Saturday, August 25, 2018
A Tragic Tale With a Happy Ending
I believe I mentioned that I took a bit of a tumble while in New York. It had nothing to do with alcohol, of course, which is so often unfairly maligned in these circumstances. I continue to maintain that someone remodeled the room while I was in it and moved the steps solely to spite me. But regardless, I ended up with a cut leg and some ripped suit pants, neither of which looked particularly amazing. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere, in the entire history of time.
Hoping to triumphantly recover from this horrific setback, I took the pants in question to my dry cleaner and asked if they might be able to fix them. "You want a patch?" they said, which right there should have been a clue to me. "Uh, well, sort of, I'm just hoping this is something you can repair?" I said. And yes, I uptalked to turn my sentence into a question, as I often do when I'm speaking with people who I think may not understand me and kind of freaking out. "Okay, patch," they said, and threw the pants into a nearby laundry basket. "Saturday?"
And today is Saturday, my friends. And when I picked up my pants, my dry cleaner had brilliantly turned the small rip into a giant discolored spot, which looked like someone had maybe attacked the pants with airplane glue. When the lady brought them out to me, I failed to control my instinctual reaction to say, "Oh, that doesn't look good." And she responded "Well, it's about as good as it's going to get." Checkmate.
The happy ending, though, is that I immediately came home and looked for the pants online, and found them on sale at a huge discount. They'll be here in 5-7 business days. And yes, it's true I had to go one waist size up, but who the hell am I kidding anyway? Triumph over tragedy, people. It doesn't get any better than this. Which, come to think of it, should really alarm all of us.
I believe I mentioned that I took a bit of a tumble while in New York. It had nothing to do with alcohol, of course, which is so often unfairly maligned in these circumstances. I continue to maintain that someone remodeled the room while I was in it and moved the steps solely to spite me. But regardless, I ended up with a cut leg and some ripped suit pants, neither of which looked particularly amazing. It was, without a doubt, the worst thing that has ever happened to anyone, anywhere, in the entire history of time.
Hoping to triumphantly recover from this horrific setback, I took the pants in question to my dry cleaner and asked if they might be able to fix them. "You want a patch?" they said, which right there should have been a clue to me. "Uh, well, sort of, I'm just hoping this is something you can repair?" I said. And yes, I uptalked to turn my sentence into a question, as I often do when I'm speaking with people who I think may not understand me and kind of freaking out. "Okay, patch," they said, and threw the pants into a nearby laundry basket. "Saturday?"
And today is Saturday, my friends. And when I picked up my pants, my dry cleaner had brilliantly turned the small rip into a giant discolored spot, which looked like someone had maybe attacked the pants with airplane glue. When the lady brought them out to me, I failed to control my instinctual reaction to say, "Oh, that doesn't look good." And she responded "Well, it's about as good as it's going to get." Checkmate.
The happy ending, though, is that I immediately came home and looked for the pants online, and found them on sale at a huge discount. They'll be here in 5-7 business days. And yes, it's true I had to go one waist size up, but who the hell am I kidding anyway? Triumph over tragedy, people. It doesn't get any better than this. Which, come to think of it, should really alarm all of us.
Saturday, August 18, 2018
The Cell
My phone has recently decided to retire from the communications industry, instead telling me eternally that it is "searching" for wireless service. Although I do hate talking on the phone, I'm not quite ready to say that I'll never do it again, so I have embarked on an escalating series of internet searches and store visits. It is an exciting time to be alive!
Since I've never been one to leave my house if not absolutely necessary, I started out with some folk wisdom from the internet, which was about as helpful as you would expect. Since I didn't need a chat room to tell me to try restarting the phone and resetting it only resulted in me having to re-enter all of my wifi passwords, I was forced to look elsewhere.
The Sprint store was, frankly, terrifying. There was literally an armed robbery outside the store while I was there, and I had to speak with the police. ("The real crime is what's going on with my phone," I told them.) The woman who was "helping" me first told me that I could upgrade to a new phone free of charge and then told me that I could not upgrade under any circumstances no matter how much money I was willing to pay. I guess they take those last two months of my contract pretty seriously. She then told me I needed a new SIM card, but of course she couldn't give me one, because they were not a repair location. When you really have to work for something, you appreciate it more.
Ultimately, I ended up at the Apple store, where there was some sort of very cool in-store concert going on, so everyone had to shout at everyone else about diagnostics and insurance and whatnot. The good news was they would repair the phone for free, but the bad news was that they had to send it away to do it. So I now have a burner for 7-10 days. Seriously, it basically just lets me text and make calls, with the occasional odd gmail. I feel like I'm living in 2005, but without the glamour and convenience of a clamshell.
Anyway, isn't it shameful how addicted we've all become to our phones? I hardly know where to look while I'm not talking to the people around me now. I almost found myself picking up a book.
My phone has recently decided to retire from the communications industry, instead telling me eternally that it is "searching" for wireless service. Although I do hate talking on the phone, I'm not quite ready to say that I'll never do it again, so I have embarked on an escalating series of internet searches and store visits. It is an exciting time to be alive!
Since I've never been one to leave my house if not absolutely necessary, I started out with some folk wisdom from the internet, which was about as helpful as you would expect. Since I didn't need a chat room to tell me to try restarting the phone and resetting it only resulted in me having to re-enter all of my wifi passwords, I was forced to look elsewhere.
The Sprint store was, frankly, terrifying. There was literally an armed robbery outside the store while I was there, and I had to speak with the police. ("The real crime is what's going on with my phone," I told them.) The woman who was "helping" me first told me that I could upgrade to a new phone free of charge and then told me that I could not upgrade under any circumstances no matter how much money I was willing to pay. I guess they take those last two months of my contract pretty seriously. She then told me I needed a new SIM card, but of course she couldn't give me one, because they were not a repair location. When you really have to work for something, you appreciate it more.
Ultimately, I ended up at the Apple store, where there was some sort of very cool in-store concert going on, so everyone had to shout at everyone else about diagnostics and insurance and whatnot. The good news was they would repair the phone for free, but the bad news was that they had to send it away to do it. So I now have a burner for 7-10 days. Seriously, it basically just lets me text and make calls, with the occasional odd gmail. I feel like I'm living in 2005, but without the glamour and convenience of a clamshell.
Anyway, isn't it shameful how addicted we've all become to our phones? I hardly know where to look while I'm not talking to the people around me now. I almost found myself picking up a book.
Sunday, August 12, 2018
If You Can Make It There...
I spent a few days in New York this week for a work-related conference. Specifically, the conference hotel was actually on Times Square, so I had the pleasure of being accosted by costumed characters each morning as I headed out in desperate search of caffeine and breakfast. It was actually not entirely unlike when there used to be hookers there. And the windows in my room also fronted on the Square, so it was basically daylight all the time for me. Well, daylight in the form of a 200-foot H&M advertisement, but still.
I always enjoy being in New York, though at the same time I always hate being in New York. It is thrilling just to be in the midst of so many people, even if you do feel like hauling back and punching a lot of them. And the cultural opportunities are amazing, so long as you can get past the phalanx of national chain stores and restaurants that pen the tourists in. Plus, there are no alleys, so you get the chance to see everyone's trash just piled up on the sidewalks. Just think -- Katie Holmes' trash is in there somewhere!
For my part, I was largely in windowless rooms for seminars or indistinguishable bars for networking, which was all a mixed bag. One of my colleagues got an award, which was great, but the caterers decided to go big with a seafood entrée, which was not. My firm hosted a reception with mac and cheese bites, sliders, and ample alcohol, but it ended in me falling down the stairs and somehow slicing my leg open. And, of course, there was LaGuardia, where my return flight has never NOT been delayed and I have frequently resorted to Auntie Anne's pretzels as dinner. You stay classy, New York City.
I spent a few days in New York this week for a work-related conference. Specifically, the conference hotel was actually on Times Square, so I had the pleasure of being accosted by costumed characters each morning as I headed out in desperate search of caffeine and breakfast. It was actually not entirely unlike when there used to be hookers there. And the windows in my room also fronted on the Square, so it was basically daylight all the time for me. Well, daylight in the form of a 200-foot H&M advertisement, but still.
I always enjoy being in New York, though at the same time I always hate being in New York. It is thrilling just to be in the midst of so many people, even if you do feel like hauling back and punching a lot of them. And the cultural opportunities are amazing, so long as you can get past the phalanx of national chain stores and restaurants that pen the tourists in. Plus, there are no alleys, so you get the chance to see everyone's trash just piled up on the sidewalks. Just think -- Katie Holmes' trash is in there somewhere!
For my part, I was largely in windowless rooms for seminars or indistinguishable bars for networking, which was all a mixed bag. One of my colleagues got an award, which was great, but the caterers decided to go big with a seafood entrée, which was not. My firm hosted a reception with mac and cheese bites, sliders, and ample alcohol, but it ended in me falling down the stairs and somehow slicing my leg open. And, of course, there was LaGuardia, where my return flight has never NOT been delayed and I have frequently resorted to Auntie Anne's pretzels as dinner. You stay classy, New York City.
Saturday, August 04, 2018
Mouse Hunt
In one of the classiest developments of all time, my mother informed me last week that she believed a mouse had taken up residence in her car. Her evidence was compelling: someone had chewed on a plastic container of breath mints, and it sure as shit wasn't me. (Even more exciting, the mints themselves had also been chewed on, something she realized when she put one in her mouth.) Now, in my mother's driveway in rural downstate Illinois, an automotive mouse visitor may be the stuff children's books are made of, but here in my urban garage, it's kind of a red alert event. I could not help but imagine a whole family of little vermin setting up camp in my box of remaindered Bar Show costumes or something. So traps were purchased, and duly set.
A week later, the enemy has been vanquished. Or at least one enemy, I suppose. Though I quite intentionally purchased the sort of traps that are supposed to be humane and not involve touching a mouse corpse, the mouse apparently took the poison to go rather than drifting off peacefully in a high-comfort plastic box. So yeah, I ended up palming a dead rodent today, how about you? Admittedly, I wore gloves and used a plastic bag, but still I feel the need for seven to ten showers. And now I wanted to share it with all of you. I'm just that generous.
In one of the classiest developments of all time, my mother informed me last week that she believed a mouse had taken up residence in her car. Her evidence was compelling: someone had chewed on a plastic container of breath mints, and it sure as shit wasn't me. (Even more exciting, the mints themselves had also been chewed on, something she realized when she put one in her mouth.) Now, in my mother's driveway in rural downstate Illinois, an automotive mouse visitor may be the stuff children's books are made of, but here in my urban garage, it's kind of a red alert event. I could not help but imagine a whole family of little vermin setting up camp in my box of remaindered Bar Show costumes or something. So traps were purchased, and duly set.
A week later, the enemy has been vanquished. Or at least one enemy, I suppose. Though I quite intentionally purchased the sort of traps that are supposed to be humane and not involve touching a mouse corpse, the mouse apparently took the poison to go rather than drifting off peacefully in a high-comfort plastic box. So yeah, I ended up palming a dead rodent today, how about you? Admittedly, I wore gloves and used a plastic bag, but still I feel the need for seven to ten showers. And now I wanted to share it with all of you. I'm just that generous.
