I stand by my sensible vow to blog about work only in the most general of terms, but today was one of those frustrating days where the nature of my company's business required me to pretend to be an expert in an area I'm not, which is something I will never be particularly good at or comfortable with. I maintain that my liberal arts education successfully prepared me to bullshit my way through myriad tasks and situations, but sometimes it just seems more appropriate and ethical to say, "Sorry, but no, we don't do that. Seriously, don't hire me for this."
Or maybe I am hiding behind ethics simply because I don't want to do the thing they want to pay me to do. In any given situation, if it's a question of ethics or laziness, there's a good chance the latter is more solidly to blame. Or, equally possible, maybe I am making a big deal out of nothing. Perhaps this is just the way business works. After all, lots of people get paid to lie. Meteorologists, for instance. Nine times out of ten they're just making stuff up, right? Maybe I should be a meteorologist. Would I have to get a helmet-like haircut for that?
At the moment, I couldn't possibly be any less accurate a meteorologist than the ones currently serving the Twin Cities metro area, because every one of them repeatedly assured me that the temperature would reach 30 the past two days, and every one of them was downright wrong. Which wouldn't be so bad had I not BELIEVED them and been so bold as to downgrade from my down jacket back to my flimsy wool pea coat and to leave my hat at home. After nearly two solid weeks of sub-zero temperatures, I should be used to this. Instead, I feel perma-cold.
Even if I'd been out of the country in some balmy locale for the past week, I would still be able to tell that it'd been ridiculously cold for days on end. No one dares get a car wash in weather like this, for fear that the damn thing will freeze solid. Hence, everyone's car becomes so uniformly spattered with road spray that you can barely see its original paint job. Highways and parking lots start to look like suburban subdivisions--just like the cookie cutter houses in those neighborhoods, every car on the road is an only slightly varying shade of beige. As soon as the temperature reaches the mid-30s, there will be lines ten deep at every car wash, not unlike the gas crisis of 1973. Except that people will let their gas-guzzling giant SUVs idle for the duration that they wait in that line, so really, I guess nothing like the gas crisis of 1973 at all.
Moving on. I realize there are few less interesting things to talk about than the weather, but I am a Midwesterner. Talking about the weather is what we do. It ensures we don't have to muster any creativity in our small talk, and it prevents most of us from getting too personal (which makes Midwesterners uncomfortable), too. Besides that, even our esteemed public radio affiliate thinks the weather is news. Just the other day, I heard a thoroughly interesting and enlightening (read: utterly obvious and pointless) story explaining just why driving on every residential street in Minneapolis is like driving on a glacier right now. Really, MPR? When the snow melts a bit and then immediately freezes again, it turns into bumpy mounds of ice? And snow plows aren't designed for solid masses of ice? They can clear piles of snow, but not ice floes? How fascinating! Shocking, really! You learn something new every day.
In truth, I may have been predisposed to annoyance at that particular story solely because it was presented by the reporter who didn't find me charming enough to warrant a second date. I should be over and past that by now, of course, but usually when a dude doesn't like me (or I don't like him) I have only to worry about spotting him in Target. I don't typically have to hear his voice in my car on my commute, reminding me of the rejection, taunting me, if you will. This particular reporter has a specific beat, so when I hear the intro for a story that falls under that topic, I'm at least prepared for the commentator to say, "Here with more on that is Tim Becker." But ice floes in the street are not Tim's beat. What is he doing on my radio so often these days?
I'm not the only one to notice he's been in increased rotation, either. Ever the supportive friend, Carrie said out of the blue one day, "I'm so sick of Tim Becker." It surprised me, because if we're being entirely objective, there's actually nothing wrong with his reporting style, nothing at all unpleasant about his voice. Truly, the man's only offense was his lack of interest in me. But my disappointments are her disappointments, apparently. It's nice to know a friend's got my back. I'm equally grateful to my pal Flurrious, who once wrote, "That MPR reporter was a fool. When we cast your montage, let's find someone ugly to play him." Heh.
Incidentally, I should mention that Tim Becker is, of course, not the reporter's real name. I am not quite foolish enough to type that. I was, however, foolish enough to give the man my blog URL. (It was an experiment, part of a brief period where I decided to do the opposite of what I'd usually do in certain social situations, which unfortunately met with no notable results.) I cannot imagine any reason said reporter would still be checking in here regularly, but if I'm wrong about that, well, hello, Tim. Keep up the good work. How's it going? Call me! (Sigh.)
Maybe I should return to dating again. It has, after all, been a while. I went on fewer dates in 2009 than any year in recent memory, but you know what? I think I was, on the whole, happier in 2009 than in other recent years as well (nonsense with the Buddhist notwithstanding, that is). Could the two be correlated? Perhaps. Still, dates give me stories, and if I had stories, I probably wouldn't subject the Internet to three consecutive paragraphs about the weather. It's food for thought, I suppose.
Of course, before I go on another date, I should probably have a usable shower, because this showering at the gym or trying to get clean hair in my tub really isn't quite working for me. I can't bring myself to get up early enough to mess with a bath or the gym in the a.m., so I've been washing my hair at night and then sleeping on it unstyled, which leads to this misshapen conehead sort of thing in the morning. It's a good look, I tell you. I should take my next Catch dot Mom profile pic right NOW.
And that about catches you up, I think. I am cold, tired, and not-so-recently showered with no definitive remedy to any of those soon in sight. Tell me, what's new with YOU?
Showing posts with label Things I shouldn't blog about. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things I shouldn't blog about. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Monday, October 05, 2009
Spoonman
This just in: Did you know there is some sort of very important football contest on your television right now? I may have almost forgotten, but luckily, 37 of my closest Facebook friends have reminded me. And by "closest," I mean geographically closest, because shockingly, the majority of friends NOT located in either Wisconsin or Minnesota haven't weighed in at all. Truth be told, I don't give half a damn about the outcome of this game. My Wisconsin roots tell me to be loyal to Green Bay, but my nearly twelve years in Minnesota make me wonder if I'm supposed to root for them now instead. (Wait a minute. TWELVE? Really?? How in the hell did THAT happen? Here's another "This just in" newsflash: I am OLD.) Neither my Wisconsin roots nor my Minnesota residency can override the fact that I have only a rudimentary understanding of the game, however, and therefore little interest in rooting for either side. I will say this, though: it looks awfully strange to see Brett Favre in purple. I know that at least, anyway.
And thus ends what is likely the first and just as likely the last time you will see me write about football on this blog. You're welcome.
You know who does care about football, though? My dad. I'm sure he is watching Monday Night Football intently this evening, and... Wait. Scratch that. No he's not. He is sitting on his couch with his feet up under the guise of watching the game, but is in fact dozing off with his head back and his mouth open, giant bowl of snacks to his right and giant insulated mug of soda to his left.
And when I say "giant," I do mean GIANT. When I was a kid, my standard-sized dad used to fill a standard-sized glass with Coke and bring it with him into the living room to watch TV. Somewhere around my high school years, he started using the jumbo plastic tumblers stashed in the back of my parents' cupboards, and when I came home for holidays in college, he had upgraded to a large insulated travel mug with a lid and handle. I thought that was perhaps the biggest soda vessel he could find, short of pouring an entire two-liter bottle into one of my mom's mixing bowls or an empty ice cream bucket, but lo, I was wrong. When I came home for Christmas last year, he had somehow, somewhere acquired an insulated travel mug that, were it alive, could have eaten three of his previous insulated travel mugs. I saw this travel mug on the bottom shelf of my parents' refrigerator, where they keep gallon containers of milk and orange juice, and it consumed the same amount of shelf real estate as those gallon containers. I don't know where one would even purchase a travel mug this large, but I suspect is in the same place where one would purchase giant sunglasses and other comically large accessories for parties and practical jokes. Do you remember the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer offered lodging to a group of tiny Japanese businessmen, and they each slept in one of his bureau drawers? If Kramer ran out of drawers but had a travel mug like my father's, I'm pretty sure one of those tiny business men could have slept quite comfortably nestled inside that mug. I think you get my point. The mug is LARGE.
Please don't ask me why my father routinely needs immediate access to a full gallon of soda at a time. I cannot explain that any more than I can explain why he rolls his window down when he pulls his car into the garage, or why he spreads butter on donuts and cinnamon rolls, or why he has upwards of a thousand or more VHS tapes he will never watch again, or why he buys off-brand, nearly expired beef jerky and bagged snacks at the Dollar Store when already he has three full cupboards of uneaten snacks at home. Or why, as I mentioned last week, he brings his own spoon to restaurants. That's right: his own spoon. A few of you asked about that.
I don't have any solid answers about the spoon. Again, I think size has something to do with it. At some point, my father decided that the teaspoons in my parents' silverware set weren't large enough to use for soup or ice cream, so he started using the tablespoon-sized spoons in the next compartment of the drawer instead. That's reasonable enough; even in restaurants, they give you a larger spoon for soup than they do to stir your coffee. But when he decided the tablespoon wasn't large enough either, he upgraded to the serving spoons instead. And obviously once you are used to raising your soup to your mouth nearly a ladle-full at a time, you can't be expected to resort to the tiny soup spoons designed for mere mortals when you dine out, so my dad started carrying one of my mom's metal serving spoons in his jacket pocket at all times. Then he fell in love with all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets, where he'd eat his hot & sour or wonton soup with one of those flat-bottomed, white ceramic spoons. And I guess he decided that a short-handled ceramic spoon would fit better in his pocket than a serving spoon, because now he carries one of those around instead. I'm pretty sure he found his at Goodwill or another thrift store he visits regularly and didn't just pocket one from the Chinese buffet, but obviously the man has some strange quirks; I can't guarantee petty theft isn't one of them.
So it turns out, I guess I can explain the spoon. But I still can't really explain it. I am an intensely logical person, so I want to understand why my aging parents do the very strange things they do, but I know that some things just aren't meant to be understood. I realize that no matter how baffled I am, I have to make peace with it, knowing that one of the great luxuries of growing old is to be able to indulge in your quirks and idiosyncrasies, to be able to thumb your nose at convention and do whatever you damn well please. Really, if we can't have that, there's almost no point in getting old. With that in mind, I could have a lot of fun trying to decide just what sort of crazy old lady I will one day be.
The game is over now, incidentally, and I guess I did have an opinion a little bit, because I was surprised to feel a teensy bit sad when the Packers didn't rally for a last-minute win in the end. So I guess that answers that question, in case there was any doubt. You can take the girl out of Wisconsin, but can't take the Wisconsin out of the girl. Or maybe the gene that favors the Packers is a dominant one. Let's hope some of those other genes aren't.
And thus ends what is likely the first and just as likely the last time you will see me write about football on this blog. You're welcome.
You know who does care about football, though? My dad. I'm sure he is watching Monday Night Football intently this evening, and... Wait. Scratch that. No he's not. He is sitting on his couch with his feet up under the guise of watching the game, but is in fact dozing off with his head back and his mouth open, giant bowl of snacks to his right and giant insulated mug of soda to his left.
And when I say "giant," I do mean GIANT. When I was a kid, my standard-sized dad used to fill a standard-sized glass with Coke and bring it with him into the living room to watch TV. Somewhere around my high school years, he started using the jumbo plastic tumblers stashed in the back of my parents' cupboards, and when I came home for holidays in college, he had upgraded to a large insulated travel mug with a lid and handle. I thought that was perhaps the biggest soda vessel he could find, short of pouring an entire two-liter bottle into one of my mom's mixing bowls or an empty ice cream bucket, but lo, I was wrong. When I came home for Christmas last year, he had somehow, somewhere acquired an insulated travel mug that, were it alive, could have eaten three of his previous insulated travel mugs. I saw this travel mug on the bottom shelf of my parents' refrigerator, where they keep gallon containers of milk and orange juice, and it consumed the same amount of shelf real estate as those gallon containers. I don't know where one would even purchase a travel mug this large, but I suspect is in the same place where one would purchase giant sunglasses and other comically large accessories for parties and practical jokes. Do you remember the episode of Seinfeld where Kramer offered lodging to a group of tiny Japanese businessmen, and they each slept in one of his bureau drawers? If Kramer ran out of drawers but had a travel mug like my father's, I'm pretty sure one of those tiny business men could have slept quite comfortably nestled inside that mug. I think you get my point. The mug is LARGE.
Please don't ask me why my father routinely needs immediate access to a full gallon of soda at a time. I cannot explain that any more than I can explain why he rolls his window down when he pulls his car into the garage, or why he spreads butter on donuts and cinnamon rolls, or why he has upwards of a thousand or more VHS tapes he will never watch again, or why he buys off-brand, nearly expired beef jerky and bagged snacks at the Dollar Store when already he has three full cupboards of uneaten snacks at home. Or why, as I mentioned last week, he brings his own spoon to restaurants. That's right: his own spoon. A few of you asked about that.
I don't have any solid answers about the spoon. Again, I think size has something to do with it. At some point, my father decided that the teaspoons in my parents' silverware set weren't large enough to use for soup or ice cream, so he started using the tablespoon-sized spoons in the next compartment of the drawer instead. That's reasonable enough; even in restaurants, they give you a larger spoon for soup than they do to stir your coffee. But when he decided the tablespoon wasn't large enough either, he upgraded to the serving spoons instead. And obviously once you are used to raising your soup to your mouth nearly a ladle-full at a time, you can't be expected to resort to the tiny soup spoons designed for mere mortals when you dine out, so my dad started carrying one of my mom's metal serving spoons in his jacket pocket at all times. Then he fell in love with all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets, where he'd eat his hot & sour or wonton soup with one of those flat-bottomed, white ceramic spoons. And I guess he decided that a short-handled ceramic spoon would fit better in his pocket than a serving spoon, because now he carries one of those around instead. I'm pretty sure he found his at Goodwill or another thrift store he visits regularly and didn't just pocket one from the Chinese buffet, but obviously the man has some strange quirks; I can't guarantee petty theft isn't one of them.
So it turns out, I guess I can explain the spoon. But I still can't really explain it. I am an intensely logical person, so I want to understand why my aging parents do the very strange things they do, but I know that some things just aren't meant to be understood. I realize that no matter how baffled I am, I have to make peace with it, knowing that one of the great luxuries of growing old is to be able to indulge in your quirks and idiosyncrasies, to be able to thumb your nose at convention and do whatever you damn well please. Really, if we can't have that, there's almost no point in getting old. With that in mind, I could have a lot of fun trying to decide just what sort of crazy old lady I will one day be.
The game is over now, incidentally, and I guess I did have an opinion a little bit, because I was surprised to feel a teensy bit sad when the Packers didn't rally for a last-minute win in the end. So I guess that answers that question, in case there was any doubt. You can take the girl out of Wisconsin, but can't take the Wisconsin out of the girl. Or maybe the gene that favors the Packers is a dominant one. Let's hope some of those other genes aren't.
Monday, February 16, 2009
If I keep this up, I may find myself becoming one of those people who uses "party" as a verb.
My weekends are starting to feel a bit like Groundhog Day. You know... drink some wine, watch a couple get engaged... same old, same old.
Yes folks, I actually witnessed two engagements in one week. Tis the season, I suppose? This time, it was some friends of The Buddhist, the female half of which proposed at the Art Institute and then dragged her new fiance' over to a local wine shop, where thirty or so of their closest friends and friends-of-friends were waiting for a surprise congratulations party. I fall into that latter category, of course, the friends-of-friends category, although I must say that the friends of The Buddhist whom I have met thus far are so tremendously kind and fun and flattering that I may just start collectively dating all of them instead. I'm not sure of the specifics in making that happen, but I'm sure we can work out the details.
The engagement party was the first of four parties I attended this weekend, because clearly I am just that busy and popular. I've been told that I cannot actually count the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon as a party, given that it took place in a community center and included parents and grandparents but no alcohol, but I care not. I received an invitation and I brought a gift. Also, there was cake. It may not have been a particularly raucous party, but I say that qualifies it as a party nonetheless. After all, how many times do I get invited to four parties in one weekend? I'm not going to let some killjoy take that claim from me.
I am invited to another party this coming weekend... This one is an Oscars party, but I will not be attending, as A) I will be in Mexico at the time, and B) I do not actually know the people who sent the invitation. Because I feel it might be rude to reply to the Evite with an, "I'm sorry, but... WHO are you??" I have instead used my powers of deductive reasoning to determine which friends the party hosts are associated to me through and conclude with approximately 96% certainty who those hosts are. I am all for making new friends through existing friends, but I still think it's a little weird to mine a past Evite to round out your guest list. Or maybe that's just me.
In any case, as I said, my primary conflict is that I will be in Mexico, which I tell all of you on the Internet with the express instructions that you please NOT find and burglarize my house while I'm gone. I promise you, the booty you would gather would not be worth the trouble. Unless! Wait! Perhaps one of you could engineer a reverse-burglary instead? I will even save you the effort of breaking in and possibly alarming my neighbors. I will leave a key under the mat, and you can just come right in and replace my ailing, stuffed-to-capacity Dell desktop with a shiny new laptop. If you'd like to take care of that whole "holes and duct tape in the shower" mess while you're here too, I'd be much appreciative. It'll be just like one of those surprise home makeover reality shows, except that I haven't actually suffered a near-fatal disease or saved a litter of kittens from a burning building as a means of deserving said makeover. Details.
The Mexico trip is one I mentioned a while ago. It's a company trip, making it a wholly mixed blessing, I say. On the one hand, it's a free (or, almost free... the details of the "almost" part are something I've ranted about to nearly everyone who'll listen, but I don't feel at liberty to publish them here) trip to a very warm place in the middle of February. I could certainly use a vacation, and I would certainly enjoy wearing sandals comfortably for four days or so. On the other hand, I usually take vacations to get away from everything that reminds me of work, and having all of my coworkers there with me will sort of make that impossible. It's a bit like a four-day company holiday party. I usually cut out of the holiday parties right after dessert. Staying for four days is a foreign idea to me.
Regardless, I plan to make the best of it. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort, so I intend to sip my weight in margaritas while I soak up some sun and blow through a couple books. Today I even found a swimsuit that I can almost bear to wear in front of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about as well. I stopped short of one of these wholesome numbers, but managed to find a modest yet not matronly, reasonably cute one-piece that will not result in the middle-aged men I see every day staring at my cleavage or abdomen, and really that's about all I can ask for in a swimsuit for this particular trip, so, yay.
With that trip to plan for, I suspect my posting will be even more sporadic than usual this week (which actually probably means business as usual, and yet I felt the need to warn you anyway). It's just as well, as later this week you'll all be busy reading the posts in R's next Blog Share. No anonypost from me this time. (Mexico, remember? Too much to do, folks. Or so is my excuse.) I'm sure it'll be as entertaining and heart-wrenching as the last three. Someone make note of the highlights for me, OK?
Yes folks, I actually witnessed two engagements in one week. Tis the season, I suppose? This time, it was some friends of The Buddhist, the female half of which proposed at the Art Institute and then dragged her new fiance' over to a local wine shop, where thirty or so of their closest friends and friends-of-friends were waiting for a surprise congratulations party. I fall into that latter category, of course, the friends-of-friends category, although I must say that the friends of The Buddhist whom I have met thus far are so tremendously kind and fun and flattering that I may just start collectively dating all of them instead. I'm not sure of the specifics in making that happen, but I'm sure we can work out the details.
The engagement party was the first of four parties I attended this weekend, because clearly I am just that busy and popular. I've been told that I cannot actually count the baby shower I attended Saturday afternoon as a party, given that it took place in a community center and included parents and grandparents but no alcohol, but I care not. I received an invitation and I brought a gift. Also, there was cake. It may not have been a particularly raucous party, but I say that qualifies it as a party nonetheless. After all, how many times do I get invited to four parties in one weekend? I'm not going to let some killjoy take that claim from me.
I am invited to another party this coming weekend... This one is an Oscars party, but I will not be attending, as A) I will be in Mexico at the time, and B) I do not actually know the people who sent the invitation. Because I feel it might be rude to reply to the Evite with an, "I'm sorry, but... WHO are you??" I have instead used my powers of deductive reasoning to determine which friends the party hosts are associated to me through and conclude with approximately 96% certainty who those hosts are. I am all for making new friends through existing friends, but I still think it's a little weird to mine a past Evite to round out your guest list. Or maybe that's just me.
In any case, as I said, my primary conflict is that I will be in Mexico, which I tell all of you on the Internet with the express instructions that you please NOT find and burglarize my house while I'm gone. I promise you, the booty you would gather would not be worth the trouble. Unless! Wait! Perhaps one of you could engineer a reverse-burglary instead? I will even save you the effort of breaking in and possibly alarming my neighbors. I will leave a key under the mat, and you can just come right in and replace my ailing, stuffed-to-capacity Dell desktop with a shiny new laptop. If you'd like to take care of that whole "holes and duct tape in the shower" mess while you're here too, I'd be much appreciative. It'll be just like one of those surprise home makeover reality shows, except that I haven't actually suffered a near-fatal disease or saved a litter of kittens from a burning building as a means of deserving said makeover. Details.
The Mexico trip is one I mentioned a while ago. It's a company trip, making it a wholly mixed blessing, I say. On the one hand, it's a free (or, almost free... the details of the "almost" part are something I've ranted about to nearly everyone who'll listen, but I don't feel at liberty to publish them here) trip to a very warm place in the middle of February. I could certainly use a vacation, and I would certainly enjoy wearing sandals comfortably for four days or so. On the other hand, I usually take vacations to get away from everything that reminds me of work, and having all of my coworkers there with me will sort of make that impossible. It's a bit like a four-day company holiday party. I usually cut out of the holiday parties right after dessert. Staying for four days is a foreign idea to me.
Regardless, I plan to make the best of it. We're staying at an all-inclusive resort, so I intend to sip my weight in margaritas while I soak up some sun and blow through a couple books. Today I even found a swimsuit that I can almost bear to wear in front of my coworkers, so that's one less thing to worry about as well. I stopped short of one of these wholesome numbers, but managed to find a modest yet not matronly, reasonably cute one-piece that will not result in the middle-aged men I see every day staring at my cleavage or abdomen, and really that's about all I can ask for in a swimsuit for this particular trip, so, yay.
With that trip to plan for, I suspect my posting will be even more sporadic than usual this week (which actually probably means business as usual, and yet I felt the need to warn you anyway). It's just as well, as later this week you'll all be busy reading the posts in R's next Blog Share. No anonypost from me this time. (Mexico, remember? Too much to do, folks. Or so is my excuse.) I'm sure it'll be as entertaining and heart-wrenching as the last three. Someone make note of the highlights for me, OK?
Sunday, November 30, 2008
NaBloPoMoPleaseNoMo, Day 30. Wouldn't it be funny if I simply forgot to post today?
Last day of NaBlo '08, to which I say, "Whoo!" and also "Whew." Actually, truth be told, I didn't find the post-every-day nonsense all that hard this year, but I did find it a bit uneventful. A comparatively smaller number of my blog friends participated this year than in prior years, so there was to some extent the opposite of that "we're all in this together" feeling--which I suppose would be, more simply, an "I'm in this all alone" feeling, except that saying that discounts the efforts of the good people who did play along all month (Courtney, Mickey, Aaron, etc., represent).
I can't say I'm particularly proud of my showing in NaBlo this year. I know that the point of the experiment is simply to write--to get oneself in the habit of writing more often, to flex those muscles, to self-edit less, to allow oneself the freedom to post something that is utter crap, with the knowledge that something else will takes its place in top position the following day. But while there were a few posts this month that I'm genuinely happy with, there were several more that I wish I hadn't knocked out by force racing against the clock--posts that either wouldn't have seen the light of day had it not been for the constraints of NaBlo or that I would have at least put off for a while until I found the time to reflect and rework. Am I going to tell you which posts I'm proud of and which ones I realize were utter crap? Obviously no. Just wanted to put a disclaimer out there anyway.
All that out of the way, I hope everyone had a lovely long weekend. Me, I spent essentially the whole four days with my family, and while I realize I should deem that lovely and meaningful and cherish every moment as a memory in the making, in reality, I can't help but feel a bit cheated. I mean, a four-day weekend? And not more than a few hours of it to do with as I please? It hardly seems fair. I demand another full weekend as reimbursement for the unintentionally squandered previous one. That's not too much to ask, is it?
Approximately four hours of this squandered long weekend was spent driving to and from my sister's condo, which, as usual, became our "home base" for the weekend. It's all good and fine; I'd rather have my parents on her turf than mine anyway, although the drive to and from her place on the other side of Minneapolis did get a bit tedious after a while. Not only that, but each time I made that trip, I had to drive past the cross street where a failed meMarmony match lives, which set me to thinking about him once again.
This particular match was the one I had a whopping eight dates with back in early aught-seven (and the one I eventually decided was for some reason less appealing to me than a night alone with a bottle of wine and an unopened printer/scanner was). I've thought about that one lots of times in the year and a half since. I wonder sometimes if I give up on things too quickly, if I expect some knock-over-the-head magic right from the start and therefore don't give men the time to grow on me. With that guy, however, I want to believe I really did give things a chance. He was perfect for me on paper, after all. He was the ideal mix of down-to-earth guy with small-town roots vs. modern, urban sophisticate. The right mix of responsible vs. fun-loving. Intelligent vs. charmingly clueless. He was an MPR member and a Guthrie season ticket holder. He was very tall and reasonably good looking. He liked live music and new restaurants. He had a good job and more money than he knew what to do with. And unfortunately, I could not have a comfortable and easy conversation with him.
On each of our dates, there would be brief moments of promise--moments when I would say something that would make him laugh or he'd say something that would make me think, "All right! There's something in there worth continuing to dig for!" But I firmly believe that after 30+ hours with someone, those moments should be less the exception and more the norm. I kept hoping I was knocking bricks out of this wall of shyness, when in fact, maybe those rare moments of promise were just cracks in an impenetrable wall of awkwardness that I'd happened upon by chance.
Eventually I called it off, and he claimed to agree it was the right move. We emailed once or twice about nothing in particular in the months following, but never made plans to get together again. I do wonder about him from time to time, however--wonder if I made the wrong choice. Last summer, at a concert with 8,000 attendees, I wedged past a line of strangers waiting for beer tickets and unexpectedly found myself face three inches away from his face. We were both friendly, of course, and both entirely caught off guard, so we both sputtered little more than nonsense and small-talk niceties.
After driving past his apartment so many times this weekend, I decided to do a Facebook search for him, and lo, he has a profile now. One that's set to Public, even, meaning I could freely spy to my heart's content. I thought maybe I'd look at his photos and feel some twinge of jealousy, but in fact, the exact opposite happened. I saw the caption a friend of a friend of his put on a candid, obviously surprised-by-the-camera shot, and I heard the exact inflection of the meek and vapid, "uh, heh, hi" in his voice. Also, I saw heavily mascaraed and lip-glossed girls in slightly trashy outfits with their arms around him, and I thought, "Those are not my people. In fact, they are probably 'Woo girls,' and I am glad I'm not obligated by relationship association to hang out with them." In one, the album owner went so far as to type a baby-talk version of his name, and it nearly made me hurl just reading it.
So. Facebook addiction (and the inevitable resultant spying)? Not all that harmful, really. Except for the part where I'm finding out that all my college friends have apparently gone conservative. (Facebook status I want to use but will not, for obvious reasons: "Stefanie is wondering when all of her college friends became Republicans.") Oh, and that the girl who was my best friend for a good portion of high school but disowned me in a loud, angry, and unwarranted bar rant at a mutual friend's bachelorette party several years ago sort of looks like hell now and inexplicably wants to link to me as friends despite our falling out. But both of those are stories for another day. Or stories for no day, more likely. Seventeen minutes and counting until the end of NaBloPoMo '08. It's been real, but I am out.
I can't say I'm particularly proud of my showing in NaBlo this year. I know that the point of the experiment is simply to write--to get oneself in the habit of writing more often, to flex those muscles, to self-edit less, to allow oneself the freedom to post something that is utter crap, with the knowledge that something else will takes its place in top position the following day. But while there were a few posts this month that I'm genuinely happy with, there were several more that I wish I hadn't knocked out by force racing against the clock--posts that either wouldn't have seen the light of day had it not been for the constraints of NaBlo or that I would have at least put off for a while until I found the time to reflect and rework. Am I going to tell you which posts I'm proud of and which ones I realize were utter crap? Obviously no. Just wanted to put a disclaimer out there anyway.
All that out of the way, I hope everyone had a lovely long weekend. Me, I spent essentially the whole four days with my family, and while I realize I should deem that lovely and meaningful and cherish every moment as a memory in the making, in reality, I can't help but feel a bit cheated. I mean, a four-day weekend? And not more than a few hours of it to do with as I please? It hardly seems fair. I demand another full weekend as reimbursement for the unintentionally squandered previous one. That's not too much to ask, is it?
Approximately four hours of this squandered long weekend was spent driving to and from my sister's condo, which, as usual, became our "home base" for the weekend. It's all good and fine; I'd rather have my parents on her turf than mine anyway, although the drive to and from her place on the other side of Minneapolis did get a bit tedious after a while. Not only that, but each time I made that trip, I had to drive past the cross street where a failed meMarmony match lives, which set me to thinking about him once again.
This particular match was the one I had a whopping eight dates with back in early aught-seven (and the one I eventually decided was for some reason less appealing to me than a night alone with a bottle of wine and an unopened printer/scanner was). I've thought about that one lots of times in the year and a half since. I wonder sometimes if I give up on things too quickly, if I expect some knock-over-the-head magic right from the start and therefore don't give men the time to grow on me. With that guy, however, I want to believe I really did give things a chance. He was perfect for me on paper, after all. He was the ideal mix of down-to-earth guy with small-town roots vs. modern, urban sophisticate. The right mix of responsible vs. fun-loving. Intelligent vs. charmingly clueless. He was an MPR member and a Guthrie season ticket holder. He was very tall and reasonably good looking. He liked live music and new restaurants. He had a good job and more money than he knew what to do with. And unfortunately, I could not have a comfortable and easy conversation with him.
On each of our dates, there would be brief moments of promise--moments when I would say something that would make him laugh or he'd say something that would make me think, "All right! There's something in there worth continuing to dig for!" But I firmly believe that after 30+ hours with someone, those moments should be less the exception and more the norm. I kept hoping I was knocking bricks out of this wall of shyness, when in fact, maybe those rare moments of promise were just cracks in an impenetrable wall of awkwardness that I'd happened upon by chance.
Eventually I called it off, and he claimed to agree it was the right move. We emailed once or twice about nothing in particular in the months following, but never made plans to get together again. I do wonder about him from time to time, however--wonder if I made the wrong choice. Last summer, at a concert with 8,000 attendees, I wedged past a line of strangers waiting for beer tickets and unexpectedly found myself face three inches away from his face. We were both friendly, of course, and both entirely caught off guard, so we both sputtered little more than nonsense and small-talk niceties.
After driving past his apartment so many times this weekend, I decided to do a Facebook search for him, and lo, he has a profile now. One that's set to Public, even, meaning I could freely spy to my heart's content. I thought maybe I'd look at his photos and feel some twinge of jealousy, but in fact, the exact opposite happened. I saw the caption a friend of a friend of his put on a candid, obviously surprised-by-the-camera shot, and I heard the exact inflection of the meek and vapid, "uh, heh, hi" in his voice. Also, I saw heavily mascaraed and lip-glossed girls in slightly trashy outfits with their arms around him, and I thought, "Those are not my people. In fact, they are probably 'Woo girls,' and I am glad I'm not obligated by relationship association to hang out with them." In one, the album owner went so far as to type a baby-talk version of his name, and it nearly made me hurl just reading it.
So. Facebook addiction (and the inevitable resultant spying)? Not all that harmful, really. Except for the part where I'm finding out that all my college friends have apparently gone conservative. (Facebook status I want to use but will not, for obvious reasons: "Stefanie is wondering when all of her college friends became Republicans.") Oh, and that the girl who was my best friend for a good portion of high school but disowned me in a loud, angry, and unwarranted bar rant at a mutual friend's bachelorette party several years ago sort of looks like hell now and inexplicably wants to link to me as friends despite our falling out. But both of those are stories for another day. Or stories for no day, more likely. Seventeen minutes and counting until the end of NaBloPoMo '08. It's been real, but I am out.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Just priming myself for the Thanksgiving gorging, it would seem
Hello, friends. Do you know what makes for some really good blogging? Starting every post for a solid week with an apology for not posting about what you think you're supposed to be posting about. (Note to self: If you're determined to stick to a theme for NaBlo, pick a theme you are certain you'll want to write about for thirty days consecutively.)
I do have a few more date stories that I'm working on getting out before the month is through, and if I finish one of them tonight, it might actually be a two-post day. (You're welcome or I'm sorry, depending on your feelings on that.) Meanwhile, however, I have another public service message for you. Unfortunately, I cannot decide if this message should be a recommendation or a warning. Many of you know Jess. Do you know about her occasionally updated recipe blog? If so, then perhaps you have tried her Thai Coconut Chicken. Yes? No? (Note to Liz and Noelle: I know you would eat neither chicken nor the shrimp I'm about to tell you I use in this recipe instead. In lieu of reading the next two paragraphs, perhaps you want to go play the next round in the Facebook Scramble game to which I challenged you instead?)
As I think I've mentioned once or fourteen times, I very rarely take the time to make anything that might be deemed an official home-cooked meal, and when I do, it is such a novelty that it's even more rare I make the same recipe twice. This Thai coconut chicken, however? I have made that no fewer than five times since Jess posted the recipe in July, and it is no less delicious every time. I usually substitute pre-cooked frozen shrimp for the chicken and cilantro for the basil, but I have done it Jess's way too and it was still a success.
Why is this a warning as well as a recommendation? Because if you are anything like me, this four-serving recipe at 8 WW points per serving will actually become more like two servings. And then, after your double-sized serving, you will finally scoop up the leftovers out of the pan and into an IKEA food storage container and safely stash it away in the fridge, out of sight. But lo! An hour later, you will remember that damn, that Thai coconut shrimp sure was good, and maybe I should have just another forkful or so? And you will take the IKEA food storage container out of your fridge and discover that--oh no!--it is damn near as delicious cold as it was hot straight out of the pan. And then you will feel like calling Jillian Michaels to apologize because you're well aware that this is NOT the sensible eating plan she encourages as part of the 30-Day Shred that you're attempting because the Internet told you to.
If, like me, you also happen to have your own personal housecall-making ice cream man, keeping you entirely more stocked than necessary with Ben & Jerry's pumpkin cheesecake ice cream, well, then, you might as well just give up any hope of wearing a bikini in public ever again. And this after you just discovered you'll be awarded a free trip to Mexico with all your coworkers come winter. What's better than vacationing with coworkers? Vacationing in swimsuits with coworkers! Hoorah! I think it goes without saying that this is wholly a mixed blessing.
Yes, I am going to Mexico with my coworkers for four days this February. That is something that perhaps I could write about, but I think perhaps doing so might be cause for pulling out that "Things I shouldn't blog about" category once again.
Speaking of things I shouldn't blog about, do you remember last year, when I blogged my fake answers to the 15-year high school reunion questionnaire I did not submit? I sort of feel like doing that with the questions I'm supposed to submit prior to my annual performance review tomorrow. That would definitely fall under the category of "Things they could fire me for if my employer ever found out about this blog," however, so instead I think I'll just let all of YOU guess what my goals for the next five years might be and how my employer might make themselves a more enjoyable place to work. Have at it!
I do have a few more date stories that I'm working on getting out before the month is through, and if I finish one of them tonight, it might actually be a two-post day. (You're welcome or I'm sorry, depending on your feelings on that.) Meanwhile, however, I have another public service message for you. Unfortunately, I cannot decide if this message should be a recommendation or a warning. Many of you know Jess. Do you know about her occasionally updated recipe blog? If so, then perhaps you have tried her Thai Coconut Chicken. Yes? No? (Note to Liz and Noelle: I know you would eat neither chicken nor the shrimp I'm about to tell you I use in this recipe instead. In lieu of reading the next two paragraphs, perhaps you want to go play the next round in the Facebook Scramble game to which I challenged you instead?)
As I think I've mentioned once or fourteen times, I very rarely take the time to make anything that might be deemed an official home-cooked meal, and when I do, it is such a novelty that it's even more rare I make the same recipe twice. This Thai coconut chicken, however? I have made that no fewer than five times since Jess posted the recipe in July, and it is no less delicious every time. I usually substitute pre-cooked frozen shrimp for the chicken and cilantro for the basil, but I have done it Jess's way too and it was still a success.
Why is this a warning as well as a recommendation? Because if you are anything like me, this four-serving recipe at 8 WW points per serving will actually become more like two servings. And then, after your double-sized serving, you will finally scoop up the leftovers out of the pan and into an IKEA food storage container and safely stash it away in the fridge, out of sight. But lo! An hour later, you will remember that damn, that Thai coconut shrimp sure was good, and maybe I should have just another forkful or so? And you will take the IKEA food storage container out of your fridge and discover that--oh no!--it is damn near as delicious cold as it was hot straight out of the pan. And then you will feel like calling Jillian Michaels to apologize because you're well aware that this is NOT the sensible eating plan she encourages as part of the 30-Day Shred that you're attempting because the Internet told you to.
If, like me, you also happen to have your own personal housecall-making ice cream man, keeping you entirely more stocked than necessary with Ben & Jerry's pumpkin cheesecake ice cream, well, then, you might as well just give up any hope of wearing a bikini in public ever again. And this after you just discovered you'll be awarded a free trip to Mexico with all your coworkers come winter. What's better than vacationing with coworkers? Vacationing in swimsuits with coworkers! Hoorah! I think it goes without saying that this is wholly a mixed blessing.
Yes, I am going to Mexico with my coworkers for four days this February. That is something that perhaps I could write about, but I think perhaps doing so might be cause for pulling out that "Things I shouldn't blog about" category once again.
Speaking of things I shouldn't blog about, do you remember last year, when I blogged my fake answers to the 15-year high school reunion questionnaire I did not submit? I sort of feel like doing that with the questions I'm supposed to submit prior to my annual performance review tomorrow. That would definitely fall under the category of "Things they could fire me for if my employer ever found out about this blog," however, so instead I think I'll just let all of YOU guess what my goals for the next five years might be and how my employer might make themselves a more enjoyable place to work. Have at it!
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Tidbits without pants
- First off, I should clarify that I am wearing pants. But for some reason, whenever I think the word "tidbits" in my head, it is followed by "without pants." Can anyone tell me WHY? Because I have no idea. I must have read it somewhere. Did one of you use that as a post title once? No? I'm just a crazy lady? I thought so.
- Speaking of pants (or no pants), I am totally following Miss Pants's lead with the itemized list of randomness. How's it working for you so far? (Don't answer that.)
- In the past 24 hours, I have squashed no fewer than four tiny flying gnat-like things in my bathroom and computer room. There is no food in my kitchen that might explain a fruit fly infestation, my windows have not been open for weeks, and my garbage can should contain nothing particularly organic or questionable at the moment. So WHERE are they coming from? I am terrified I am eventually going to find a rotting, scary, long-forgotten nectarine that rolled behind a piece of furniture somewhere, but I am too mortified (read: lazy) to look for it.
- That reminds me of a story. Not the story involving the fruit fly infestation around my desk at work last summer (because I am still too horrified to share how that happened), but a story from when I first moved into my house five years ago. Because you don't have to worry about earning back a rental deposit when you sell a house, the previous owners didn't bother to clean a single room of my new home before I moved in. (I only hope karma paid them back nicely for that one.) As a result, I spent my first day here surrounded by boxes, on my hands and knees scrubbing my refrigerator, toilet, and bathtub. Good times. A couple days later, my good friend Lisa (bless her heart) came over to help me scrub away the sticky yellow grime that mysteriously coated nearly every surface in my kitchen. At some point about halfway into the project, Lisa looked up and cried, "I keep expecting to find a whole pork chop in here!" We never found one, but I wouldn't have been surprised if we had.
- This afternoon, my favorite coworker sent me an email that said, "I am pulling an HMC* and leaving for a bit without telling anyone where I'm going. I'd explain, but I'm sure you would say it was TMI. I'll be back shortly." Because you can't get a message like that and not be curious, I replied, and she finally admitted that my half-joking guess was correct and she had some indelicate stomach issues that she didn't want to attend to in our office's not-so-soundproof one-seater located in a high-traffic area in the center of the building. I thought perhaps she'd made the quick drive back to her own house for the Home Toilet Advantage**, but she later explained that she'd instead run to the public library (a half-block away) and relieved herself there. Rather than being incredulous or mortified, I told her that was actually a brilliant idea and I would have to remember it the next time I find myself in a similar emergency situation. The problem, of course, is that now should I ever tell her, "I'm going to the library," she is going to think I'm using this new secret code to give her more information than she needs about my digestive tract. It turns out there's a reason we don't talk about this sort of thing in polite company, isn't there?
* HMC is an acronym we use for the coworker we can't stand. It's not even that great of a nickname, so that's all I'll say about that.
** I just tried to Google my way back to the blog where I originally heard this term, and while I didn't find the one I was looking for, I did find a few other blogs that mentioned it. And because I was foolish enough to click on them, those blog owners are going to see me in their search engine hits and wonder about me the same way I have wondered about everyone who's ever Googled their way to MY blog with the words "human castration story." (I swore I would never type that here again, but frankly, the damage is already done and those searchers are never, ever going away, so once more really can't do any harm.) - The coworker we can't stand recently threatened to sue the gym where we all get free memberships. I think my boss is officially exasperated with her. Also, we learned that the gym personnel have their own special nickname for my least favorite coworker, and it's actually way better than ours. I cannot share it without giving away said coworker's last name, but I will say that it starts with "Evil" and rhymes with the name of a famous motorcycle daredevil named "Evel [something similar to my coworker's last name]." It's brilliant, really.
- Speaking of the gym, I think a sixty-year-old man may have hit on me there yesterday. Or not. Maybe he was just being friendly. He glanced over as I was getting up from the weight machine next to him, and he said, "Is that enough weight for you?" Because I am paranoid, I answered, "Uh, I think so. Why? Am I a wuss?" He laughed and said, "No! I actually meant the opposite! That was supposed to be a compliment!" And then he followed me around the weight room, choosing the machine next to mine three separate times, twice clarifying, "I meant that as a compliment! I'm sorry!" Um, OK sir. I'm just going to turn my iFraud up a bit now, 'kaythanksbye.
- Sunday night I went to a David Sedaris reading, and tonight I am going to a Sarah Vowell one. I'm pretty sure neither of them would ever type a random list of mini-stories and call it publishable. We'll just say that's one more reason I'm not the writer either of them is.
Monday, October 06, 2008
What's that? Haven't I ever heard of Dooce? Why no, in fact, it rings no bell.
Well then. When we last left our heroine*, she was on her way out of town to enjoy wine and Catchphrase around a campfire with friends. I'm pleased to report back with a "check" and a "check" on the wine and the campfire. Catchphrase might have been more likely to happen had I remembered to pack it. Oh well. Next time.
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* That would be me, but don't worry; I'm using the term lightly.
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In all, I had a lovely weekend, and I hope you did as well. And even lovelier, I came into work today (late as usual, unfortunately), saw the empty desk on the wall that borders mine, and remembered that my newly least favorite coworker is out of the office for two more days. Oh, sweet daytime silence. I've missed you so.
I know it is in poor (read: stupid and possibly self-sabotaging) form to blog about that place that starts with a "w" and rhymes with "schmurk," but given that this particular desk neighbor is a thorn in the side of even the woman who controls my paycheck, I have a hard time believing this could get me in too much trouble. (Famous last words? Perhaps. And yet, I persist.)
On more than one occasion, friends have said to me, "How's your job, anyway? You don't really talk about work much." Indeed; I don't. That is because 95% of the time, when I leave work, I LEAVE WORK. I don't take it home with me, in mind or in matter. There are periods of stress and busyness, yes, but thankfully they are not the norm. For the most part, I have few complaints (save for the overly enthusiastic birthday singer and the hallway hugger, both of whom, I'll readily admit, mean well and yet annoy me anyway). Lately, however? Lately I have plenty to say when anyone brings up the "w" word. Why? Because not-so-recently, the wiseguy you may remember as Mr. "All Jeans, All the Time" left us and was replaced by a better dressed but far less competent woman who has seemingly made it her mission to work my last nerve.
There really isn't a story here (or, there probably is, but it's not one I feel like telling). Instead, then, I present a simple bulleted list of grievances, for my own agitation and your potential amusement. My new coworker...
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* That would be me, but don't worry; I'm using the term lightly.
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In all, I had a lovely weekend, and I hope you did as well. And even lovelier, I came into work today (late as usual, unfortunately), saw the empty desk on the wall that borders mine, and remembered that my newly least favorite coworker is out of the office for two more days. Oh, sweet daytime silence. I've missed you so.
I know it is in poor (read: stupid and possibly self-sabotaging) form to blog about that place that starts with a "w" and rhymes with "schmurk," but given that this particular desk neighbor is a thorn in the side of even the woman who controls my paycheck, I have a hard time believing this could get me in too much trouble. (Famous last words? Perhaps. And yet, I persist.)
On more than one occasion, friends have said to me, "How's your job, anyway? You don't really talk about work much." Indeed; I don't. That is because 95% of the time, when I leave work, I LEAVE WORK. I don't take it home with me, in mind or in matter. There are periods of stress and busyness, yes, but thankfully they are not the norm. For the most part, I have few complaints (save for the overly enthusiastic birthday singer and the hallway hugger, both of whom, I'll readily admit, mean well and yet annoy me anyway). Lately, however? Lately I have plenty to say when anyone brings up the "w" word. Why? Because not-so-recently, the wiseguy you may remember as Mr. "All Jeans, All the Time" left us and was replaced by a better dressed but far less competent woman who has seemingly made it her mission to work my last nerve.
There really isn't a story here (or, there probably is, but it's not one I feel like telling). Instead, then, I present a simple bulleted list of grievances, for my own agitation and your potential amusement. My new coworker...
- Is currently sipping margaritas on a Mexican getaway, paid for with her ex-husband's frequent flier miles,
- on a trip she should not even have been allowed to take, given that she's not been employed long enough to accrue vacation time,
- and that she spent the last week working part time because of mysterious medical issues.
- She is a size 4 and has Bebe Neuwirth legs, even though she readily admits she has not exercised in 15 years, and
- I am pretty sure her "sweater muffins" were a gift from (and likely to) her ex-husband.
- I have had to tell her three times where the UPS labels are kept, where various files on our network are stored, and generally how to do most pieces of her job, even though
- Nearly every part of said job is painstakingly documented in great detail in a binder she claims to consult constantly.
- Her online dating profile is full of lies and strange delusions (which I know because she made the mistake of telling us which site she was using, apparently unaware that when bored and annoyed, I would shamelessly sleuth it out for my own--and another coworker's--entertainment).
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