Don't ask where I've been 'cause you totally don't want to know. Let's just say hibernating. And ruminating. And reevaluating. And overanalyzing. No, I wasn't in rehab with LiLo, (but I would totally give you the dirt if I was) I was just having (another!) quarter life crisis. Adaptability is the name of the game, peeps.
I looked at my life (well actually life decided to give me a good and thorough mindfuck, so I really didn't have a choice in the matter), put my thing down, flipped it, AND reversed it. Oh, and I finally remembered that I have a blog and thought I'd get off my ass and actually use it. So, I'm back to bitch to no one in particular about shit that doesn't matter so I can distract myself from all the shit that does. Check back for random ranting.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Today is Weird
Today is fucking weird. At this very moment, there is a young man dressed as a generic biblical character standing outside my apartment building waving and shaking his staff at the traffic driving by. No, that's not a euphemism for something dirty, but I like how you think. Should I feel bad that I don't know the correct terminology for his biblical garb? He's got some kind of head cloth with a braided fabric headband type thingy and a white shorty robe that's about thisclose to showing his biblical junk every time a stiff breeze kicks up. Oh, and a belt and a wooden staff. Maybe he's supposed to be one of the wisemen? I really don't know, but it's fucking weird.
I would assume he was just another rando homeless dude, but seriously, we only have 2 homeless dudes in my 'hood and they're both present and accounted for. We have headphones wearing Tourette's guy (whom I love). Call me biased, but one day after getting my hair cut last summer, he actually stopped his random beat boxing to call out to me, "Your hair looks nice, miss." Love. That. Guy. Shit, my own mother didn't notice my damned haircut. That dude is always getting my spare change. Then we have the homeless dude who always tips his imaginary cap to me and wishes me a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening. I love that guy, too.
Oh, reason number two I know he's not a rando homeless guy: he's very well groomed and wearing brand new neoprene Teva sandals. Tevas? Really? Is that what Jesus would do? I think not, my friend. I'm pretty sure that even the son of God decided they were ugly and too cliche to wear in Seattle anymore.
Anyway, in conclusion, next time get a sign or something to let people know what the fuck you're trying to tell them with your erratic behavior. Remember: crazy homeless people are funny. Stupid college students conducting sociological experiments in front of my goddamned apartment are just tools. Love, me.
In other news, I finally got my got-damned corporate card today so I can stop trying to avoid being asked to pick stuff up for the office and just "expensing it" because although I get that the company will pay me back, does the company get that I don't have the cash to front them for their supplies and stamps and microwave and coffeepot? Does it? Does it?
So, first order of biz was to head to Costco to pick up all kinds of shizz to make the office livable and functional for people (read: me) who need to bring their sad little leftover lunches to work because they can't afford to go out for every meal. I loaded up my cart with all kinds of swag. Microwave, cups, plates, napkins, coffee, creamer, you name it. Well, guess what I found out when I was at the register after all my stuff had been rung up and put in boxes for me to take back to the office? Oh, my corporate card is a Mastercard. Costco doesn't take Mastercard. They only take debit cards or American Express. I'm sure everyone else in the entire world knew this but me, but seriously people: I live alone. How often do you think I shop at Costco? How many fifteen gallon buckets of canned tomatoes does one girl need? And the one time that I shopped there in the last year I paid with my debit card, so I wasn't made aware of their discriminatory credit card acceptance policy. What about us po' folk who don't have a gajillion dollars in their bank account so they can't buy ten thousand rolls of toilet paper, fifty pounds of Italian seasonings and a two-pack of flat screen TVs with their DEBIT card????
I understand that Costco has the more, more, more consumer-driven American society by the balls and they can do whatever they damned well please. Still, that is fucking ridiculous. American Express? Are you fucking kidding me? Nobody takes that shit, but that's the only card you take? Sweet. Why don't you just ram your industrial strength, economy sized, wholesale priced, gigantic 25-pack of fists up my ass, Costco? Do you realize that I have used my personal Mastercard such various and sundry locations as: the super sketchy Teriyaki shop/mini mart/payday loan/pawn shop in South Central near my old office, Taco Time, Pike Place Market produce stands, and a jewlery-making street vendor who was selling her wares at the farmer's market on Kauai. Kauai -- where 70% (or something, don't email me!) of the land is uninhabitable. Yet Costco: one of the largest and most well-known companies in this god forsaken country can't be bothered to accept major credit cards (I know Amex is considered "major," but seriously: who are they kidding)?
So, thank you Costco, for that enormously humiliating experience of having to stand there while the cashier announced that all of the stuff I'd just attempted to purchase would have to be returned to the shelves, because I didn't have a way to pay for it. Rad. Today is weird.
I would assume he was just another rando homeless dude, but seriously, we only have 2 homeless dudes in my 'hood and they're both present and accounted for. We have headphones wearing Tourette's guy (whom I love). Call me biased, but one day after getting my hair cut last summer, he actually stopped his random beat boxing to call out to me, "Your hair looks nice, miss." Love. That. Guy. Shit, my own mother didn't notice my damned haircut. That dude is always getting my spare change. Then we have the homeless dude who always tips his imaginary cap to me and wishes me a pleasant morning/afternoon/evening. I love that guy, too.
Oh, reason number two I know he's not a rando homeless guy: he's very well groomed and wearing brand new neoprene Teva sandals. Tevas? Really? Is that what Jesus would do? I think not, my friend. I'm pretty sure that even the son of God decided they were ugly and too cliche to wear in Seattle anymore.
Anyway, in conclusion, next time get a sign or something to let people know what the fuck you're trying to tell them with your erratic behavior. Remember: crazy homeless people are funny. Stupid college students conducting sociological experiments in front of my goddamned apartment are just tools. Love, me.
In other news, I finally got my got-damned corporate card today so I can stop trying to avoid being asked to pick stuff up for the office and just "expensing it" because although I get that the company will pay me back, does the company get that I don't have the cash to front them for their supplies and stamps and microwave and coffeepot? Does it? Does it?
So, first order of biz was to head to Costco to pick up all kinds of shizz to make the office livable and functional for people (read: me) who need to bring their sad little leftover lunches to work because they can't afford to go out for every meal. I loaded up my cart with all kinds of swag. Microwave, cups, plates, napkins, coffee, creamer, you name it. Well, guess what I found out when I was at the register after all my stuff had been rung up and put in boxes for me to take back to the office? Oh, my corporate card is a Mastercard. Costco doesn't take Mastercard. They only take debit cards or American Express. I'm sure everyone else in the entire world knew this but me, but seriously people: I live alone. How often do you think I shop at Costco? How many fifteen gallon buckets of canned tomatoes does one girl need? And the one time that I shopped there in the last year I paid with my debit card, so I wasn't made aware of their discriminatory credit card acceptance policy. What about us po' folk who don't have a gajillion dollars in their bank account so they can't buy ten thousand rolls of toilet paper, fifty pounds of Italian seasonings and a two-pack of flat screen TVs with their DEBIT card????
I understand that Costco has the more, more, more consumer-driven American society by the balls and they can do whatever they damned well please. Still, that is fucking ridiculous. American Express? Are you fucking kidding me? Nobody takes that shit, but that's the only card you take? Sweet. Why don't you just ram your industrial strength, economy sized, wholesale priced, gigantic 25-pack of fists up my ass, Costco? Do you realize that I have used my personal Mastercard such various and sundry locations as: the super sketchy Teriyaki shop/mini mart/payday loan/pawn shop in South Central near my old office, Taco Time, Pike Place Market produce stands, and a jewlery-making street vendor who was selling her wares at the farmer's market on Kauai. Kauai -- where 70% (or something, don't email me!) of the land is uninhabitable. Yet Costco: one of the largest and most well-known companies in this god forsaken country can't be bothered to accept major credit cards (I know Amex is considered "major," but seriously: who are they kidding)?
So, thank you Costco, for that enormously humiliating experience of having to stand there while the cashier announced that all of the stuff I'd just attempted to purchase would have to be returned to the shelves, because I didn't have a way to pay for it. Rad. Today is weird.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Ooh girl, you da bomb!
Ok, so we've all got one. The coworker who is really genuinely nice and friendly and in all other ways awesome to work with and a pleasure to be around except for one thing...She tries to slip into her misguided middle-aged idea of "street" slang every time she sees our receptionist, who just so happens to be, you guessed it: black and the situation is embarrassing for all involved. Well, maybe not for me since I just sit in my office and laugh and laugh about it, but it's almost embarrassing to listen to. Almost.
Every morning when said coworker arrives, let's call her Turtle, she throws out an exceedingly loud, "Hey, girlfrieeeeeend!" to our receptionist. Just so you can recreate it for yourself, just pretend the "girlfriend" is from that one line in the oh so awesome song "Things That Make You Go Hmmm." While I'm on the topic, good Lord that song always annoyed me. And now it's stuck in my head. Fantastic. If the receptionist has changed her hair or is wearing a cute outfit, Turtle will undoubtedly reward us all with a, "You go, girl!" She even snaps her fingers a la Antoine Merriweather sometimes. "You go, girl"???????? Dude, even Ricki Lake stopped saying that shit in 1997. Time to move on to a new token "black" phrase. Hand to God, I once heard her tell Recep she needed to "ax" her something. I had to disguise my insanely loud laughter with a faux coughing fit to rival any sufferer of whooping cough.
Now, if this were the way that Turtle talked to everyone, cool. I'd totally still make fun of her for sounding like X-tina when she thought she was all hard and shit about 5 years ago (as a side note, I think Christina Aguilera fucking rocks and I love how she totally has her shit together now and has stopped wearing assless chaps to the grocery store and seems really happily married). But alas, Turtle talks like your typical middle-aged, extremely white bread suburban mom to everyone else. Everyone except for Receptionist. You know, 'cause Turtle is down. She knows black people.
I guess all I'm saying here is that I understand Turtle's attempts to relate to Receptionist. I actually like how personable Turtle is and I'm sure this is just her way of trying to be on Recep's level. Unfortunately she is getting all of her terminology from old reruns of Martin or something. And that's whack.
Every morning when said coworker arrives, let's call her Turtle, she throws out an exceedingly loud, "Hey, girlfrieeeeeend!" to our receptionist. Just so you can recreate it for yourself, just pretend the "girlfriend" is from that one line in the oh so awesome song "Things That Make You Go Hmmm." While I'm on the topic, good Lord that song always annoyed me. And now it's stuck in my head. Fantastic. If the receptionist has changed her hair or is wearing a cute outfit, Turtle will undoubtedly reward us all with a, "You go, girl!" She even snaps her fingers a la Antoine Merriweather sometimes. "You go, girl"???????? Dude, even Ricki Lake stopped saying that shit in 1997. Time to move on to a new token "black" phrase. Hand to God, I once heard her tell Recep she needed to "ax" her something. I had to disguise my insanely loud laughter with a faux coughing fit to rival any sufferer of whooping cough.
Now, if this were the way that Turtle talked to everyone, cool. I'd totally still make fun of her for sounding like X-tina when she thought she was all hard and shit about 5 years ago (as a side note, I think Christina Aguilera fucking rocks and I love how she totally has her shit together now and has stopped wearing assless chaps to the grocery store and seems really happily married). But alas, Turtle talks like your typical middle-aged, extremely white bread suburban mom to everyone else. Everyone except for Receptionist. You know, 'cause Turtle is down. She knows black people.
I guess all I'm saying here is that I understand Turtle's attempts to relate to Receptionist. I actually like how personable Turtle is and I'm sure this is just her way of trying to be on Recep's level. Unfortunately she is getting all of her terminology from old reruns of Martin or something. And that's whack.
Monday, March 12, 2007
If I Die Before I Wake
If I die before I wake, somebody please call the cops because I'm pretty sure I just met the guy who is going to murder me in my sleep and stuff a pillow with my hair and/or make a leisure suit from my skin. I mean, he didn't throw me in a pit and spray me down with a garden hose every time I failed to put the lotion in the basket, but that's only because I didn't give him the chance. You may think that due to my penchant for hyperbole I am exaggerating. I say nay, my friend. Nay. I have an eyewitness and she will attest to the fact that this guy definitely killed small animals as a child and even odds say he has a human head in his freezer.
I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.
As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.
Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.
"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Pets?"
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.
He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.
"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.
"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."
Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.
I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.
I spent the afternoon walking around my neighborhood with one of my friends with the idea that we'd get some air and scope out available apartments while we were out there. We came across an older building that was a little rundown, but I live in a historic neighborhood, so the buildings are old and you can't afford to judge a building by its exterior because it may be hiding some charming apartments. This building sort of resembled a dormitory or motel, but the location was good and I thought, what the hell? What the hell indeed.
As we approached the front door, we noticed a handbag sitting on the stoop, completely unattended. Weird, right, because nobody leaves their shit unattended in the city unless they are totally stupid. Or dead in a Dumpster, but we'll get to that. I pushed the button labeled "Manager," but there was no response. The call box made no noise, no beeps, no dial tone, nothing, so I thought it wasn't working. I tried pressing the button again.
Just as I turned to my friend to remark that I thought it was broken, I found myself staring directly into the dead yet queerly alert, sociopathic eyes of a total nutball. He was wearing a dirty sweatshirt and tapered jeans and had that bland, almost but not quite normal look of every serial killer in the history of the world. His Manson lamps raked over my body from head to toe as my flesh crawled in revulsion. He stared at us through the glass door for an uncomfortable stretch of time before finally poking his head out and greeting us warmly. And by greeted warmly, I mean he barked out, "Yes?" in his angry monotone. I told him I was inquiring about the apartment he had available and that's when the interrogation began.
"What are you looking for?" he demanded.
"A one bedroom," I replied. "Do you have any availab-?"
"Smoker or non?" he blurted out before I even had a chance to finish my sentence
"Uh, non."
"Pets?"
"Yeah. Wha-"
"What is your min, max and desired rent?"
"What do you have available?" I countered, totally thrown off guard by the barrage of questions. I mean, shouldn't I be the one asking the questions here?
"Tell me your min, max and desired rent," he droned.
"Well, why don't you tell me what your one bedroom is renting for and I'll tell you if I'm still interested," I said, starting to get weirded out and pissed off at the same time.
"$950 and up," he scoffed giving me a disgusted glance as though I was a dirt and excrement encrusted street person who was clearly wasting his time.
"That's fine," I said, "Can I see an apartment?"
"What color panties are you wearing and do you moisturize regularly?"
Okay, he might not have said that last part, but he may as well have. He was obviously thrown off his game when I didn't flinch and asked to see an apartment. Clearly he's used to running people off with his atrocious manners and crazy, crazy, crazy eyes. He whirled on his heel and walked inside. We followed and the foul stench of serious body odor, frustrated masturbation (and let's face it, dismembered bodies) wafted out from his "office," which he carefully used the door to shield from our view, probably so we wouldn't see the blood splatter.
He thrust a "survey" in my face and told me I'd have to fill it out in order to see an apartment. A cursory glance revealed that the "survey," included income, credit rating, social security number and all kinds of other stuff you should never have to give out unless you are actually applying for the apartment. The most I have ever been asked for is my identification and it's not like we're talking about some sweet ass apartment in a gated community or some shit. Chances are, the apartment was probably barely livable.
"Oh, I'm not sure I want to apply, I just want to see what you have to offer," I said. I mean, this ain't my first rodeo, cowboy. I don't have to fill out shit for you to show me an apartment. I definitely wasn't going to give this freak any information about me that would facilitate his hunting me down, tearing me limb from limb and drinking my blood. I knew the second I laid eyes on this psycho I would never ever live there, even if they paid me $950 and up, but I wanted to see the damned apartment out of curiosity.
"Every prospective tenant must fill out this survey completely in order to assure my safety, your safety and the safety of our residents. You may not see an apartment without one."
My eyes began to water from the stench and I was done playing his game, so I just thrust the clipboard back at him and said, "I don't think so."
Anyway, I'm pretty sure he was trying to get rid of us because he was busy exsanguinating the unfortunate owner of the abandoned handbag. And I'm also pretty sure I'm next.
I'm off to wedge a chair under my doorknob and buy a shotgun. Pray for me.
Monday, March 5, 2007
On Drunken Ramblings
Wow. I just reread my post from last night/early this morning. Wow. Shut up, me. Talk about whiny. I attribute it to beer and lack of sleep and the fact that not one single aspect of my life is nailed down right now. I don't know where I'll be working, I don't know where I'll be living, I don't know who Anna Nicole's baby daddy is...It's all just weighing on me and magnifies other issues that normally wouldn't be enough to get me down. Forgive the wallowing in self-pity. I'm fine. Really. Boys suck, but I'm much happier on my own anyway.
In other news, I think I lost my phone last night. Fucking great. Now I have no phone numbers and no way to contact anyone as my landline apparently doesn't work. Good thing I'm paying so much for it! If I haven't returned your phone call or text, now you know why. I'm an idiot.
Tomorrow's a big day for me. Big scary interview. Any good vibes you can put out are much appreciated. Okay, my next post will be funnier. I hope.
In other news, I think I lost my phone last night. Fucking great. Now I have no phone numbers and no way to contact anyone as my landline apparently doesn't work. Good thing I'm paying so much for it! If I haven't returned your phone call or text, now you know why. I'm an idiot.
Tomorrow's a big day for me. Big scary interview. Any good vibes you can put out are much appreciated. Okay, my next post will be funnier. I hope.
It's Not You, It's Me
At some point, you have to realize that maybe it's not that there's something wrong with everyone else you encounter. Maybe it is you. That's where I'm at. Maybe it's me. There has to be a reason every single guy I date either stalks me and totally creeps me out or treats me like a piece of shit. There is no in between. Maybe it is me.
My options have always been: be completely alone or settle for some guy that treats me like shit. The stalkers are never an option because my independent streak takes over and I will literally gnaw off my own arm to get free if necessary. For a long time, I was with one guy in particular that made me feel like I was unworthy of anyone. After him, I decided to be alone for a really long time. We're talking years here. But it's difficult when every single other sentient being in the universe is coupled up and you're not invited to shit if you don't have a date. So, here I am: settling for less.
It's embarrassing to tell my friends about the way that I have been treated and the way I still allow men to treat me. The way they degrade my sense of self worth and make sure I know that I'm not good enough for them to spend time with unless they have nothing else to do. That they like me enough to not want to see me with anyone else and will beg me to stay if I try to break things off, but not enough to actually become a real part of my life. That they have no compunction about canceling on me, disappointing me, and hurting my feelings. It's humiliating to tell people about how the only dudes who seem to want to date you are the ones that are sure to let you know that you're not even worth a moment's consideration. The rejection I have learned to take, but the humilation is freaking unbearable.
I either don't put up with their shit and am alone or I just struggle to accept the fact that what I want doesn't matter to anyone else and I'm crazy to think things will ever be different. I'm pretty fucking tired of being asked why I don't have a boyfriend. What is the correct answer to that question? Um, obviously I have some wicked personality flaw that keeps any guy without a severe hatred of women/mental disturbance at least 200 yards away from me at all times. It's like my own restraining order against normal relationships! After a while it wears you down and you learn to take what you can get. The disappointment hurts so much that I don't dare to hope for anything better. But I'm not quite ready to give up hope altogether. I feel so lost and completely alone right now. I can deal with that, but the prospect of feeling like this for the rest of my life is eating me alive.
Wow, this is really fucking depressing and self indulgent. I think I'd better go to bed now. Hopefully I'll be in a better mood tomorrow...
My options have always been: be completely alone or settle for some guy that treats me like shit. The stalkers are never an option because my independent streak takes over and I will literally gnaw off my own arm to get free if necessary. For a long time, I was with one guy in particular that made me feel like I was unworthy of anyone. After him, I decided to be alone for a really long time. We're talking years here. But it's difficult when every single other sentient being in the universe is coupled up and you're not invited to shit if you don't have a date. So, here I am: settling for less.
It's embarrassing to tell my friends about the way that I have been treated and the way I still allow men to treat me. The way they degrade my sense of self worth and make sure I know that I'm not good enough for them to spend time with unless they have nothing else to do. That they like me enough to not want to see me with anyone else and will beg me to stay if I try to break things off, but not enough to actually become a real part of my life. That they have no compunction about canceling on me, disappointing me, and hurting my feelings. It's humiliating to tell people about how the only dudes who seem to want to date you are the ones that are sure to let you know that you're not even worth a moment's consideration. The rejection I have learned to take, but the humilation is freaking unbearable.
I either don't put up with their shit and am alone or I just struggle to accept the fact that what I want doesn't matter to anyone else and I'm crazy to think things will ever be different. I'm pretty fucking tired of being asked why I don't have a boyfriend. What is the correct answer to that question? Um, obviously I have some wicked personality flaw that keeps any guy without a severe hatred of women/mental disturbance at least 200 yards away from me at all times. It's like my own restraining order against normal relationships! After a while it wears you down and you learn to take what you can get. The disappointment hurts so much that I don't dare to hope for anything better. But I'm not quite ready to give up hope altogether. I feel so lost and completely alone right now. I can deal with that, but the prospect of feeling like this for the rest of my life is eating me alive.
Wow, this is really fucking depressing and self indulgent. I think I'd better go to bed now. Hopefully I'll be in a better mood tomorrow...
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Resistance is Futile
Things I am powerless to resist:
Haribo Gummy Bears
You know, the REAL gummy bears from Germany in the gold bag. Not the sweaty, mushy, waxy shit they sell at convenience stores.
Sarcastic People
For obvious reasons. If I haven't gotten sick of sarcasm in 25 years, I don't think it's going to happen. Plus, sarcastic people think I'm funny and that's all that matters to me.
Watching Movies I've Seen a Million Times on TV
I really don't know what is up with this, but I own tons of movies and rarely watch most of them. But, if I am flipping through the channels and catch a movie that I own, say, Dumb and Dumber (as was the case last weekend), I will sit down and watch it. I won't just break out my copy of the damn movie with all the dirty parts firmly intact and no commercials. Nope, I'd rather watch the edited version on TV. I guess it feels like less of a commitment or something. I don't know...
Buying Tons of Grooming Products I Don't Need
I can't not buy every new lotion, hair product and lip gloss I see. I must have it all! Not only am I a drugstore whore, as Sisterson calls me, but I'm also Sephora's bitch and, as I found out a few days ago, The Body Shop's prag. Luckily I have a bathroom that's approximately 2 square feet, so I have nowhere to store it all. It's a disease.
Celebrity Gossip
I like to pretend I'm above it all, but I must know what is going on in Hollywood. Or else I'll die, apparently.
Jake Gyllenhaal
I recently sat through Proof in which Gwyneth Paltrow blew ropey goat chunks, but I enjoyed it because of Jake. He's not empirically the hottest guy ever, but he is still gorgeous. He is built like a brick shithouse, can grow 5 o'clock shadow like nobody's business and seriously has the dreamiest. eyes. ever. Plus, his man love with Lance and Matt is so cute. And he loves his sister. Adorable.
Giving Every Person I See a Once-Over
I have to know what everyone is wearing. I have to see their shoes. I have to check out how their butt looks in those jeans and whether that sweater is flattering. How else will I know what I absolutely have to have next time I have money to spend on clothes (which will probably be never the way things are going)?
Cheap Drinks
How many times have I drank WAY too much just because I found a rad happy hour or a cheap bar? I don't remember, but $2 for a pitcher of beer? Hey, I've got 2 more dollars! (BTW if you know of a good spot for cheap drinks, holla at your girl. Please?)
Real World Marathons
Luckily I no longer have cable, so it's kind of a moot point unless I stop being too cheap to pay for it, but I cannot look away from a Real World marathon. Gimme some Diet Coke and a blanket and I won't leave my couch for a whole day. For real.
Morgan Freeman's Voice
I could literally listen to a reading of the phone book so long as it was recorded in the smooth, dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman's melodic voice. Love it.
Babies
I love babies. They're so cute and innocent and for whatever reason, they tend to like me, too.
Animals
I love animals. Which is why I can probably never visit another animal shelter because last time that happened, I was racked with guilt for weeks because I could only take two of the cats home with me. In the last week I almost adopted a stray cat that was wandering the halls of my building and kidnapped a freaking adorable bulldog from a coffee shop. I have a problem.
Baby Animals
'Nuff said.
Things I can totally resist:
Beyonce
Her music is atrocious and her acting is laughable. Sure, she's gorgeous, but that's not much of a "talent." That Irreplaceable song makes me want to jump out of a window. Actually, I think all of her shitty songs provoke the same reaction except for Naughty Girl, but they hardly ever play that one on the radio anyway.
Cover Charges
Wait, you want me to give you money just to enter your lame ass bar or club when I could be spending my hard earned money on drinks to distract myself from said lameness? Bite me. You should be paying me for denigrating myself enough to actually be seen in your crappy bar. What is up with Seattle? Their clubs are laughably horrible and the bouncers never let girls in free. In Vegas I paid not one single cover charge because they understand that cute girls bring in the boys. Oh, and Vegas clubs are effing rad. WTF?
Yellow Teeth
Nobody likes 'em.
The Sonics
Get the eff out of my city because you guys suck my left one and you must be on crack if you think I'll give you one red cent for a new arena.
This Ad:
Haribo Gummy Bears
You know, the REAL gummy bears from Germany in the gold bag. Not the sweaty, mushy, waxy shit they sell at convenience stores.
Sarcastic People
For obvious reasons. If I haven't gotten sick of sarcasm in 25 years, I don't think it's going to happen. Plus, sarcastic people think I'm funny and that's all that matters to me.
Watching Movies I've Seen a Million Times on TV
I really don't know what is up with this, but I own tons of movies and rarely watch most of them. But, if I am flipping through the channels and catch a movie that I own, say, Dumb and Dumber (as was the case last weekend), I will sit down and watch it. I won't just break out my copy of the damn movie with all the dirty parts firmly intact and no commercials. Nope, I'd rather watch the edited version on TV. I guess it feels like less of a commitment or something. I don't know...
Buying Tons of Grooming Products I Don't Need
I can't not buy every new lotion, hair product and lip gloss I see. I must have it all! Not only am I a drugstore whore, as Sisterson calls me, but I'm also Sephora's bitch and, as I found out a few days ago, The Body Shop's prag. Luckily I have a bathroom that's approximately 2 square feet, so I have nowhere to store it all. It's a disease.
Celebrity Gossip
I like to pretend I'm above it all, but I must know what is going on in Hollywood. Or else I'll die, apparently.
Jake Gyllenhaal
I recently sat through Proof in which Gwyneth Paltrow blew ropey goat chunks, but I enjoyed it because of Jake. He's not empirically the hottest guy ever, but he is still gorgeous. He is built like a brick shithouse, can grow 5 o'clock shadow like nobody's business and seriously has the dreamiest. eyes. ever. Plus, his man love with Lance and Matt is so cute. And he loves his sister. Adorable.
Giving Every Person I See a Once-Over
I have to know what everyone is wearing. I have to see their shoes. I have to check out how their butt looks in those jeans and whether that sweater is flattering. How else will I know what I absolutely have to have next time I have money to spend on clothes (which will probably be never the way things are going)?
Cheap Drinks
How many times have I drank WAY too much just because I found a rad happy hour or a cheap bar? I don't remember, but $2 for a pitcher of beer? Hey, I've got 2 more dollars! (BTW if you know of a good spot for cheap drinks, holla at your girl. Please?)
Real World Marathons
Luckily I no longer have cable, so it's kind of a moot point unless I stop being too cheap to pay for it, but I cannot look away from a Real World marathon. Gimme some Diet Coke and a blanket and I won't leave my couch for a whole day. For real.
Morgan Freeman's Voice
I could literally listen to a reading of the phone book so long as it was recorded in the smooth, dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman's melodic voice. Love it.
Babies
I love babies. They're so cute and innocent and for whatever reason, they tend to like me, too.
Animals
I love animals. Which is why I can probably never visit another animal shelter because last time that happened, I was racked with guilt for weeks because I could only take two of the cats home with me. In the last week I almost adopted a stray cat that was wandering the halls of my building and kidnapped a freaking adorable bulldog from a coffee shop. I have a problem.
Baby Animals
'Nuff said.
Things I can totally resist:
Beyonce
Her music is atrocious and her acting is laughable. Sure, she's gorgeous, but that's not much of a "talent." That Irreplaceable song makes me want to jump out of a window. Actually, I think all of her shitty songs provoke the same reaction except for Naughty Girl, but they hardly ever play that one on the radio anyway.
Cover Charges
Wait, you want me to give you money just to enter your lame ass bar or club when I could be spending my hard earned money on drinks to distract myself from said lameness? Bite me. You should be paying me for denigrating myself enough to actually be seen in your crappy bar. What is up with Seattle? Their clubs are laughably horrible and the bouncers never let girls in free. In Vegas I paid not one single cover charge because they understand that cute girls bring in the boys. Oh, and Vegas clubs are effing rad. WTF?
Yellow Teeth
Nobody likes 'em.
The Sonics
Get the eff out of my city because you guys suck my left one and you must be on crack if you think I'll give you one red cent for a new arena.
This Ad:
"Boyfriend season is right around the corner"? Yeah, me getting reaquainted with my breakfast is what's right around the corner, bitches. Like boyfriends are a particular kind of game like elk or something. I don't know about you, but I don't have a boyfriend 'cause they're just not in season right now. I'd better invest in some new fuck me boots and push up bras and cram on my Cosmo Guide To Trapping A Man articles because I didn't realize hunting season was just about to begin! Besides, don't you think, oh, say the holidays and Valentine's Day (or VD, as I like to call it) would be boyfriend season? That is the most insulting ad I've seen in a while. Nice try, "True," but no fucking advertisement could make me feel badly enough about myself to search for potential man meat online. Oh, and I'm sorry, but that guy's not even that hot. Like, nice gold chain and weird pecs, cheesedick. Give me a break.
Leggings
Listen, having grown up in the eighties, I have worn a lot of leggings in my day. I already know they look good on exactly two people. I also know that I am not one of them. Some people need to learn this through experience. God bless. Just don't expect me to ever sport them again.
Meat With Bones
Um, I know it sounds dirty but I'm actually talking about food here. You will never catch me gnawing on a drumstick or tearing the flesh off a rib bone with my teeth. Granted, I'm not a vegetarian, but I pretty much stick to eating fish and chicken (boneless and skinless only), but I don't really like thinking about ripping a limb from an animal and going to town. It just seems so savage and disgusting to actually wrest the sinew from its bones. Sick.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Actually, I know exactly where I'd like to put it...
Sorry for the lack of updates. Look at me: slacking already! Man, I have thought of so many things to write about, but investing the time just hasn't been feasible recently. Between toiling away for Satan's minions so I can (barely) pay my rent and trying to maintain some pathetic semblance of a social life, blogging has fallen by the wayside. I could say it won't happen again, but I don't think either of us would be fooled.
I don't know why I'm apologizing. The three people who read this probably couldn't care less one way or the other (BTW, that IS the correct phrasing. "Couldn't care less," people. Learn it, live it, love it or I will be forced to punch you in the babymaker. If you COULD care less, that means you care. Get it? Do you? Sorry, just another grammatical pet peeve of mine).
You will be happy to know that I have recently taken to scrawling down stream of consciousness notes to myself about things possible future blog topics so I can blog about them when I have time. Basically it's just a piece of paper full of cursing and vitriol about the people I've been encountering lately. So, in short, should I meet with an untimely demise and someone like a cop or paramedic finds my crazy notes in my purse, they will assume I am rucking futs, as Sisterson would say. Hee. Maybe they wouldn't be that far off base. So, what I'm trying to say is although I haven't been updating, I've still been writing with the intent of updating. Who loves ya, baby?
In other news, there is a bright and hopeful light at the end of the narrow, dark, fetid, soul-sucking, mind-numbing, dank tunnel that I like to call my employment at Bureaucratic Printing Company. I don't want to talk about it too much and jinx it or anything, but suffice it to say that my lovely and talented friend Buffalo Gal has an opening in her department at work and thinks I would be a great addition! Plus, it's a different type of job in which I would be able to use my brain (yep, I've got one) and some of my creativity and passion for writing (I have some of that stuff, too. Seriously). So, keep your fingers crossed for me, or something, because I am about to lose my damn mind at BPC and it's not going to be pretty.
I think I've mentioned that I keep getting retarded administrative tasks from people like the dread Sally Stretchpants and it's really fucking boring and lame and not what I signed on for at all. If you need an administrative assistant, I suggest you find one because I am done with that shit and grossly overqualified. Anywho, continuing in this vein, I was given the delightful project of copying old-ass, coffee-stained, smelly, crumpled up, probably used as a rat's toilet paper files this week seeing as we're undergoing an audit. We're talking stacks of paper as far as the eye can see. Fun stuff!
Let me start by telling you about the ri-goddamn-diculous Mickey Mouse piece of shit copy machine that we have. Now, one would think that as I work at a printing company I would at least have some decent printing equipment to work with. One would be wrong. I think it's safe to assume that this artifact was deposited from the heavens and the office building was constructed around it because this shit? Is old. No, older than that. Older. I swear the buttons are labeled in cuneiform.
It does not collate, people. It. Does. Not. Fucking. Collate. So, if you'd like to copy something with more than one page, this beast from Hell will deposit a stack of papers for you in the complete wrong order. As in backwards. For you to put into the correct order by hand. Well, isn't that efficient, not to mention convenient? That is, if it doesn't jam all to hell every single time you try to copy something (which, of course it will) and make you open every orifice on its evil copier body before it will allow you to print again. Oh, and that job it was in the middle of? Yeah, you're going to have to go ahead and start from scratch 'cause it's all fucked up now.
Y'all, I have worked in a lot of offices over the last seven years and I have seen a lot of shitty equipment, but I have NEVER seen a copier that does not. Fucking. Collate. I mean, are you kidding me? I'm pretty sure the guys who invented the copy machine realized right away that if they could just get the paper to come out face down on the receiving tray rather than face up, multiple page documents would already be in the correct order. Like magic! Except really fucking obvious. So, what I'm trying to tell you is I believe I am working with the prototype for copiers that Indiana Jones unearthed while in search of the Holy Grail. And I had a date with it that would probably last me several days. Needless to say, I was stoked!
So, about hour eleventy into my own personal hell, I'm collating shit by hand and I've got papers everywhere and Mama Celeste comes over to the printing room to send a fax. I had set my tea on the only table in the room, near some printers, but not in any kind of precarious position by any means, so it was within reach for me to pick up and mutter bad words into occasionally.
Mama Celeste is all, "Stepchild, you're going to want to move your tea into the other room." Then in a slow, almost confidential tone, as one would use with a child or someone with Down's Syndrome, "This is elec-tro-nic equipment."
Omigaw, really? Electronic equipment? You don't say! I thought this stuff ran on batteries and like, hamsters on wheels or something. Of COURSE I know that this shit is electronic. That's why I'm not flailing about or balancing my mug on the paper tray or draining pasta over the scanner or peeing into the printer. I'm a grown up now and I'm even allowed to drink grape juice in the living room. And eat on the couch. And run with scissors. I keep my tea next to my computer on my desk every goddamned day and have managed to avoid disaster thus far. I think I can handle it.
Oh, and while I'm at it, I have more work experience than you do and just because you're old and think you can mother and nag everyone who's younger (even if they hold a superior position to your own), does not mean I take orders from you. I don't recall popping into this cruel world out of your womb because, oh, that's right, you're not my mommy. That condescending tone you just spoke to me in may be cool for scolding your twelve year old, but I'm just going to strain an eye-rolling muscle and possibly pop you one in the mouth.
Plus which, I can actually think of a much better place to move my pomegranate white tea to. Like up your raggedy ass, you patronizing bitch.
Now shut your piehole because if I spilled on this hunk of junk copier and fried it, corporate would be forced to pony up for a new one and I'd be doing us all a favor. Jesus.
I don't know why I'm apologizing. The three people who read this probably couldn't care less one way or the other (BTW, that IS the correct phrasing. "Couldn't care less," people. Learn it, live it, love it or I will be forced to punch you in the babymaker. If you COULD care less, that means you care. Get it? Do you? Sorry, just another grammatical pet peeve of mine).
You will be happy to know that I have recently taken to scrawling down stream of consciousness notes to myself about things possible future blog topics so I can blog about them when I have time. Basically it's just a piece of paper full of cursing and vitriol about the people I've been encountering lately. So, in short, should I meet with an untimely demise and someone like a cop or paramedic finds my crazy notes in my purse, they will assume I am rucking futs, as Sisterson would say. Hee. Maybe they wouldn't be that far off base. So, what I'm trying to say is although I haven't been updating, I've still been writing with the intent of updating. Who loves ya, baby?
In other news, there is a bright and hopeful light at the end of the narrow, dark, fetid, soul-sucking, mind-numbing, dank tunnel that I like to call my employment at Bureaucratic Printing Company. I don't want to talk about it too much and jinx it or anything, but suffice it to say that my lovely and talented friend Buffalo Gal has an opening in her department at work and thinks I would be a great addition! Plus, it's a different type of job in which I would be able to use my brain (yep, I've got one) and some of my creativity and passion for writing (I have some of that stuff, too. Seriously). So, keep your fingers crossed for me, or something, because I am about to lose my damn mind at BPC and it's not going to be pretty.
I think I've mentioned that I keep getting retarded administrative tasks from people like the dread Sally Stretchpants and it's really fucking boring and lame and not what I signed on for at all. If you need an administrative assistant, I suggest you find one because I am done with that shit and grossly overqualified. Anywho, continuing in this vein, I was given the delightful project of copying old-ass, coffee-stained, smelly, crumpled up, probably used as a rat's toilet paper files this week seeing as we're undergoing an audit. We're talking stacks of paper as far as the eye can see. Fun stuff!
Let me start by telling you about the ri-goddamn-diculous Mickey Mouse piece of shit copy machine that we have. Now, one would think that as I work at a printing company I would at least have some decent printing equipment to work with. One would be wrong. I think it's safe to assume that this artifact was deposited from the heavens and the office building was constructed around it because this shit? Is old. No, older than that. Older. I swear the buttons are labeled in cuneiform.
It does not collate, people. It. Does. Not. Fucking. Collate. So, if you'd like to copy something with more than one page, this beast from Hell will deposit a stack of papers for you in the complete wrong order. As in backwards. For you to put into the correct order by hand. Well, isn't that efficient, not to mention convenient? That is, if it doesn't jam all to hell every single time you try to copy something (which, of course it will) and make you open every orifice on its evil copier body before it will allow you to print again. Oh, and that job it was in the middle of? Yeah, you're going to have to go ahead and start from scratch 'cause it's all fucked up now.
Y'all, I have worked in a lot of offices over the last seven years and I have seen a lot of shitty equipment, but I have NEVER seen a copier that does not. Fucking. Collate. I mean, are you kidding me? I'm pretty sure the guys who invented the copy machine realized right away that if they could just get the paper to come out face down on the receiving tray rather than face up, multiple page documents would already be in the correct order. Like magic! Except really fucking obvious. So, what I'm trying to tell you is I believe I am working with the prototype for copiers that Indiana Jones unearthed while in search of the Holy Grail. And I had a date with it that would probably last me several days. Needless to say, I was stoked!
So, about hour eleventy into my own personal hell, I'm collating shit by hand and I've got papers everywhere and Mama Celeste comes over to the printing room to send a fax. I had set my tea on the only table in the room, near some printers, but not in any kind of precarious position by any means, so it was within reach for me to pick up and mutter bad words into occasionally.
Mama Celeste is all, "Stepchild, you're going to want to move your tea into the other room." Then in a slow, almost confidential tone, as one would use with a child or someone with Down's Syndrome, "This is elec-tro-nic equipment."
Omigaw, really? Electronic equipment? You don't say! I thought this stuff ran on batteries and like, hamsters on wheels or something. Of COURSE I know that this shit is electronic. That's why I'm not flailing about or balancing my mug on the paper tray or draining pasta over the scanner or peeing into the printer. I'm a grown up now and I'm even allowed to drink grape juice in the living room. And eat on the couch. And run with scissors. I keep my tea next to my computer on my desk every goddamned day and have managed to avoid disaster thus far. I think I can handle it.
Oh, and while I'm at it, I have more work experience than you do and just because you're old and think you can mother and nag everyone who's younger (even if they hold a superior position to your own), does not mean I take orders from you. I don't recall popping into this cruel world out of your womb because, oh, that's right, you're not my mommy. That condescending tone you just spoke to me in may be cool for scolding your twelve year old, but I'm just going to strain an eye-rolling muscle and possibly pop you one in the mouth.
Plus which, I can actually think of a much better place to move my pomegranate white tea to. Like up your raggedy ass, you patronizing bitch.
Now shut your piehole because if I spilled on this hunk of junk copier and fried it, corporate would be forced to pony up for a new one and I'd be doing us all a favor. Jesus.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Lucky Charms
When I was a child, my favorite color in the world was magenta. Not pink, not purple. Magenta. I wanted everything I owned to be magenta and made some definite progress in that pursuit.
My first "big girl" bike without training wheels, which I bought myself, was, you guessed it: magenta. I supplemented my fifty cent per week allowance with money I made doing chores for the people in my neighborhood. I did dishes, I cleaned windows, I pulled weeds, whatever I could get paid for. My goal was singular. I had set my sights upon the magenta and turquoise big girl bike with the frog on the seat and the daisy basket on the handlebars the moment I laid eyes upon it. It was my Excalibur. It would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. Somehow I managed to save the $85 (a whopping sum to my 6 year-old eyes) and it became mine.
It was my first major purchase. It was resplendent in its magenta glory, and the pride and unadulterated joy I felt when I got it home couldn't be spoiled. You literally could not have wiped the gap-toothed grin off my face. On my first Big Girl Bike Riding lesson, my dad held the onto the back of my seat to keep the bike steady and jogged along behind me as I pedaled unsteadily. Everything was fine until I realized that my dad was no longer holding onto the seat. I was all alone with no one to keep me from falling. When I whipped my head around and saw my father down the block cheering me on, the betrayal I felt was all-consuming. The bike immediately tipped over and I burst into hot, self-righteous tears. How could my dad let me go like that? He promised me he would hold on.
He explained that he only let go because he knew that I didn't need him anymore. I was perfectly capable on my own and the world (well, the neighborhood, anyway) was my oyster. I could ride around all over the damn place. I could even do it one-handed in that nonchalant "Yeah, I'm hot shit," way I eventually became so fond of. I felt powerful and omnipotent. All was forgiven. I reassumed my natural place in the world as Daddy's girl.
We enjoyed a special bond that incited bitter hatred from my sister and resentment from my mother. I was the spitting image of my dad and his sharp wit quickly became my own. Making my father laugh was the ultimate accomplishment. Nothing made me happier. So, when my parents split up a couple of years after I learned to ride a big girl bike, I was bereft. My dad moved out and I only got to see him every other weekend.
My father's struggle with alcoholism and depression threatened to overcome him in those ensuing months. He lived in a tiny apartment with hardly any possessions and barely enough money to eat. I was heartbroken to see my dad, my buddy, my partner in crime sinking into the depths of his pain. I needed a plan of action. At age 8, I brought him the paltry sum of money I had saved (mostly change and $1 bills) and proffered my rabbit's foot keychain (magenta, of course). He refused to take my money and was reluctant to take my rabbit's foot either, but I was insistent. "You need a lucky charm, Daddy," I said to him.
My father carried that keychain with him everywhere. My tough, blue collar dad had a magenta rabbit's foot perpetually hanging out of the pocket of his weathered jeans. I am sure he took all kinds of shit from his friends and coworkers, but on his keychain is where it stayed. A few years later, the rabbit's foot began to deteriorate and one day I saw that it was absent from his keychain. I never said anything, but I definitely noticed. That familiar stab of betrayal was back, but by this time I didn't cry. I kept my mouth shut and held my feelings inside.
Over the years, my dad and I had a tumultuous relationship at best. When I reached early adulthood, we severed contact completely for over two years. All those traits we share had driven us apart. Not only do I have my father's sense of humor and near-photographic memory, I also inherited his stubbornness and sharp tongue. I am ashamed of the hateful, reprehensible things I said to him in anger and cringe in memory of the way his vitriolic words cut through to my heart. If I didn't love him so deeply, I doubt they would have affected me half as much. But my innate stubborn ways precluded me from ever letting him know, which in my mind, was tantamount to admitting defeat. In retrospect, I suspect that he was so hard on me because that was just his way to force me to toughen up and get ready for the world. Even though it hurt, he knew that I had to prove to myself I didn't need him holding on to stay upright. I was strong enough to stand on my own two feet.
Eventually we made a tenuous peace and have gotten back to the point where we talk on the phone for hours at a time each week and laugh until our stomachs hurt. There is still an undercurrent of tension that occasionally comes to a head, but for the most part, I have my relationship with my dad back.
Last weekend I went to dinner at my dad's house. There was no special occasion. I just hadn't seen him in a while and wanted to hang out, maybe have a few beers and shoot the shit. I was hanging out in the garage, which he's converted into a workshop for restoring his antique car replete with flat screen tv, heater and stereo. I glanced up at the pegboard various tools hang from and noticed something unusual dangling in the corner.
It was my rabbit's foot. It's no longer magenta, time has mellowed it to more of a rusty maroon. Several bones now protrude where the fur has worn away. If I didn't know where it came from and what it meant, I would think it macabre.
"I can't believe you kept that all these years," I said. "I was sure you'd thrown it away."
"Of course I kept it," my dad replied. "It's my lucky charm."
My first "big girl" bike without training wheels, which I bought myself, was, you guessed it: magenta. I supplemented my fifty cent per week allowance with money I made doing chores for the people in my neighborhood. I did dishes, I cleaned windows, I pulled weeds, whatever I could get paid for. My goal was singular. I had set my sights upon the magenta and turquoise big girl bike with the frog on the seat and the daisy basket on the handlebars the moment I laid eyes upon it. It was my Excalibur. It would be mine. Oh yes, it would be mine. Somehow I managed to save the $85 (a whopping sum to my 6 year-old eyes) and it became mine.
It was my first major purchase. It was resplendent in its magenta glory, and the pride and unadulterated joy I felt when I got it home couldn't be spoiled. You literally could not have wiped the gap-toothed grin off my face. On my first Big Girl Bike Riding lesson, my dad held the onto the back of my seat to keep the bike steady and jogged along behind me as I pedaled unsteadily. Everything was fine until I realized that my dad was no longer holding onto the seat. I was all alone with no one to keep me from falling. When I whipped my head around and saw my father down the block cheering me on, the betrayal I felt was all-consuming. The bike immediately tipped over and I burst into hot, self-righteous tears. How could my dad let me go like that? He promised me he would hold on.
He explained that he only let go because he knew that I didn't need him anymore. I was perfectly capable on my own and the world (well, the neighborhood, anyway) was my oyster. I could ride around all over the damn place. I could even do it one-handed in that nonchalant "Yeah, I'm hot shit," way I eventually became so fond of. I felt powerful and omnipotent. All was forgiven. I reassumed my natural place in the world as Daddy's girl.
We enjoyed a special bond that incited bitter hatred from my sister and resentment from my mother. I was the spitting image of my dad and his sharp wit quickly became my own. Making my father laugh was the ultimate accomplishment. Nothing made me happier. So, when my parents split up a couple of years after I learned to ride a big girl bike, I was bereft. My dad moved out and I only got to see him every other weekend.
My father's struggle with alcoholism and depression threatened to overcome him in those ensuing months. He lived in a tiny apartment with hardly any possessions and barely enough money to eat. I was heartbroken to see my dad, my buddy, my partner in crime sinking into the depths of his pain. I needed a plan of action. At age 8, I brought him the paltry sum of money I had saved (mostly change and $1 bills) and proffered my rabbit's foot keychain (magenta, of course). He refused to take my money and was reluctant to take my rabbit's foot either, but I was insistent. "You need a lucky charm, Daddy," I said to him.
My father carried that keychain with him everywhere. My tough, blue collar dad had a magenta rabbit's foot perpetually hanging out of the pocket of his weathered jeans. I am sure he took all kinds of shit from his friends and coworkers, but on his keychain is where it stayed. A few years later, the rabbit's foot began to deteriorate and one day I saw that it was absent from his keychain. I never said anything, but I definitely noticed. That familiar stab of betrayal was back, but by this time I didn't cry. I kept my mouth shut and held my feelings inside.
Over the years, my dad and I had a tumultuous relationship at best. When I reached early adulthood, we severed contact completely for over two years. All those traits we share had driven us apart. Not only do I have my father's sense of humor and near-photographic memory, I also inherited his stubbornness and sharp tongue. I am ashamed of the hateful, reprehensible things I said to him in anger and cringe in memory of the way his vitriolic words cut through to my heart. If I didn't love him so deeply, I doubt they would have affected me half as much. But my innate stubborn ways precluded me from ever letting him know, which in my mind, was tantamount to admitting defeat. In retrospect, I suspect that he was so hard on me because that was just his way to force me to toughen up and get ready for the world. Even though it hurt, he knew that I had to prove to myself I didn't need him holding on to stay upright. I was strong enough to stand on my own two feet.
Eventually we made a tenuous peace and have gotten back to the point where we talk on the phone for hours at a time each week and laugh until our stomachs hurt. There is still an undercurrent of tension that occasionally comes to a head, but for the most part, I have my relationship with my dad back.
Last weekend I went to dinner at my dad's house. There was no special occasion. I just hadn't seen him in a while and wanted to hang out, maybe have a few beers and shoot the shit. I was hanging out in the garage, which he's converted into a workshop for restoring his antique car replete with flat screen tv, heater and stereo. I glanced up at the pegboard various tools hang from and noticed something unusual dangling in the corner.
It was my rabbit's foot. It's no longer magenta, time has mellowed it to more of a rusty maroon. Several bones now protrude where the fur has worn away. If I didn't know where it came from and what it meant, I would think it macabre.
"I can't believe you kept that all these years," I said. "I was sure you'd thrown it away."
"Of course I kept it," my dad replied. "It's my lucky charm."
Friday, February 9, 2007
Mixing Business With Displeasure
I like to think that I'm a good judge of character. Then I look at my romantic history and the types of friends I had growing up and I'm quickly disabused of this notion. I can't even count the number of times a person I trusted has left me gobsmacked when his or her true colors were revealed.
This has led me to my current state of cynicism and stringent requirements for allowing others to get anywhere near the real me. Very few have made it through the gauntlet of my defenses in recent years, which is a really sad thing to ponder. (As a side note, the few that have are rad beyond words) I discovered that it was easier to keep everyone away than let people in only to have my feelings stomped on, scraped off on a curb and then shat upon by some teacup chihuahua that the owner bought because she saw in Us Weekly that Paris has one, too.
I guess where I'm going with this is that I have been trying recently to allow some of the walls I've built to deteriorate just a little bit. To give people a chance to prove me wrong. To allow myself to open up to people without assuming that they're only talking to me in the hopes of getting into my pants or having vicious, catty things to say about me behind my back. All of this would be easier, of course, if people would stop coming at me with shady intentions and demonstrating that my paranoia has a foundation after all!
Take, por ejemplo, this dude at Bureaucratic Printing Company, Troy McClure. He's a salesperson, so of course he's got that same kind of locker room, frat boy swagger that all successful salespeople seem to embody. He's married, almost twice my age and has children just a few years younger than I am. So, when he began some jokey, sarcastic office banter with me, I thought nothing of it. That's usually the kind of relationship I have with coworkers anyway because I'm not sure if you've taken note, but I'm a touch sarcastic myself.
Then, one day, I was doing some hellish task for Satan's Minion and working late when Troy McClure asked me if I'd like the company's Sonics tickets for the next night as he didn't have any clients that could use them that week. I said yes because, let's face it, if I can't get some goddamned health insurance I'm sure as hell taking any perks I can possibly get from this place.
Cut to game day when Troy McClure drops my ticket by my office. Note the singular. Ticket. I quickly ascertained that he would be going to the game, too. I tried to cover my surprise and be gracious because this guy has a lot of pull at my company and I'm really new and a freaking temp to boot and typical chickenshit me, I couldn't think of a good way to back out at that point without making my reasons for doing so ridiculously transparent.
I felt like I was headed for trouble, or at the very least, an extremely uncomfortable evening. In talking it over with my mom, though, we both decided that he wasn't hitting on me, obviously, I mean, he's married, for God's sack, so this would be an excellent networking opportunity for me and I can use as many business contacts with clout as I can get.
So, I met up with Troy McClure for the game and he soon revealed that he actually had 4 tickets, but he only invited me, so we'd have more room to "spread out." Immediate red alerts started going off in my brain. In the words of the immortal Jean Luc Picard, "Brace for impact." Troy McClure proceeded to get pretty hammed off just a couple of beers (it's clear that he doesn't usually drink much) and started making some weird comments about how I'm way too cute to work in Accounting and how people must mistake me for Nicole Kidman all the time and how he can't believe he's out with me and he can't wait to tell his friends about it. He asked me about my dating history and then started saying how I clearly need someone older and more mature. You know, someone like him.
I kept trying to steer the conversation back to business and basketball and whatnot, but dude was relentless. So, after an awkward goodnight in which I bowed out of getting a nightcap so he could "show me off" around town and I studiously avoided any physical contact such as a hug or even a handshake so as to preclude the inevitably embarrassing Lean In (him), Turn Away (me) maneuver, I ran home like a bat out of hell and vowed to never be in a one-on-one situation with him again.
Luckily for me he went on vacation the next week, so there weren't too many awkward encounters in the office...Until yesterday when he decided to park himself in my office to chat while I tried to work and make it painfully obvious I was too busy to talk. Finally, my boss literally chased him out of my office and told him to stay away from me, yelling at his retreating form, "You're married!!!!" No fool, that lady. She has sure got his number. She later told me that Troy McClure thinks he is God's gift to women and is quite the philanderer. All I can say is I hope God thought to get me a gift receipt, 'cause ain't no way that's ever gonna happen.
Today he popped into my office and gave me a Valentine's Day-themed Starbuck's gift card because he remembered that I said I like espresso. Then he promptly turned red and bolted. Five minutes later he called to apologize for running away, but he had an appointment and wanted to make sure I got the gift card. Seriously, dude? Thanks for the gift card, but it would take a lot more than that for you to get so much as a dry handjob from me. Like Hell freezing over, for example. (By the way, is there anything worse than a dry handjob? For anybody involved?)
So, here I am, trapped in my frillionth awkward dynamic with a coworker who thought I'd be his bit of stuff on the side but was sorely mistaken. And all because I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Peachy.
This has led me to my current state of cynicism and stringent requirements for allowing others to get anywhere near the real me. Very few have made it through the gauntlet of my defenses in recent years, which is a really sad thing to ponder. (As a side note, the few that have are rad beyond words) I discovered that it was easier to keep everyone away than let people in only to have my feelings stomped on, scraped off on a curb and then shat upon by some teacup chihuahua that the owner bought because she saw in Us Weekly that Paris has one, too.
I guess where I'm going with this is that I have been trying recently to allow some of the walls I've built to deteriorate just a little bit. To give people a chance to prove me wrong. To allow myself to open up to people without assuming that they're only talking to me in the hopes of getting into my pants or having vicious, catty things to say about me behind my back. All of this would be easier, of course, if people would stop coming at me with shady intentions and demonstrating that my paranoia has a foundation after all!
Take, por ejemplo, this dude at Bureaucratic Printing Company, Troy McClure. He's a salesperson, so of course he's got that same kind of locker room, frat boy swagger that all successful salespeople seem to embody. He's married, almost twice my age and has children just a few years younger than I am. So, when he began some jokey, sarcastic office banter with me, I thought nothing of it. That's usually the kind of relationship I have with coworkers anyway because I'm not sure if you've taken note, but I'm a touch sarcastic myself.
Then, one day, I was doing some hellish task for Satan's Minion and working late when Troy McClure asked me if I'd like the company's Sonics tickets for the next night as he didn't have any clients that could use them that week. I said yes because, let's face it, if I can't get some goddamned health insurance I'm sure as hell taking any perks I can possibly get from this place.
Cut to game day when Troy McClure drops my ticket by my office. Note the singular. Ticket. I quickly ascertained that he would be going to the game, too. I tried to cover my surprise and be gracious because this guy has a lot of pull at my company and I'm really new and a freaking temp to boot and typical chickenshit me, I couldn't think of a good way to back out at that point without making my reasons for doing so ridiculously transparent.
I felt like I was headed for trouble, or at the very least, an extremely uncomfortable evening. In talking it over with my mom, though, we both decided that he wasn't hitting on me, obviously, I mean, he's married, for God's sack, so this would be an excellent networking opportunity for me and I can use as many business contacts with clout as I can get.
So, I met up with Troy McClure for the game and he soon revealed that he actually had 4 tickets, but he only invited me, so we'd have more room to "spread out." Immediate red alerts started going off in my brain. In the words of the immortal Jean Luc Picard, "Brace for impact." Troy McClure proceeded to get pretty hammed off just a couple of beers (it's clear that he doesn't usually drink much) and started making some weird comments about how I'm way too cute to work in Accounting and how people must mistake me for Nicole Kidman all the time and how he can't believe he's out with me and he can't wait to tell his friends about it. He asked me about my dating history and then started saying how I clearly need someone older and more mature. You know, someone like him.
I kept trying to steer the conversation back to business and basketball and whatnot, but dude was relentless. So, after an awkward goodnight in which I bowed out of getting a nightcap so he could "show me off" around town and I studiously avoided any physical contact such as a hug or even a handshake so as to preclude the inevitably embarrassing Lean In (him), Turn Away (me) maneuver, I ran home like a bat out of hell and vowed to never be in a one-on-one situation with him again.
Luckily for me he went on vacation the next week, so there weren't too many awkward encounters in the office...Until yesterday when he decided to park himself in my office to chat while I tried to work and make it painfully obvious I was too busy to talk. Finally, my boss literally chased him out of my office and told him to stay away from me, yelling at his retreating form, "You're married!!!!" No fool, that lady. She has sure got his number. She later told me that Troy McClure thinks he is God's gift to women and is quite the philanderer. All I can say is I hope God thought to get me a gift receipt, 'cause ain't no way that's ever gonna happen.
Today he popped into my office and gave me a Valentine's Day-themed Starbuck's gift card because he remembered that I said I like espresso. Then he promptly turned red and bolted. Five minutes later he called to apologize for running away, but he had an appointment and wanted to make sure I got the gift card. Seriously, dude? Thanks for the gift card, but it would take a lot more than that for you to get so much as a dry handjob from me. Like Hell freezing over, for example. (By the way, is there anything worse than a dry handjob? For anybody involved?)
So, here I am, trapped in my frillionth awkward dynamic with a coworker who thought I'd be his bit of stuff on the side but was sorely mistaken. And all because I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Peachy.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
Dear God, Kill Me Now. Amen.
I hate my job. I hate it a lot. I hate it like fat people hate running. I hate it like George Bush hates thinking and words with more than one syllable. I hate it with the heat of 10,000 suns and that's really freaking hot.
I cannot describe how bored I am. A Citizen Kane marathon would be a welcome reprieve from the monotony. And I'm sorry, but that is one boring-ass movie.
So, I recently started working here at Bureaucratic Printing Company when I was laid off from Struggling Biotech Firm right before Christmas. Happy fucking holidays to you, too. Anyway, I'm back to working in Accounting at Bureaucratic Printing Company, which I thought I was okay with, but turns out I'm really, really not. I'm sure I'll delve into the mind-numbingly, hair-pullingly monotonous work that I was hired to do (you know, my job description) at some point, but not in this entry.
Suffice it to say I find my job so incredibly facile a monkey could easily do it and I have some free time on my hands. So, stupid me, instead of surreptitiously surfing for porn or working on my resume, I decided to tell my supervisor that I was finding myself with free time and that I'd be happy to help other people in the Accounting department. Big mistake.
So, one of my coworkers, let's call her Sally Stretchpants (I have not seen her wear anything besides the same pair of black stretch pants and a navy sweatshirt in the two plus months I've worked here. I really hope she's like Superman and has a whole closet full of the same outfit because otherwise that's nasty) has now decided that I am her personal bitch. Although I still have to perform my regular responsibilities on a daily basis, which she seems to have forgotten all about, she is constantly giving me shitty "projects" to do and telling me that she needs them done right away. So, when I bust my ass to finish whatever menial task that she has dreamed up to torment me with so I can get my regular work done on time, she's all, "Oh, that was fast. Now I have another little project for you! And I need it done right this second! It's really mindless. Here you go!"
She has actually described her projects as mindless to me several times. Like, oh, great, that sounds perfect for me because clearly I'm a fucking idiot you obese minion of Satan! There's nothing I enjoy more than completely disengaging my brain for 9 hours at a time and staring at a computer screen or filing or making copies for your lazy ass. Guess what? I'm ridiculously overqualified for this and you would have to pay me a hell of a lot more money than I'm making, and hello, some benefits would be nice if you wanted me to stick around.
No? Well, why don't I just do all your shit work and eat my off-brand Top Ramen and not get any healthcare because I can't freaking afford it and plaster a smile on my face whilst I do it? And not be able to keep up with my regular work responsibilities without working overtime, which isn't allowed because the company doesn't want to pay it, so basically I have to do it in my own time which I am not being compensated for. Sounds great, Sally Stretchpants!
I need a new job.
I cannot describe how bored I am. A Citizen Kane marathon would be a welcome reprieve from the monotony. And I'm sorry, but that is one boring-ass movie.
So, I recently started working here at Bureaucratic Printing Company when I was laid off from Struggling Biotech Firm right before Christmas. Happy fucking holidays to you, too. Anyway, I'm back to working in Accounting at Bureaucratic Printing Company, which I thought I was okay with, but turns out I'm really, really not. I'm sure I'll delve into the mind-numbingly, hair-pullingly monotonous work that I was hired to do (you know, my job description) at some point, but not in this entry.
Suffice it to say I find my job so incredibly facile a monkey could easily do it and I have some free time on my hands. So, stupid me, instead of surreptitiously surfing for porn or working on my resume, I decided to tell my supervisor that I was finding myself with free time and that I'd be happy to help other people in the Accounting department. Big mistake.
So, one of my coworkers, let's call her Sally Stretchpants (I have not seen her wear anything besides the same pair of black stretch pants and a navy sweatshirt in the two plus months I've worked here. I really hope she's like Superman and has a whole closet full of the same outfit because otherwise that's nasty) has now decided that I am her personal bitch. Although I still have to perform my regular responsibilities on a daily basis, which she seems to have forgotten all about, she is constantly giving me shitty "projects" to do and telling me that she needs them done right away. So, when I bust my ass to finish whatever menial task that she has dreamed up to torment me with so I can get my regular work done on time, she's all, "Oh, that was fast. Now I have another little project for you! And I need it done right this second! It's really mindless. Here you go!"
She has actually described her projects as mindless to me several times. Like, oh, great, that sounds perfect for me because clearly I'm a fucking idiot you obese minion of Satan! There's nothing I enjoy more than completely disengaging my brain for 9 hours at a time and staring at a computer screen or filing or making copies for your lazy ass. Guess what? I'm ridiculously overqualified for this and you would have to pay me a hell of a lot more money than I'm making, and hello, some benefits would be nice if you wanted me to stick around.
No? Well, why don't I just do all your shit work and eat my off-brand Top Ramen and not get any healthcare because I can't freaking afford it and plaster a smile on my face whilst I do it? And not be able to keep up with my regular work responsibilities without working overtime, which isn't allowed because the company doesn't want to pay it, so basically I have to do it in my own time which I am not being compensated for. Sounds great, Sally Stretchpants!
I need a new job.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
New(ish) Year's Resolution
So, I usually don't "do" resolutions, because, let's face it: by March I will have forgotten all about them and that will just give me something else to feel guilty about, which is something I need about as badly as Jessica Simpson needs more publicity. (Seriously, what is up with that? The idiot can't sing! She shrieks and screeches and makes weird blowjob faces while she's doing it. That's about it for her talents. Don't get me started on her illustrious "acting" career because there isn't enough antacid in the world to counteract the chunder that rises when I think about it. Why the hell would I care about whether or not her boobs are real (FYI: they're totally not!) or which D-list celebrity is currently trying to ride her whorish coattails onto the cover of Us Weekly by pretending to date her?). Aaaaanywho, I'm back now. I left for a minute on a tangent, but now I've returned feeling quite refreshed.
I've been meaning to start a blog for ages now because well, I have a lot of opinions and emotions that need to be expressed and I really can't afford a therapist. So, I figured, why not make it my New Year's resolution this year? Sue me. I got a late start. At least I started.
I'm not sure what this will become yet because I'm not sure how much of myself I feel comfortable revealing in a potentially public forum, but I'm pretty sure it will involve a lot of hissyfits about the idiots I encounter on the daily and lots of random thoughts and stories about my life that I find amusing. Stay tuned!
I've been meaning to start a blog for ages now because well, I have a lot of opinions and emotions that need to be expressed and I really can't afford a therapist. So, I figured, why not make it my New Year's resolution this year? Sue me. I got a late start. At least I started.
I'm not sure what this will become yet because I'm not sure how much of myself I feel comfortable revealing in a potentially public forum, but I'm pretty sure it will involve a lot of hissyfits about the idiots I encounter on the daily and lots of random thoughts and stories about my life that I find amusing. Stay tuned!
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