Note how I didn't add the word "the" to the title. Something I did just have to add, though, was the word "didn't" to the blogger.com dictionary. Que?
I've had a recent explosion of crafty creativity inspirations, to the point where I almost have to pull off to the side of the road while driving so that I can jot them down so as not to forget my moment of pure genius. I pulled out my jewelry bits and set them up and took my roommate on a wild(ish) goose chase of a bead-store hunt so I could find exactly the parts to complete my masterpiece. Of course, they didn't have said parts because what jewelry store can pre-cognitiviley know what I am dreaming of on my ride home from work? But I found bits that will work. I was all self-congratulatory genius for actually getting something done that I wanted to get done. But then I realized that this weekend was the 27th and 28th. And I have a midterm on 5 chapters of U.S. Government on the 30th. And I have only read two of the chapters. DAMMIT.
So instead of completing my piece - I went dancing in Santa Monica with Jesse. It was my first time at the Cock and Bull Pub, and I enjoyed myself, although my football stitches are placed right where a gentleman's hand should be, which I think I've mentioned due to the stress of having a hole in my flesh right where people need to touch me.
I have, however, completed my (not my masterpiece, sigh) homework and requisite chapter quizzes for the upcoming 2.5 hour online essay test, but now I realize that the 30th is Tuesday. I do not know why I did not just look at a calendar where the little number 30 is right next to the little TUE, but just this morning did I realize that 30 = Tuesday, and Tuesday = my only other class, Macroeconomics, from right after work until right about bedtime. DAMMIT AGAIN. My tomorrow does not look fun.
And yet, I just wrote a blog.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Why Must the Lats be Taped?
Again. I mean really. Having my lats taped together with a bandaid for a week was bad enough the first time. As previously stated, just that little 3/4" x 3" piece of putty-colored tape is enough to keep you from tying your shoes (like I own any that tie), reaching the last piece of chives that blew on the floor after you tried to throw them away with the fan on, and shave the bottom portion of your calves.
Now I have to tape them together for three whole weeks. The self-same spot that required biopsy on my spine (an obvious high UVA/UVB area) below my bra strap was "abnormal", and thusly had to be all the way removed. "Below my bra strap" translates into "right where the dude puts his hand when he swings you out" while dancing. My deviant dot was removed on Tuesday, and man am I a weenie when it comes to coping for a full day. After the initial shock of the fact that I had had a piece of skin the size of a fingernail torn from my back after a SHOT, all I wanted was cuddles and attention. All I got was a meeting at work. But I milked it anyway.
After keeping the gauze on for the recommended 24 hours and claiming that as my reason for sleeping in and not showering the next morning (it's good to have a valid excuse for laziness), I needed to switch from mega-lat-tape to plain bandaid lat-tape, so I cringed and gave Jesse the puppy-dog please eyes even though he has to do it because it's on the middle of my back and also because he's my husband. So he took it off and was like "oh." I was expecting much more of a sympathetically dramatic reaction, but all I got was "oh?" So I turned around and looked at it in the mirror, and I was like "oh." I always remembered past experiences with stitches as being a row of little knots tying the halves of your recently separated flesh together like zip ties on a tarp. These are average stitches, right? I know they are because I looked up "stitches" on google images and there were pictures of those very kind of stitches.
My stitches, on the other hand, look like they were done by my grandmother, who was a very handy stitcher indeed. Or my grandfather, who may have been even better. It's like this little tiny line that looks like a mini version of a football seam - only one piece of thread with a little knot at the end. No need to worry about catching knots in bandaid adhesive, or one of them coming undone. I feel the need to get a henna football tattoed on my spine. It would look just like this:
I guess this means I can't do sit-ups. Damn.
Now I have to tape them together for three whole weeks. The self-same spot that required biopsy on my spine (an obvious high UVA/UVB area) below my bra strap was "abnormal", and thusly had to be all the way removed. "Below my bra strap" translates into "right where the dude puts his hand when he swings you out" while dancing. My deviant dot was removed on Tuesday, and man am I a weenie when it comes to coping for a full day. After the initial shock of the fact that I had had a piece of skin the size of a fingernail torn from my back after a SHOT, all I wanted was cuddles and attention. All I got was a meeting at work. But I milked it anyway.
After keeping the gauze on for the recommended 24 hours and claiming that as my reason for sleeping in and not showering the next morning (it's good to have a valid excuse for laziness), I needed to switch from mega-lat-tape to plain bandaid lat-tape, so I cringed and gave Jesse the puppy-dog please eyes even though he has to do it because it's on the middle of my back and also because he's my husband. So he took it off and was like "oh." I was expecting much more of a sympathetically dramatic reaction, but all I got was "oh?" So I turned around and looked at it in the mirror, and I was like "oh." I always remembered past experiences with stitches as being a row of little knots tying the halves of your recently separated flesh together like zip ties on a tarp. These are average stitches, right? I know they are because I looked up "stitches" on google images and there were pictures of those very kind of stitches.
My stitches, on the other hand, look like they were done by my grandmother, who was a very handy stitcher indeed. Or my grandfather, who may have been even better. It's like this little tiny line that looks like a mini version of a football seam - only one piece of thread with a little knot at the end. No need to worry about catching knots in bandaid adhesive, or one of them coming undone. I feel the need to get a henna football tattoed on my spine. It would look just like this:
I guess this means I can't do sit-ups. Damn.
Living in Los Ogles
That's one major difference I've definitely noticed down here: ogling. Lascivious leering, blatant eyeballing, being looked up and down and commented upon like someone else's prized Pomeranian. This pretty much never happened up North, and it sure ain't like I suddenly got hotter once I moved here. I gained weight and got scowlier. And I don't exactly work or live with Chinese Crested Terriers or anything, either. There are plenty of things to look at that might classify as "really really hot" to my own "like your little sister with a big butt."
In Long Beach, it's walking down the street to the grocery store or the coffee shop. It's the guy that runs the boxing studio that hollers across the street, "Hey, those are nice pants!" Thanks. "You fill 'em out pretty good, too!" Head down, keep walking. The little hispanic dude who's like "Hey! Hey! Is a nice body, yeah. Ver'nice. Is lookie good."
At work. Ohell. The ugliest ogle I have ever experienced. A little swarthy fellow who closely resembles a pug. Like, buggy eyes with the pupil not quite in the center of the eyeball. Heavily pronounced underbite, with the leetle kinda pointy teeth. The face creases that run from nose down around the corners of the mouth. The slicked-back helmet of hair that shines like a beetle. Just whoa. And as I walked by on my 0.2 mile walk from parking place to front door, he waited for a bit, slowly rolling his googly eyes up and down, and then followed me the rest of the way. Triple Ew.
Or the guys that slow down their cars/semis to look and yell. What do they think is going to happen when they holler incoherently from the passenger side of their car? Am I suddenly going to jump in and say "take me now?" No. They want to get a rise out of me. Cassie, my favorite cohort in crazy, turns into this little mexican jumping bean of rage, middle fingers flying and feet lifting off the ground in emphasis.. exactly what they want from a tiny little hottentot like her. I pretty much walk. **One time, a guy asked me for my number while driving his SUV next to mine. I was thinking, "are you sure you want the kind of girl who says yes to that?" I was also thinking that his vehicle was probably full of syphilis. You can fit a lot of syphilis into a Yukon.
I guess that the big difference is that in a smaller town, there's a good chance that the heckler might actually see you again. Face to face, all confrontation style. And then... well, they DEFINITELY wouldn't have a chance, where as if they hadn't hollered about your hotness from their Subaru, they might at least get eye contact.
May I never see pug-ogle again.
In Long Beach, it's walking down the street to the grocery store or the coffee shop. It's the guy that runs the boxing studio that hollers across the street, "Hey, those are nice pants!" Thanks. "You fill 'em out pretty good, too!" Head down, keep walking. The little hispanic dude who's like "Hey! Hey! Is a nice body, yeah. Ver'nice. Is lookie good."
At work. Ohell. The ugliest ogle I have ever experienced. A little swarthy fellow who closely resembles a pug. Like, buggy eyes with the pupil not quite in the center of the eyeball. Heavily pronounced underbite, with the leetle kinda pointy teeth. The face creases that run from nose down around the corners of the mouth. The slicked-back helmet of hair that shines like a beetle. Just whoa. And as I walked by on my 0.2 mile walk from parking place to front door, he waited for a bit, slowly rolling his googly eyes up and down, and then followed me the rest of the way. Triple Ew.
Or the guys that slow down their cars/semis to look and yell. What do they think is going to happen when they holler incoherently from the passenger side of their car? Am I suddenly going to jump in and say "take me now?" No. They want to get a rise out of me. Cassie, my favorite cohort in crazy, turns into this little mexican jumping bean of rage, middle fingers flying and feet lifting off the ground in emphasis.. exactly what they want from a tiny little hottentot like her. I pretty much walk. **One time, a guy asked me for my number while driving his SUV next to mine. I was thinking, "are you sure you want the kind of girl who says yes to that?" I was also thinking that his vehicle was probably full of syphilis. You can fit a lot of syphilis into a Yukon.
I guess that the big difference is that in a smaller town, there's a good chance that the heckler might actually see you again. Face to face, all confrontation style. And then... well, they DEFINITELY wouldn't have a chance, where as if they hadn't hollered about your hotness from their Subaru, they might at least get eye contact.
May I never see pug-ogle again.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
I am So Suzy Homemaker I do it in a Strapless Bra
We made a plan today that we would actually exit this house before we settled down to long day of nothing, which is what weekends usually end up being. Jesse usually plays internet Risk and pwns the world while at the same time watching Star Trek and playing around with his Facebook, and I do something. Or nothing. I've never really figured out what I do on Saturdays, in retrospect.
We did exit the house. The plan was, walk to Border's, buy the new Eragon book because my husband is a middle-school aged boy with good reading taste and an interest in dragons, and then maybe walk home. Not particularly ambitious. We ended up going to Wal*Mart instead because he wanted an energy drink, and they had the book there so he got it. Our plan was ruined. NOW what are we supposed to do - I guess we could have walked home on our hands, but we didn't do that.
Instead we went to George's Greek Cafe, which is THE BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD. When I get to heaven, it will be George's Greek Cafe. Blue check tablecloths and little tan men that hug you to infinity. On a cloud. Because in my mind, everything in heaven is on a cloud. Anyway - George's makes me happier than anything I have encountered in the Los Angeles area at all since we moved here. It might be the only thing that makes me happy besides Jesse, and George's has a higher success rate per instance than Jesse does. 100%. P.S. Kefthetes are little bites of heaven in a heaven-like setting.
After we got home, my plan was to get all those stupid chores started and/or done. I've been meaning to clean up the house a little bit this whole week. I even wrote myself a detailed list to remind myself of what needed to be done. First on this list was "Do your damned homework." Then came "headlight, clean tubottom, get spit off mirror, mail pants, floor = yuck." So, to start my day of work off when we got home, I immediately did not do my homework but completed almost everything on my list while wearing a 100% silk shirt and a strapless bra, trying to convince myself that next I would actually do my homework. Shnopes. It's 9:00 and I'm writing a blog. But my laundry is done, my linens are clean, and my bathroom is sparkling, all without a single slippage or thought of the United States Government, Chapters 12 and 13.
We did exit the house. The plan was, walk to Border's, buy the new Eragon book because my husband is a middle-school aged boy with good reading taste and an interest in dragons, and then maybe walk home. Not particularly ambitious. We ended up going to Wal*Mart instead because he wanted an energy drink, and they had the book there so he got it. Our plan was ruined. NOW what are we supposed to do - I guess we could have walked home on our hands, but we didn't do that.
Instead we went to George's Greek Cafe, which is THE BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD. When I get to heaven, it will be George's Greek Cafe. Blue check tablecloths and little tan men that hug you to infinity. On a cloud. Because in my mind, everything in heaven is on a cloud. Anyway - George's makes me happier than anything I have encountered in the Los Angeles area at all since we moved here. It might be the only thing that makes me happy besides Jesse, and George's has a higher success rate per instance than Jesse does. 100%. P.S. Kefthetes are little bites of heaven in a heaven-like setting.
After we got home, my plan was to get all those stupid chores started and/or done. I've been meaning to clean up the house a little bit this whole week. I even wrote myself a detailed list to remind myself of what needed to be done. First on this list was "Do your damned homework." Then came "headlight, clean tubottom, get spit off mirror, mail pants, floor = yuck." So, to start my day of work off when we got home, I immediately did not do my homework but completed almost everything on my list while wearing a 100% silk shirt and a strapless bra, trying to convince myself that next I would actually do my homework. Shnopes. It's 9:00 and I'm writing a blog. But my laundry is done, my linens are clean, and my bathroom is sparkling, all without a single slippage or thought of the United States Government, Chapters 12 and 13.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Coolest Thing on the Road
So I'm not a huge fan of driving, much less driving on the freeway, much less driving on the freeway to work in the morning. It's a wall of gray, with cargo trucks lumbering from the port to the railroad tracks (why are all the railroad tracks not connected to the port?), and sleepy people lumbering to their jobs with their radios turned up and their conscious turned down. Much as car makers try to spice up the color options we have today, driving, all I see is dirt on boring.
I was driving to work this week, in not-my-normal lane (second to left), when I noticed that regardless of all the open space in front of him, the speedy car in the far right lane was not speeding up. This is HIGHLY UNUSUAL. Speeding up when you can is law, and will get you honked at for not abiding. I wondered to myself "I wonder what he's doing?" And then I saw this THING in front of his car - it looked like the proverbial carrot in front of the rabbit, or the rabbit in front of the racing greyhound. Only the proverbial carrot-rabbit was grey (like everything else) and it was going exactly 50 miles per hour and it had wings.
It was a PIGEON. I know pigeons don't exactly have the best reputations, but I for one have always had a pigeon fondness. Which has been exponentially increased by the fact that this pigeon was flying in a straight line at FIFTY MILES AN HOUR, not swerving erratically, following the traffic lane, and not losing speed. My jaw literally dropped. If not for the herd of cargo-bearing trucks surrounding me, I would have looked that sports car driver in the eye and mouthed the words "WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?", and for the first time in the history of freeways it would not have been about some non-normal driver.
Did you KNOW that pigeons could fly at 50 miles per hour?!?! I did not know this - I assumed they spent their days bobbing gently on sidewalks, descending on dirty wings from the rafters of unoccupied buildings, and generally being like I want to be when I retire, only with more disease and creepier-looking eyes. This pigeon was obviously a high-achiever. I just witnessed the Michael Phelps of pigeondom on my drive to work in the morning. My morning drive will never ever be as good.
I was driving to work this week, in not-my-normal lane (second to left), when I noticed that regardless of all the open space in front of him, the speedy car in the far right lane was not speeding up. This is HIGHLY UNUSUAL. Speeding up when you can is law, and will get you honked at for not abiding. I wondered to myself "I wonder what he's doing?" And then I saw this THING in front of his car - it looked like the proverbial carrot in front of the rabbit, or the rabbit in front of the racing greyhound. Only the proverbial carrot-rabbit was grey (like everything else) and it was going exactly 50 miles per hour and it had wings.
It was a PIGEON. I know pigeons don't exactly have the best reputations, but I for one have always had a pigeon fondness. Which has been exponentially increased by the fact that this pigeon was flying in a straight line at FIFTY MILES AN HOUR, not swerving erratically, following the traffic lane, and not losing speed. My jaw literally dropped. If not for the herd of cargo-bearing trucks surrounding me, I would have looked that sports car driver in the eye and mouthed the words "WHAT THE HELL IS HE DOING?", and for the first time in the history of freeways it would not have been about some non-normal driver.
Did you KNOW that pigeons could fly at 50 miles per hour?!?! I did not know this - I assumed they spent their days bobbing gently on sidewalks, descending on dirty wings from the rafters of unoccupied buildings, and generally being like I want to be when I retire, only with more disease and creepier-looking eyes. This pigeon was obviously a high-achiever. I just witnessed the Michael Phelps of pigeondom on my drive to work in the morning. My morning drive will never ever be as good.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wasting away... sigh
I started a diet on Monday. Not like a vague "I'll stop the Cheetos-munching and beer-swilling" kind of diet, but the kind of diet that forced me to SAY NO TO CHIPS AND SALSA at lunch today. Truly tragic. One of my last pre-diet-start "meals" was endless chips and salsa at Chili's, where the chips are so wafer-thin that they feel like crunchy little fried paper in your mouth, only significantly tastier. And you wonder why I feel the need to go on a diet.
Conveniently, on the day I started my diet, they also started a "Biggest Loser" contest at work, where everyone who enters pays $25 and whoever loses the highest percentage of body weight gets everyone's $25, thus providing monetary impetus to lose weight. You can also go in for $50 if you're in it to win it. I AM IN IT TO WIN IT.
I'm sure people who know me will ABSOLUTELY NOT believe me, and they are TOTALLY accurate. For when have I stuck with anything besides my marriage? Answer: only when forced to by extenuating circumstances or contracts containing my signature and a feeling of guilt if I were to not stick with it. Also Verizon Wireless.
I'm supposed to be taking "before" pictures to compare with some "after" pictures, but getting up the guts to make myself look fat is not the same kind of easy as drinking five bottles of water before weigh-in to make yourself look heavier. The water is out after you race your equal-agua coworkers to the limited restrooms, but the fat pictures are only until your husband forgets them when he becomes senile.
I'm also supposed to be taking measurements so that I can report how many inches I've lost... I always have found it odd when people report that they've lost inches. It's like what the hell kind of osteoporosis did you get on that diet? I'll probably measure my arms and legs and booty, and then never decide if it's time to re-measure, so I'll only have those initial figures to aspire to when I'm pregnant.
So I've been eating quite a bit less on this program for three days now. Two and a half, actually. I nearly nodded off from hunger on my notebook in Econ last night. I was trying to write sentences to keep myself awake, and they were like "It was probably not the wisest idea to start my idea on the night of my class, because now I am class and sentence not working" Not able to maintain coherent thoughts, obviously. I stuck it out, though, with the wily use of soy crisps snarfed during the break between GDP and CPI. I felt much better after that, though Jesse had the nerve to ask when I got home and almost ripped the cupboard door off on my way to nutritious soup if I was "really that hungry." I was like "do you know how much I have not eaten today!?! If you value your life, get ye not between me and my soups!" What I actually said, though, was "Dude, I have only eaten like 600 calories today (this was a lie), how could I NOT BE HUNGRY." And then I said "No smooches until I eat my soup."
Conveniently, on the day I started my diet, they also started a "Biggest Loser" contest at work, where everyone who enters pays $25 and whoever loses the highest percentage of body weight gets everyone's $25, thus providing monetary impetus to lose weight. You can also go in for $50 if you're in it to win it. I AM IN IT TO WIN IT.
I'm sure people who know me will ABSOLUTELY NOT believe me, and they are TOTALLY accurate. For when have I stuck with anything besides my marriage? Answer: only when forced to by extenuating circumstances or contracts containing my signature and a feeling of guilt if I were to not stick with it. Also Verizon Wireless.
I'm supposed to be taking "before" pictures to compare with some "after" pictures, but getting up the guts to make myself look fat is not the same kind of easy as drinking five bottles of water before weigh-in to make yourself look heavier. The water is out after you race your equal-agua coworkers to the limited restrooms, but the fat pictures are only until your husband forgets them when he becomes senile.
I'm also supposed to be taking measurements so that I can report how many inches I've lost... I always have found it odd when people report that they've lost inches. It's like what the hell kind of osteoporosis did you get on that diet? I'll probably measure my arms and legs and booty, and then never decide if it's time to re-measure, so I'll only have those initial figures to aspire to when I'm pregnant.
So I've been eating quite a bit less on this program for three days now. Two and a half, actually. I nearly nodded off from hunger on my notebook in Econ last night. I was trying to write sentences to keep myself awake, and they were like "It was probably not the wisest idea to start my idea on the night of my class, because now I am class and sentence not working" Not able to maintain coherent thoughts, obviously. I stuck it out, though, with the wily use of soy crisps snarfed during the break between GDP and CPI. I felt much better after that, though Jesse had the nerve to ask when I got home and almost ripped the cupboard door off on my way to nutritious soup if I was "really that hungry." I was like "do you know how much I have not eaten today!?! If you value your life, get ye not between me and my soups!" What I actually said, though, was "Dude, I have only eaten like 600 calories today (this was a lie), how could I NOT BE HUNGRY." And then I said "No smooches until I eat my soup."
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Pro - Motion
It has to be better than an antimotion, because that's pretty much what I had been feeling like I was doing for the last few weeks because my coworker is so good at her job.
I started at the new position on Tuesday, and it was like a mind-warp from "ooh, this is an interesting and complex company run by the uber-hip" to "OMFG-how-the-hell-does-this-place-keep-running-if-they-depend-solely-on-people-like-me-to-do-stuffffffff?!?" I found that the department I transferred to consists solely of two women, the manager and the girl, and that this department of two is responsible FOR EVERYTHING WORKING. I was thinking... why does that other department over there have forty million design school graduates walking around making music videos in their spare time, and this department only has two, and they graduated from ordinary school?
THEN I found out that the girl, she who enters the data that makes the denim world go 'round, is leaving for Italy for TWO WEEKS. On Friday morning. So I have to learn how she does all these things that she does by rote, and I'm thinking to myself "I'd totally be OK with being fired as soon as she gets back because I just cause a major disruption in the supply chain". And I totally would be OK with that.
Friday rolls around, and I started receiving e-mails that were purportedly relevant to what I'm supposed to be doing, only the thing is, I don't really have a clear picture of what exactly I'm supposed to be doing. I have pages and pages of disjointed notes that are like "hit F7", only I was in such a jotting hurry that now F7 is the most daunting step in my succession of keys. F7 could either do something like accept date entry or it could be the self-destruct key. I forgot to write that part down. So I'll hit F7 and duck as if shards of monitor are about to be embedded in my skull, and then the DOS-based program (green screen!) will beep like an Apple IIe when you shot a buffalo on Oregon Trail because I didn't move my cursor off the screen and then hit F7, so the cycle of fear begins again.
I will keep posting as I continue floundering in the quicksand of too much unrelated information in my e-mail inbox. Luckily, the girl that used to work in the department called and said "I feel REALLY sorry for you because you have no idea what's going on at all. I'll stop by on Monday and see how I can help you." Thank God for her. Apparently the whole company knows that I must and do feel like a uncultured white girl from a hick town set down smack in the middle of Los Angeles. Oh wait.
I started at the new position on Tuesday, and it was like a mind-warp from "ooh, this is an interesting and complex company run by the uber-hip" to "OMFG-how-the-hell-does-this-place-keep-running-if-they-depend-solely-on-people-like-me-to-do-stuffffffff?!?" I found that the department I transferred to consists solely of two women, the manager and the girl, and that this department of two is responsible FOR EVERYTHING WORKING. I was thinking... why does that other department over there have forty million design school graduates walking around making music videos in their spare time, and this department only has two, and they graduated from ordinary school?
THEN I found out that the girl, she who enters the data that makes the denim world go 'round, is leaving for Italy for TWO WEEKS. On Friday morning. So I have to learn how she does all these things that she does by rote, and I'm thinking to myself "I'd totally be OK with being fired as soon as she gets back because I just cause a major disruption in the supply chain". And I totally would be OK with that.
Friday rolls around, and I started receiving e-mails that were purportedly relevant to what I'm supposed to be doing, only the thing is, I don't really have a clear picture of what exactly I'm supposed to be doing. I have pages and pages of disjointed notes that are like "hit F7", only I was in such a jotting hurry that now F7 is the most daunting step in my succession of keys. F7 could either do something like accept date entry or it could be the self-destruct key. I forgot to write that part down. So I'll hit F7 and duck as if shards of monitor are about to be embedded in my skull, and then the DOS-based program (green screen!) will beep like an Apple IIe when you shot a buffalo on Oregon Trail because I didn't move my cursor off the screen and then hit F7, so the cycle of fear begins again.
I will keep posting as I continue floundering in the quicksand of too much unrelated information in my e-mail inbox. Luckily, the girl that used to work in the department called and said "I feel REALLY sorry for you because you have no idea what's going on at all. I'll stop by on Monday and see how I can help you." Thank God for her. Apparently the whole company knows that I must and do feel like a uncultured white girl from a hick town set down smack in the middle of Los Angeles. Oh wait.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
What the Doodle-Heck?
As I have written about before, Jesse and I have a little old lady. Truth be known, she is not exactly little, but she is indeed an old lady. One who made Cabbage Rolls when she used to entertain during the Great Depression. And whose lifetime achievement was traveling to Europe during her early adulthood with the Whittier Women's Choir - not an uncool achievement to have under your belt, truth be known. Unless you were a male in the choir. Then it would be very not cool to have toured Europe with the Whittier Women's Choir, especially during the 50's.
Unfortunately, I have had little opportunity to spend time with her - she is at her best during the day, dwindling in energy towards the evening and probably sitting in a chair mowing down vegetable chips (which are really potato chips in disguise, just like tri-color pasta) on her living room recliner while watching The Price is Right on the TV. I don't know anything about the latter portion of that sentence - it's just what I always imagine persons over 75 who stay home all day doing. That's what my grandparents did - it was just them, Bob Barker, Alex Trebec, and Pat Sajak. And Vanna White, but she was only there to smile and turn the letters over. But I digress... I don't get the opportunity to go there after work much because Jesse can take care of her after his school gets out at noon on Monday and Friday. Though it does save me a lot of dollars on gas.
One of my favorite things about her, besides the fact that every visit she tells Jesse he's "so beautiful, it's almost feminine," is her key phrase. You know how some people just have a phrase they repeat so often it becomes a key point in their personality, something to describe them by? For me, I know I say "exactly" a whole lot in conversation. Our dear lady says "Doodle-Heck" nearly as often as the area code 90210 says "like". "I'll just get the doodle-heck in the car and we can drive to the store, but I forgot what the doodle-heck I wanted so we can just walk around until I find what the doodle-heck it is." How awesome of a phrase is that?
It is a VERY AWESOME phrase.
Exactly.
Unfortunately, I have had little opportunity to spend time with her - she is at her best during the day, dwindling in energy towards the evening and probably sitting in a chair mowing down vegetable chips (which are really potato chips in disguise, just like tri-color pasta) on her living room recliner while watching The Price is Right on the TV. I don't know anything about the latter portion of that sentence - it's just what I always imagine persons over 75 who stay home all day doing. That's what my grandparents did - it was just them, Bob Barker, Alex Trebec, and Pat Sajak. And Vanna White, but she was only there to smile and turn the letters over. But I digress... I don't get the opportunity to go there after work much because Jesse can take care of her after his school gets out at noon on Monday and Friday. Though it does save me a lot of dollars on gas.
One of my favorite things about her, besides the fact that every visit she tells Jesse he's "so beautiful, it's almost feminine," is her key phrase. You know how some people just have a phrase they repeat so often it becomes a key point in their personality, something to describe them by? For me, I know I say "exactly" a whole lot in conversation. Our dear lady says "Doodle-Heck" nearly as often as the area code 90210 says "like". "I'll just get the doodle-heck in the car and we can drive to the store, but I forgot what the doodle-heck I wanted so we can just walk around until I find what the doodle-heck it is." How awesome of a phrase is that?
It is a VERY AWESOME phrase.
Exactly.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Self-Importance Never Wins (especially if you're a courier)
"Priveleged" That was the name of the show. The only TV show ever in the whole world. Ever.
This homey driver (courier, in fancier terms) shows up at work demanding his shipment for the the WARdrobe designer. The only. He has a drop-off, and he needs his package for the WARdrobe designer. There is no package with me for him. In fact, the woman who creates such packages filled with wonder is not even in town at the moment. He becomes agitated, as if this is somehow someone's fault.
Keep in mind, this driver is pushing fifty and has the stretch marks in his faded salmon Hanes Beefy-T pointing towards the center of his belly, which protrudes like the top of my grandmother's rising extra-yeasty bread. His fade orange mustache is reminiscent of that of a male walrus, while his baseball cap shows signs of never having been washed ever. He is wearing faded and bleach-spotted (not on purpose, like the 80's) Lee jeans, and his flip-flops are wearing ever closer to being just flops.
And yet, he is looking disdainfully down upon me in my $2,000 secretary's chair, with my $300 flower arrangement next to me, surrounded by the tens of millions of dollars this company has spent on putting up a good show of competence, as if it is somehow my own doing that his package is not waiting for him to whisk off to his WARdrobe designer.
Let me tell you, speaking down to someone in this company does not win you any favors. Not that I even really care, but he's distracting me from completing my 375th game of FreeCell. Also, the fact that packages have nothing to do with me. So I call the assistant from the PR Department - not the nice, soft-spoken one, but the one who knows how to say things exactly so the target knows he or she is in error.
Homey delivery man continues blustering, especially when I say he needs something for the wardrobe "department," not the designer. He interrupts my message delivery to correct my obviously HORRID error. Luckily, the Marketing Assistant hears this and comes out to speak with him. I sit blithely by as they discuss the issue at hand, namely, that he's obviously not important enough to have package waiting for him at the front reception desk of the wealthiest denim designer in the world. But he thinks he is. Even Vietnamese guys named Kevin Costner have packages waiting for them at this particular front desk. In the end, he is unable to find the package that we obviously hid from him (it was in my pants!), and huffs off like a seventeen year old pageant contestant who has had her prize stolen from her by someone who could find the US on a map.
Priveleged, my booty.
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