. Then it takes me 5 min on the 5 to get to 167. Then I am on 167 for around 5 min before I get off and it takes me another 5 min of surface streets to get to work. All in all, less than 30 min. Well not today. Apparently, leaving 15 min later will add 15 min to your commute. I was stuck on the 5 for 20 min today so after getting donuts I was not 30 min latter than normal, I was 47 min latter than normal. Easy translation: I had 12 min before my meeting.
Picture this, I sit in my car becoming more and more enraged by the idiots in cars around me and less and less interested by NPR’s Report of the senate’s reaction to Georgie boy’s latest antics about John Bolton until I finally get to 167. I speed all the way to the store where I jump out (sideswiping no less than 3 stay at home mom’s with small children) and run, slip-sliding on my heels, into the store. I crash into the donut stand and narrowly avoid a scene in which I end up bloody and squirming on the floor, the victim of another brutal donut beating.
Random assortment of donuts in hand, I run out of the store, throwing some money at the bag boy and yelling “keep the change” as I peel out of the massive parking lot in my very dirty car that has expired tabs and still has studs on it (yes I know it’s August, that’s how I know the tabs are expired.) Arriving at work I shield my self from the venomous daggers coming out of my bosses eyes with the box of donuts. “Main conference room?” I ask and don’t wait for an answer.
Sitting in my seat, thinking about how I could really go for one of those donuts that I can not comp because I forgot to get a receipt it occurs to me that this was not worth the extra 15 min of sleep and I would not say that about many things.
The point, if you can call it that, is that donuts are from the devil and I’m going to hell, if not for my bad deeds then for the sheer strength of my own stupidity.
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