I will start by saying that I should have written this story a long time ago. My disclaimer, however, is this: the events of this day were so outlandishly bizarre to me that I had no idea how to effectively capture them on paper. I will follow by apologizing for the length of this entry. I tried to be succinct but honestly felt each of the ensuing details was necessary – I hope you can stick around, have I not been worth it?! (rhetorical question, folks, don’t answer that).
It all happened a few weeks ago. I was hanging out with Tim when we thought it would be fun to take his kids either out to the lake or to the pool for the day. We left the decision up to them (without a boat, lakes are probably more fun for adults anyway: barbeque, beer, floaties, cliff jumping… typically non 8- and 10-year old fare). As we expected, the kids chose the pool. West Pool. Specifically, West Playdium Pool… That right there should give you a hint about the kind of people who own and operate said pool, and perhaps even provide a glimpse of their IQ levels. I should have realized then what a nightmarishly horrible situation anybody stupid enough to enter the grounds was walking into.
I need to pause here and say: for any of you who are reading this now and have been to the West Playdium Pool, I will just say: congratulations, the odds of you making it out alive were absolutely against you. They should develop a Purple Heart for bravery and courage just for making it out without Tetanus and all of your limbs intact.
So as soon as we get to the pool, the girls are excited and frantically asking me questions about have I ever been here before? Am I going to get in the pool and play with them? Because ohmygosh its sooo fun here! My answers were “no” and “sure,” respectively, followed by my internal monologue thoughts of yeah sure it’s fun here. Big ass pool in the middle of nowhere, probably a lawn chair on the side and not a slide in sight for kids. Yeah, fun. Holy fuck, if I’d have known I was walking into a situation with limitless story value I would have had a pen and paper out ready to record every hilarious word and observation Tim and I made that day.
The journey began with a ditsy attendant who was so out there I was sure he was high, or drunk, or maybe had been hit in the head really hard very recently, or all of the above. Said attendant (who Tim and I would later name “Claude” – think Hank Azaria from ‘Along Came Polly’) was manning the little spinny Disneyland-esque waist gate leading to the pool. When we didn’t have quite enough cash to get in, Tim produced his debit card. I could go into a lot of detail as to how much of an ordeal the credit card machine was for Claude to handle, but I will just nutshell it by saying, Claude was seriously considering free admittance for all four of us because of the challenge the machine posed. That should have been our first clue… So we walk in the pool grounds and I can immediately see why the girls were so excited to come here. In front of me was an enormous pool, with all manner of play-scapes and fun obstacles.
Everybody heads off to their respective bathrooms to change, and then we all sunscreen up and get in the pool. Tori and Courtney go off to play, so Tim and I are floating and talking, and I’ve hoisted myself up onto this massive pier-looking structure in the middle of the pool (that is covered with astro-turf and cause for many a rug burn). I’m just lying there watching the widespread child revelry all around me, soaking it in, when I just have to say something. I turn to Tim and say, you know, this place is full of hazards! Tim’s eyes instantly bulged and all he could respond with was, I know! I’ve been trying to tell people that for such a long time but everybody just looks at me like I’m crazy! The next couple hours were spent detailing each of the ways one could kill themselves by going to the West Playdium Pool. Here are the highlights:
Exhibit A: The Zip Line of Death. You know at Wild Rivers/Schlitterbahn/Raging Waters, etc how they have those water bridge things where there’s basically a rope slung across the pool with little handles spaced every so often, strategically placed over floating, squishy lily-pad like steps that are usually somehow tied to the bottom of the pool so that they float around and move juuuuust enough to make the lily-pad bridge hard to climb across but super fun? Okay, the Playdium has that too. Except the fun rope is a FUCKING ZIP LINE from no less than thirty feet in the air on one side of the pool that comes to a dead stop thirty yards across the pool about six inches from the concrete lip of the pool in about four feet of water. Oh, and the lily pad steps? The Playdium has those, too, except they aren’t actually part of the zip line of terror, they are just massive, four-foot-across, unmoving, concrete oases strategically placed directly under the zip-line for tanning or lounging, or for little children to pull their drowning selves out of the abyss if they happen to go too deep since there is one person to oversee the entire Playdium experience… but that’s another part of the story, I’ll get there.
Exhibit B: The Playground Slide. The pool also had a water slide. This, however, was not your typical water slide. This “water slide” looked like they’d hired the local hoodlums to go down to the middle school and jack the slide right out of the sand and haul it down to the pool. It was the jankety-ass metal slide that anybody who was between the ages of four and 15 anywhere during the 80’s remembers from the local public playgrounds because it was the same one you would go to steal cups from McDonalds to use to rub down the slide surface to make it more slippery so that you could actually slide down it rather than have your skin ripped and/or melted off from the scorching, not slick metal surface. So that slide was cemented to the edge of the pool with a fucking garden hose snaked up through the steps and plopped over the top so that water was streaming down, thus creating the “water slide.” Oh, I forgot to mention that there were several areas on the edge of the slide that were jagged and possibly rusting from what looks like being hammered back into place.
It was here that mine and Tim’s conversation was broken by a male voice yelling, hey! You have to let go at the bottom of the zip line! after a boy had come careening down the zip line and ran full into the concrete lip at the other end of the pool. The voice came from Claude, who Tim and I noticed was now sitting at the edge of the pool at the deep end now holding a lifeguarding tube, remotely looking like he was trying to lifeguard.
Exhibit C: Diving Boards. If you picture the deep end of the pool as a big L, the low dive was on the small part of the L and the high dive was on the long part of the L. Except, they were both the same distance away from the 90 degree corner. Meaning, as kids were diving off they were literally diving into the same exact place, completely willy-nilly, no supervision or roped off area to aim for. God forbid limbs intertwine and cause mid-air knock-outs.
Exhibit D: The Basketball Hoop. Just in case zip lines and high dives aren’t for you, the shallow end of the pool had a basketball hoop. Well, I think it used to be a basketball hoop. There was no hoop. Or backboard, for that matter. Really, it was actually just a big metal poll that looked like Medusa. Mangled metal supports (at least four of them) were jutting out at grotesque angles, a mere three to four feet above the surface of the water. The hoop had literally been dunked on so hard that it was ripped from its hangings and was left standing in the middle of the pool, a proverbial Pez dispenser of tetanus.
It was at this point that Tim and I noticed Claude was not manning the deep end with his lifeguard tube anymore. He had moved behind the shallow end of the pool to the snack shack area. More specifically, to the mini pool table that was right next to the snack shack area. It was then that our discussion turned to and focused on Jack-Of-All-Trades Claude. So far, Claude was the money taker, pool sweeper, life guard, zip line bucketer **, and hamburger flipper. And now he’s all of a sudden found time to become Claude, patron of the Playdium who just happens to be playing a casual game of mini pool?? Why the fuck is he the only person working in this watery death trap?
** Yes, at the top of the rickety zip line rope was a wooden structure – half jungle gym, half tree house complete with wooden ladder – from which departing zippers would have to manually draw the zip line back and coil the rope into an empty ten-gallon lard bucket before they can zip. I will also mention that the part of the tree house from which kiddie zippers depart is a completely open faced wall – there are no gates or barriers to keep kids from tumbling over the side and plummeting 20+ feet to the concrete below.
Exhibit E: The Blue Iguana Lounge. Finally, the clincher. I am convinced that the above exhibits should be proof enough the Playdium’s “death trap” status; however, for those of you that need one final piece of evidence to convince, here it is. Next to aforementioned snack shack and miniature pool table was the Blue Iguana Lounge. The Blue Iguana Lounge was basically some bar stools pulled up to a cut out window in a falling down wooden shack that looked like it was super-glued onto the side of the snack shack area. It was a full service bar. Remember, this pool is in the middle of nowhereville, Texas in a tiny-ass town so by full service I mean it has a wide variety of beer: Bud, Bud Light and Lonestar and all manner of cocktails: the Jimbo-rita and the Pink Elephant (Jimbo-rita with strawberry syrup). And if those selections weren’t enough for your sophisticated palate, have no fear, yes the Blue Iguana Lounge does serve Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill by the bottle.
So let’s recap this entire scenario very quickly.
Two diving boards send children plummeting at one another; there is a constant stream of children careening down a 30-foot zip line while dodging unmoving, concrete lily-pads – that is, if they haven’t fallen out of the doorless treehouse; garden hose metal water slide; tetanus-ridden mangled medusa hoop; Claude the solo super employee to who’s repertoire we have now added, “bartender.” As if the above list wasn’t filled with enough causes of death. People, the fucking pool also serves copious amounts of liquor.
I seriously couldn’t make this up. It is honestly a death trap. Coming from my former lifeguard self, I’m shocked there have been no deaths at this place, and I’m not going to lie – I am filled with the same morbid curiosity one has when driving past a massive highway wreck. I have to go back to that place, sans Tori and Courtney, for the sole purpose of watching the tangled web of calamitous potential. From afar, of course. No way in hell am I getting near that damned zip line.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Reflections
Do you ever wish you could turn off your heart? I do. Sometimes I think life would be easier if all the complications of emotion and love were just gone – that I didn’t have to worry about letting go, because there was nothing to succumb to, nothing to throw my heart at and wonder if it was going to sink in or bounce off and shatter into a million pieces. I think if it were possible for me I probably would have let my mind talk my heart out of the game a long time ago. But then something happens that makes me remember why I always opt to dive in and take the hurt with the joy. Something happens to remind me that everybody usually has what boils down to the same fears, just manifested in different ways – fear of being excluded, abandoned, unrequited, of being inferior, etc. The trick is finding somebody you can show all of that to, and it’s still okay. This won’t mean anything to most of you, but it will to someone someday, and it does to me – and that’s all that matters.
Because waiting for the repeated punch line is the best part of the joke.
Because cautious optimism really means elation.
Because there’s a connection in walking in silence.
Because all that’s missing is a million dollars.
Because ‘miserable’ and ‘craving’ fill empty spaces.
Because rhyming and repeating help.
Because one-armed side hugs turn into real ones.
Rainy Monday
I don't mind
You’re someone who ain't mine
But someone that I'll get
And you don't know how
Hard I've tried
To convince myself that I
Can easily forget
But you left this feeling
Here inside me
One that never fails to find me...
On a rainy Monday
...a feeling inside me
Like the days of summer
On a rainy Monday
...I feel it inside me
In the hopes of one day
I won't lie
I still can't say that I
Admit we went too far
And you won't see me change my mind
But I really wish that I
Could forget the way you are
But you left this feeling here inside me
The battle in my mind still fights me
On a rainy Monday
...a feeling inside me
Like the days of summer
On a rainy Monday
...I feel it inside me
In the hopes of one day
I can see that you're not beside me
But I still feel you shine inside of me
On a rainy Monday
...a feeling inside me
Like the days of summer
On a rainy Monday
...I feel it inside me
In the hopes of one day…
Lyrics by Shiny Toy Guns
There's a lot of joy to be had, and even though I know hurt inevitably accompanies it, the former so far outweighs the latter that I can only believe it's worth it. And I’m not about to give up now.
Because waiting for the repeated punch line is the best part of the joke.
Because cautious optimism really means elation.
Because there’s a connection in walking in silence.
Because all that’s missing is a million dollars.
Because ‘miserable’ and ‘craving’ fill empty spaces.
Because rhyming and repeating help.
Because one-armed side hugs turn into real ones.
Rainy Monday
I don't mind
You’re someone who ain't mine
But someone that I'll get
And you don't know how
Hard I've tried
To convince myself that I
Can easily forget
But you left this feeling
Here inside me
One that never fails to find me...
On a rainy Monday
...a feeling inside me
Like the days of summer
On a rainy Monday
...I feel it inside me
In the hopes of one day
I won't lie
I still can't say that I
Admit we went too far
And you won't see me change my mind
But I really wish that I
Could forget the way you are
But you left this feeling here inside me
The battle in my mind still fights me
On a rainy Monday
...a feeling inside me
Like the days of summer
On a rainy Monday
...I feel it inside me
In the hopes of one day
I can see that you're not beside me
But I still feel you shine inside of me
On a rainy Monday
...a feeling inside me
Like the days of summer
On a rainy Monday
...I feel it inside me
In the hopes of one day…
Lyrics by Shiny Toy Guns
There's a lot of joy to be had, and even though I know hurt inevitably accompanies it, the former so far outweighs the latter that I can only believe it's worth it. And I’m not about to give up now.
Friday, August 31, 2007
160GB Pileup on Information Super-Highway, Thousands Lost
It’s a very strange thing when all of a sudden you don't exist. Funny to think that yesterday I had such purpose, such drive, a “to-do” list that took up three pages of a college ruled ‘5-Star’ notebook. And now? Now I'm drowning in the magnificent vastness of nothing. Is it possible to feel claustrophobic in very open spaces too? I digress…
My computer was stolen. Let me specify: my work computer was stolen – while personal computer pillage would definitely be tragic (think of all the music and photos one accumulates), the fact that it's my work computer that is gone takes the term 'abysmally fatal' to an entirely different level. I’d had that computer for the three years I’ve worked for this company and every iota of information relating to my life and work during that time was in that machine. Everything. Those of you who have corporate-issued computers, you can relate to this. For those of you who may not understand what this means, let me try to explain the magnitude: every email I’ve written and received for three years; every Word, PowerPoint, Excel, Access, JMP, FrontPage, Adobe, etc document I’ve created or saved; resumes, past performance reviews, all archived materials/projects from the three other roles I’ve had with this company, not to mention everything I’ve been working on for this new job since I took the position this past May. There’s basically no proof that I exist here.
Oh, and my two 3-day ACL Festival tickets (which is now sold out) were clipped inside my day planner which was also inside my computer bag.
Fuuuuuuuck.
So after I ran the gamut of emotions (stopping the longest at anger and then deep, gasping-for-air sadness) I realized that things could definitely still be worse. I could have gotten my car stolen too (work bag was in car, car broken into, bag stolen), which would have put me in a different kind of tailspin entirely. What’s funny and ironic about this situation is that I recently shelled out the cash to buy a 500GB hard drive to back up everything on my computer at home… that until today was still pristine inside its original packaging. You’d better believe ripping that shit off and setting it up became priority #1 after getting home from being violated (robbed).
Anyway, let my experience be a lesson to you all. Just in case you hadn’t already started making a list, here are some things you should take away with you:
- never leave important shit in your car
- if your life is on a computer, back it up somewhere for God’s sake
- if your shit does get stolen, immediately tell your closest friends so they know to come peel your sobbing mess of a self off the kitchen floor
- learn karate and all manner of other ass-whipping skills necessary to take out scum who stole your shit if you ever meet him/her in a dark alley (said friends might try to talk you out if this, OR you can carpool)
Anyway, things are starting to look better now. I got another computer ordered, and some colleagues at work had some emails saved with important stuff in them so they can send it back to me. Now it’s just a matter of assessing the wreckage and attempting to crawl out from underneath this massive disaster of a pileup. Oh, and buy another 500GB hard drive.
My computer was stolen. Let me specify: my work computer was stolen – while personal computer pillage would definitely be tragic (think of all the music and photos one accumulates), the fact that it's my work computer that is gone takes the term 'abysmally fatal' to an entirely different level. I’d had that computer for the three years I’ve worked for this company and every iota of information relating to my life and work during that time was in that machine. Everything. Those of you who have corporate-issued computers, you can relate to this. For those of you who may not understand what this means, let me try to explain the magnitude: every email I’ve written and received for three years; every Word, PowerPoint, Excel, Access, JMP, FrontPage, Adobe, etc document I’ve created or saved; resumes, past performance reviews, all archived materials/projects from the three other roles I’ve had with this company, not to mention everything I’ve been working on for this new job since I took the position this past May. There’s basically no proof that I exist here.
Oh, and my two 3-day ACL Festival tickets (which is now sold out) were clipped inside my day planner which was also inside my computer bag.
Fuuuuuuuck.
So after I ran the gamut of emotions (stopping the longest at anger and then deep, gasping-for-air sadness) I realized that things could definitely still be worse. I could have gotten my car stolen too (work bag was in car, car broken into, bag stolen), which would have put me in a different kind of tailspin entirely. What’s funny and ironic about this situation is that I recently shelled out the cash to buy a 500GB hard drive to back up everything on my computer at home… that until today was still pristine inside its original packaging. You’d better believe ripping that shit off and setting it up became priority #1 after getting home from being violated (robbed).
Anyway, let my experience be a lesson to you all. Just in case you hadn’t already started making a list, here are some things you should take away with you:
- never leave important shit in your car
- if your life is on a computer, back it up somewhere for God’s sake
- if your shit does get stolen, immediately tell your closest friends so they know to come peel your sobbing mess of a self off the kitchen floor
- learn karate and all manner of other ass-whipping skills necessary to take out scum who stole your shit if you ever meet him/her in a dark alley (said friends might try to talk you out if this, OR you can carpool)
Anyway, things are starting to look better now. I got another computer ordered, and some colleagues at work had some emails saved with important stuff in them so they can send it back to me. Now it’s just a matter of assessing the wreckage and attempting to crawl out from underneath this massive disaster of a pileup. Oh, and buy another 500GB hard drive.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Life and Music
I saw this article a long time ago and thought it was an amazing representation of what music can be. I love music, and this part of the article captures what it is for me. Thought it was great:
"... these are the songs the whole world sings, and will sing forever, songs which define the very point of being alive, which fill our souls with hope, escape, friendship, love, laughter, sex, beauty, oblivion and the timeless freedom of the rock 'n' roll dream itself. These could be the best days of our lives.
And they were. And they still are."
"... these are the songs the whole world sings, and will sing forever, songs which define the very point of being alive, which fill our souls with hope, escape, friendship, love, laughter, sex, beauty, oblivion and the timeless freedom of the rock 'n' roll dream itself. These could be the best days of our lives.
And they were. And they still are."
Never Fire Crazy
Don’t get involved in the first place. I have recently adopted this creed, and highly suggest you do the same. Without knowing it at the time, it all started just over a year ago after I became newly single. This followed the end of a failed 4+ year relationship after which I was launched full swing back into the dating scene I dreaded and have never been good at. This creed came to me after realizing that it was the theme to my dating life.
So let me give you some back-story. My best friend calls me a flirt and a tease and I frustrate the hell out of her with my relationships. I am not purposefully being a tease, I’m just genuinely excited that somebody is being nice, so I talk to them and try to be friends. This is what happens when you go your entire childhood as the fat, ugly kid who is mercilessly made fun of to all of a sudden (over one summer between 7th and 8th grades) growing 5 inches, getting contacts, and getting braces off. I have the mentality of the fat ugly kid who just wants to be liked by people but the moderately good looks of one who wouldn’t necessarily need to humor some of the people who come knocking. No swan story here, but the ugly duckling did at least achieve a decent fare - you know what I mean?
All that being said, I have had the unfortunate luck of finding men in my life to take to break-ups as though I whispered my goodbye into an on-blowing wind tunnel: they pretend that nothing was said. This results in some very awkward phone calls a couple days later when I answer to hear a hearty, “hey, just wanted to see what was going on!” I inevitably talk to them, because I don’t want them to feel bad, and this leads into a saga of confusion and sometimes even another break-up from the break-up relationship because we are spending entirely too much time talking and a friendship doesn’t work when one party gets really mad if I say I’m going on a date with somebody else.
Anyway, I heard the term on the best show ever, Arrested Development (I highly recommend you check it out ASAP if you’ve not seen it - there are 3 seasons, buy them all on DVD), and it just made sense. Never fire crazy. They’ll stalk.
So let me give you some back-story. My best friend calls me a flirt and a tease and I frustrate the hell out of her with my relationships. I am not purposefully being a tease, I’m just genuinely excited that somebody is being nice, so I talk to them and try to be friends. This is what happens when you go your entire childhood as the fat, ugly kid who is mercilessly made fun of to all of a sudden (over one summer between 7th and 8th grades) growing 5 inches, getting contacts, and getting braces off. I have the mentality of the fat ugly kid who just wants to be liked by people but the moderately good looks of one who wouldn’t necessarily need to humor some of the people who come knocking. No swan story here, but the ugly duckling did at least achieve a decent fare - you know what I mean?
All that being said, I have had the unfortunate luck of finding men in my life to take to break-ups as though I whispered my goodbye into an on-blowing wind tunnel: they pretend that nothing was said. This results in some very awkward phone calls a couple days later when I answer to hear a hearty, “hey, just wanted to see what was going on!” I inevitably talk to them, because I don’t want them to feel bad, and this leads into a saga of confusion and sometimes even another break-up from the break-up relationship because we are spending entirely too much time talking and a friendship doesn’t work when one party gets really mad if I say I’m going on a date with somebody else.
Anyway, I heard the term on the best show ever, Arrested Development (I highly recommend you check it out ASAP if you’ve not seen it - there are 3 seasons, buy them all on DVD), and it just made sense. Never fire crazy. They’ll stalk.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Heaven's Shit List
First of all, I’d like to start by saying that my friends and I are not horrible people. We’re actually wonderful people, just not the kinds of friends who spend a lot of time talking about sunshine and teddy bears. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not morbid, and we’re definitely there for each other whenever one of us needs it, but hugs and Kleenex are usually pretty short-lived as we’re quickly on to ragging on each other for crying and/or whining and subsequently coming up with random, off-the-wall ways in which the other person’s situation could have been worse – for example:
“At least MFP wasn’t there.”
“Yeah that sucks, but you look really hot today”
“It could totally be worse, Em, you could have no legs.”
“I’m really sorry you broke up with your girlfriend, but think of it this way: you are now a member of the hottest single group of friends EVER.”
For a little back-story, I need to tell you about the Wonder Twins. If our group of friends was a sitcom, we would be called the Wonder Twins. Don’t let the name fool you into thinking it’s just two people – it’s all of us: Tim, Charles, Blake, me, Nate’ and Mike. It started as a joke because Chollie and Timmy seem to always find themselves in situations with the drama at work that you couldn’t make up if you were a mind/body hybrid of Stephen King and David Sedaris. Seriously. The stories slowly started leaking out to the rest of us, and before you know it all six of us were contributing authors to such masterpieces as the Did You Really Just… list and the Great Questions list. Examples include: “Did you really just move desks and take everything but a cloth cap and you have a massive scalp infection, which means you left a spongy headgear of highly contagious germs for the next rep to use your desk?” And (suddenly standing up out of his cube to ask) “Do they sell beer at Chuck E Cheese’s?” And “Is Iraq in Africa?”
We are fully aware that we shouldn’t be laughing at these questions, but we just can’t help it. That started a dialogue at lunch today on whether or not God is going to forgive us as we stand in front of the pearly gates. The overwhelming conclusion was: absolutely not. To which most of us shrugged and collectively said, “at least y’all will be there too!” and then we started to make another list comprised of good things we could do to negate the proverbial “shit list” Saint Peter would have waiting for us. That would more closely resemble a To-Do list and would have things like,
- Help an old lady load her groceries into her trunk. Not complain that she’s slow as hell and you just want the parking spot already
- Be a Candy-Striper. Not mess with the candy-striper by asking her to locate the room of your relative who is not checked into that hospital
- Smile unexpectedly at somebody today. Not laugh at somebody unexpectedly today
- Don’t add anything to the “Did You Really Just..” list
You know, simple things….
I don’t know how it happened, but the six of us are somehow the perfect mix of personalities to breed dysfunctional conversations, and they are always hilarious. Take, for example, the following conversation. Topic: Symmetry in double amputees. If you’re a double amputee of the lower extremities, wouldn’t you rather go for symmetry? I mean, if you’ve gotta do it wouldn’t you rather have two hips or two knees, or would you allow them to give you one of each – a hip and a knee. Just seems a little off, doesn’t it? What’s the point of having the knee? You still can’t play kickball. This launched the conversation to a whole new level. The point was quickly made that you can’t blanket the symmetry option because it doesn’t apply to arms. Why? Well, think of the simple tasks that can still be completed quite effectively with an elbow, but that would be significantly more difficult and awkward with just a shoulder: ringing a doorbell, indicating a direction (pointing), rubbing someone’s arm in consolation. You get the point – all much easier with at least an elbow.
I’m going to pause here and just say, God, I’m sorry – and I know my To-Do list needs to be much, much longer. I will also follow with: in no way, shape, or form were we trying to make fun of amputees. The point of my description is that these are the kinds of topics we often find ourselves debating - not the important international topics that one would expect young, intelligent professionals to have on the forefronts of their minds, like world hunger, big oil, how many points the DOW was up/down the previous day, etc.
All I can say is that my friends make me happy, and I love them. And regardless of how long our To-Do list gets I can at least rest assured that when/if we do make it to the pearly gates we’ll most definitely have St. Peter rolling with the story as to how we got there.
OOH! Guys, there’s another good one: “did you really just try to get into Heaven by telling Saint Peter: no really, I totally had a To-Do list!”
“At least MFP wasn’t there.”
“Yeah that sucks, but you look really hot today”
“It could totally be worse, Em, you could have no legs.”
“I’m really sorry you broke up with your girlfriend, but think of it this way: you are now a member of the hottest single group of friends EVER.”
For a little back-story, I need to tell you about the Wonder Twins. If our group of friends was a sitcom, we would be called the Wonder Twins. Don’t let the name fool you into thinking it’s just two people – it’s all of us: Tim, Charles, Blake, me, Nate’ and Mike. It started as a joke because Chollie and Timmy seem to always find themselves in situations with the drama at work that you couldn’t make up if you were a mind/body hybrid of Stephen King and David Sedaris. Seriously. The stories slowly started leaking out to the rest of us, and before you know it all six of us were contributing authors to such masterpieces as the Did You Really Just… list and the Great Questions list. Examples include: “Did you really just move desks and take everything but a cloth cap and you have a massive scalp infection, which means you left a spongy headgear of highly contagious germs for the next rep to use your desk?” And (suddenly standing up out of his cube to ask) “Do they sell beer at Chuck E Cheese’s?” And “Is Iraq in Africa?”
We are fully aware that we shouldn’t be laughing at these questions, but we just can’t help it. That started a dialogue at lunch today on whether or not God is going to forgive us as we stand in front of the pearly gates. The overwhelming conclusion was: absolutely not. To which most of us shrugged and collectively said, “at least y’all will be there too!” and then we started to make another list comprised of good things we could do to negate the proverbial “shit list” Saint Peter would have waiting for us. That would more closely resemble a To-Do list and would have things like,
- Help an old lady load her groceries into her trunk. Not complain that she’s slow as hell and you just want the parking spot already
- Be a Candy-Striper. Not mess with the candy-striper by asking her to locate the room of your relative who is not checked into that hospital
- Smile unexpectedly at somebody today. Not laugh at somebody unexpectedly today
- Don’t add anything to the “Did You Really Just..” list
You know, simple things….
I don’t know how it happened, but the six of us are somehow the perfect mix of personalities to breed dysfunctional conversations, and they are always hilarious. Take, for example, the following conversation. Topic: Symmetry in double amputees. If you’re a double amputee of the lower extremities, wouldn’t you rather go for symmetry? I mean, if you’ve gotta do it wouldn’t you rather have two hips or two knees, or would you allow them to give you one of each – a hip and a knee. Just seems a little off, doesn’t it? What’s the point of having the knee? You still can’t play kickball. This launched the conversation to a whole new level. The point was quickly made that you can’t blanket the symmetry option because it doesn’t apply to arms. Why? Well, think of the simple tasks that can still be completed quite effectively with an elbow, but that would be significantly more difficult and awkward with just a shoulder: ringing a doorbell, indicating a direction (pointing), rubbing someone’s arm in consolation. You get the point – all much easier with at least an elbow.
I’m going to pause here and just say, God, I’m sorry – and I know my To-Do list needs to be much, much longer. I will also follow with: in no way, shape, or form were we trying to make fun of amputees. The point of my description is that these are the kinds of topics we often find ourselves debating - not the important international topics that one would expect young, intelligent professionals to have on the forefronts of their minds, like world hunger, big oil, how many points the DOW was up/down the previous day, etc.
All I can say is that my friends make me happy, and I love them. And regardless of how long our To-Do list gets I can at least rest assured that when/if we do make it to the pearly gates we’ll most definitely have St. Peter rolling with the story as to how we got there.
OOH! Guys, there’s another good one: “did you really just try to get into Heaven by telling Saint Peter: no really, I totally had a To-Do list!”
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Drug-Induced Euphoria
Right now my dad is making the Oasis as we knew and loved them in the early 90s look like saints with as many drugs as he has coursing through his body. Don’t get me wrong, he hasn’t hit some mid-life crisis and chosen to play it out with heavy rocking and coke usage – he’s having back surgery in a week. But still, just add shot of rum to the mix and he’d be going head for head with Noel Gallagher in 1994.
Apparently my family just has shitty genes when it comes to spines. My mom has scoliosis pretty bad – she’s 5’1” and supposed to be 5’8” if that helps you visualize – I’d had two back surgeries by the time I was 22 years old, and now my dad is in so much pain he just has to lay on the sofa all day, drifting in and out of sleep. Back pain sucks. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy in the world. I mean on the one hand I’m really happy that the doctors have agreed to let my dad get the surgery because I know (from experience) that he’ll instantly feel better after waking up with all that pressure finally off his nerves, but in the meantime he’s on a steroid pack, vicodin, and muscle relaxers to hold him over during the week between now and surgery. I just wish he wasn’t going through it. Steroid packs are enough – they make you either sick to your stomach or insatiably hungry all the time, irritable as hell, and constantly thirsty.
At least he won’t be in as much pain while he has to wait. You know, on the flip side, if I didn’t know my dad was so miserable right now it would almost be funny to see him loopy as hell from being pumped so full of various pain killers. I mean, we’re talking about the most put-together dude I’ve ever met in my life. Anyway, I have nothing profound to say about it all – only that I feel for him because I know exactly what he’s going through right now and he’s on my mind.
Apparently my family just has shitty genes when it comes to spines. My mom has scoliosis pretty bad – she’s 5’1” and supposed to be 5’8” if that helps you visualize – I’d had two back surgeries by the time I was 22 years old, and now my dad is in so much pain he just has to lay on the sofa all day, drifting in and out of sleep. Back pain sucks. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy in the world. I mean on the one hand I’m really happy that the doctors have agreed to let my dad get the surgery because I know (from experience) that he’ll instantly feel better after waking up with all that pressure finally off his nerves, but in the meantime he’s on a steroid pack, vicodin, and muscle relaxers to hold him over during the week between now and surgery. I just wish he wasn’t going through it. Steroid packs are enough – they make you either sick to your stomach or insatiably hungry all the time, irritable as hell, and constantly thirsty.
At least he won’t be in as much pain while he has to wait. You know, on the flip side, if I didn’t know my dad was so miserable right now it would almost be funny to see him loopy as hell from being pumped so full of various pain killers. I mean, we’re talking about the most put-together dude I’ve ever met in my life. Anyway, I have nothing profound to say about it all – only that I feel for him because I know exactly what he’s going through right now and he’s on my mind.
Close Encounters of the Third Kind
I always suspected it, but I am now completely convinced that God has an amazing (and somewhat sick) sense of humor. I'll explain.
So, if you've read my blog at all in the past year, you're well aware of my creepy neighbor saga. My friends and I lovingly refer to him by a multitude of nicknames, some of which you have read before: douche-bag, Mannequin Boy, creep-o, MFP... they go on and on. Well you should know by reading that a few months ago he was dismissed from his duties at our workplace - seize that day, ding dong Creep-O's gone, all sorts of relief ensues... Okay, keep that in mind for a minute.
So back in April I get an email at work asking if I'm available to discuss an immediate opening on a team in another one of our sites. The quick version of the story is that I say yes, interview five times, and get a job about 80 miles away at our headquarters complex. I'm stoked. I've wanted to move to that city for a really long time, and it takes me away from the other jackasses around here that I'm just tired of and who treat me like shit on a daily basis. Blake, one of my great friends already lives there and works for the same company I do and he's in the same building I'll be in and we're just beside ourselves with excitement. Then one day Blake calls me and the conversation goes like this:
Blake: oh my god Em, I want to cry
Me: oh shit, why?! (all concerned)
Blake: (says with a wavery voice like he's about to burst into tears. Joking, but very realistic and hysterical) Today, I was over at Traci's desk cuz we needed to meet about something and all of a sudden we felt a presence, you know how that happens?, and we looked up and MFP's head was poking over the cube!
Me: (shocked and appalled pause) ... holy FUCK! What did you do?!
Blake: I couldn't move! ... and he wouldn't go away. We couldn't even finish our meeting because he was just... lingering. And THEN - I got up to go back to my desk and he started FOLLOWING me and TALKING to me!
Me: OhmygodOhmygod, what did you do?!
Blake: (apparently not hearing me) he just stared at me and then said, “so I hear your partner in crime got a job down here. When does she start?”
Me: OH MY GOD YOU DIDN’T TELL HIM ANYTHING DID YOU?!?!
Blake: No, I just said, “yeah, it’s the best news I’ve had all month”… but then he followed me to my desk and I totally thought I was giving him tons of non-verbal clues to go way but he just hung around awkwardly.
So we laugh and commiserate about that for a little while and after I helped Blake find his happy place again we got off the phone and were okay… And then I got another call a few days before I was supposed to start at my new job.
Blake: guess who I saw today
Me: oh God, I don’t want to
Blake: yeah, and I have bad news
Me: ah shit…
Blake: he finally got a desk….
Me: please tell me that the bad news is that he’s next to you
Blake: he’s three cubes away from where your team sits
Me: FUCK! Are you serious?! I want to cry…
Blake: (laughing) I’m so sorry…
Yeah. So after everything I/we went through with Creep-O, it seems as though Round 2 is imminent. UN-believable. And this is why I am convinced that God has an insane sense of humor. Good news out of this is that he either doesn’t know I’ve started my new job there yet, or he can’t find where I sit – whatever the cause, I haven’t had to see him yet and that’s good news. I’ll keep you posted though. I’m sure Blake will “accidently” let it slip for sheer story value.
And so it begins… again.
So, if you've read my blog at all in the past year, you're well aware of my creepy neighbor saga. My friends and I lovingly refer to him by a multitude of nicknames, some of which you have read before: douche-bag, Mannequin Boy, creep-o, MFP... they go on and on. Well you should know by reading that a few months ago he was dismissed from his duties at our workplace - seize that day, ding dong Creep-O's gone, all sorts of relief ensues... Okay, keep that in mind for a minute.
So back in April I get an email at work asking if I'm available to discuss an immediate opening on a team in another one of our sites. The quick version of the story is that I say yes, interview five times, and get a job about 80 miles away at our headquarters complex. I'm stoked. I've wanted to move to that city for a really long time, and it takes me away from the other jackasses around here that I'm just tired of and who treat me like shit on a daily basis. Blake, one of my great friends already lives there and works for the same company I do and he's in the same building I'll be in and we're just beside ourselves with excitement. Then one day Blake calls me and the conversation goes like this:
Blake: oh my god Em, I want to cry
Me: oh shit, why?! (all concerned)
Blake: (says with a wavery voice like he's about to burst into tears. Joking, but very realistic and hysterical) Today, I was over at Traci's desk cuz we needed to meet about something and all of a sudden we felt a presence, you know how that happens?, and we looked up and MFP's head was poking over the cube!
Me: (shocked and appalled pause) ... holy FUCK! What did you do?!
Blake: I couldn't move! ... and he wouldn't go away. We couldn't even finish our meeting because he was just... lingering. And THEN - I got up to go back to my desk and he started FOLLOWING me and TALKING to me!
Me: OhmygodOhmygod, what did you do?!
Blake: (apparently not hearing me) he just stared at me and then said, “so I hear your partner in crime got a job down here. When does she start?”
Me: OH MY GOD YOU DIDN’T TELL HIM ANYTHING DID YOU?!?!
Blake: No, I just said, “yeah, it’s the best news I’ve had all month”… but then he followed me to my desk and I totally thought I was giving him tons of non-verbal clues to go way but he just hung around awkwardly.
So we laugh and commiserate about that for a little while and after I helped Blake find his happy place again we got off the phone and were okay… And then I got another call a few days before I was supposed to start at my new job.
Blake: guess who I saw today
Me: oh God, I don’t want to
Blake: yeah, and I have bad news
Me: ah shit…
Blake: he finally got a desk….
Me: please tell me that the bad news is that he’s next to you
Blake: he’s three cubes away from where your team sits
Me: FUCK! Are you serious?! I want to cry…
Blake: (laughing) I’m so sorry…
Yeah. So after everything I/we went through with Creep-O, it seems as though Round 2 is imminent. UN-believable. And this is why I am convinced that God has an insane sense of humor. Good news out of this is that he either doesn’t know I’ve started my new job there yet, or he can’t find where I sit – whatever the cause, I haven’t had to see him yet and that’s good news. I’ll keep you posted though. I’m sure Blake will “accidently” let it slip for sheer story value.
And so it begins… again.
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Skittles of Pain Killers
Question: why do they make Advil to taste so damn good? The stuff practically burns a hole through your stomach with all the asprin in it, and the powers-that-be make them with a candy coating that makes me want to take nine at a time... If they are going to continue making Advil taste like the missing brown Skittle they need to quarter the potency so its okay to down like twelve at once.
Just a random thought...
Just a random thought...
Saturday, April 14, 2007
not searching, but not finding either
Colorful
you swim like you're on fire
live like your last day
drink like its water
there's no tomorrow
and you think no one can hear you
raise your hands to be called on
you know all the answers
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
You're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you dance like no one's watching
sing 'till the song ends
then you sing some more
and we can hardly believe it
words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you are an enigma walking
make no excuses for the way that you carry on
and we can hardly believe it
the words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water, hon
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you are so colorful
you are so beautiful
you are the most colorful thing that i've seen
Bus Ride
bus ride
then i'm corss-town
i take my seat
and watch the streets go by
traffic lights
then a left hand turn
i'm almost to the street where you live on
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
next block
that is my stop
i close my eyes visualize the day
three steps
two knocks on your door
the doorknob turns
my stomach burns to say
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
there's no wall
there's no ceiling shadow
i can finally show you
without a key without a door or window
to climb through can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home
can i take you home... to my house
Speak To Me
Dialogue communicate / wasted words circulate / catchy phrases inside joke / sitcom pilot simple folk / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / campaign slogan election year / fiction writer greatest fear / private letters instruction books / formulas ancient script / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / show me before you don't have a chance / shallow words will drown with water from / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me
- all lyrics by Rocco Deluca
you swim like you're on fire
live like your last day
drink like its water
there's no tomorrow
and you think no one can hear you
raise your hands to be called on
you know all the answers
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
You're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you dance like no one's watching
sing 'till the song ends
then you sing some more
and we can hardly believe it
words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you are an enigma walking
make no excuses for the way that you carry on
and we can hardly believe it
the words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water, hon
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you are so colorful
you are so beautiful
you are the most colorful thing that i've seen
Bus Ride
bus ride
then i'm corss-town
i take my seat
and watch the streets go by
traffic lights
then a left hand turn
i'm almost to the street where you live on
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
next block
that is my stop
i close my eyes visualize the day
three steps
two knocks on your door
the doorknob turns
my stomach burns to say
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
there's no wall
there's no ceiling shadow
i can finally show you
without a key without a door or window
to climb through can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home
can i take you home... to my house
Speak To Me
Dialogue communicate / wasted words circulate / catchy phrases inside joke / sitcom pilot simple folk / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / campaign slogan election year / fiction writer greatest fear / private letters instruction books / formulas ancient script / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / show me before you don't have a chance / shallow words will drown with water from / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me
- all lyrics by Rocco Deluca
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Snow Virgins, Board Lessons, and ERs
One of the things I am most grateful for in this life is that nearly every athletic pursuit I now enjoy as an adult I learned a long, long time ago. My mom tells me I was riding a little tricycle around my big sister’s kindergarten playground at the wee age of two-ish. My parents lied about my age to get me into T-ball and soccer earlier than the required age of five because I was apparently too annoyingly energetic to deal with (and also bigger than most other 4 year olds). And my dad, in his infinite wisdom, stuck my 8-year-old sister and 5-year-old self in skiing lessons for a week while the rest of the adults tackled the slopes together, child- and care-free.
My point is this: all of those sports are difficult, and take most people years to fully learn to the point of comfortably calling themselves intermediates instead of mere amateurs or beginners. This is why, when my best friend announced she was going to learn to snowboard on our vacation this year, I choked on a peanut and said a little prayer for her, and my sanity.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I doubt her ability to pick up a sport, or even her athletic prowess and/or drive to succeed. I choked because I remember all of the falling; the sore muscles; and the bruised legs, arms, and ass – the difference is that I went through that between the ages of 5 and 10 years old when everybody are just little rubber balls of energy, numb to pain and suffering from physical exertion and uncoordinated mistakes. My best friend, however, would be taking on these feats as a 27-year-old Gold’s Gym ellipser – two very different stages in life.
The trip started out with us missing our shuttle up to Vail (a good friend of mine lives there), but, amazingly, neither of us let that small kink deter or even dampen our excitement. We got up there the next morning and were on the slopes in plenty of time to get a full half-day of glorious spring snowboarding under our belts. Before I go on, I have to make the disclaimer that several people hip to the trials and tribulations of first-time snowboarding had expressed to Nate’ the urgent advice of taking lessons since it was her first time. She was fully on board… and then saw how much they cost and made the executive decision to wing it – to which I had no veto power. So, we get up the first lift on a gorgeous spring afternoon in Beav, I somehow talk her through getting off the lift (rather well, I might say, she didn’t even fall!), and Nate’ gets about 150 yards down the first catwalk to a green and calls it. Time of day 1’s death: oh-quick-thirty. In her defense, I do not claim to be a good snowboard instructor. If I was, I wouldn’t be working my current job in the middle of Texas – I’d be living the high-life traveling from resort to resort making a living off of being on the slopes all day. Anyway, I digress…
After that first day she wisely decided she needed to take a lesson, so she signed up for an all-day’er starting the following morning. She was completely excited to learn, undoubtedly because it was from an actual instructor and not her dippy best friend who was giving her such gold as, “uh, so, like turn your back foot when you start to feel like you’re gonna fall…” Glorious advice, if I do say so myself… ugh – thanks for not hating me, Rooms. Anyway, so she hauls off to lessons and I hit the hill by myself, which was actually kinda nice because I had all day to just get lost and go where ever I wanted. I got cranked by some douche-bag not looking where he was going sometime midday, so I decided to take a break and go check on how lessons were coming along… Only to be met with a gleaming smile as Nate’ held up her mangled arm and exclaimed, “I hurt myself snowboarding!” Greeaaat.
The most bad-ass part about it is that she finished the entire day’s lesson with a wrist the size of my thigh (okay, I flatter myself – even her swollen as hell wrist was smaller than my thunder thigh, but you get my point in exaggerating for emphasis). We finished our time up in Vail and decided to go to the Emergency Room once we got to my sister’s place – that’s where we found out it was broken.
So that trip to Colorado will always be an amazing story for Nate’ – first time in snow, first time snowboarding, fell and hurt her wrist wherein it swelled up so bad she got to spend all day clutching at and being clutched by a hot Australian snowboard instructor, and then went to the ER two days later only to find out she broke it. Rooms, you badass, you – thanks for the great story!
My point is this: all of those sports are difficult, and take most people years to fully learn to the point of comfortably calling themselves intermediates instead of mere amateurs or beginners. This is why, when my best friend announced she was going to learn to snowboard on our vacation this year, I choked on a peanut and said a little prayer for her, and my sanity.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I doubt her ability to pick up a sport, or even her athletic prowess and/or drive to succeed. I choked because I remember all of the falling; the sore muscles; and the bruised legs, arms, and ass – the difference is that I went through that between the ages of 5 and 10 years old when everybody are just little rubber balls of energy, numb to pain and suffering from physical exertion and uncoordinated mistakes. My best friend, however, would be taking on these feats as a 27-year-old Gold’s Gym ellipser – two very different stages in life.
The trip started out with us missing our shuttle up to Vail (a good friend of mine lives there), but, amazingly, neither of us let that small kink deter or even dampen our excitement. We got up there the next morning and were on the slopes in plenty of time to get a full half-day of glorious spring snowboarding under our belts. Before I go on, I have to make the disclaimer that several people hip to the trials and tribulations of first-time snowboarding had expressed to Nate’ the urgent advice of taking lessons since it was her first time. She was fully on board… and then saw how much they cost and made the executive decision to wing it – to which I had no veto power. So, we get up the first lift on a gorgeous spring afternoon in Beav, I somehow talk her through getting off the lift (rather well, I might say, she didn’t even fall!), and Nate’ gets about 150 yards down the first catwalk to a green and calls it. Time of day 1’s death: oh-quick-thirty. In her defense, I do not claim to be a good snowboard instructor. If I was, I wouldn’t be working my current job in the middle of Texas – I’d be living the high-life traveling from resort to resort making a living off of being on the slopes all day. Anyway, I digress…
After that first day she wisely decided she needed to take a lesson, so she signed up for an all-day’er starting the following morning. She was completely excited to learn, undoubtedly because it was from an actual instructor and not her dippy best friend who was giving her such gold as, “uh, so, like turn your back foot when you start to feel like you’re gonna fall…” Glorious advice, if I do say so myself… ugh – thanks for not hating me, Rooms. Anyway, so she hauls off to lessons and I hit the hill by myself, which was actually kinda nice because I had all day to just get lost and go where ever I wanted. I got cranked by some douche-bag not looking where he was going sometime midday, so I decided to take a break and go check on how lessons were coming along… Only to be met with a gleaming smile as Nate’ held up her mangled arm and exclaimed, “I hurt myself snowboarding!” Greeaaat.
The most bad-ass part about it is that she finished the entire day’s lesson with a wrist the size of my thigh (okay, I flatter myself – even her swollen as hell wrist was smaller than my thunder thigh, but you get my point in exaggerating for emphasis). We finished our time up in Vail and decided to go to the Emergency Room once we got to my sister’s place – that’s where we found out it was broken.
So that trip to Colorado will always be an amazing story for Nate’ – first time in snow, first time snowboarding, fell and hurt her wrist wherein it swelled up so bad she got to spend all day clutching at and being clutched by a hot Australian snowboard instructor, and then went to the ER two days later only to find out she broke it. Rooms, you badass, you – thanks for the great story!
Monday, April 9, 2007
No More Blonde Moments...
Well, who am I kidding. I’ll still have plenty of them – it’s just that now I’ll look like even more of a jackass because I don’t have the platinum locks to go with it. My mistakes and screw-ups won’t be things I can brush off with a cute little chuckle and wave towards my hair – that would just look ridiculous as a brunette. Yeah, I dyed my hair brown last week. I’m still getting used to it, but I’m pretty sure I really like it. The entire idea of me not being a blonde anymore is something I’ve been curious about for a long time – it’s just that I never took the thought seriously enough to actually go do something about it. It was more just flippant voicing in conversations every now and again about “I wonder what I’d look like with dark hair?” Until one day about two months ago when my best friend and I officially went on a mission to dye my hair dark brown.
We were trying to find fun things to do during a torrential downpour day, so we decided to go rifle through the magazine rack at a huge bookstore in town. I had already talked to Nate’ about wondering what it would look like and she would just shrug and say, “yeah? You should try it then.” But with no real commitment from my best friend I had awful visions of turning myself into Elvira - Mistress of the Dark and wasn’t about to actually do it. Then Nate’ saw a picture in GQ of Cameron Diaz in the sunshine on some island with dark brown hair strategically tousled about her face and eyes and our mission was clear. She looked hot, and the dark hair made her blue eyes totally stand out. So we decided to make it happen.
I made an appointment at a totally swanky salon in the middle of Dallas called Pompeo (didn’t know it was that swanky at the time, a friend of mine with awesome hair referred me) to get it done on my way out of town for vacation. The guy who did my hair was awesome, and I had so much fun picking out the color and watching the whole thing go down! I can’t imagine having to sit through that crap every 4-6 weeks though… ugh – how do those women who are constantly dying their hair do it? This is going to be fun for a while, but I know I’m going to get really tired really quick of having to schedule touch-up appointments.
Anyway, not even two hours after its done Nate’ and I are in the airport to fly out for vacation, and while stopped in the security line (I always get stopped, I have no clue what about me says possible threat to Homeland Security!, but whatever) some dude hit on me. It was hysterical. He wasn’t just some junkie off the street, either – he has four names and a freaking roman numeral! We were laughing about that for a good week. Flirty McFlirterson even gave me his card, and if you’re wondering – yes, I fully intend to email him. I was always told that blondes have more fun, but I think I could make a pretty strong case for staying a brunette! Thanks for talking me into it, Rooms!
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Club T.C.
Before I tell you this story, I have to tell you, trusted blog readers, that I am not at all ashamed about events that transpired throughout that evening.
I’m pretty sure it started back in college. Two great friends of mine love men above all else, and will boldly go where no other image-conscious college junior will go – like an N’Sync concert. They loved Justin Timberlake, but remember, this is pre-hot Justin – this is skinny, curly headed, looks like his voice might crack any moment Justin… but on his way up, I’ll give them that. Anyway, they went, they danced their asses off among screaming pre-teen girls, and they raved to all of us how great it was, completely unashamed (props, ladies).
So, back in like October when one of the duo (now my best friend) called me to tell me that Justin was going to be in Houston for the FutureSexLoveSounds tour in March and do I want to go with her and Chanell. Uh, yes! We basically tell Chanell to get all three tickets when she goes online to get hers. My Mistake #1. She waited online until the second tickets went on sale, and the ensuing conversation went like this:
Chanell: “I got the tickets; you guys owe me $115.”
(Dividing in my head I think, okay that’s not too bad)
Nate’: “okay, so what is that, $57.50 each?”
Chanell: (pauses) “no, $115 each…”
Me: “What the HELL!? Are we sitting on the damn stage?!”
Nate’: (laughing) “we’d better get sweated on!”
I say it like we were mad, but honestly after waiting like four months for the concert to arrive (we got our tickets kinda early) we were excited and sitting on the 4th row juuust to the left of center stage was pretty much worth our $115 each.
So Nate’ and I drove to Chanell’s house in Houston – the plan is get her, go eat, get to downtown H-town for the concert. So we greet and hug, say hi to the fam, and are out – we’re all in jeans, Tay and I have t-shirts on, I’m in my snazzy old school New Balance shoes, Tay’s in flip flops. Chanell’s in a button-up shirt, but she always wears those and she had like sketchers on. I think Chanell and Nate’ had a little eye makeup on, me? Makeup? Pssh! (These details will be important later.)
When we got to the Toyota Center we immediately recognized an amazing venue for people-watching. Nobody had been let in yet, so there were lines curving all the way around the damn building, with ALL sorts of people. The hilarious part about it was that the women were all dressed to the freaking nines to go to this concert. I mean, I didn’t know they made 4-inch stilettos, but apparently everybody there did. So we’re walking through the line in our tennies, jeans, and hoodies watching these sticks of women hobble around in heels they can’t walk in and freeze their asses off because their shirt basically covers their nipples and a strip of skin down their stomach – we were pretty sure we were going to a concert, not a nightclub. Hence the name, Club T.C. It was as if the women thought that by looking all “cute” (enter a multitude of appropriate adjectives: slutty, easy, trashy, etc) Justin would actually make eye contact, realize Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson aren’t enough, pause the concert, and pick them out of the crowd to go backstage and start a life together. Hysterically tragic on their part.
Once we actually took our seats the people watching got even better. The only people in front of us were those who had paid to stand on the floor right by the stage and next to the bar. The concert was actually great, and really fun. What can I say? Justin Timberlake is a good performer. During the intermission, Timbaland came onstage and mixed for about 25 minutes, which is where it really turned into Club T.C. Everybody was dancing, all the clackers were bobbing as much as the stilettos would allow, trying to figure out how have rhythm while trying to clutch their uber-trendy, sequined purses (big enough to hold a tube of chapstick) and their alcoholic beverage at the same time.
And the three of us? We didn’t get sweated on, but we danced and sang our asses off in our Ts, tennies, and hoodies and left with our money’s worth.
I’m pretty sure it started back in college. Two great friends of mine love men above all else, and will boldly go where no other image-conscious college junior will go – like an N’Sync concert. They loved Justin Timberlake, but remember, this is pre-hot Justin – this is skinny, curly headed, looks like his voice might crack any moment Justin… but on his way up, I’ll give them that. Anyway, they went, they danced their asses off among screaming pre-teen girls, and they raved to all of us how great it was, completely unashamed (props, ladies).
So, back in like October when one of the duo (now my best friend) called me to tell me that Justin was going to be in Houston for the FutureSexLoveSounds tour in March and do I want to go with her and Chanell. Uh, yes! We basically tell Chanell to get all three tickets when she goes online to get hers. My Mistake #1. She waited online until the second tickets went on sale, and the ensuing conversation went like this:
Chanell: “I got the tickets; you guys owe me $115.”
(Dividing in my head I think, okay that’s not too bad)
Nate’: “okay, so what is that, $57.50 each?”
Chanell: (pauses) “no, $115 each…”
Me: “What the HELL!? Are we sitting on the damn stage?!”
Nate’: (laughing) “we’d better get sweated on!”
I say it like we were mad, but honestly after waiting like four months for the concert to arrive (we got our tickets kinda early) we were excited and sitting on the 4th row juuust to the left of center stage was pretty much worth our $115 each.
So Nate’ and I drove to Chanell’s house in Houston – the plan is get her, go eat, get to downtown H-town for the concert. So we greet and hug, say hi to the fam, and are out – we’re all in jeans, Tay and I have t-shirts on, I’m in my snazzy old school New Balance shoes, Tay’s in flip flops. Chanell’s in a button-up shirt, but she always wears those and she had like sketchers on. I think Chanell and Nate’ had a little eye makeup on, me? Makeup? Pssh! (These details will be important later.)
When we got to the Toyota Center we immediately recognized an amazing venue for people-watching. Nobody had been let in yet, so there were lines curving all the way around the damn building, with ALL sorts of people. The hilarious part about it was that the women were all dressed to the freaking nines to go to this concert. I mean, I didn’t know they made 4-inch stilettos, but apparently everybody there did. So we’re walking through the line in our tennies, jeans, and hoodies watching these sticks of women hobble around in heels they can’t walk in and freeze their asses off because their shirt basically covers their nipples and a strip of skin down their stomach – we were pretty sure we were going to a concert, not a nightclub. Hence the name, Club T.C. It was as if the women thought that by looking all “cute” (enter a multitude of appropriate adjectives: slutty, easy, trashy, etc) Justin would actually make eye contact, realize Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson aren’t enough, pause the concert, and pick them out of the crowd to go backstage and start a life together. Hysterically tragic on their part.
Once we actually took our seats the people watching got even better. The only people in front of us were those who had paid to stand on the floor right by the stage and next to the bar. The concert was actually great, and really fun. What can I say? Justin Timberlake is a good performer. During the intermission, Timbaland came onstage and mixed for about 25 minutes, which is where it really turned into Club T.C. Everybody was dancing, all the clackers were bobbing as much as the stilettos would allow, trying to figure out how have rhythm while trying to clutch their uber-trendy, sequined purses (big enough to hold a tube of chapstick) and their alcoholic beverage at the same time.
And the three of us? We didn’t get sweated on, but we danced and sang our asses off in our Ts, tennies, and hoodies and left with our money’s worth.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Smokes-A-Lot
There are two types of senior citizens in this world. The first kind make you believe that life truly is a beautiful journey with trials and tribulations that only add grace and understanding to one’s soul. The other kind, however, make you want to revoke driving privileges from everybody over 55 and go Brave New World style creating old folks homes like mad to throw them all in there with nothing to do but watch reruns of Matlock and Murder She Wrote and eat checkers. I distinguish this difference easily: the elderly vs. old people.
The latter lives beneath me in my apartment complex. I call her Smokes-A-Lot, and she’s a nasty, bitter, hateful old woman. Sometimes I feel sorry for her that she just sits in her apartment all day watching TV and getting an occasional visitor (I’m assuming family member), but most of the time I loathe her for the fact that the four packs of hard smokes she wheezes through each day ends up creeping its way up through my floors and vents and fills my entire apartment with her second hand smoke – and she seems incapable of purchasing an Ionic Breeze despite the multiple Sharper Image catalogs I’ve left on her doorstep with the page earmark and item circled in thick, red sharpie. Checkers for her, I tell you. Anyway, she hates me. And I don’t think it’s because of the Sharper Image catalogs – she couldn’t possibly know those are from me.
I decided that she’s an ‘old person’ almost immediately after I moved into my complex. So here’s the back-story: Where I live looks like a row of super big houses, but each building is actually four apartments: two upstairs, two downstairs. I got a great deal on my place because at the time the owners were renovating each apartment and making them SUPER nice, but our building they couldn’t do yet because Smokes-A-Lot and the old dude next to her have lived there for like 10+ years and aren’t going anywhere any time soon. So I asked the landlords if I could move in upstairs at the pre-fixed-up rate, and they and gave me leave to do whatever I wanted to the place since they were just going to gut it after I moved out anyway. One day pretty soon after I had moved in I was hanging pictures at like 3 or 4 in the afternoon. I was on my 4th picture and as I was hammering the nail into the wall I hear banging coming from below. She actually started banging on my ceiling because I was hanging pictures! It’s not like each nail took me 19 tries to get in the wall far enough either, I’m talking two, maybe three taps from the hammer and I was good. This warrants angry banging on the damn ceiling?! Freaking old people.
Anyway, she does little nasty things all the time just to remind me that she sucks. She doesn’t own a car, and yet if I ever happen to park in the space labeled A (which is one space away from my D, mind you) she’ll leave a note on my car telling me that’s her parking space and move my car. If I leave a trash bag on my balcony to take out to the dumpster later she’ll move it right in front of my back door so that I trip on it leaving for work in the morning – sometimes she’ll even leave her trash on the steps up to my apartment in hopes I don’t notice that it’s not mine and take it for her. Sometimes I’m nice and I do, but most of the time I give her a taste of her own medicine and put it right back in front of her door. Now, readers, don’t get all bent out of shape and think that I’m being mean to Smokes-A-Lot. I’ve seen that bitch run after her little yappy ankle-biter of a dog when it gets out, and other than chronic emphysema she’s got nothing wrong with her under that ratty-ass old housecoat.
My friend Blake used to have a Smoke-A-Lot living under him, too, but she wasn’t bitchy. She was just kind of stalker-ish and would somehow know exactly when he got home every day and be waiting for him to walk up the steps so she could talk to him. That’s a way better Smokes-A-Lot than mine. Anyway, the point is that there’s a Smokes-A-Lot in every apartment complex, and I promise, nay, guarantee a good stories if you can find yours. I’ll keep you posted.
The latter lives beneath me in my apartment complex. I call her Smokes-A-Lot, and she’s a nasty, bitter, hateful old woman. Sometimes I feel sorry for her that she just sits in her apartment all day watching TV and getting an occasional visitor (I’m assuming family member), but most of the time I loathe her for the fact that the four packs of hard smokes she wheezes through each day ends up creeping its way up through my floors and vents and fills my entire apartment with her second hand smoke – and she seems incapable of purchasing an Ionic Breeze despite the multiple Sharper Image catalogs I’ve left on her doorstep with the page earmark and item circled in thick, red sharpie. Checkers for her, I tell you. Anyway, she hates me. And I don’t think it’s because of the Sharper Image catalogs – she couldn’t possibly know those are from me.
I decided that she’s an ‘old person’ almost immediately after I moved into my complex. So here’s the back-story: Where I live looks like a row of super big houses, but each building is actually four apartments: two upstairs, two downstairs. I got a great deal on my place because at the time the owners were renovating each apartment and making them SUPER nice, but our building they couldn’t do yet because Smokes-A-Lot and the old dude next to her have lived there for like 10+ years and aren’t going anywhere any time soon. So I asked the landlords if I could move in upstairs at the pre-fixed-up rate, and they and gave me leave to do whatever I wanted to the place since they were just going to gut it after I moved out anyway. One day pretty soon after I had moved in I was hanging pictures at like 3 or 4 in the afternoon. I was on my 4th picture and as I was hammering the nail into the wall I hear banging coming from below. She actually started banging on my ceiling because I was hanging pictures! It’s not like each nail took me 19 tries to get in the wall far enough either, I’m talking two, maybe three taps from the hammer and I was good. This warrants angry banging on the damn ceiling?! Freaking old people.
Anyway, she does little nasty things all the time just to remind me that she sucks. She doesn’t own a car, and yet if I ever happen to park in the space labeled A (which is one space away from my D, mind you) she’ll leave a note on my car telling me that’s her parking space and move my car. If I leave a trash bag on my balcony to take out to the dumpster later she’ll move it right in front of my back door so that I trip on it leaving for work in the morning – sometimes she’ll even leave her trash on the steps up to my apartment in hopes I don’t notice that it’s not mine and take it for her. Sometimes I’m nice and I do, but most of the time I give her a taste of her own medicine and put it right back in front of her door. Now, readers, don’t get all bent out of shape and think that I’m being mean to Smokes-A-Lot. I’ve seen that bitch run after her little yappy ankle-biter of a dog when it gets out, and other than chronic emphysema she’s got nothing wrong with her under that ratty-ass old housecoat.
My friend Blake used to have a Smoke-A-Lot living under him, too, but she wasn’t bitchy. She was just kind of stalker-ish and would somehow know exactly when he got home every day and be waiting for him to walk up the steps so she could talk to him. That’s a way better Smokes-A-Lot than mine. Anyway, the point is that there’s a Smokes-A-Lot in every apartment complex, and I promise, nay, guarantee a good stories if you can find yours. I’ll keep you posted.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
I have good news and bad news...
Well, really there is no good news for you, readers, unless of course you are able to join me in a collective sigh of relief upon hearing my news.
I'll start with the bad news for you: all the stories about my creepy neighbor (aka mannequin boy, aka Operation 303, etc.) that you all love so dearly are going to stop. Why? Well, he got himself fired for being a douche-bag.
Which leads me into the good news for me...
In all seriousness, there is a part of me that, strangely enough, actually feels bad for the guy (I think there's a complex for that... its a Syndrome... a city... Stockholm Syndrome? Something like that. Google it). Yeah, okay so not as bad as the syndrome, but I mean the guy has no friends other than online World of Warcraft guild buddies and two dogs, is from the east coast so has no family in the area, is a social deaf/mute with no people skills, and now has lost his job. It’s sad, and the part of my soul that God is trying really hard to save from eternal damnation is working overtime to conjure up these feelings of pity and well-wishes on Creep-O’s behalf. I won’t get into details on why he’s “no longer with the company” (I love bullshit corporate America terms, don’t you?) but he’s out. Cube has been cleared out, and a peaceful quiet has descended upon my row. Its glorious.
The funny and ironic part is that he’s still my neighbor, which has made my arrival home each evening like a scene from a fucking Mission Impossible movie. I’ve had to resort to rolling by my complex parking area like I’m trying out for a damn rap video, and then depending on where Creep-O’s car happens to be I have two options: 1) drive all the way around my building to park on the other side and walk up the front stairs, only to brave Smokes-A-Lot complaining about the fact that I walk in my apartment, ** or 2) park in my space in the back, in full view of Creep-O’s back door, and work with the evening shadows to shimmy up my back stairs before he sees me.
** Smokes-A-Lot is a nasty, bitter old woman who lives in the apartment below me. She chain smokes what must be 9 packs a day in her apartment, leaking fumes up through the vents causing my whole place to smell like smoke unless I leave every window open and fan on and Febreeze every day, and the old goat has the nerve complain about every last movement or noise I make in my apartment. If I talk with my upstairs neighbor (the cool one) on my balcony for 10 minutes I’ll get a note pinned to my door later on telling me to keep it down because her yappy little ankle-biter of a “dog” gets too excited to rest when there is “so much commotion outside.”
So I guess the bad news is that I’ve lost a “shoo-in” source for good stories, but the good news is that with my newly restored sanity I’ll be able to come up with other outlets from which to find inspiration to write. And to Creep-O, here are a few things I’d like to personally thank you for:
- for teaching me the importance of double bolting my locks
- for being the “Karen” of the group (if you don’t know what this means you need to listen to Dane Cook)
- all the laughs (even though most were at your expense)
- for providing me with constant opportunities to think before I speak and not say everything that pops into my head
It has been interesting, Mannequin Boy. Cheers.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Dopplegangers and Shadow People
First of all, I could not make this up.
This story starts with two of my friends driving back from a Texas A&M basketball game late at night. They were listening to a local radio show in the middle of podunk-ville which was discussing, at length and in all seriousness, the complexity of Shadow People and Doppelgangers. For those of you who are not in tune with the world of creepy, “oh my Goth” night people, don’t worry – I had no clue what the hell that meant either. So to clear it up a little for you here are some definitions:
Shadow People = evil spirits who try to destroy your fleshly being
Doppleganger = your mirror image but they are inherently evil
Riiiiiight. Anyway, Blake and Tim’s vast learnings on the subject were immediately passed onto Nate’ and I at work the next day, in a conversation entirely too rambunctious for its setting and which involved uncontrollable, hyena-esque laughter. Apparently, one very concerned patron of the radio show gave an emotional recounting of a tragic and fearful event in which she narrowly escaped with her life after her shadow person tried to eat her organs in an attempt to take over her life. What is hysterical to me is that all four of us instantly latched onto this AWESOME new vocabulary and have now started tossing around the terms “doppelganger” and “shadow people” like they are a part of anyone’s normal, everyday conversations. The terms are especially useful when describing particularly torturous situations, mostly involving the Operation 303 crew and my creepy-ass neighbor. An example would sound something like this: (Tim to Blake two hours into an excruciating Chamber of Commerce magic show) “I kinda wish the shadow people would kill me so my doppelganger were the one who had to watch this shit instead of me.”
Incase you would like more insight into the Doppleganger, this website provides an astounding amount of information and stimulating debate as to what, actually, a Doppleganger is and is not. http://www.unexplained-mysteries.com/viewarticle.php?id=201
And I quote: “Upon the Earth these creatures cannot hold their former figure so they take a shape that can live in this one. … angels and demons alike have had a fascination with man. When on Earth their first form may seem like that of a spirit ghost. … Even if the Doppelganger is but a myth the story told by them is really one of mankind. We often change and have a sense of duality. Like the doppelganger we but wonder through life searching for that form, that thing we call self, so that we may serve that purpose, so we may end the quest.” -- Alcien Semhazai
What the fuck is this guy talking about?! My favorite part in that quote is when he misspells “wander” in the last sentence, making him look like an even bigger douchebag as he tries to speak intelligently about shadowy evil ghost people who are replicas of our human forms. This stuff is fucking classic if you ask me.
Here’s another fun opinion from “Ophiel” (on the same website mentioned above):
The doppelganger are replacements that come from various underground facilities. (So apparently now we can pluralize the word in the same way we use ‘moose’ for both a moose and several moose – I learn something new every day, I tell you) It is unfair to label them souless. (Unfair, I tell you. UN-fair!... and I think you meant to put another “L” in soulless) Though clones, like us, information is incoded into their genes. (okay, its “encoded” but I’m with you). Most cases of a sighted doppleganger are reported after mass catatrophies (imagine that word with the missing “s” where is should be and try to follow along) where they can be intergrated (or “integrated”, but whatever) into the stream of the holographic universe. (What the fuck is the holographic universe? He lost me…) The person witnessing his doppleganger is usually in a state of distraught, (can you be in a ‘state of distraught?' or did you mean “state of distress?” Dipshit) very depressed, or on the verge of a life changing experiance (“experience”). The feeling of opposition one gets from them, meaning if your good the\'re (I mean good lord, do you KNOW what spell check is?) evil and vice versa, Is simply the manifestation of the latter problems that brought the doppleganger about. Nothing about it is opposite seeing as though duality is strictly a disease of the mind. Okay these last two sentences I don’t even know where to start. First of all, “latter problems”? I didn’t hear of the former, how can we already be discussing latter? And secondly, WTF.
I swear, I don’t even have to write anything myself in this entry and this shit just keeps getting funnier and funnier. My favorite thing about that website is that these people are trying to speak so profoundly/competently about this topic, as though they were discussing the origins global warming or the effects of capitalism on emerging nations. Let me remind you: we're talking about evil shadowy replicas of existing humans.
Anyway, creepy neighbor and his Op:303 clan overheard the four of us talking one day, and have become determined to join our conversation at the slightest hint of the word doppelganger. It really is the perfect cap on our lengthy debate regarding his complete uber-weirdness that he and his Op:303 crew have been so excited and willingly participatory in our discussions involving shadow people and doppelgangers. Apparently, the two wreak havoc on the world of WOW. Somehow I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
Maybe I can find my Doppleganger and figure out how to make her be the one that has to listen to the 303 clan discuss, at length, the party their guild threw on WOW last night. I’m sure I can work out a deal with the Shadow People to let me meet my Doppleganger without them having to kill me. Having an identical evil twin at my disposal could come in extremely handy, and would definitely knock up the story value of any situation.
Anyway, here are some more fun websites to check out on the subject. Check out the last one, there’s actually an org for Shadow People. Hysterical.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doppelg%C3%A4nger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_people
http://www.shadowpeople.org/
This story starts with two of my friends driving back from a Texas A&M basketball game late at night. They were listening to a local radio show in the middle of podunk-ville which was discussing, at length and in all seriousness, the complexity of Shadow People and Doppelgangers. For those of you who are not in tune with the world of creepy, “oh my Goth” night people, don’t worry – I had no clue what the hell that meant either. So to clear it up a little for you here are some definitions:
Shadow People = evil spirits who try to destroy your fleshly being
Doppleganger = your mirror image but they are inherently evil
Riiiiiight. Anyway, Blake and Tim’s vast learnings on the subject were immediately passed onto Nate’ and I at work the next day, in a conversation entirely too rambunctious for its setting and which involved uncontrollable, hyena-esque laughter. Apparently, one very concerned patron of the radio show gave an emotional recounting of a tragic and fearful event in which she narrowly escaped with her life after her shadow person tried to eat her organs in an attempt to take over her life. What is hysterical to me is that all four of us instantly latched onto this AWESOME new vocabulary and have now started tossing around the terms “doppelganger” and “shadow people” like they are a part of anyone’s normal, everyday conversations. The terms are especially useful when describing particularly torturous situations, mostly involving the Operation 303 crew and my creepy-ass neighbor. An example would sound something like this: (Tim to Blake two hours into an excruciating Chamber of Commerce magic show) “I kinda wish the shadow people would kill me so my doppelganger were the one who had to watch this shit instead of me.”
Incase you would like more insight into the Doppleganger, this website provides an astounding amount of information and stimulating debate as to what, actually, a Doppleganger is and is not. http://www.unexplained-mysteries.com/viewarticle.php?id=201
And I quote: “Upon the Earth these creatures cannot hold their former figure so they take a shape that can live in this one. … angels and demons alike have had a fascination with man. When on Earth their first form may seem like that of a spirit ghost. … Even if the Doppelganger is but a myth the story told by them is really one of mankind. We often change and have a sense of duality. Like the doppelganger we but wonder through life searching for that form, that thing we call self, so that we may serve that purpose, so we may end the quest.” -- Alcien Semhazai
What the fuck is this guy talking about?! My favorite part in that quote is when he misspells “wander” in the last sentence, making him look like an even bigger douchebag as he tries to speak intelligently about shadowy evil ghost people who are replicas of our human forms. This stuff is fucking classic if you ask me.
Here’s another fun opinion from “Ophiel” (on the same website mentioned above):
The doppelganger are replacements that come from various underground facilities. (So apparently now we can pluralize the word in the same way we use ‘moose’ for both a moose and several moose – I learn something new every day, I tell you) It is unfair to label them souless. (Unfair, I tell you. UN-fair!... and I think you meant to put another “L” in soulless) Though clones, like us, information is incoded into their genes. (okay, its “encoded” but I’m with you). Most cases of a sighted doppleganger are reported after mass catatrophies (imagine that word with the missing “s” where is should be and try to follow along) where they can be intergrated (or “integrated”, but whatever) into the stream of the holographic universe. (What the fuck is the holographic universe? He lost me…) The person witnessing his doppleganger is usually in a state of distraught, (can you be in a ‘state of distraught?' or did you mean “state of distress?” Dipshit) very depressed, or on the verge of a life changing experiance (“experience”). The feeling of opposition one gets from them, meaning if your good the\'re (I mean good lord, do you KNOW what spell check is?) evil and vice versa, Is simply the manifestation of the latter problems that brought the doppleganger about. Nothing about it is opposite seeing as though duality is strictly a disease of the mind. Okay these last two sentences I don’t even know where to start. First of all, “latter problems”? I didn’t hear of the former, how can we already be discussing latter? And secondly, WTF.
I swear, I don’t even have to write anything myself in this entry and this shit just keeps getting funnier and funnier. My favorite thing about that website is that these people are trying to speak so profoundly/competently about this topic, as though they were discussing the origins global warming or the effects of capitalism on emerging nations. Let me remind you: we're talking about evil shadowy replicas of existing humans.
Anyway, creepy neighbor and his Op:303 clan overheard the four of us talking one day, and have become determined to join our conversation at the slightest hint of the word doppelganger. It really is the perfect cap on our lengthy debate regarding his complete uber-weirdness that he and his Op:303 crew have been so excited and willingly participatory in our discussions involving shadow people and doppelgangers. Apparently, the two wreak havoc on the world of WOW. Somehow I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
Maybe I can find my Doppleganger and figure out how to make her be the one that has to listen to the 303 clan discuss, at length, the party their guild threw on WOW last night. I’m sure I can work out a deal with the Shadow People to let me meet my Doppleganger without them having to kill me. Having an identical evil twin at my disposal could come in extremely handy, and would definitely knock up the story value of any situation.
Anyway, here are some more fun websites to check out on the subject. Check out the last one, there’s actually an org for Shadow People. Hysterical.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doppelg%C3%A4nger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_people
http://www.shadowpeople.org/
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Operation: 303
So there is an episode of the American version of The Office where two coworkers mess with the weird guy’s head by sending him fake letters from the CIA and telling him to do certain things. There’s also a hilarious episode where they send him letters to himself from himself in the future, but that’s for a different story. Anyway, I’ve kind of stolen that concept but tweaked it a bit to make it more pertinent to my own office environment. I'm on a mission to mess with my neighbor. Well, not my neighbor, neighbor - she's cool and has done nothing to deserve the level of "messing" I'm thinking. I mean my creepy, "Awkward Acquaintances and TMI" neighbor (if you haven't read that entry in my blog yet, stop reading and go do that). To those of you who know me and want in on it, just say the word, I could use all the help I can get.
Now, you might be thinking that it’s cruel to think of screwing with people like this. To those people I will say only, did you read that blog story I just told you about?! Why do I want to do this? I dunno... vindication, because I can, good ole' fashioned fun, whatever - you name it. This guy is getting on my last nerve. Every day at work I have to watch him literally find ways not to get anything done, which, apparently, gets harder after six months of doing it. He rolls into the office at 9:45am after staying up all night playing World of Warcraft with all his weird cyber buddies, leaves the office at 10am to make a 30 minute coffee run, then spends the next two to three hours tracking down every other WOW player in our office to talk about the neat-o escapades his fucking mage (or whatever the hell the characters in that game are called) had last night (which, by the way, include raiding zeppelins in mid-air, throwing parties for his 'guild', and attending the weddings of other WOW players for the, I quote, free booze - WTF?! ). Right about then its lunchtime, and we all know that takes 90 minutes. In the afternoon he might bother to go to a conference call, but then he's so exhausted from all that work he'll have to find something to yell at the admins about and then go find his WOW cronies again and spend the next hour and a half talking strategy for tonight's quest, then he'll spend about an hour aimlessly walking around the site so nobody can find him to ask him to do anything, and he's out the door by 4:30pm max to get home and start the cycle over again.
So maybe you can see why this guy irks me. Hence, Operation 303. It is very simple, which is why it’s so brilliant. There are three WOW players who all sit right by me at work, and who constantly engage in very animated conversations about some random ass WOW topic. To them, one comment made to passer-by (my friend Blake who's a manager there) can set their little gamer, quest-hungry brains spinning: hey, did you get the details on operation: 303? They want us to get started on that ASAP. WOW’ers hear, but they aren't included, and it sounds like something important - I get instant Dwight-like reactions: What? What is operation: 303? Can I be involved? Is it dangerous? ... No, I tell them, you shouldn’t have heard that. Besides, it’s not like video games, and we don't need anymore help, thanks. I can see the wheels in their heads actually spinning.
What is Operation: 303? Hell if I know. World of Warcraft = WOW = IIIOIII = 303... Just something I thought would be fun. And, oh, it is.
Now, you might be thinking that it’s cruel to think of screwing with people like this. To those people I will say only, did you read that blog story I just told you about?! Why do I want to do this? I dunno... vindication, because I can, good ole' fashioned fun, whatever - you name it. This guy is getting on my last nerve. Every day at work I have to watch him literally find ways not to get anything done, which, apparently, gets harder after six months of doing it. He rolls into the office at 9:45am after staying up all night playing World of Warcraft with all his weird cyber buddies, leaves the office at 10am to make a 30 minute coffee run, then spends the next two to three hours tracking down every other WOW player in our office to talk about the neat-o escapades his fucking mage (or whatever the hell the characters in that game are called) had last night (which, by the way, include raiding zeppelins in mid-air, throwing parties for his 'guild', and attending the weddings of other WOW players for the, I quote, free booze - WTF?! ). Right about then its lunchtime, and we all know that takes 90 minutes. In the afternoon he might bother to go to a conference call, but then he's so exhausted from all that work he'll have to find something to yell at the admins about and then go find his WOW cronies again and spend the next hour and a half talking strategy for tonight's quest, then he'll spend about an hour aimlessly walking around the site so nobody can find him to ask him to do anything, and he's out the door by 4:30pm max to get home and start the cycle over again.
So maybe you can see why this guy irks me. Hence, Operation 303. It is very simple, which is why it’s so brilliant. There are three WOW players who all sit right by me at work, and who constantly engage in very animated conversations about some random ass WOW topic. To them, one comment made to passer-by (my friend Blake who's a manager there) can set their little gamer, quest-hungry brains spinning: hey, did you get the details on operation: 303? They want us to get started on that ASAP. WOW’ers hear, but they aren't included, and it sounds like something important - I get instant Dwight-like reactions: What? What is operation: 303? Can I be involved? Is it dangerous? ... No, I tell them, you shouldn’t have heard that. Besides, it’s not like video games, and we don't need anymore help, thanks. I can see the wheels in their heads actually spinning.
What is Operation: 303? Hell if I know. World of Warcraft = WOW = IIIOIII = 303... Just something I thought would be fun. And, oh, it is.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Power Yoga ≠ Harmonious Serenity
My best friend and I are on a kind of never ending quest to be gloriously fit. We haven't "let ourselves go," as it were, but we both remember skinnier days where we were at the height of our soccer playing and track running years, and we really really want to get back to that level - except that we've agreed that its really flippin' hard when there's nobody around to yell at you to keep going.
For as long as I've been fit, it was because of the sports I played and the teams I was a part of. There was no option to stop running - you veer off to the side, hurl, and catch your ass back up with the team ASAP so you don't end up making everybody go again. Sure, I could train on my own back then, but it was a lot easier to push myself into running a few more sprints when I knew I'd be manned up with fucking Flo-Jo reincarnated as a soccer player who happens to be the other team's wing midfielder in my game this weekend. Now though? I'm 20-something, just worked a long day, and am perfectly fine ellipsing away on level 4 while catching up on the news with my trusty The Week magazine. The only problem is that at that pace it would take 5 hours a day on that machine to get the chiseled, bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass body I'm going for. Sure, my friend and I could motivate each other, except we’re too good of friends for that. Meaning, in the 45th minute on that machine, no matter how encouraging or motivational she sounds when she tells me, you’re almost done! Why don’t you knock it up a few levels and really finish strong?! I have no problem giving her a "go to hell" look and telling her to bite me.
It is with this realization that we decided we needed an intervention, and as we’re not fit enough to join a sports team just yet, we thought that this Power Yoga class at our gym would be perfect. I mean its yoga for pete’s sake – a little stretching and some core strength? Yes, please! Umm, apparently we were wrong. All you birkenstocked, Prana-wearing, modern-day hippies do not be fooled. "Power" Yoga is NOT just the peaceful stretching to the sound of waterfalls that you're used to. Power Yoga, as it turns out, is exactly what I should have expected from the title - and now I can't feel my shoulders.
The only sense in which power yoga is a path to connect with your inner being is that you are going to become acutely aware of every tiny, individual muscle in between each of your ribs that you never knew existed but which are now causing you searing pain with every stretch of your lungs as you breathe in and out. I have an entirely new level of respect for yogis. I mean the human pretzel thing always looked ridiculously hard, but I would just marvel knowing that I’d never try that shit. What is astounding about practicing this art is that all the stuff that looks easy takes an unbelievable amount of strength to execute. Maybe that’s the key – once I get gloriously fit and my body can handle these poses yoga will open my mind up to the harmony and serenity people always rave about. And hell, if nothing else at least the quarters will by flying!
For as long as I've been fit, it was because of the sports I played and the teams I was a part of. There was no option to stop running - you veer off to the side, hurl, and catch your ass back up with the team ASAP so you don't end up making everybody go again. Sure, I could train on my own back then, but it was a lot easier to push myself into running a few more sprints when I knew I'd be manned up with fucking Flo-Jo reincarnated as a soccer player who happens to be the other team's wing midfielder in my game this weekend. Now though? I'm 20-something, just worked a long day, and am perfectly fine ellipsing away on level 4 while catching up on the news with my trusty The Week magazine. The only problem is that at that pace it would take 5 hours a day on that machine to get the chiseled, bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass body I'm going for. Sure, my friend and I could motivate each other, except we’re too good of friends for that. Meaning, in the 45th minute on that machine, no matter how encouraging or motivational she sounds when she tells me, you’re almost done! Why don’t you knock it up a few levels and really finish strong?! I have no problem giving her a "go to hell" look and telling her to bite me.
It is with this realization that we decided we needed an intervention, and as we’re not fit enough to join a sports team just yet, we thought that this Power Yoga class at our gym would be perfect. I mean its yoga for pete’s sake – a little stretching and some core strength? Yes, please! Umm, apparently we were wrong. All you birkenstocked, Prana-wearing, modern-day hippies do not be fooled. "Power" Yoga is NOT just the peaceful stretching to the sound of waterfalls that you're used to. Power Yoga, as it turns out, is exactly what I should have expected from the title - and now I can't feel my shoulders.
The only sense in which power yoga is a path to connect with your inner being is that you are going to become acutely aware of every tiny, individual muscle in between each of your ribs that you never knew existed but which are now causing you searing pain with every stretch of your lungs as you breathe in and out. I have an entirely new level of respect for yogis. I mean the human pretzel thing always looked ridiculously hard, but I would just marvel knowing that I’d never try that shit. What is astounding about practicing this art is that all the stuff that looks easy takes an unbelievable amount of strength to execute. Maybe that’s the key – once I get gloriously fit and my body can handle these poses yoga will open my mind up to the harmony and serenity people always rave about. And hell, if nothing else at least the quarters will by flying!
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Corporate Debutantes
Last Wednesday I hated my job. Well, really, I hated my bosses for keeping me at said job, but at this point that's just getting a little too nitty gritty. The point is, I was pissed, and here's why:
I work for a huge company. Global enterprise, multi-billion dollar type of huge, and it never ceases to amaze me how we ever get anything done. So here's the back-story. A little over nine months ago I moved into a new position at my job. The typical time in role for this job is 9-18 months before you can effectively say you've mastered it and are ready for something bigger and better, or even just something different. I knew taking this job that I would be ready to move on after around nine months, so, naturally, about two months ago I started getting the word out to other divisions that I would be looking to move to another role soon (in about 3-4 months). I tie off with my boss, let his boss know, and get back to my work.
Well, six weeks ago a buddy in another division calls me up saying he's working on creating a new job that I would be perfect for - am I interested? My answer is heck yes, so I go tell my boss, and I tell my boss's boss, and they say to keep them posted. That job came through last Wednesday, and when I went to aforementioned bosses I definitely got the Big Company Cop-out, Lumberg'eque, uhhh, gee, you know, we really can't afford to lose you right now... answer. Apparently, the way it works here is that your boss(es) have to agree on some set date in the future that they deem fitting for your departure from role, and (god forbid) if for whatever reason your departure would leave your current team in any state of disarray or deficiency they have full authority to hold you back from accepting any other positions. So really, I'm under some form of weird, unspoken rule contract... I just don't get paid $24 million for it. Once said departure date is agreed upon, there is a whole process of announcing your "eligibility to relocate" that is seriously nothing less than a corporate version of a debutante ball where a bunch of big wigs from all different divisions sit around in a room, throw your name up in a PowerPoint slide, and proceed to discuss at length every strength, weakness, and potential job fit they might see for you. Its so involved and intense that I'm mildly shocked that I don't have to show up in a white dress and a tiara escorted by the son of a prominent Honorable Mr. So-and-So.
The good news is that, while I can't take this job, I did get my bosses to agree to my release date and I already have other opportunities in the works. In April I will be unleashed into our own little corporate society, ready to find the perfect job fit and move. I get all fluttery just thinking about it, and, technically, April is spring so I guess I can wear white...
I work for a huge company. Global enterprise, multi-billion dollar type of huge, and it never ceases to amaze me how we ever get anything done. So here's the back-story. A little over nine months ago I moved into a new position at my job. The typical time in role for this job is 9-18 months before you can effectively say you've mastered it and are ready for something bigger and better, or even just something different. I knew taking this job that I would be ready to move on after around nine months, so, naturally, about two months ago I started getting the word out to other divisions that I would be looking to move to another role soon (in about 3-4 months). I tie off with my boss, let his boss know, and get back to my work.
Well, six weeks ago a buddy in another division calls me up saying he's working on creating a new job that I would be perfect for - am I interested? My answer is heck yes, so I go tell my boss, and I tell my boss's boss, and they say to keep them posted. That job came through last Wednesday, and when I went to aforementioned bosses I definitely got the Big Company Cop-out, Lumberg'eque, uhhh, gee, you know, we really can't afford to lose you right now... answer. Apparently, the way it works here is that your boss(es) have to agree on some set date in the future that they deem fitting for your departure from role, and (god forbid) if for whatever reason your departure would leave your current team in any state of disarray or deficiency they have full authority to hold you back from accepting any other positions. So really, I'm under some form of weird, unspoken rule contract... I just don't get paid $24 million for it. Once said departure date is agreed upon, there is a whole process of announcing your "eligibility to relocate" that is seriously nothing less than a corporate version of a debutante ball where a bunch of big wigs from all different divisions sit around in a room, throw your name up in a PowerPoint slide, and proceed to discuss at length every strength, weakness, and potential job fit they might see for you. Its so involved and intense that I'm mildly shocked that I don't have to show up in a white dress and a tiara escorted by the son of a prominent Honorable Mr. So-and-So.
The good news is that, while I can't take this job, I did get my bosses to agree to my release date and I already have other opportunities in the works. In April I will be unleashed into our own little corporate society, ready to find the perfect job fit and move. I get all fluttery just thinking about it, and, technically, April is spring so I guess I can wear white...
Friday, January 5, 2007
Wall of Fame
Every solid, life-long friendship has an identifiable beginning. For Mary and I, it was Post-It notes - I guess post-its have a unique purpose for everybody. In college, we had an entire wall of our dorm room covered with them. It didn't start out that way, but as the year went on more and more things found their way onto the Wall.
Before you get too enraptured by our incredible work ethic and study habits, these post-it notes were not formulas. They weren't even vocabulary words. Really, they had nothing to do with studying or education whatsoever - they were a year's worth of inside jokes, hilarious quotes, and single words that could make either one of us crack up at even a hint of the slightest utterance. It was a year's worth of building blocks to one of the strongest friendships I'll ever have in my entire life, all randomly posted to the wall of a dorm room at UCLA from two people who didn't know each other three months ago and were thrown into the same situation with the same concerns, fears, and goals.
Admittedly, we were the outcasts of our floor, and that's where most of the comments began. We were the two soccer players on a floor of people who had studied their whole life to go to UCLA. We were the two who had to get up at 5:30am for 6am strength training and be able to shower and make it to 8am lecture when the rest of the floor didn't set their alarms to go off until it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. We were different. One day we decided to count the number of times daily we heard the phrase, "are you guys, like, twins?" Which was funny and ironic to both of us because Mary is, in fact, an identical twin. To the UCLA-ers, however, both blonde, both blue eyed, both soccer players = twins. So began the Wall of Fame.
We started to write down every inside joke, every hilarious quote we heard, and other one word reminders of things that would set us off into laughter in a heartbeat. It was our outlet. It was our connection.
I thought of our Wall of Fame today, seven years later, because my best friend Nate' just finished telling me the greatest story ever about getting hit on at a New Year's Eve party. A drunk, nasty, middle-aged married white man definitely said to her, This is my song. It should be your song, too, because you've got junk in your trunk. I have made the executive decision to reinstate the Wall of Fame with that quote. And Mary, in your honor I will add:
fanny-pack guy
damn! I dropped my highlighter
and Mary, can you turn off the lights??
Love you guys, and welcome to the Wall of Fame.
Before you get too enraptured by our incredible work ethic and study habits, these post-it notes were not formulas. They weren't even vocabulary words. Really, they had nothing to do with studying or education whatsoever - they were a year's worth of inside jokes, hilarious quotes, and single words that could make either one of us crack up at even a hint of the slightest utterance. It was a year's worth of building blocks to one of the strongest friendships I'll ever have in my entire life, all randomly posted to the wall of a dorm room at UCLA from two people who didn't know each other three months ago and were thrown into the same situation with the same concerns, fears, and goals.
Admittedly, we were the outcasts of our floor, and that's where most of the comments began. We were the two soccer players on a floor of people who had studied their whole life to go to UCLA. We were the two who had to get up at 5:30am for 6am strength training and be able to shower and make it to 8am lecture when the rest of the floor didn't set their alarms to go off until it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. We were different. One day we decided to count the number of times daily we heard the phrase, "are you guys, like, twins?" Which was funny and ironic to both of us because Mary is, in fact, an identical twin. To the UCLA-ers, however, both blonde, both blue eyed, both soccer players = twins. So began the Wall of Fame.
We started to write down every inside joke, every hilarious quote we heard, and other one word reminders of things that would set us off into laughter in a heartbeat. It was our outlet. It was our connection.
I thought of our Wall of Fame today, seven years later, because my best friend Nate' just finished telling me the greatest story ever about getting hit on at a New Year's Eve party. A drunk, nasty, middle-aged married white man definitely said to her, This is my song. It should be your song, too, because you've got junk in your trunk. I have made the executive decision to reinstate the Wall of Fame with that quote. And Mary, in your honor I will add:
fanny-pack guy
damn! I dropped my highlighter
and Mary, can you turn off the lights??
Love you guys, and welcome to the Wall of Fame.
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