Thursday, August 30, 2012
On The Line
Tonight I received the following voicemail on my cell phone:
"Monique, what's up? Sharice said she wanted you to bring them clothes over tonight. So give me a call when you get this, kay girl? It's Denise."
Of course, my first reaction is that I hope Denise somehow actually gets in touch with Monique, as I would hate to see Sharice's plans thwarted in this regard. I'd call Monique myself, but I don't have her number, unless by "Monique" she somehow means my friend Karl. I suppose I could call Denise back, but frankly she terrifies me.
I also have to admit that I'm somewhat perplexed as to how my outgoing message is confusing in any way. What about hearing my voice identify me by name causes someone to think "time to leave a message for Monique?" This happens to me a lot, although this is actually my first outing as Denise. Am I somehow putting a Denise vibe out there?
Anyway, I'm delighted to have the voicemail. People who actually know me never leave such fascinating messages!
Tonight I received the following voicemail on my cell phone:
"Monique, what's up? Sharice said she wanted you to bring them clothes over tonight. So give me a call when you get this, kay girl? It's Denise."
Of course, my first reaction is that I hope Denise somehow actually gets in touch with Monique, as I would hate to see Sharice's plans thwarted in this regard. I'd call Monique myself, but I don't have her number, unless by "Monique" she somehow means my friend Karl. I suppose I could call Denise back, but frankly she terrifies me.
I also have to admit that I'm somewhat perplexed as to how my outgoing message is confusing in any way. What about hearing my voice identify me by name causes someone to think "time to leave a message for Monique?" This happens to me a lot, although this is actually my first outing as Denise. Am I somehow putting a Denise vibe out there?
Anyway, I'm delighted to have the voicemail. People who actually know me never leave such fascinating messages!
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Time to Make the Donuts
This morning I had the pleasure of purchasing donuts from what turns out to be the world's most stressful donut shop. It's a little place down the street from my office where it they make donuts with bacon on them (and one with what appears to be bird seed) and charge $30 for the dozen. The shop is about two feet by four feet and when I got in there there were two employees for about ten customers, all of whom seemed to be purchasing for their extended families of seventeen. It didn't help matters that the employees were passive aggressively barking at one another as they worked.
"Did you say chocolate? I couldn't hear you because your head was down looking into the cash register while you were talking."
"Yes, chocolate. Can you get me some more change? I'm running out of change."
"Didn't Carol bring some by this morning? She was supposed to bring some by. Are we out of the cinnamons?"
"I don't know. Did you ask Ted? I've got like three quarters left here."
"Okay, okay. I'll get you some change, but then I really can't help you any more. I've got to get back to the other room."
"All right, fine. Don't worry about it. I can take care of everything myself. Just get out of here."
And then it was my turn, which makes it no wonder that my mixed dozen consisted of eleven donuts, three of which were pistachio. On the plus side, I'm thinking about filling out an application.
This morning I had the pleasure of purchasing donuts from what turns out to be the world's most stressful donut shop. It's a little place down the street from my office where it they make donuts with bacon on them (and one with what appears to be bird seed) and charge $30 for the dozen. The shop is about two feet by four feet and when I got in there there were two employees for about ten customers, all of whom seemed to be purchasing for their extended families of seventeen. It didn't help matters that the employees were passive aggressively barking at one another as they worked.
"Did you say chocolate? I couldn't hear you because your head was down looking into the cash register while you were talking."
"Yes, chocolate. Can you get me some more change? I'm running out of change."
"Didn't Carol bring some by this morning? She was supposed to bring some by. Are we out of the cinnamons?"
"I don't know. Did you ask Ted? I've got like three quarters left here."
"Okay, okay. I'll get you some change, but then I really can't help you any more. I've got to get back to the other room."
"All right, fine. Don't worry about it. I can take care of everything myself. Just get out of here."
And then it was my turn, which makes it no wonder that my mixed dozen consisted of eleven donuts, three of which were pistachio. On the plus side, I'm thinking about filling out an application.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
The Substitute
Today we had a substitute teacher for my fitness classes. This ended up being a fascinating psychological study. She was breathtakingly insecure about the whole thing, repeatedly asking us how she was doing and letting us know that she would be staying around afterwards in case we had any comments or feedback we wanted to discuss one on one. She also kept comparing herself to our regular teacher, and not in the most favorable terms. Apparently her side kicks are just crap compared to his and his roundhouses are so amazing it just makes her want to curl up into a little ball and cry. Oh, and she was obsessed with the "turnout" she was getting, as though she was going to be paid by the person. I was somewhat concerned she might just break down and cry.
It was also interesting to note that none of the "regulars" showed up for this class. I didn't realize that people really had loyalty to their fitness instructors, but on the other hand, I also don't go out for drinks with my kickboxing teacher after class or post funny cat pictures on his Facebook wall, so I may just be a special case. I mean, I'm not the one who decided to go to a weekend seminar on aqua zumba in Joliet, though. If anything, he walked out on me.
Today we had a substitute teacher for my fitness classes. This ended up being a fascinating psychological study. She was breathtakingly insecure about the whole thing, repeatedly asking us how she was doing and letting us know that she would be staying around afterwards in case we had any comments or feedback we wanted to discuss one on one. She also kept comparing herself to our regular teacher, and not in the most favorable terms. Apparently her side kicks are just crap compared to his and his roundhouses are so amazing it just makes her want to curl up into a little ball and cry. Oh, and she was obsessed with the "turnout" she was getting, as though she was going to be paid by the person. I was somewhat concerned she might just break down and cry.
It was also interesting to note that none of the "regulars" showed up for this class. I didn't realize that people really had loyalty to their fitness instructors, but on the other hand, I also don't go out for drinks with my kickboxing teacher after class or post funny cat pictures on his Facebook wall, so I may just be a special case. I mean, I'm not the one who decided to go to a weekend seminar on aqua zumba in Joliet, though. If anything, he walked out on me.
Friday, August 24, 2012
For Whom the Bell Tolls
One of the most interesting changes from my old job to my new job is that my phone almost never rings. At the old job, I couldn't go fifteen minutes without someone calling me, usually to ask me to do something that I probably wouldn't want to do. Today, my phone rang three times all day. And two of them were wrong numbers.
A side effect of this is that sometimes I forget how I'm supposed to behave on the phone. I've struggled with figuring out a short, punchy greeting that fits my new position. It doesn't help that my new phone seems to take a minute after you pick up the receiver to actually start transmitting what you say. I have also developed a tendency to give excessively long, involved answers to questions when people call, as though I'm just out of practice with talking. I can actually envision people rolling their eyes and waiting for me to shut up as I go on and on about federalism or whatever. And I've kicked the affable laughter at people's small talk right up to eleven; there's a fine line between politely pretending to enjoy someone's joke about the weather and roaring like a supervillain.
Of course, I'm also not screaming or crying at people on the phone, so there is some progress.
One of the most interesting changes from my old job to my new job is that my phone almost never rings. At the old job, I couldn't go fifteen minutes without someone calling me, usually to ask me to do something that I probably wouldn't want to do. Today, my phone rang three times all day. And two of them were wrong numbers.
A side effect of this is that sometimes I forget how I'm supposed to behave on the phone. I've struggled with figuring out a short, punchy greeting that fits my new position. It doesn't help that my new phone seems to take a minute after you pick up the receiver to actually start transmitting what you say. I have also developed a tendency to give excessively long, involved answers to questions when people call, as though I'm just out of practice with talking. I can actually envision people rolling their eyes and waiting for me to shut up as I go on and on about federalism or whatever. And I've kicked the affable laughter at people's small talk right up to eleven; there's a fine line between politely pretending to enjoy someone's joke about the weather and roaring like a supervillain.
Of course, I'm also not screaming or crying at people on the phone, so there is some progress.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Panic, Minus the Disco
So if you happened to check in on me between the hours of 1 and 3 AM last night, well, first of all, I'd be pretty alarmed, as we're not really that kind of close. Actually, I think I can safely say that there is no one I would enjoy having drop in on me at that time of night, unless maybe it's the incomparable Whoopi Goldberg. And I'd even want her gone after I'd gotten a couple of Sister Act stories out of her. (What was it like working with Kathy Najimy? Did she get to choose her own nun outfits?) But anyway, if you happened to see me between 1 and 3, you'd think I was an insane person, because I basically was. I got hit with my first full-blown panic attack in a year or so and I spent much of the night pacing back and forth in my living room, hyperventilating, and trying to focus enough to watch old episodes of Designing Women on cable. I took one of my magic calming pills, but even they take some time, so I was stuck having nightmarish visions of Noam Chomsky trying to break into my house and Toni Morrison inviting me on a double date with Kerri Strug. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) I'm frankly sort of dreading bed tonight, although I'm also so exhausted that bed could come at any moment. Maybe falling asleep midsentence should be my new prose style.
So if you happened to check in on me between the hours of 1 and 3 AM last night, well, first of all, I'd be pretty alarmed, as we're not really that kind of close. Actually, I think I can safely say that there is no one I would enjoy having drop in on me at that time of night, unless maybe it's the incomparable Whoopi Goldberg. And I'd even want her gone after I'd gotten a couple of Sister Act stories out of her. (What was it like working with Kathy Najimy? Did she get to choose her own nun outfits?) But anyway, if you happened to see me between 1 and 3, you'd think I was an insane person, because I basically was. I got hit with my first full-blown panic attack in a year or so and I spent much of the night pacing back and forth in my living room, hyperventilating, and trying to focus enough to watch old episodes of Designing Women on cable. I took one of my magic calming pills, but even they take some time, so I was stuck having nightmarish visions of Noam Chomsky trying to break into my house and Toni Morrison inviting me on a double date with Kerri Strug. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) I'm frankly sort of dreading bed tonight, although I'm also so exhausted that bed could come at any moment. Maybe falling asleep midsentence should be my new prose style.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friends
Today I was buying paper towels for my cleaning lady at Walgreen's during my lunch hour, when I was approached by an pungent, disheveled-looking middle aged man with something on his mind.
"Walnut candlesticks," he said. (Or something along those lines -- a verbatim transcript may prove difficult here.) "It's the fucking government. Got to wash the phone books."
"Excuse me?" I said, obviously just not getting it.
"The cars of motel donkey boots," he clarified. "Fucking dog food!"
At this point I excused myself politely, by which I mean I fled three aisles away as quickly and unobtrusively as humanly possible. But this was not to be the last I heard of him.
"Motherfucking hot dogs!" I heard him yell to no one in particular as I stood in line for the self checkout with my suddenly unimportant-seeming purchase of a family sized bag of Hershey's Miniatures. "I'll fuck you up!"
He also seemed to be browsing the $5 DVDs in the impulse item area of the checkout, though, so I somewhat hoped he'd be lulled into peace by a felicitously-timed copy of the Mel Gibson/Helen Hunt classic "What Women Want."
It was not to be. Soon "I'll fuck you up!" became a repeated refrain between bouts of unintelligible mumbling. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was auditioning to replace Ramona on Real Housewives.
And as if to underscore the ridiculousness of the situation, the self checkout began reprimanding me for having an unauthorized item in the bagging area. An unfounded charge, I assure you.
But regardless, I got my receipt and got the hell out, just as the crack Walgreen's security team was approaching my new friend to inquire as to what, if anything, they might be able to do for him. My guess is that he was frustrated at being unable to locate the latest products in the Covergirl Queen Collection, but I could be way off base with this one.
Today I was buying paper towels for my cleaning lady at Walgreen's during my lunch hour, when I was approached by an pungent, disheveled-looking middle aged man with something on his mind.
"Walnut candlesticks," he said. (Or something along those lines -- a verbatim transcript may prove difficult here.) "It's the fucking government. Got to wash the phone books."
"Excuse me?" I said, obviously just not getting it.
"The cars of motel donkey boots," he clarified. "Fucking dog food!"
At this point I excused myself politely, by which I mean I fled three aisles away as quickly and unobtrusively as humanly possible. But this was not to be the last I heard of him.
"Motherfucking hot dogs!" I heard him yell to no one in particular as I stood in line for the self checkout with my suddenly unimportant-seeming purchase of a family sized bag of Hershey's Miniatures. "I'll fuck you up!"
He also seemed to be browsing the $5 DVDs in the impulse item area of the checkout, though, so I somewhat hoped he'd be lulled into peace by a felicitously-timed copy of the Mel Gibson/Helen Hunt classic "What Women Want."
It was not to be. Soon "I'll fuck you up!" became a repeated refrain between bouts of unintelligible mumbling. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was auditioning to replace Ramona on Real Housewives.
And as if to underscore the ridiculousness of the situation, the self checkout began reprimanding me for having an unauthorized item in the bagging area. An unfounded charge, I assure you.
But regardless, I got my receipt and got the hell out, just as the crack Walgreen's security team was approaching my new friend to inquire as to what, if anything, they might be able to do for him. My guess is that he was frustrated at being unable to locate the latest products in the Covergirl Queen Collection, but I could be way off base with this one.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
So There's No Way This Won't Sound Random, But...
... did you know that you can give your baby away at any police station or hospital in Illinois for up to thirty days with no questions asked? It turns out that's what all those signs are about with the baby head in the giant hand. I thought they were just advertising for a child murderers' softball league. No, actually, I thought they just meant that mothers and children could hide out from domestic abusers or something at the places with those signs. I had no idea they were for baby a baby giveaway promotion! (I'm guessing it's run by one of the morning drive time radio shows or something.)
Of course, as always, there is fine print. You can't harm your baby before turning it over, and you actually have to talk to someone when you do it -- it's not like leaving your old couch outside of Goodwill overnight. And you only have those thirty days, so if your two-year-old is pissing you off, well, buyer beware! It's definitely kind of unfair in that regard, because really, babies are totally at their cutest in the first thirty days. They're all little and squinty (sort of like Mickey Rooney) and they haven't discovered sex or Carly Rae Jepsen yet. I mean, if they opened this up to teens, there'd be a line all the way down the block.
Other states have these laws, too, I guess, but the amount of time you get differs from place to place. In Mississippi and Alabama and a bunch of other places you only get three days to make up your mind! And in Texas I'm pretty sure they just immediately sentence the babies to death by lethal injection. They're tough but fair, as always.
And by the way, as I was looking up all this information, the website asked me if I wanted to "pin" it on Pinterest. Of course, I told it no; the blog is where I like to share all of my child abandonment news.
... did you know that you can give your baby away at any police station or hospital in Illinois for up to thirty days with no questions asked? It turns out that's what all those signs are about with the baby head in the giant hand. I thought they were just advertising for a child murderers' softball league. No, actually, I thought they just meant that mothers and children could hide out from domestic abusers or something at the places with those signs. I had no idea they were for baby a baby giveaway promotion! (I'm guessing it's run by one of the morning drive time radio shows or something.)
Of course, as always, there is fine print. You can't harm your baby before turning it over, and you actually have to talk to someone when you do it -- it's not like leaving your old couch outside of Goodwill overnight. And you only have those thirty days, so if your two-year-old is pissing you off, well, buyer beware! It's definitely kind of unfair in that regard, because really, babies are totally at their cutest in the first thirty days. They're all little and squinty (sort of like Mickey Rooney) and they haven't discovered sex or Carly Rae Jepsen yet. I mean, if they opened this up to teens, there'd be a line all the way down the block.
Other states have these laws, too, I guess, but the amount of time you get differs from place to place. In Mississippi and Alabama and a bunch of other places you only get three days to make up your mind! And in Texas I'm pretty sure they just immediately sentence the babies to death by lethal injection. They're tough but fair, as always.
And by the way, as I was looking up all this information, the website asked me if I wanted to "pin" it on Pinterest. Of course, I told it no; the blog is where I like to share all of my child abandonment news.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Thoughts Shared, Souls Bared
Phenomenal day of monologuing from my kickboxing teacher today. Among other things, the following topics were covered:
-- Pink's new song is "a really good song to get the stress of your week out to." (This was delivered as though it were a clinical observation reached after months of intensive research.)
-- Karmin, meanwhile, performed at Market Days last weekend and it was "really wild." They've got a hit song right now, so Market Days had at least one current act, right? "Everyone" was complaining about how all the acts were from the '80s, "as if that's a bad thing."
-- "It's all about the mind/body connection."
-- "Fitness is an evolution," so changes to the routine "have to come organically." Like the idea to add high knees came to him when he was reading an article about something totally different the other day, but it reminded him of knees.
-- Planks are the best form of exercise for your abs if you don't have much time. Bicycles are also apparently the best form of exercise for your abs if you don't have much time.
Also, I had a baked potato for lunch today and it was phenomenal. That is all.
Phenomenal day of monologuing from my kickboxing teacher today. Among other things, the following topics were covered:
-- Pink's new song is "a really good song to get the stress of your week out to." (This was delivered as though it were a clinical observation reached after months of intensive research.)
-- Karmin, meanwhile, performed at Market Days last weekend and it was "really wild." They've got a hit song right now, so Market Days had at least one current act, right? "Everyone" was complaining about how all the acts were from the '80s, "as if that's a bad thing."
-- "It's all about the mind/body connection."
-- "Fitness is an evolution," so changes to the routine "have to come organically." Like the idea to add high knees came to him when he was reading an article about something totally different the other day, but it reminded him of knees.
-- Planks are the best form of exercise for your abs if you don't have much time. Bicycles are also apparently the best form of exercise for your abs if you don't have much time.
Also, I had a baked potato for lunch today and it was phenomenal. That is all.
Monday, August 13, 2012
High and Dry
So the outrage is definitely running on high at my office these days, thanks to that hottest of topics, paper towels. You see, a few weeks ago, one of those super powerful new air driers arrived in our bathroom. It sounds like a jet engine when it turns on and dries your hands in five seconds flat. Of course, I have yet to master the process of locating the sensors for this hand drier, so I spend a lot of my time waving my hands around like an idiot in an attempt to get it to start. And I actually got caught bending over to try and get a glimpse of the sensor the other day, which was sort of embarrassing. Not to mention the fact that I got an eyeful of hot air.
But anyway, I digress. A few days after the drier arrived, the paper towels disappeared. At first, I thought we had just run out; that happens sometimes, too. But then it turned out the paper towels were never coming back. And then the protests began.
It started with sarcastic comments here and there. Then there was a sassy sign that someone put up above the drier, "announcing" that my office would be getting rid of toilet paper, too, and that we should all use the drier in its place. And then there were the guerrilla paper towels -- people kept bringing in kitchen rolls, followed by an actual roll holder for the bathroom wall. That petered out, though. Now there's just a roll of toilet paper sitting on the counter above the sink.
The good news is that I don't actually care about any of this. Yes, I'm lazy, so I'd prefer paper towels, but I'm not about to occupy the plaza over it or anything. Turns out I'm not so much for fighting the power.
So the outrage is definitely running on high at my office these days, thanks to that hottest of topics, paper towels. You see, a few weeks ago, one of those super powerful new air driers arrived in our bathroom. It sounds like a jet engine when it turns on and dries your hands in five seconds flat. Of course, I have yet to master the process of locating the sensors for this hand drier, so I spend a lot of my time waving my hands around like an idiot in an attempt to get it to start. And I actually got caught bending over to try and get a glimpse of the sensor the other day, which was sort of embarrassing. Not to mention the fact that I got an eyeful of hot air.
But anyway, I digress. A few days after the drier arrived, the paper towels disappeared. At first, I thought we had just run out; that happens sometimes, too. But then it turned out the paper towels were never coming back. And then the protests began.
It started with sarcastic comments here and there. Then there was a sassy sign that someone put up above the drier, "announcing" that my office would be getting rid of toilet paper, too, and that we should all use the drier in its place. And then there were the guerrilla paper towels -- people kept bringing in kitchen rolls, followed by an actual roll holder for the bathroom wall. That petered out, though. Now there's just a roll of toilet paper sitting on the counter above the sink.
The good news is that I don't actually care about any of this. Yes, I'm lazy, so I'd prefer paper towels, but I'm not about to occupy the plaza over it or anything. Turns out I'm not so much for fighting the power.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Closing Time
As a general matter, I do not watch the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics. Frankly, I find it kind of depressing to know I'll no longer have access to 24-hour coverage of BMX and floor hockey, and that has only been compounded by NBC's previews of its new fall shows. I would rather watch footage of Michael Phelps cleaning his oven than sit through an episode of Animal Practice. I mean, yes, I'll still have a few shows to watch, but how can they compare to the sheer drama of watching Lolo Jones' whole world fall apart before your very eyes?
But this year, I did have to at least check in, so as to not miss the return of the Spice Girls. The bits and pieces I saw were rather underwhelming. Some band that was not The Who covering The Who. Someone who was not David Bowie covering David Bowie. A bunch of supermodels for some strange reason. George Michael looking bloated, singing Freedom, in a segment somehow unconnected to the supermodels. Meh.
The Spice Girls did not disappoint, however. They were much as we remembered them. Sporty, still with ugly shoes and a vaguely lesbian vibe. Baby, still doing her best to appeal directly to the pedophiles of the world. Posh, still corpselike in her intensity. Ginger, still looking like she wants to be somewhere else. Scary, still the one you sort of forget exists. And the pantsuits! Oh, the pantsuits. I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. Or, on second thought, forget it.
As a general matter, I do not watch the Closing Ceremonies of the Olympics. Frankly, I find it kind of depressing to know I'll no longer have access to 24-hour coverage of BMX and floor hockey, and that has only been compounded by NBC's previews of its new fall shows. I would rather watch footage of Michael Phelps cleaning his oven than sit through an episode of Animal Practice. I mean, yes, I'll still have a few shows to watch, but how can they compare to the sheer drama of watching Lolo Jones' whole world fall apart before your very eyes?
But this year, I did have to at least check in, so as to not miss the return of the Spice Girls. The bits and pieces I saw were rather underwhelming. Some band that was not The Who covering The Who. Someone who was not David Bowie covering David Bowie. A bunch of supermodels for some strange reason. George Michael looking bloated, singing Freedom, in a segment somehow unconnected to the supermodels. Meh.
The Spice Girls did not disappoint, however. They were much as we remembered them. Sporty, still with ugly shoes and a vaguely lesbian vibe. Baby, still doing her best to appeal directly to the pedophiles of the world. Posh, still corpselike in her intensity. Ginger, still looking like she wants to be somewhere else. Scary, still the one you sort of forget exists. And the pantsuits! Oh, the pantsuits. I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want. Or, on second thought, forget it.
Wednesday, August 08, 2012
In Which I Perform Yet Another Public Service
As perhaps the world's only genuinely selfless human being, I am always looking to help others out. That's why I helpfully let people in my kickboxing class know that they've violated generally accepted standards of personal space by liberally giving out the evil eye, and why I freely employ the middle finger while driving so as to help other motorists improve their skills. It's also why I kindly share my anonymous comments on people's internet postings to let them know where their spelling and/or grammar and/or general physical appearance and/or choice of spouse could be improved. I'm just a giver, what can I say?
It is in this spirit of giving that I have previously had occasion hereon to provide useful feedback on friends' and relatives' weddings. It is also in this spirit that I now provide my first ever baby review, hopefully the first in an ongoing series.
The baby in question is my friend Amy's baby, Olivia. She's about nine weeks. I'd definitely give her top marks for sleeping quietly and having a good head of hair. She also has a positively Streeplike range of facial expressions for one so wee. Plus she's a total fashion plate, even if she doesn't exactly dress herself. I'm pretty sure Rachel Zoe is her stylist. As for the negative, she's not exactly a conversationalist. I made what I thought were some pretty trenchant points about a recent piece on the achievement gap in the Utne Reader, and she just looked at me like I was from outer space. Also she poops herself from time to time, but that I can handle.
As perhaps the world's only genuinely selfless human being, I am always looking to help others out. That's why I helpfully let people in my kickboxing class know that they've violated generally accepted standards of personal space by liberally giving out the evil eye, and why I freely employ the middle finger while driving so as to help other motorists improve their skills. It's also why I kindly share my anonymous comments on people's internet postings to let them know where their spelling and/or grammar and/or general physical appearance and/or choice of spouse could be improved. I'm just a giver, what can I say?
It is in this spirit of giving that I have previously had occasion hereon to provide useful feedback on friends' and relatives' weddings. It is also in this spirit that I now provide my first ever baby review, hopefully the first in an ongoing series.
The baby in question is my friend Amy's baby, Olivia. She's about nine weeks. I'd definitely give her top marks for sleeping quietly and having a good head of hair. She also has a positively Streeplike range of facial expressions for one so wee. Plus she's a total fashion plate, even if she doesn't exactly dress herself. I'm pretty sure Rachel Zoe is her stylist. As for the negative, she's not exactly a conversationalist. I made what I thought were some pretty trenchant points about a recent piece on the achievement gap in the Utne Reader, and she just looked at me like I was from outer space. Also she poops herself from time to time, but that I can handle.
Monday, August 06, 2012
Summer Reading
As a general matter, I like to challenge myself a bit with my pleasure reading. I will admit that part of this is just because I don't want people to see me reading Entertainment Weekly on the train. They might think I'm shallow or, even worse, a huge Veronica Mars fan. But part of it is also that I really enjoy the mental gymnastics, at least to a point. I didn't particularly love The Brothers Karamazov and Remembrance of Things Past almost killed me.
In the summers, however, I sometimes take a lighter approach. In the past, I have read both Lauren Conrad's L.A. Candy and two selections from the Dan Brown canon. I've also been known to accept a Red Eye at the train station every now and then. And I always make a point of revisiting one of my favorite children's books, with results that widely vary. The Westing Game turned out to be almost as fantastic at 30 as at 13, but Little House on the Prairie was kind of a snooze and Bridge to Terabithia was just a downer. And while I still loved The Wizard of Oz, a lot of the sequels were only wonderful in my memory. Roald Dahl still kills it every time, though. You pretty much have to be a badass when your name is Roald.
As a general matter, I like to challenge myself a bit with my pleasure reading. I will admit that part of this is just because I don't want people to see me reading Entertainment Weekly on the train. They might think I'm shallow or, even worse, a huge Veronica Mars fan. But part of it is also that I really enjoy the mental gymnastics, at least to a point. I didn't particularly love The Brothers Karamazov and Remembrance of Things Past almost killed me.
In the summers, however, I sometimes take a lighter approach. In the past, I have read both Lauren Conrad's L.A. Candy and two selections from the Dan Brown canon. I've also been known to accept a Red Eye at the train station every now and then. And I always make a point of revisiting one of my favorite children's books, with results that widely vary. The Westing Game turned out to be almost as fantastic at 30 as at 13, but Little House on the Prairie was kind of a snooze and Bridge to Terabithia was just a downer. And while I still loved The Wizard of Oz, a lot of the sequels were only wonderful in my memory. Roald Dahl still kills it every time, though. You pretty much have to be a badass when your name is Roald.
Sunday, August 05, 2012
Back to It
It's interesting to spend my Sunday nights without that accustomed feeling of dread regarding the start of a new workweek. This is not to say that my new job is perfect; no job is, unless it's maybe being Cher's official wig wrangler. But it makes a huge difference to know that no matter what happens tomorrow, it will be over by 5 PM. Also that no one is going to ask me to take notes regarding their thoughts on a brief while they are using the restroom.
This has been a good weekend, if not particularly eventful. Friday night I met up with a good friend I haven't seen in way too long -- I kept referring to the baby she had in the interim, but it turns out it's a toddler now. We went to Guthrie's, a bar near my house with a huge beer selection and lots of board games. We did forgo the Parcheesi in favor of some serious catching up, however. Yesterday and today were mainly fit, active days of the type you generally only see in tampon commercials. I went to kickboxing, I swam, and I went for a run. And we spent a lot of time just hanging out on the roof, reading about Kristen Stewart's shocking betrayal in Us Weekly and reapplying sunscreen.
So I'm read to head back to work tomorrow. But if anyone decides they want to pay me to just stay home and watch The Young & The Restless from now on, I would still be willing to entertain those offers.
It's interesting to spend my Sunday nights without that accustomed feeling of dread regarding the start of a new workweek. This is not to say that my new job is perfect; no job is, unless it's maybe being Cher's official wig wrangler. But it makes a huge difference to know that no matter what happens tomorrow, it will be over by 5 PM. Also that no one is going to ask me to take notes regarding their thoughts on a brief while they are using the restroom.
This has been a good weekend, if not particularly eventful. Friday night I met up with a good friend I haven't seen in way too long -- I kept referring to the baby she had in the interim, but it turns out it's a toddler now. We went to Guthrie's, a bar near my house with a huge beer selection and lots of board games. We did forgo the Parcheesi in favor of some serious catching up, however. Yesterday and today were mainly fit, active days of the type you generally only see in tampon commercials. I went to kickboxing, I swam, and I went for a run. And we spent a lot of time just hanging out on the roof, reading about Kristen Stewart's shocking betrayal in Us Weekly and reapplying sunscreen.
So I'm read to head back to work tomorrow. But if anyone decides they want to pay me to just stay home and watch The Young & The Restless from now on, I would still be willing to entertain those offers.
Saturday, August 04, 2012
History's Least Memorable Olympic Moments
-- Usain Bolt just kind of sits there.
-- Mary Lou Retton asks her hairstylist for "the Pete Rose."
-- Bruce Jenner asks his plastic surgeon for "the Glenn Close."
-- Kerri Strug goes through puberty.
-- NBC unveils its smash hit 2008 Christian Slater Drama "My Own Worst Enemy."
-- Michael Phelps takes hits off his bong and watches Spongebob Squarepants.
-- Muhammad Ali lights his stove, makes some macaroni and cheese.
-- Mark Spitz grooms his mustache.
-- Morgan Freeman records his 10,000th Olympics-themed VISA commercial.
-- The Dream Team goes for some tacos.
-- Michael Johnson defrosts his refrigerator.
-- Carl Lewis learns how to use the internet.
-- Nadia Comaneci attends a showing of Bo Derek's 10.
-- Ryan Lochte notices a strange itch.
-- Rick Santorum somehow takes gold in the women's hammer throw.
-- Usain Bolt just kind of sits there.
-- Mary Lou Retton asks her hairstylist for "the Pete Rose."
-- Bruce Jenner asks his plastic surgeon for "the Glenn Close."
-- Kerri Strug goes through puberty.
-- NBC unveils its smash hit 2008 Christian Slater Drama "My Own Worst Enemy."
-- Michael Phelps takes hits off his bong and watches Spongebob Squarepants.
-- Muhammad Ali lights his stove, makes some macaroni and cheese.
-- Mark Spitz grooms his mustache.
-- Morgan Freeman records his 10,000th Olympics-themed VISA commercial.
-- The Dream Team goes for some tacos.
-- Michael Johnson defrosts his refrigerator.
-- Carl Lewis learns how to use the internet.
-- Nadia Comaneci attends a showing of Bo Derek's 10.
-- Ryan Lochte notices a strange itch.
-- Rick Santorum somehow takes gold in the women's hammer throw.
Wednesday, August 01, 2012
The Watch
I realize I haven't been posting much lately, but you really need to understand the punishing television schedule I'm laboring under here. Among all of the networks of NBC (because that's a thing) there is easily sixteen hours of Olympics coverage every day. And I tell you, handball and field hockey are not going to watch themselves. Even fastforwarding through all of the background segments about how Russian gymnasts are "divas," multiplicitous Phelps interviews, and anything involving Ryan Seacrest, there is a lot to take in. As if that's not enough, we are also in the middle of a telenovela-style season of Degrassi. And sure, most of the characters are heinous now, but I gots to have my Alli Bhandari. So that's probably about another two hours a week, because it's not like Teen Nick has all that many advertisers or anything. Although I have been seized by a sudden urge to buy about 100 different acne treatments. And finally we still have the Real Housewives of New York, which admittedly has been kind of boring so far, but the preview really makes it look things are going to explode soon. And I need to be there.
Bottom line, I'm under a lot of stress here people. Who says there are no real heroes any more?
I realize I haven't been posting much lately, but you really need to understand the punishing television schedule I'm laboring under here. Among all of the networks of NBC (because that's a thing) there is easily sixteen hours of Olympics coverage every day. And I tell you, handball and field hockey are not going to watch themselves. Even fastforwarding through all of the background segments about how Russian gymnasts are "divas," multiplicitous Phelps interviews, and anything involving Ryan Seacrest, there is a lot to take in. As if that's not enough, we are also in the middle of a telenovela-style season of Degrassi. And sure, most of the characters are heinous now, but I gots to have my Alli Bhandari. So that's probably about another two hours a week, because it's not like Teen Nick has all that many advertisers or anything. Although I have been seized by a sudden urge to buy about 100 different acne treatments. And finally we still have the Real Housewives of New York, which admittedly has been kind of boring so far, but the preview really makes it look things are going to explode soon. And I need to be there.
Bottom line, I'm under a lot of stress here people. Who says there are no real heroes any more?
