Friday, April 30, 2004
Friday Fun!
To give everyone a fun diversion for their Friday afternoon and at the same time share my immense wealth of psychological knowledge, I’ve drafted the following highly scientific personality test. Get out your number two pencils; scoring information follows the questions:
1. Two co-workers are having a dispute about, oh, I don’t know, let’s say office supplies. How do you respond?
A. Calmly explain that there are enough staples for everyone. Then remove all the staples from the supply closet and hoard them at your desk. Declare a state of martial law.
B. Side with each co-worker behind the other’s back. Then plant incriminating sexual photos in both of their cubicles and get them both fired.
C. Simply turn up your Celine Dion CD to drown out their bickering and float away on a cloud of sweet, sweet music.
D. Quit and pursue your dream of offering high-quality jazz dance instruction at a low, low price.
2. Your significant other wishes to end your relationship. What do you do?
A. Spend the next three months in the fetal position, screaming and crying, crying and screaming.
B. Maturely accept what you cannot avoid; begin spreading herpes rumors ASAP.
C. Consult your attorney about the finer points of vehicular manslaughter law.
D. Begin highly-publicized relationship with Jennifer Lopez; make really crappy movies.
3. If left alone for several hours, you are most likely to:
A. Read a book.
B. Watch television, generally something with Ed McMahon.
C. Consult your friends in the spirit world.
D. Self medicate.
4. You would most like others to describe you as:
A. Attractive
B. Nice
C. A streetwise hooker with a heart of gold
D. Ed McMahon
5. You receive a million dollars when your elderly Aunt Ethel passes away. What do you do?
A. Invest the money in a sensible interest-bearing no-load mutual fund; wait 40 years.
B. Spend the money to develop the Psychedelic Good Times Kitty Kat Jug Band in strict accordance with auntie’s last wishes.
C. Upgrade your trophy wife to this year’s model.
D. Convert the million to quarters and play Frogger until your hands fall off.
SCORING: Give yourself 1 point for each “A” answer, 2 points for each “B,” 3 for each “C,” and 4 points for each “D.” Subtract 10 points if you find the scoring somehow confusing, or if you watch Becker.
16-20 points: You really think pretty highly of yourself, huh? Pretty strange for someone whose last five relationships resulted in criminal charges. Oh, and P.S., if it’s with a chicken, it’s not a “relationship.”
11-15 points: You are just plain nuts. Yes, the voices in your head tell you differently, but they also tell you to root through Phylicia Rashad’s trash. So who are you going to believe?
6-10 points: You will die on Tuesday, June 28, 2005. On the plus side, you probably don’t need to watch what you eat so much any more.
1-5 points: You are incredibly gullible, and actually believe that answering vacuous multiple choice questions can tell you something about yourself. You probably also believe that Dr. Phil isn’t a robot. Good luck to you.
To give everyone a fun diversion for their Friday afternoon and at the same time share my immense wealth of psychological knowledge, I’ve drafted the following highly scientific personality test. Get out your number two pencils; scoring information follows the questions:
1. Two co-workers are having a dispute about, oh, I don’t know, let’s say office supplies. How do you respond?
A. Calmly explain that there are enough staples for everyone. Then remove all the staples from the supply closet and hoard them at your desk. Declare a state of martial law.
B. Side with each co-worker behind the other’s back. Then plant incriminating sexual photos in both of their cubicles and get them both fired.
C. Simply turn up your Celine Dion CD to drown out their bickering and float away on a cloud of sweet, sweet music.
D. Quit and pursue your dream of offering high-quality jazz dance instruction at a low, low price.
2. Your significant other wishes to end your relationship. What do you do?
A. Spend the next three months in the fetal position, screaming and crying, crying and screaming.
B. Maturely accept what you cannot avoid; begin spreading herpes rumors ASAP.
C. Consult your attorney about the finer points of vehicular manslaughter law.
D. Begin highly-publicized relationship with Jennifer Lopez; make really crappy movies.
3. If left alone for several hours, you are most likely to:
A. Read a book.
B. Watch television, generally something with Ed McMahon.
C. Consult your friends in the spirit world.
D. Self medicate.
4. You would most like others to describe you as:
A. Attractive
B. Nice
C. A streetwise hooker with a heart of gold
D. Ed McMahon
5. You receive a million dollars when your elderly Aunt Ethel passes away. What do you do?
A. Invest the money in a sensible interest-bearing no-load mutual fund; wait 40 years.
B. Spend the money to develop the Psychedelic Good Times Kitty Kat Jug Band in strict accordance with auntie’s last wishes.
C. Upgrade your trophy wife to this year’s model.
D. Convert the million to quarters and play Frogger until your hands fall off.
SCORING: Give yourself 1 point for each “A” answer, 2 points for each “B,” 3 for each “C,” and 4 points for each “D.” Subtract 10 points if you find the scoring somehow confusing, or if you watch Becker.
16-20 points: You really think pretty highly of yourself, huh? Pretty strange for someone whose last five relationships resulted in criminal charges. Oh, and P.S., if it’s with a chicken, it’s not a “relationship.”
11-15 points: You are just plain nuts. Yes, the voices in your head tell you differently, but they also tell you to root through Phylicia Rashad’s trash. So who are you going to believe?
6-10 points: You will die on Tuesday, June 28, 2005. On the plus side, you probably don’t need to watch what you eat so much any more.
1-5 points: You are incredibly gullible, and actually believe that answering vacuous multiple choice questions can tell you something about yourself. You probably also believe that Dr. Phil isn’t a robot. Good luck to you.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
News & Notes
– Celebrity Sightings. I saw a guy who looked a lot like Scott Baio walking down the street today. And there’s a janitor in my office building who has a major M.C. Hammer vibe. Now, according to IMDb, Mr. Baio is currently doing reshoots on a movie appropriately entitled “Cursed,”co-starring Lance Bass, Mya, and Joshua Jackson, so I’m clearly wrong on that one. But I’m not entirely convinced that the modern day Hammer is Too Legit to Mop. I’ll hold out hope.
– Random Groping. This morning on the train I was once again on the receiving end of some full-frontal gropeage. Okay, so I know the ride can be a little bumpy, but can someone explain how grabbing my wang enhances a passenger’s stability? Not that I’m complaining.
– DeGrassi Junior High: The Next Generation. Yes, this show is intended for twelve year olds, and yes it comes to us from Canadian Public Television. But the minute Manny went from nerdy nice girl to thong-wearing, boyfriend-stealing, backstabbing slut, I was hooked.
– T.S. Eliot. I just thought I’d throw him in here to remind us that, although television is a magic box that astounds us with its many lights and colors, reading has its charms, too. Especially if you’re in the Pizza Hut “Book It” Club and are eligible to win a free personal pan pizza.
– Free Cone Day. For people who are supposed to be hippies, Ben & Jerry sure have a lot of cash to throw around. But I love the ice cream, when the flavor names don’t set off my gag reflex.
– The Fifty Most Beautiful People. Otherwise known as a pretty much random list cute-ish people in the news this year. I love how every year they have to pick some “regular” folks to put on the list, because apparently Salma Hayek hasn’t done enough pilates this year to be more beautiful than some chemist named Midge from Scranton. My year is coming, I just know it.
– Celebrity Sightings. I saw a guy who looked a lot like Scott Baio walking down the street today. And there’s a janitor in my office building who has a major M.C. Hammer vibe. Now, according to IMDb, Mr. Baio is currently doing reshoots on a movie appropriately entitled “Cursed,”co-starring Lance Bass, Mya, and Joshua Jackson, so I’m clearly wrong on that one. But I’m not entirely convinced that the modern day Hammer is Too Legit to Mop. I’ll hold out hope.
– Random Groping. This morning on the train I was once again on the receiving end of some full-frontal gropeage. Okay, so I know the ride can be a little bumpy, but can someone explain how grabbing my wang enhances a passenger’s stability? Not that I’m complaining.
– DeGrassi Junior High: The Next Generation. Yes, this show is intended for twelve year olds, and yes it comes to us from Canadian Public Television. But the minute Manny went from nerdy nice girl to thong-wearing, boyfriend-stealing, backstabbing slut, I was hooked.
– T.S. Eliot. I just thought I’d throw him in here to remind us that, although television is a magic box that astounds us with its many lights and colors, reading has its charms, too. Especially if you’re in the Pizza Hut “Book It” Club and are eligible to win a free personal pan pizza.
– Free Cone Day. For people who are supposed to be hippies, Ben & Jerry sure have a lot of cash to throw around. But I love the ice cream, when the flavor names don’t set off my gag reflex.
– The Fifty Most Beautiful People. Otherwise known as a pretty much random list cute-ish people in the news this year. I love how every year they have to pick some “regular” folks to put on the list, because apparently Salma Hayek hasn’t done enough pilates this year to be more beautiful than some chemist named Midge from Scranton. My year is coming, I just know it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Dilemma
I’m trying to figure out a way to cut awkward small talk out of my life. Every morning as I walk into the gym, I have to pass a security guard and have roughly the same awkward conversation with him.
GUARD: Oh, you better get a move on, going to be late for work!
ME: Ha ha ha, yup, just couldn’t get out of bed today.
GUARD: Well, you should be tired, it is [insert day of the week here].
ME: All day. Have a good one.
GUARD: You too.
So, obviously, this is painful. Especially coming at seven in the morning. But the hard part is figuring out what to replace it with. Silence wouldn’t work.
GUARD: Running late for that workout!
ME:
GUARD: You think you’re better than me? (sharpening knives) How ‘bout I cut that purdy little tongue right out of your mouth?
Trying to say something profound would be strange and random on my part, and certainly not profound.
GUARD: Get a late start this morning?
ME: Well, what is time, really? Just another sad conceit man has invented in the desperate quest to measure out some value to his fleeting and pathetic existence. Years? Millennia? In the history of the world they are all but the flicker of an eyelash.
GUARD: Er, I’m going to go get some coffee.
Nor do I particularly desire the friendship level jump that would come should I attempt to know this gentleman better.
GUARD: Oh, it’s already 7:30, you better get going!
ME: But I’d rather stay here and chat with you. How are things at home? Do you feel fulfilled in this job? Or maybe we should start with your childhood. Would you say your parents were affectionate people?
GUARD: (carefully training his weapon on my skull) I think I said to get going.
Since I have no use of my own for small talk, maybe I should just take the opportunity for some clever product placement.
GUARD: You’re late!
ME: Yep. And ladies, when you’re late there’s no pregnancy test doctors trust more than Clear Blue Easy.
You know what? I’ll stick with the small talk. The weather and everyone’s health may not be interesting, but at least they won’t get me punched.
I’m trying to figure out a way to cut awkward small talk out of my life. Every morning as I walk into the gym, I have to pass a security guard and have roughly the same awkward conversation with him.
GUARD: Oh, you better get a move on, going to be late for work!
ME: Ha ha ha, yup, just couldn’t get out of bed today.
GUARD: Well, you should be tired, it is [insert day of the week here].
ME: All day. Have a good one.
GUARD: You too.
So, obviously, this is painful. Especially coming at seven in the morning. But the hard part is figuring out what to replace it with. Silence wouldn’t work.
GUARD: Running late for that workout!
ME:
GUARD: You think you’re better than me? (sharpening knives) How ‘bout I cut that purdy little tongue right out of your mouth?
Trying to say something profound would be strange and random on my part, and certainly not profound.
GUARD: Get a late start this morning?
ME: Well, what is time, really? Just another sad conceit man has invented in the desperate quest to measure out some value to his fleeting and pathetic existence. Years? Millennia? In the history of the world they are all but the flicker of an eyelash.
GUARD: Er, I’m going to go get some coffee.
Nor do I particularly desire the friendship level jump that would come should I attempt to know this gentleman better.
GUARD: Oh, it’s already 7:30, you better get going!
ME: But I’d rather stay here and chat with you. How are things at home? Do you feel fulfilled in this job? Or maybe we should start with your childhood. Would you say your parents were affectionate people?
GUARD: (carefully training his weapon on my skull) I think I said to get going.
Since I have no use of my own for small talk, maybe I should just take the opportunity for some clever product placement.
GUARD: You’re late!
ME: Yep. And ladies, when you’re late there’s no pregnancy test doctors trust more than Clear Blue Easy.
You know what? I’ll stick with the small talk. The weather and everyone’s health may not be interesting, but at least they won’t get me punched.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
Cutting Room Floor
In light of my utter inability to think of anything funny and/or interesting that happened to me today, or even in the world, I thought I’d submit to you several of my favorite rejected topics for blog entries. Because rejection isn’t just fun; it’s the American Way.
Hydroponics: An Introduction
My Date With Cher
I Like Watching that One Show
Here’s the REAL Truth About All Those Other Races
You Know What I Like About Cheese?
Uncomfortably Bad Poetry
Charlie’s Angels 3: That One Guy’s Revenge
Why Won’t Someone Love Me?
Washed in the Blood of the Lamb
Bea Arthur: One Stalker’s Remembrances
You, Too, Can Build Your Own DVD Player
I Am Better than John Tesh
Ishtar
Wow, if those were the topics I rejected, just imagine how great the ones I actually used must be! Seriously, just imagine, because the reality on this one is very disappointing.
In light of my utter inability to think of anything funny and/or interesting that happened to me today, or even in the world, I thought I’d submit to you several of my favorite rejected topics for blog entries. Because rejection isn’t just fun; it’s the American Way.
Hydroponics: An Introduction
My Date With Cher
I Like Watching that One Show
Here’s the REAL Truth About All Those Other Races
You Know What I Like About Cheese?
Uncomfortably Bad Poetry
Charlie’s Angels 3: That One Guy’s Revenge
Why Won’t Someone Love Me?
Washed in the Blood of the Lamb
Bea Arthur: One Stalker’s Remembrances
You, Too, Can Build Your Own DVD Player
I Am Better than John Tesh
Ishtar
Wow, if those were the topics I rejected, just imagine how great the ones I actually used must be! Seriously, just imagine, because the reality on this one is very disappointing.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Rockin’ in the USA
I supposed I’d better just come right out and say it. I went to the Hard Rock Café this weekend. (Or the “HRC,” as those of us trendsters who frequently get past the velveteen rope there call it.) Now you might legitimately ask what inspires a person to pay twice too much for poorly-made HRC nachos now that the Hard Rock t-shirt craze of 1992 has come and gone. And I answer you that it is, in fact, that basic sociological inquiry that led us to brave the fanny-pack-wearing throngs and stake out a table for two near a bass signed by someone authorized to sign Sting’s signature. Okay, well, the sociological inquiry and alcohol, but let’s not get technical.
We began, of course, with a trip to the gift shop while we waited the five minutes necessary to get a table without reservations at 7 PM on a Saturday night. I was delighted to discover that they still have purple-logo-embroidered jean jackets for sale (in much the same style that lit up the 7th grade Spring Rec Night), but they weren’t quite acid-washed enough for my tastes. I did almost buy a black leather HRC jacket, which I knew would make me look intense and dangerous, but I decided I would wait and register there for my wedding.
Our actual meal was a whirlwind of culinary delights, from macaroni and cheese to a bun completely overcome by sprouts but ostensibly a sandwich, accented by the service staff’s gratuitous use of the word “super.” For ambience, we enjoyed a fine blend of music videos, which could only be described as “MTV minus ‘the edge.’” But the essence of the HRC demographic fully eluded us until we were exiting and I overheard a gentleman in the lobby proudly proclaim: “If I ain’t at work, I’m wearing a hat.” If that isn’t a Hard Rock attitude, I don’t know what is.
I supposed I’d better just come right out and say it. I went to the Hard Rock Café this weekend. (Or the “HRC,” as those of us trendsters who frequently get past the velveteen rope there call it.) Now you might legitimately ask what inspires a person to pay twice too much for poorly-made HRC nachos now that the Hard Rock t-shirt craze of 1992 has come and gone. And I answer you that it is, in fact, that basic sociological inquiry that led us to brave the fanny-pack-wearing throngs and stake out a table for two near a bass signed by someone authorized to sign Sting’s signature. Okay, well, the sociological inquiry and alcohol, but let’s not get technical.
We began, of course, with a trip to the gift shop while we waited the five minutes necessary to get a table without reservations at 7 PM on a Saturday night. I was delighted to discover that they still have purple-logo-embroidered jean jackets for sale (in much the same style that lit up the 7th grade Spring Rec Night), but they weren’t quite acid-washed enough for my tastes. I did almost buy a black leather HRC jacket, which I knew would make me look intense and dangerous, but I decided I would wait and register there for my wedding.
Our actual meal was a whirlwind of culinary delights, from macaroni and cheese to a bun completely overcome by sprouts but ostensibly a sandwich, accented by the service staff’s gratuitous use of the word “super.” For ambience, we enjoyed a fine blend of music videos, which could only be described as “MTV minus ‘the edge.’” But the essence of the HRC demographic fully eluded us until we were exiting and I overheard a gentleman in the lobby proudly proclaim: “If I ain’t at work, I’m wearing a hat.” If that isn’t a Hard Rock attitude, I don’t know what is.
Friday, April 23, 2004
Mailbag
From time to time, I like to dip into the good old fictional reader mailbag and answer a few made-up letters and e-mails from people who don’t actually exist. Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?
Dear Jay,
You endlessly and painfully analyze all the unimportant details of your life (i.e., two epic paragraphs devoted to the thrilling tale of your haircut), but in the end reveal nothing about who you really are. What are you afraid of?
Konfrontational in Kansas
Dear KiK,
Snakes, mainly. Also Courtney Love. What are you afraid of?
As far as a bio goes, though, I am sixty-seven years old and live in Celebration, Florida, where I serve as president of the Whispering Sands Condo Association and sing second soprano in the church choir. My hobbies include macrame and soft core pornography, but generally not at the same time.
I hope this clears things up.
Jay
----------------------------
Dear Jay,
My boyfriend keeps pressuring me to have sex. I really like him and I don’t want to lose him, but I’m just not sure I’m ready. What should I do?
Wondering in Waco
Dear Wondering,
I think you should stick to your principles, as long as you’re ready to be alone and unpopular. Who wants to be one of those pretty, successful, happy girls anyway? Whores!
On the other hand, if you really don’t want to lose your boyfriend, getting pregnant is a great way to force him to love you. And don’t just stick to vanilla sex. There are FBI agents posing as perverts all over the Internet who can teach you all sorts of great tricks.
Furthermore, this might be a good time to reassess your relationship with this boy. Word on the street is he thinks you’re fat. And believe me, you don’t want to miss your chance to play around while you’re still young and all your body parts are still where they’re supposed to be. Get going!
Jay
---------------------
Dear Jay,
ADD INCHES TO YOUR PENIS WITH THIS REMARKABLE NEW CREAM! MONEY BACK GUARANTEE!
Your Friends, The Doctors at XXXtend Corp.
Dear Friends,
Er, thanks. But I’m all set. Why, what have you heard?
Jay
----------------------
Dear Jay,
This is why we sent you to law school?
Your Parents
Dear Parents,
I still maintain that law school was payback for that time I flushed your wedding ring down the toilet. What can I say? I was five, and drunk. At least the first time. Last year’s episode I have no excuse for.
And come on, admit it, you love the sex jokes!
Give my regards to the dogs.
Jay
From time to time, I like to dip into the good old fictional reader mailbag and answer a few made-up letters and e-mails from people who don’t actually exist. Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?
Dear Jay,
You endlessly and painfully analyze all the unimportant details of your life (i.e., two epic paragraphs devoted to the thrilling tale of your haircut), but in the end reveal nothing about who you really are. What are you afraid of?
Konfrontational in Kansas
Dear KiK,
Snakes, mainly. Also Courtney Love. What are you afraid of?
As far as a bio goes, though, I am sixty-seven years old and live in Celebration, Florida, where I serve as president of the Whispering Sands Condo Association and sing second soprano in the church choir. My hobbies include macrame and soft core pornography, but generally not at the same time.
I hope this clears things up.
Jay
----------------------------
Dear Jay,
My boyfriend keeps pressuring me to have sex. I really like him and I don’t want to lose him, but I’m just not sure I’m ready. What should I do?
Wondering in Waco
Dear Wondering,
I think you should stick to your principles, as long as you’re ready to be alone and unpopular. Who wants to be one of those pretty, successful, happy girls anyway? Whores!
On the other hand, if you really don’t want to lose your boyfriend, getting pregnant is a great way to force him to love you. And don’t just stick to vanilla sex. There are FBI agents posing as perverts all over the Internet who can teach you all sorts of great tricks.
Furthermore, this might be a good time to reassess your relationship with this boy. Word on the street is he thinks you’re fat. And believe me, you don’t want to miss your chance to play around while you’re still young and all your body parts are still where they’re supposed to be. Get going!
Jay
---------------------
Dear Jay,
ADD INCHES TO YOUR PENIS WITH THIS REMARKABLE NEW CREAM! MONEY BACK GUARANTEE!
Your Friends, The Doctors at XXXtend Corp.
Dear Friends,
Er, thanks. But I’m all set. Why, what have you heard?
Jay
----------------------
Dear Jay,
This is why we sent you to law school?
Your Parents
Dear Parents,
I still maintain that law school was payback for that time I flushed your wedding ring down the toilet. What can I say? I was five, and drunk. At least the first time. Last year’s episode I have no excuse for.
And come on, admit it, you love the sex jokes!
Give my regards to the dogs.
Jay
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Mysteries & Scandals
– American Idol. I swear to God I don’t watch this show. But can you believe they booted Jennifer Hudson before that whimpering albino John Stevens? I suppose he’s all right if you like people who lack secondary sex characteristics, but don’t we already have Clay Aiken for that?
– Apprentice Spin-Off. I can think of so many better ideas than following Bill around while he pretends he’s in charge of a skyscraper. How about a show centered around the stonemasons and artisans who craft Trump’s hair? Or one following Omarosa’s wacky exploits as the public completely loses interest in her, driving her from guest shots on Crossing Jordan to commercials for mood stabilizers to an eventual ejection from the really seedy bottom of the porn industry?
– Real World Frankie. I know no but 12-year-old girls really watches the Real World anymore, but Jesus, this chick is nuts. I think I’m in love with her.
– My Sudden Apparent Fascination With Reality Television. Yeah, I don’t get it either. I don’t even really like real people in life. Why would I want to watch them on TV, instead of actors who have the eating disorders and multiple cosmetic surgeries necessary to create truly compelling viewing?
– Earth Day. How do I manage to not notice it every year until it’s too late? I’d like to plant a tree or something, but my yard is made of concrete.
– The Lady who Controls the Music at my Gym. Why does she like that Jennifer Lopez CD so much? And if I were to grab it from the stereo system, smash it over her head, and stomp the pieces into J.Dust, would there be repercussions?
– American Idol. I swear to God I don’t watch this show. But can you believe they booted Jennifer Hudson before that whimpering albino John Stevens? I suppose he’s all right if you like people who lack secondary sex characteristics, but don’t we already have Clay Aiken for that?
– Apprentice Spin-Off. I can think of so many better ideas than following Bill around while he pretends he’s in charge of a skyscraper. How about a show centered around the stonemasons and artisans who craft Trump’s hair? Or one following Omarosa’s wacky exploits as the public completely loses interest in her, driving her from guest shots on Crossing Jordan to commercials for mood stabilizers to an eventual ejection from the really seedy bottom of the porn industry?
– Real World Frankie. I know no but 12-year-old girls really watches the Real World anymore, but Jesus, this chick is nuts. I think I’m in love with her.
– My Sudden Apparent Fascination With Reality Television. Yeah, I don’t get it either. I don’t even really like real people in life. Why would I want to watch them on TV, instead of actors who have the eating disorders and multiple cosmetic surgeries necessary to create truly compelling viewing?
– Earth Day. How do I manage to not notice it every year until it’s too late? I’d like to plant a tree or something, but my yard is made of concrete.
– The Lady who Controls the Music at my Gym. Why does she like that Jennifer Lopez CD so much? And if I were to grab it from the stereo system, smash it over her head, and stomp the pieces into J.Dust, would there be repercussions?
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
I Suck
I was going through some of my old writing last night, which is always a mistake. Oh sure, I had some great laughs about the high school paper on Things Fall Apart with a sleep-deprived introduction discussing “famous TV fathers,” (for you see, the paper was about the representations of fatherhood in the novel), and I truly enjoyed revisiting my International Business report (complete with Powerpoint slides!) on “Egypt, the Investment Jewel of the Nile.” But this trip down memory lane also made me realize that I have subsequently become a much worse person, which I could have done without. For example:
1. I used to have passionate interests. Besides food and porn. Okay, so I was (and am) a huge nerd, but damned if I wasn’t actually excited about everything from contemporary rhetorical theory to expressionist-era art when I was in college.
2. I was nicer. Hell, I volunteered at a kindergarten classroom for four years and I loved it. Not Michael-Jackson-level loved it, but I designed something like fifty different bulletin boards, for chrissake! I treated people well, too, although I still couldn’t resist the temptation to come up with funny-but-sometimes-cruel nicknames for people.
3. I had more fun. Maybe that one’s just a function of age. But it seems like I never slept back then. And I went roller skating a lot more, drunk or otherwise. Sometimes in costumes, apparently.
So yeah, in these and many more ways, I am an ass. But isn’t recognizing that half the battle? I’m trying to figure out what to do about this; so far I’ve only decided I should go to more concerts and museums. In the event that that somehow fails to elevate my soul, your suggestions are welcome.
I was going through some of my old writing last night, which is always a mistake. Oh sure, I had some great laughs about the high school paper on Things Fall Apart with a sleep-deprived introduction discussing “famous TV fathers,” (for you see, the paper was about the representations of fatherhood in the novel), and I truly enjoyed revisiting my International Business report (complete with Powerpoint slides!) on “Egypt, the Investment Jewel of the Nile.” But this trip down memory lane also made me realize that I have subsequently become a much worse person, which I could have done without. For example:
1. I used to have passionate interests. Besides food and porn. Okay, so I was (and am) a huge nerd, but damned if I wasn’t actually excited about everything from contemporary rhetorical theory to expressionist-era art when I was in college.
2. I was nicer. Hell, I volunteered at a kindergarten classroom for four years and I loved it. Not Michael-Jackson-level loved it, but I designed something like fifty different bulletin boards, for chrissake! I treated people well, too, although I still couldn’t resist the temptation to come up with funny-but-sometimes-cruel nicknames for people.
3. I had more fun. Maybe that one’s just a function of age. But it seems like I never slept back then. And I went roller skating a lot more, drunk or otherwise. Sometimes in costumes, apparently.
So yeah, in these and many more ways, I am an ass. But isn’t recognizing that half the battle? I’m trying to figure out what to do about this; so far I’ve only decided I should go to more concerts and museums. In the event that that somehow fails to elevate my soul, your suggestions are welcome.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
Clinical Trials
The medical community and I do not get along. It all began in grade school, when the school nurse attempted to prescribe band-aids and aspirin for the rather nasty baseball-batting my head had taken on the playground. One concussion and a differently-shaped skull later, my views of medicine had changed. My subsequent medical encounters included a sports physical that became, in my view, rather too intimate, and some oral surgery that resulted in hours of anaesthesia-induced crying, although I did at least get some ice cream out of that one. In short, I do not believe that putting on white jackets causes people to become magic, and I remain alert for any signs that my physician is drunk, on crack, or a crazed hobo.
This morning, however, my nurse was simply a sadist. Since she knew I didn’t enjoy watching my blood being drawn, she decided to just leave the needle in my arm for a full ten minutes as she gesticulated wildly and clarified how my personal aversion to bloodletting was incorrect. It all made so much sense the way she explained it, yet I must admit that I would probably agree with anything a person sticking an enormous needle into my arm had to say. Once she had completed her harangue, she disinterestedly returned to the business at hand, and then left the room with me still openly bleeding, no doubt off to talk a patient out of disliking jazz or having a heart attack. For my part, I just mopped up and fled. There’s no greater shame than failing your blood test.
The medical community and I do not get along. It all began in grade school, when the school nurse attempted to prescribe band-aids and aspirin for the rather nasty baseball-batting my head had taken on the playground. One concussion and a differently-shaped skull later, my views of medicine had changed. My subsequent medical encounters included a sports physical that became, in my view, rather too intimate, and some oral surgery that resulted in hours of anaesthesia-induced crying, although I did at least get some ice cream out of that one. In short, I do not believe that putting on white jackets causes people to become magic, and I remain alert for any signs that my physician is drunk, on crack, or a crazed hobo.
This morning, however, my nurse was simply a sadist. Since she knew I didn’t enjoy watching my blood being drawn, she decided to just leave the needle in my arm for a full ten minutes as she gesticulated wildly and clarified how my personal aversion to bloodletting was incorrect. It all made so much sense the way she explained it, yet I must admit that I would probably agree with anything a person sticking an enormous needle into my arm had to say. Once she had completed her harangue, she disinterestedly returned to the business at hand, and then left the room with me still openly bleeding, no doubt off to talk a patient out of disliking jazz or having a heart attack. For my part, I just mopped up and fled. There’s no greater shame than failing your blood test.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Home Improvement
My landlord has an interesting policy of hiring only people who don’t speak English to perform repairs around our building. Now I’m not sure if he’s running a terrible ESL class in his spare time or if he’s just been kidnaping foreign exchange students and outfitting them with tool belts, but the result is somewhat unsettling. Call me crazy, but I don’t enjoy having a stranger in my house screaming gibberish and wielding a hammer. Okay, I do, but only in the context of a loving, long-term relationship.
So this weekend we had an appointment with a maintenance guy to fix our air conditioning system, which has not generally been functioning at all, unless you count producing various noises and odors. We were all set to remedy this slight defect at 4 PM on Sunday. So when there had been no action by 4:30 PM, we called back. Turns out that our good buddy Mr. Fix-it had stopped by at 10 AM and, feeling shocked and chagrined that we weren’t there to receive him, simply went on his way. Apparently, they only schedule the appointments so they can amp up the element of surprise.
My landlord has an interesting policy of hiring only people who don’t speak English to perform repairs around our building. Now I’m not sure if he’s running a terrible ESL class in his spare time or if he’s just been kidnaping foreign exchange students and outfitting them with tool belts, but the result is somewhat unsettling. Call me crazy, but I don’t enjoy having a stranger in my house screaming gibberish and wielding a hammer. Okay, I do, but only in the context of a loving, long-term relationship.
So this weekend we had an appointment with a maintenance guy to fix our air conditioning system, which has not generally been functioning at all, unless you count producing various noises and odors. We were all set to remedy this slight defect at 4 PM on Sunday. So when there had been no action by 4:30 PM, we called back. Turns out that our good buddy Mr. Fix-it had stopped by at 10 AM and, feeling shocked and chagrined that we weren’t there to receive him, simply went on his way. Apparently, they only schedule the appointments so they can amp up the element of surprise.
Friday, April 16, 2004
SO Many Things
– The Apprentice Finale. I’m glad that Bill won, but I don’t really feel 100% comfortable with him supervising the construction of a large building. Let’s all remember that these contestants struggled to sell lemonade, and that generally cannot result in fatalities.
– Catfight! Yesterday I saw this girl just totally wail on another girl right in the middle of the street. Seriously, she almost knocked her into traffic. They were rolling on the ground, hair pulling, scratching – it was very Melrose. THIS is why I live in the city, for the cultural diversity...
– Disability. Yesterday I decided to walk the several miles necessary to get home from work, even though I had already run five miles before work. This was not a good idea, as I am unathletic. Today my legs are cramping like crazy, and I find myself longing for a Rascal Scooter from Electric Mobility.
– The Apprentice Finale, Part II. Wasn’t it awesome when the boardroom walls pulled away to reveal the live studio audience? Sort of a high school musical moment. From Omarosa’s hat, I’m guessing they were doing Hello, Dolly!
– Bad Comparisons. Yesterday I actually compared my life to an Edith Wharton novel, despite the fact that I am neither female, an opium user, or living in the early 1900s. This is why English majors need to be retrained or sterilized.
– Discovery! I’ve learned that the crazy woman who screams at people in the Loop (and admittedly I should be more specific) won’t scream at you if you’re on your cell phone as you pass by. Apparently, she feels that would be rude.
– The Apprentice Finale. I’m glad that Bill won, but I don’t really feel 100% comfortable with him supervising the construction of a large building. Let’s all remember that these contestants struggled to sell lemonade, and that generally cannot result in fatalities.
– Catfight! Yesterday I saw this girl just totally wail on another girl right in the middle of the street. Seriously, she almost knocked her into traffic. They were rolling on the ground, hair pulling, scratching – it was very Melrose. THIS is why I live in the city, for the cultural diversity...
– Disability. Yesterday I decided to walk the several miles necessary to get home from work, even though I had already run five miles before work. This was not a good idea, as I am unathletic. Today my legs are cramping like crazy, and I find myself longing for a Rascal Scooter from Electric Mobility.
– The Apprentice Finale, Part II. Wasn’t it awesome when the boardroom walls pulled away to reveal the live studio audience? Sort of a high school musical moment. From Omarosa’s hat, I’m guessing they were doing Hello, Dolly!
– Bad Comparisons. Yesterday I actually compared my life to an Edith Wharton novel, despite the fact that I am neither female, an opium user, or living in the early 1900s. This is why English majors need to be retrained or sterilized.
– Discovery! I’ve learned that the crazy woman who screams at people in the Loop (and admittedly I should be more specific) won’t scream at you if you’re on your cell phone as you pass by. Apparently, she feels that would be rude.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Ch-ch-changes
There are some changes underway here at the blog. Nothing major; basically, the blog will now take the form of a CBS animated series in which a gruff retired army colonel (voiced by Fran Drescher) adopts an adorable but street-wise orphan (Olympic gold medalist Mary Lou Retton) and her magical elf friend (the always-hilarious Robin Williams), learning numerous lessons about life and love. Basically, the merchandising opportunities were too amazing to resist – when Arby’s is calling you with a proposal for an “Elfin Meal,” you best pick up the phone.
Actually, the only change that has been made is the addition of “comments” capability, thanks to some fine technical advice from our friend Crash Palmer. So if you feel the need to add an “amen” or a “right on, brother” to one of my entries, or even a “what the hell is your damn problem,” just left click and unburden yourself. It’s unhealthy to keep these feelings bottled up inside you, although not quite as unhealthy as your strange obsession with Lou Diamond Phillips.
I’m considering a few other changes, though, so let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to see. I like to think of this as YOUR weblog, although of course it is not, and if you represent otherwise the good people at Elfin Magic, Inc. are likely to sue your pants off.
There are some changes underway here at the blog. Nothing major; basically, the blog will now take the form of a CBS animated series in which a gruff retired army colonel (voiced by Fran Drescher) adopts an adorable but street-wise orphan (Olympic gold medalist Mary Lou Retton) and her magical elf friend (the always-hilarious Robin Williams), learning numerous lessons about life and love. Basically, the merchandising opportunities were too amazing to resist – when Arby’s is calling you with a proposal for an “Elfin Meal,” you best pick up the phone.
Actually, the only change that has been made is the addition of “comments” capability, thanks to some fine technical advice from our friend Crash Palmer. So if you feel the need to add an “amen” or a “right on, brother” to one of my entries, or even a “what the hell is your damn problem,” just left click and unburden yourself. It’s unhealthy to keep these feelings bottled up inside you, although not quite as unhealthy as your strange obsession with Lou Diamond Phillips.
I’m considering a few other changes, though, so let me know if there’s anything else you’d like to see. I like to think of this as YOUR weblog, although of course it is not, and if you represent otherwise the good people at Elfin Magic, Inc. are likely to sue your pants off.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
Resurrection
Okay, so I don’t have any stigmata or anything to show for it, but my work has finally slowed down and I consider myself to be back among the living. Today, for instance, I actually took a lunch break for the first time in weeks, instead of cramming the mangled sandwich from my desk drawer into my mouth with one hand while attempting to type out a memo on jurisdiction with the other. Tonight I plan to see if, in fact, the rumors are true, and there are people in this world besides my co-workers, the night janitor, and my roommate. I’m being reintegrated into society, slowly and painfully, and while I can’t promise that I won’t freak out at all the flashing lights and modern technologies and bite somebody, I can honestly state that I do not have rabies, although scabies is a closer call.
So what is new in my life? Not a whole lot, frankly. There’s a white supremacist on trial in my office building right now, for allegedly attempting to have a federal judge murdered. That’s kind of fun. There are reporters and cameramen in the lobby each day, and I like to imagine they’re there for me. Today I punched one of them out. We also play this fun game called “Guess Who’s A White Supremacist” with all the people gathered to get into the trial. It’s pretty complicated, but I’ll bottomline it for you: don’t shave your head or grow a beard if you don’t want people (well, me) to think you’re a white supremacist. Or frown a lot.
And that’s that. The fact of the matter is, I’m probably worth a lot more to society when I’m weighed down with hours of work, but I’m a lot happier when my time is my own to blow on drinking and Lizzie McGuire reruns (not, generally, at the same time). Bad choices are still choices, and I want my life to be full of them.
Okay, so I don’t have any stigmata or anything to show for it, but my work has finally slowed down and I consider myself to be back among the living. Today, for instance, I actually took a lunch break for the first time in weeks, instead of cramming the mangled sandwich from my desk drawer into my mouth with one hand while attempting to type out a memo on jurisdiction with the other. Tonight I plan to see if, in fact, the rumors are true, and there are people in this world besides my co-workers, the night janitor, and my roommate. I’m being reintegrated into society, slowly and painfully, and while I can’t promise that I won’t freak out at all the flashing lights and modern technologies and bite somebody, I can honestly state that I do not have rabies, although scabies is a closer call.
So what is new in my life? Not a whole lot, frankly. There’s a white supremacist on trial in my office building right now, for allegedly attempting to have a federal judge murdered. That’s kind of fun. There are reporters and cameramen in the lobby each day, and I like to imagine they’re there for me. Today I punched one of them out. We also play this fun game called “Guess Who’s A White Supremacist” with all the people gathered to get into the trial. It’s pretty complicated, but I’ll bottomline it for you: don’t shave your head or grow a beard if you don’t want people (well, me) to think you’re a white supremacist. Or frown a lot.
And that’s that. The fact of the matter is, I’m probably worth a lot more to society when I’m weighed down with hours of work, but I’m a lot happier when my time is my own to blow on drinking and Lizzie McGuire reruns (not, generally, at the same time). Bad choices are still choices, and I want my life to be full of them.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Easter Parade
Let me tell you a little something about Easter in Quincy, IL. First of all, they need to move the damn place closer to Chicago. Five hours is just too far to have to drive to eat ham with your ninety-three-year-old grandmother and play canasta with your parents. This is especially true if your car stereo is going through a phase of demonic possession where it constantly plays the Spanish radio station, and only the Spanish radio station, even when it is ostensibly turned off. I say we just bulldoze a couple of suburbs and put Quincy there. No one will miss them.
Secondly, I must extol the many virtues of my hometown. Oddly enough, the Chicago Tribune ran a feature on Quincy in the travel section this weekend, which refers to it as a “town of fine old houses and churches, art and architectural museums, and numerous historic districts.” This is all very true. However, they neglected to mention that Quincy is also home to Dixie Creme Donuts, home of the World’s Yellowest Linoleum, not to mention the World’s Strongest Cigarette Smell. Seriously, my friend Kathy left her purse there overnight once and it smelled so bad so persistently that she had to throw it away. Nor did the Tribune disclose the wonders of the Casino Starlight Terrace, where Bud Light bottles are $1.00 and everyone you ever hoped not to see again after high school is gathered late into the night, officially to country line dance, but apparently only for the purpose of making awkward small talk with you. Most egregiously, however, this “newspaper” failed to report the existence of Quincy’s famed “Jesus Tree,” a tree in the shape of, well, a tree, which some people believe looks like our lord and savior. I trust that all of you have already begun drafting your angry letters to the editor, and this time not just to complain that the Cathy strip has gotten “too preachy.”
I had a nice weekend, though, all in all, and I have to say that the less urban life has its charms. There’s something nice about being able to drive without a major headache any time you feel like it, or just pop in to the Wal-Mart for light bulbs and athletic socks. And I like the fact that parks in a smaller town sort of just bleed into fields and backyards, rather than into freeways and condominiums. It’s a much slower, calmer way of life, and I’m not at all opposed to it. I just think they need to rethink the whole location thing.
Let me tell you a little something about Easter in Quincy, IL. First of all, they need to move the damn place closer to Chicago. Five hours is just too far to have to drive to eat ham with your ninety-three-year-old grandmother and play canasta with your parents. This is especially true if your car stereo is going through a phase of demonic possession where it constantly plays the Spanish radio station, and only the Spanish radio station, even when it is ostensibly turned off. I say we just bulldoze a couple of suburbs and put Quincy there. No one will miss them.
Secondly, I must extol the many virtues of my hometown. Oddly enough, the Chicago Tribune ran a feature on Quincy in the travel section this weekend, which refers to it as a “town of fine old houses and churches, art and architectural museums, and numerous historic districts.” This is all very true. However, they neglected to mention that Quincy is also home to Dixie Creme Donuts, home of the World’s Yellowest Linoleum, not to mention the World’s Strongest Cigarette Smell. Seriously, my friend Kathy left her purse there overnight once and it smelled so bad so persistently that she had to throw it away. Nor did the Tribune disclose the wonders of the Casino Starlight Terrace, where Bud Light bottles are $1.00 and everyone you ever hoped not to see again after high school is gathered late into the night, officially to country line dance, but apparently only for the purpose of making awkward small talk with you. Most egregiously, however, this “newspaper” failed to report the existence of Quincy’s famed “Jesus Tree,” a tree in the shape of, well, a tree, which some people believe looks like our lord and savior. I trust that all of you have already begun drafting your angry letters to the editor, and this time not just to complain that the Cathy strip has gotten “too preachy.”
I had a nice weekend, though, all in all, and I have to say that the less urban life has its charms. There’s something nice about being able to drive without a major headache any time you feel like it, or just pop in to the Wal-Mart for light bulbs and athletic socks. And I like the fact that parks in a smaller town sort of just bleed into fields and backyards, rather than into freeways and condominiums. It’s a much slower, calmer way of life, and I’m not at all opposed to it. I just think they need to rethink the whole location thing.
Friday, April 09, 2004
Heat Wave
For those of you who follow the ever-fluctuating temperatures in my office, and I feel sure that’s all of you, it is currently approximately 10,000 degrees in here. Celcius, because the metric system is so awesome. But seriously, I’m thinking about wearing a bathing suit to work next week, and not just for the fashion. There are tiny little men with pitchforks dancing about on my desk, chanting in pagan tongues. Which does not, believe it or not, happen every day.
And speaking of hell, I am in it. Work continues to vex and annoy. Although I am taking vacation time to head off to beautiful Quincy, IL, for a frenetic family Easter (related note: potential break in programming on Monday), I will be working most of the weekend, in between egg hunts and grandmotherly guilt trips. I bet even those kids in the Kathie Lee sweatshops get Easter off.
For those of you who follow the ever-fluctuating temperatures in my office, and I feel sure that’s all of you, it is currently approximately 10,000 degrees in here. Celcius, because the metric system is so awesome. But seriously, I’m thinking about wearing a bathing suit to work next week, and not just for the fashion. There are tiny little men with pitchforks dancing about on my desk, chanting in pagan tongues. Which does not, believe it or not, happen every day.
And speaking of hell, I am in it. Work continues to vex and annoy. Although I am taking vacation time to head off to beautiful Quincy, IL, for a frenetic family Easter (related note: potential break in programming on Monday), I will be working most of the weekend, in between egg hunts and grandmotherly guilt trips. I bet even those kids in the Kathie Lee sweatshops get Easter off.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Fringe Benefits
I appear to have worked myself dumb. I have reached the point where I am so tired that I look at words and do not comprehend what they mean. We’re not talking hard legal words, either, just your everyday words like “defendant,” “kilograms,” and “crack.” It’s never good to finish reading a page and realize that, for all you know, it could contain the story of Paris Hilton and the Three Bears, because you have managed to not comprehend any of it.
It may be a sign of low job satisfaction when you find yourself envying the criminal defendants you read about in cases. Because, man, that eight to ten for being a murderous crack ho is looking pretty good to me right about now. I mean, aside from the tacky decor and subpar food service, what you’re really dealing with is a big stretch of quiet time. Imagine all the reading I could get done.
I appear to have worked myself dumb. I have reached the point where I am so tired that I look at words and do not comprehend what they mean. We’re not talking hard legal words, either, just your everyday words like “defendant,” “kilograms,” and “crack.” It’s never good to finish reading a page and realize that, for all you know, it could contain the story of Paris Hilton and the Three Bears, because you have managed to not comprehend any of it.
It may be a sign of low job satisfaction when you find yourself envying the criminal defendants you read about in cases. Because, man, that eight to ten for being a murderous crack ho is looking pretty good to me right about now. I mean, aside from the tacky decor and subpar food service, what you’re really dealing with is a big stretch of quiet time. Imagine all the reading I could get done.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
The Bright Side
Work has taken on an absurd and unaccustomed importance in my life recently, which fills me with a certain amount of murderous rage. It is never fun to be in your office building when the lights automatically shut off because even the night janitor has left for the day. In the interests of not dying of an aneurism at 26, however, I have decided to focus on the positive aspects of this situation:
1. Working late saves money by reducing expenditures on things like eating, drinking, and experiencing actual human contact.
2. Leaving work after dark makes being accosted by panhandlers far more intimate.
3. Tuesdays at the office are “ladies’ nights.”
4. Slow descent into madness much less embarrassing without witnesses to the random swearing and frenzied hair pulling.
5. No-waiting guarantee at the water cooler.
See, I am focused and ready for an amazing week!
Work has taken on an absurd and unaccustomed importance in my life recently, which fills me with a certain amount of murderous rage. It is never fun to be in your office building when the lights automatically shut off because even the night janitor has left for the day. In the interests of not dying of an aneurism at 26, however, I have decided to focus on the positive aspects of this situation:
1. Working late saves money by reducing expenditures on things like eating, drinking, and experiencing actual human contact.
2. Leaving work after dark makes being accosted by panhandlers far more intimate.
3. Tuesdays at the office are “ladies’ nights.”
4. Slow descent into madness much less embarrassing without witnesses to the random swearing and frenzied hair pulling.
5. No-waiting guarantee at the water cooler.
See, I am focused and ready for an amazing week!
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Spring Thaw
Today it is finally, finally, finally pleasant outside in the city of Chicago. It’s the kind of day that makes you feel like going for a long aimless walk in the park or a long aimless drive with the windows rolled down, although the latter can probably get you shot in Chicago. I have to admit it was very difficult for me to force myself to return to work after lunch today. I briefly considered swapping identities with the kid highlighting Kafka on a park bench or the guy handing out religious leaflets on the corner just to get some more outside time, but I couldn’t convince them that they wanted to read poorly-drafted legal materials in a freezing office all afternoon. Too bad, because I think I could have reshaped the worlds of bleak German literature and proselytization, respectively, immeasurably. It’s really the world’s loss.
Today it is finally, finally, finally pleasant outside in the city of Chicago. It’s the kind of day that makes you feel like going for a long aimless walk in the park or a long aimless drive with the windows rolled down, although the latter can probably get you shot in Chicago. I have to admit it was very difficult for me to force myself to return to work after lunch today. I briefly considered swapping identities with the kid highlighting Kafka on a park bench or the guy handing out religious leaflets on the corner just to get some more outside time, but I couldn’t convince them that they wanted to read poorly-drafted legal materials in a freezing office all afternoon. Too bad, because I think I could have reshaped the worlds of bleak German literature and proselytization, respectively, immeasurably. It’s really the world’s loss.
Monday, April 05, 2004
Self Discovery on Aisle Nine
Yesterday at the grocery store I ended up in line behind a woman who had apparently never purchased groceries, or in fact anything, before.
“Oh, is it me already?” she asked, as she looked up from her In Touch Weekly to observe that the prior customer had moved on some forty-five years earlier. “Hold on, let me get my bag. Now can I pay with credit card? It’s VISA. Is that okay? VISA? So I just swipe it here? Oops, I hit the wrong button. Shoot.”
It was at this point that I realized I could never work at a grocery store, because the desire to punch people is too strong in me. Got seventy coupons for unrelated products? Bam. Need a price check? Bam. Decided you don’t want the shrimp platter after all? You guessed it, bam. “Service with a Blow to the Head” would make a terrible slogan.
But our clerk was much more forebearing, and the verbal assault continued.
“Oh, I don’t have that discount card. Steve has ours. If we have one, I don’t know. Oh, I can just type in our phone number? That’s great! I love that. Shoot, I put in the wrong phone number.”
But eventually, she moved on, and I made my purchases about as smugly as anyone who’s buying Fruity Pebbles, five boxes of Little Debbie’s Snack Cakes, and three bags of Chex Mix can. I may eat like a child, but at least I can operate a credit card reader like an adult.
Yesterday at the grocery store I ended up in line behind a woman who had apparently never purchased groceries, or in fact anything, before.
“Oh, is it me already?” she asked, as she looked up from her In Touch Weekly to observe that the prior customer had moved on some forty-five years earlier. “Hold on, let me get my bag. Now can I pay with credit card? It’s VISA. Is that okay? VISA? So I just swipe it here? Oops, I hit the wrong button. Shoot.”
It was at this point that I realized I could never work at a grocery store, because the desire to punch people is too strong in me. Got seventy coupons for unrelated products? Bam. Need a price check? Bam. Decided you don’t want the shrimp platter after all? You guessed it, bam. “Service with a Blow to the Head” would make a terrible slogan.
But our clerk was much more forebearing, and the verbal assault continued.
“Oh, I don’t have that discount card. Steve has ours. If we have one, I don’t know. Oh, I can just type in our phone number? That’s great! I love that. Shoot, I put in the wrong phone number.”
But eventually, she moved on, and I made my purchases about as smugly as anyone who’s buying Fruity Pebbles, five boxes of Little Debbie’s Snack Cakes, and three bags of Chex Mix can. I may eat like a child, but at least I can operate a credit card reader like an adult.
Friday, April 02, 2004
Hounded
Our downstairs neighbors appear to have purchased a dog. Now, ordinarily this is just the sort of building-rule-flouting behavior that I would find inoffensive or even cute. Who doesn’t love the cuddly puppies, right? But in this case, the hound (who is, by the way, far more “of the Baskervilles” than “Huckleberry”) comes after such a long string of passive-aggressive breaches of all the dictates of politeness and common sense that it’s hard to see as anything but a four-legged act of war.
I guess it all started with the trash. A few days after their arrival in our building, our lovely neighbors left an enormous pile of trash outside the back door of their apartment on the common staircase we all share. We’re talking scraps of aborted meals, bits of broken furniture, used condoms, the whole bit. When the bag the trash was in burst, due to weeks of being exposed to rain, sleet, hail, and, oh yes, vermin, they did not see this as a clue to remove the trash, but rather to ensconce it in a plastic tub, where it remains to this day, some ten months later. I’m not completely sure what they’re saving it for, but if there’s a demand for bitchy girls’ used dental floss on E-bay, I’m sure I don’t know about it.
There’s also the little matter of the laundry. There’s a wad of my neighbors’ damp plus-size lingerie that appears to have taken up permanent residence in the sole washing machine for our building. It’s been over two weeks now, and I believe we’re approaching the mold threshold, yet there’s been no movement on removal. These laundry blockades have become a monthly tradition for my neighbors, along with inviting men over for loud angry-sounding sex in the living room and occasionally leaving the building’s front door wide open. They’re not nice, but hey, at least they’re consistent.
So we’re debating what to do about the dog. We’re sort of hoping that they’re just dogsitting, and that it will all be over within a few days, but given our history, I would not be surprised if they’re fashioning little sausage effigies of me and training the damn thing to go for the groin. We’ll take a “wait and see” attitude, and make sure the first aid kit is at the ready.
Our downstairs neighbors appear to have purchased a dog. Now, ordinarily this is just the sort of building-rule-flouting behavior that I would find inoffensive or even cute. Who doesn’t love the cuddly puppies, right? But in this case, the hound (who is, by the way, far more “of the Baskervilles” than “Huckleberry”) comes after such a long string of passive-aggressive breaches of all the dictates of politeness and common sense that it’s hard to see as anything but a four-legged act of war.
I guess it all started with the trash. A few days after their arrival in our building, our lovely neighbors left an enormous pile of trash outside the back door of their apartment on the common staircase we all share. We’re talking scraps of aborted meals, bits of broken furniture, used condoms, the whole bit. When the bag the trash was in burst, due to weeks of being exposed to rain, sleet, hail, and, oh yes, vermin, they did not see this as a clue to remove the trash, but rather to ensconce it in a plastic tub, where it remains to this day, some ten months later. I’m not completely sure what they’re saving it for, but if there’s a demand for bitchy girls’ used dental floss on E-bay, I’m sure I don’t know about it.
There’s also the little matter of the laundry. There’s a wad of my neighbors’ damp plus-size lingerie that appears to have taken up permanent residence in the sole washing machine for our building. It’s been over two weeks now, and I believe we’re approaching the mold threshold, yet there’s been no movement on removal. These laundry blockades have become a monthly tradition for my neighbors, along with inviting men over for loud angry-sounding sex in the living room and occasionally leaving the building’s front door wide open. They’re not nice, but hey, at least they’re consistent.
So we’re debating what to do about the dog. We’re sort of hoping that they’re just dogsitting, and that it will all be over within a few days, but given our history, I would not be surprised if they’re fashioning little sausage effigies of me and training the damn thing to go for the groin. We’ll take a “wait and see” attitude, and make sure the first aid kit is at the ready.
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Pity the Fool
Happy April Fool’s Day! No pranks here, yet. My coworker and I were going to tell our boss that we’d been secretly dating for several months, but we decided that that was more likely to lead to firing than to merriment and aborted the plan. We also considered turning in fake memos that were truly poorly drafted, but I worried that 1) they might not be able to tell the difference from my regular work and 2) that was a really, really nerdy plan. Of course, my “nerd” instincts are clearly way off, as I have both served as a historically-costumed museum tour guide and been named a top mathlete in my relatively short life, but those are stories for another time, hopefully never.
I am reminded today, however, of my roommate’s Great April Fool’s Prank of 2000. The poor soul had decided to rig the sprayer on our sink so that when I turned on the faucet I would get sprayed in the face with cold water, hilarity no doubt hypothetically ensuing. What he did not realize, however, was that when I went to turn on the faucet I would be holding an enormous knife. Which I would then plunge into my left index finger as I recoiled from the spray. So instead of madcap hijinks he got a free trip to the hospital, a new appreciation for the range of swear words in the English language, and a whole lot of blood all over his kitchen, Carrie-style. Sometimes, I guess, when you play a prank, it ends up being on yourself.
Happy April Fool’s Day! No pranks here, yet. My coworker and I were going to tell our boss that we’d been secretly dating for several months, but we decided that that was more likely to lead to firing than to merriment and aborted the plan. We also considered turning in fake memos that were truly poorly drafted, but I worried that 1) they might not be able to tell the difference from my regular work and 2) that was a really, really nerdy plan. Of course, my “nerd” instincts are clearly way off, as I have both served as a historically-costumed museum tour guide and been named a top mathlete in my relatively short life, but those are stories for another time, hopefully never.
I am reminded today, however, of my roommate’s Great April Fool’s Prank of 2000. The poor soul had decided to rig the sprayer on our sink so that when I turned on the faucet I would get sprayed in the face with cold water, hilarity no doubt hypothetically ensuing. What he did not realize, however, was that when I went to turn on the faucet I would be holding an enormous knife. Which I would then plunge into my left index finger as I recoiled from the spray. So instead of madcap hijinks he got a free trip to the hospital, a new appreciation for the range of swear words in the English language, and a whole lot of blood all over his kitchen, Carrie-style. Sometimes, I guess, when you play a prank, it ends up being on yourself.
