I just ran errands at lunch and had a crazy exchange that cannot go un-shared: in the post office, I walk up to one of those tables they have to sort through mail and there's a dude standing there with papers strewn everywhere taking up 3/4's of the table and a neatly stacked pile of mail at the other end. I don't want to be rude, so I say...
Emily: "excuse me, Sir, is this [pointing to neat stack of mail] yours?"
PO D-bag: [glares] "... no"
Emily: [confused] "do you know where this person is?"
PO D-bag: "no"
So I move the pile over to the edge to make myself a one-foot by one-foot workspace at the table to fill out my returns form... In the meantime, Tim gets back from checking his post office box and I move my purse to share my tiny table space with him. At least 5 minutes passes with Tim and I talking while I fill out this Returns form and all of the sudden D-bag starts talking...
P.O. D-bag: [looking down at his mail pile and mumbling] "it would be really rude of you to just walk up and shove my mail aside if that WERE my mail. I would be really upset if you had done that – it’s very rude."
Now, Tim and I both think this guy just has a really dry sense of humor and is kidding. I look up at Tim and he's frozen, mouth gaping, smiling at PO D-bag and silently giggling. I look at PO D-bag and he's still looking down at his pile of mail, but not smiling and not making eye contact. So I'm thoroughly confused and all I can muster is, "p-pardon?"
PO D-bag: [angrily now] "I SAID - I would be really upset if that was my mail and you just walked up and shoved it aside. Its incredibly rude to just shove that aside..."
(silent, gaping mouths from both Tim and I) and he continues...
PO D-bag: "and no I don't work for Dell but Michael is a client of mine..." [emphasis on 'Michael' and 'client']
[about 5 more solid seconds of silence from Tim and I]
And then Tim just goes, "... ok"
And then PO D-bag theatrically scoops up his mail and ha-rumph's away...
Tim and I stared after him for another good 5 seconds and then just burst out laughing. After thinking about it, we were a little miffed at ourselves that we didn't realize he was serious right away because there were a slew of fantastic responses we both would've had if we'd known from the beginning that he was crazy. Such as:
PO D-bag: "and no I don't work for Dell but Michael is a client of mine..."
Tim: "... well does he know you're insane?!"
or
PO D-bag: "and no I don't work for Dell but Michael is a client of mine..."
Emily: "oh, that's great! We need a pool boy, too - can we have your card?"
Unfortunately, we were too stunned to produce any worthwhile sound-bytes from this extremely random and confusing exchange, but in some ways I think our actual situation and responses were even better. I’m sure Tim’s “…ok” pissed him off even more. Man, if only life had a rewind button sometimes...
Monday, June 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I Apologize For That Right There, Lord
There are two specific things that make me giggle that definitely should not make me giggle. Things that, while I’m giggling, I’m secretly trying to figure out how I can dodge the lightning bolts that God is surely charging up to send hurtling to earth to smite me.
For example, try adding the word “the” in front of almost every horrible disease or ailment out there. Get really creative here – I’m not talking about things that already contain “the” in the title, like “the flu.” Think big here. Think ailments that normally make you uncomfortable talking about… try this one on for size: the aids. Or even better: the HIV (pronounced phonetically and not alphabetically). The gout. The arthritis…. There are so many, and they are even funnier when you add them into a sentence – try it. You’ll like it, I promise.
The other thing is swearing. I’m actually hesitant to admit this, and I do feel it’s necessary to admit that I know I should be ashamed of my sailor-esque mouth, but, honestly, I have so completely integrated cursing into my every day vernacular and its damn near impossible to make a point or tell a joke without it. (See, I was being clever right there with that “damn”). Unless it is being hurled at me in anger or hatred, a well placed curse word always makes me giggle. For hours of pure entertainment, though, combining my two awful habits is perhaps the best option. All anybody has to do to totally incapacitate me with laughter is utter “son of the bitch” in a slightly Borat-ish accent and tone.
Try using these fun new verbal judo tools in your everyday conversation to liven up the mood. Just make sure you dodge the lightning bolts.
For example, try adding the word “the” in front of almost every horrible disease or ailment out there. Get really creative here – I’m not talking about things that already contain “the” in the title, like “the flu.” Think big here. Think ailments that normally make you uncomfortable talking about… try this one on for size: the aids. Or even better: the HIV (pronounced phonetically and not alphabetically). The gout. The arthritis…. There are so many, and they are even funnier when you add them into a sentence – try it. You’ll like it, I promise.
The other thing is swearing. I’m actually hesitant to admit this, and I do feel it’s necessary to admit that I know I should be ashamed of my sailor-esque mouth, but, honestly, I have so completely integrated cursing into my every day vernacular and its damn near impossible to make a point or tell a joke without it. (See, I was being clever right there with that “damn”). Unless it is being hurled at me in anger or hatred, a well placed curse word always makes me giggle. For hours of pure entertainment, though, combining my two awful habits is perhaps the best option. All anybody has to do to totally incapacitate me with laughter is utter “son of the bitch” in a slightly Borat-ish accent and tone.
Try using these fun new verbal judo tools in your everyday conversation to liven up the mood. Just make sure you dodge the lightning bolts.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Jim The Passport Nazi
** Disclaimer: I apologize in advance to any and all Postal workers who happen to read this entry – not all of you are Nazi’s.
Until this year, I was not privy to the intricacies of the whole passport procurement process. I got my passport at 17 years old, during the second semester of my Junior year of high school, for a trip to Italy that I never got to go on because I needed to stay in the US and go to some soccer camps in the hope of finding one that would think my soccer skills good enough to let me go to their school for free. Which is to say, my mom got me my passport – I just grudgingly accompanied her to the photo mart to get my mug shots, so I was not fully aware of what a treasure trove of story value exists with the entire passport obtaining process… until now.
I won a trip for work, and Tim needs a passport to be able to go with me. The funniest part is that the trip is just to Canada, which of course a year ago (or so) we wouldn’t have even needed said passport, so he’s a little bitter to begin with. Otherwise, though, we are both very excited for a free and much needed vacation. Also, we’re excited because the post office we visit on a regular basis to get our mail contains a passport office run by a middle aged man named Jim who is, without question, smarter than everybody.
Jim works hard, keeping the long hours of 11:30am to 4:30pm Monday through Thursday, and seems to be constantly upset that there are always so many people crammed into line waiting to speak to him. Tim and I have heard many partial conversations between Jim and his poor subjects, and they are always very one-sided and include lots of very audible, annoyed-sounding sighs. Jim’s the kind of postal worker who believes that he has been tasked with absolutely crucial work, and he runs his passport office tighter than the military regiment he remembers from Nam. You must walk up and stop between 2 and 4 inches from the desk, present your documents facing Jim, and be able to rattle off answers to his 37 questions without hesitating for even a second or breaking eye contact with his intuitive lie detector-eyes.
When all was said and done, it was relatively easy for us to deal with Jim, but only because we’d had so much practice listening to his antics of torturing other would-be travelers. I think Jim and the Soup Nazi need to find each other – they are kindred souls and would be besties for sure.
Until this year, I was not privy to the intricacies of the whole passport procurement process. I got my passport at 17 years old, during the second semester of my Junior year of high school, for a trip to Italy that I never got to go on because I needed to stay in the US and go to some soccer camps in the hope of finding one that would think my soccer skills good enough to let me go to their school for free. Which is to say, my mom got me my passport – I just grudgingly accompanied her to the photo mart to get my mug shots, so I was not fully aware of what a treasure trove of story value exists with the entire passport obtaining process… until now.
I won a trip for work, and Tim needs a passport to be able to go with me. The funniest part is that the trip is just to Canada, which of course a year ago (or so) we wouldn’t have even needed said passport, so he’s a little bitter to begin with. Otherwise, though, we are both very excited for a free and much needed vacation. Also, we’re excited because the post office we visit on a regular basis to get our mail contains a passport office run by a middle aged man named Jim who is, without question, smarter than everybody.
Jim works hard, keeping the long hours of 11:30am to 4:30pm Monday through Thursday, and seems to be constantly upset that there are always so many people crammed into line waiting to speak to him. Tim and I have heard many partial conversations between Jim and his poor subjects, and they are always very one-sided and include lots of very audible, annoyed-sounding sighs. Jim’s the kind of postal worker who believes that he has been tasked with absolutely crucial work, and he runs his passport office tighter than the military regiment he remembers from Nam. You must walk up and stop between 2 and 4 inches from the desk, present your documents facing Jim, and be able to rattle off answers to his 37 questions without hesitating for even a second or breaking eye contact with his intuitive lie detector-eyes.
When all was said and done, it was relatively easy for us to deal with Jim, but only because we’d had so much practice listening to his antics of torturing other would-be travelers. I think Jim and the Soup Nazi need to find each other – they are kindred souls and would be besties for sure.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Spy Movies Could Save Your Life
If you are like me, you gain marginal enjoyment from spy movies. They aren’t the most exciting thing in the theater at the time, but you’re still willing to shell out the cash to actually go see it in the theater as long as you’re going with a group of friends who really want to see it. Plus sides to the outing top out at Brad Pitt (Spy Games, Mr. & Mrs. Smith) or Matt Damon (the Bourne series, of course) being more than pretty bodies running around with pretty faces while they dazzle you with important sounding words that leave you confused as to whether it’s a place, obscure terrorist organization, or some dude’s last name. Of course, with the thrilling plots and action sequences there are always the low moments in spy movie history (Steven Segal’s entire career, anything that Leslie Neilson spoofed). But what’s so great about spy movies is that even the terrible ones have some educational value.
I have only just recently come to this realization, and only because I have spent an extensive amount of time traveling outside of the US. I am ecstatic because I have always gained marginal enjoyment from them anyway, and now that I know how much of a treasure trove of useful information they are I will attend with much more vigor. Here are a few tidbits of gold for all you American tourists out there, all learned from spy movies.
1. Blend in. Assimilate, as it were. Or try really, really hard to. If you’re in a country where you can’t (you’re a 5’9” blonde with blue eyes in Thailand, for example) pick a nationality you could look like and go with that one – ie: stick a Canadian or Swedish flag on the backpack you take everywhere with you, and do your best to fake the Canadian/Swedish-English accent to the taxi driver. If you’re really paranoid, you could even go so far as to buy the Lonely Planet guide to fill-in-the-blank in said language and stick it conspicuously in the back mesh pocket.
2. When exchanging money, or paying for something at a window, like a subway ticket, don’t drop your change everywhere as you try to stuff it hurriedly into your wallet because you are embarrassed that you were the only one in line who didn’t know the exact change needed to pay. The sound of heavy coins bouncing every which way will only make you stick out more.
3. Carry an umbrella everywhere. Even if it’s 104 outside and there isn’t a cloud in sight. Everyone else in the world does it, so if you do it too it won’t be as easy to identify you as an American.
4. If you wake up from your nap in the sun on a remote, tropical island and find that the KGB has freaking relocated their operation to Ko Samet and decided to take every umbrella and seat around you for a 20 yard radius, and as you blink and stare groggily around one of them thrusts a cigarette in your face (not unlike a gesture of offering), what do you do?? That’s right, you take it. You take it, and you smoke it, and you smoke it gladly and gratefully… And then you go back to your room and hack up your lung.
Okay, so maybe these weren’t exactly like spy movies, but the part about blending is. Bottom line here: either learn some Svenska phrases or pick up social smoking so you don’t look like a complete douche-bag when the “cross cultural bonding” opportunity presents itself. There is nothing like turning purple and doing that little hack/wheeze/cough that could make you look like any less badass. Bourne never hacked. Bourne had ten different passports and perfect dialects to go with them all. What do I have? Well, I did hang out with the KGB on vacation.
I have only just recently come to this realization, and only because I have spent an extensive amount of time traveling outside of the US. I am ecstatic because I have always gained marginal enjoyment from them anyway, and now that I know how much of a treasure trove of useful information they are I will attend with much more vigor. Here are a few tidbits of gold for all you American tourists out there, all learned from spy movies.
1. Blend in. Assimilate, as it were. Or try really, really hard to. If you’re in a country where you can’t (you’re a 5’9” blonde with blue eyes in Thailand, for example) pick a nationality you could look like and go with that one – ie: stick a Canadian or Swedish flag on the backpack you take everywhere with you, and do your best to fake the Canadian/Swedish-English accent to the taxi driver. If you’re really paranoid, you could even go so far as to buy the Lonely Planet guide to fill-in-the-blank in said language and stick it conspicuously in the back mesh pocket.
2. When exchanging money, or paying for something at a window, like a subway ticket, don’t drop your change everywhere as you try to stuff it hurriedly into your wallet because you are embarrassed that you were the only one in line who didn’t know the exact change needed to pay. The sound of heavy coins bouncing every which way will only make you stick out more.
3. Carry an umbrella everywhere. Even if it’s 104 outside and there isn’t a cloud in sight. Everyone else in the world does it, so if you do it too it won’t be as easy to identify you as an American.
4. If you wake up from your nap in the sun on a remote, tropical island and find that the KGB has freaking relocated their operation to Ko Samet and decided to take every umbrella and seat around you for a 20 yard radius, and as you blink and stare groggily around one of them thrusts a cigarette in your face (not unlike a gesture of offering), what do you do?? That’s right, you take it. You take it, and you smoke it, and you smoke it gladly and gratefully… And then you go back to your room and hack up your lung.
Okay, so maybe these weren’t exactly like spy movies, but the part about blending is. Bottom line here: either learn some Svenska phrases or pick up social smoking so you don’t look like a complete douche-bag when the “cross cultural bonding” opportunity presents itself. There is nothing like turning purple and doing that little hack/wheeze/cough that could make you look like any less badass. Bourne never hacked. Bourne had ten different passports and perfect dialects to go with them all. What do I have? Well, I did hang out with the KGB on vacation.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Cliches, Pinoy Style
Just some little tidbits of brilliance from my Pinoy friends.
- What is it to me to you?
- When it rains its four
- Long leggedness legs (Miss Philippines at Miss Universe pageant, in response to prompter’s question, “what do you think is your attribute?”)
- We’ll burn that bridge when we cross it
- Looks can be deserving
- You can’t judge a book by each other
- Alma mother
- What’s up for that?
- I’m tell you no, you do, now look at!
- You want something drinks? Or Waiter – can you bring us something drinks?
- Come, let’s join us!
- Well, well, well, look do we have here?
- Because you can never can tell
- So far so good so far!
- That’s what I’m talking about it
- True good to be true
- Once in a new moon
- No holes barred
- Keep your mouth shocked
- Please don’t make fond of me
- The more you hate the more you laugh
- At’s if
- It’s just the tip of the icing
- Here’s more to come
- Connect me if I’m wrong
- I hope you don’t mine
- I want to portrait that role
- The nerd (instead of, ‘the nerve’)
- Give me alone
- I won’t stoop down to my level
- You are so questionable
- I don’t eat meat. I am not a carnival
- That is why I am successful, I don’t middle in other people’s lives
- You can fool me once, twice, even thrice but you can never fool me four
- Keyrec! (correct!)
- Are we fit? (will we all fit? – as in, getting around a dinner table or into an elevator)
- Starsbuck (yes, the coffee place)
Dedicated to Carol and Ms. J, who never judge a book with each other and don't mine the long leggedness legs American joining their daily Starsbuck runs to get something drinks. ;)
- What is it to me to you?
- When it rains its four
- Long leggedness legs (Miss Philippines at Miss Universe pageant, in response to prompter’s question, “what do you think is your attribute?”)
- We’ll burn that bridge when we cross it
- Looks can be deserving
- You can’t judge a book by each other
- Alma mother
- What’s up for that?
- I’m tell you no, you do, now look at!
- You want something drinks? Or Waiter – can you bring us something drinks?
- Come, let’s join us!
- Well, well, well, look do we have here?
- Because you can never can tell
- So far so good so far!
- That’s what I’m talking about it
- True good to be true
- Once in a new moon
- No holes barred
- Keep your mouth shocked
- Please don’t make fond of me
- The more you hate the more you laugh
- At’s if
- It’s just the tip of the icing
- Here’s more to come
- Connect me if I’m wrong
- I hope you don’t mine
- I want to portrait that role
- The nerd (instead of, ‘the nerve’)
- Give me alone
- I won’t stoop down to my level
- You are so questionable
- I don’t eat meat. I am not a carnival
- That is why I am successful, I don’t middle in other people’s lives
- You can fool me once, twice, even thrice but you can never fool me four
- Keyrec! (correct!)
- Are we fit? (will we all fit? – as in, getting around a dinner table or into an elevator)
- Starsbuck (yes, the coffee place)
Dedicated to Carol and Ms. J, who never judge a book with each other and don't mine the long leggedness legs American joining their daily Starsbuck runs to get something drinks. ;)
If You Can Play Mario Kart, You Can Drive In Manila
In fact, that might actually be the “simulator” they use when assessing driving skills and abilities – think naval aviators in zero gravity, G-force, virtual reality simulator machines, Filipino style. Which, of course, translates perfectly into being chased by Donkey Kong driving a rickshaw, honking madly while blindly changing lanes and throwing apples and mushrooms at whatever/whoever is in the way… It’s scary, to say the least.
The first thing I noticed was that the horn is more of a rite of passage on Philippine roads than it is in New York City. It often takes the place of blinkers, actually. Blinkers are way too proactive. No, it’s much easier for the 1982 Kia to just start merging in front of a city bus and then start honking madly as if to say, “you will let me iiiiiiinnnnn!”
It wasn’t long after the horns that I realized the ominous lack of traffic lights. This epiphany was brought on by the sheer terror that seized my mind and body when the hotel taxi driver picked me up from the airport on my first trip to Manila. Approximately 300 yards out of the airport gates he turned left into oncoming traffic without any hesitation or apparent fear whatsoever. I reached for the nonexistent Oh-Shit! handles thinking my death was imminent, and then watched in fascination as cars, busses, and Jeepneys just started slowing down as he honked his way across four lanes.
Another noteworthy observation is that the roads and “highways” in the Philippines are not at all unlike the windy, random, and hazardous roads of Mario Kart. For a third world country, Manila is a pretty prosperous and fast-growing city. As a result, buildings popped up everywhere with no plan or structure to the layout of the city, and as such there are tiny little byways that loop around in every which direction and somehow end up merging out into a major road. I’m telling you, this city is next to impossible to navigate as a foreigner. The taxi drivers we get around the city constantly amaze me. The other day I took one to the mall to go souvenir shopping and the guy squeezed between two cement road blocks to go on a basketball court-sized, completely open and unlined section under a highway ramp. Once we got to the other side I realized there was a tiny road leading out through two more giant cement road blocks that was basically an on ramp to another, bigger road. WTF. This was an actual, designated road! He didn’t just get creative and hope some barriers to get the Americans to their destination. Crazy.
My boss and I have decided that in an effort to maintain our sanity while on the roads of Manila, time in the car should either be spent talking on the cell phone or engaged in deeply heated debates so as to take our attention away from the dozens of death-defying maneuvers our drivers are pulling out of their asses. So far it has worked – all of the events have turned into hilarious story material rather than trips to hospitals. Most of the taxi drivers here just keep a rosary hanging from their rear view mirror, and rub it frantically every time they fly around a blind corner or thrust themselves within a centimeter of an on-coming bus. I thought they should be throwing the oil slicked rags or pineapple bombs out their windows, but then again, I was never very good at Mario Kart.
The first thing I noticed was that the horn is more of a rite of passage on Philippine roads than it is in New York City. It often takes the place of blinkers, actually. Blinkers are way too proactive. No, it’s much easier for the 1982 Kia to just start merging in front of a city bus and then start honking madly as if to say, “you will let me iiiiiiinnnnn!”
It wasn’t long after the horns that I realized the ominous lack of traffic lights. This epiphany was brought on by the sheer terror that seized my mind and body when the hotel taxi driver picked me up from the airport on my first trip to Manila. Approximately 300 yards out of the airport gates he turned left into oncoming traffic without any hesitation or apparent fear whatsoever. I reached for the nonexistent Oh-Shit! handles thinking my death was imminent, and then watched in fascination as cars, busses, and Jeepneys just started slowing down as he honked his way across four lanes.
Another noteworthy observation is that the roads and “highways” in the Philippines are not at all unlike the windy, random, and hazardous roads of Mario Kart. For a third world country, Manila is a pretty prosperous and fast-growing city. As a result, buildings popped up everywhere with no plan or structure to the layout of the city, and as such there are tiny little byways that loop around in every which direction and somehow end up merging out into a major road. I’m telling you, this city is next to impossible to navigate as a foreigner. The taxi drivers we get around the city constantly amaze me. The other day I took one to the mall to go souvenir shopping and the guy squeezed between two cement road blocks to go on a basketball court-sized, completely open and unlined section under a highway ramp. Once we got to the other side I realized there was a tiny road leading out through two more giant cement road blocks that was basically an on ramp to another, bigger road. WTF. This was an actual, designated road! He didn’t just get creative and hope some barriers to get the Americans to their destination. Crazy.
My boss and I have decided that in an effort to maintain our sanity while on the roads of Manila, time in the car should either be spent talking on the cell phone or engaged in deeply heated debates so as to take our attention away from the dozens of death-defying maneuvers our drivers are pulling out of their asses. So far it has worked – all of the events have turned into hilarious story material rather than trips to hospitals. Most of the taxi drivers here just keep a rosary hanging from their rear view mirror, and rub it frantically every time they fly around a blind corner or thrust themselves within a centimeter of an on-coming bus. I thought they should be throwing the oil slicked rags or pineapple bombs out their windows, but then again, I was never very good at Mario Kart.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
An Open Letter to Bank of America
Dear Bank of America,
Where did we go wrong? When we met, so many years ago, we were a perfect match! I had just come off a bad relationship with Wells Fargo, and you were there. I was a high school kid, too broke to pay for a checking account and you, what did you do for me? You said ‘have your checking for free!’ So we started going together, and things were great. I was growing with you, becoming a better, more responsible person every day we spent together. You had a $5,000 spending limit, but I, in an extraordinary display of self-discipline, swore I'd only use two-thirds of it. And I never used more. I did that because I respected you. I respected the exclusivity of our relationship.
But I just can’t figure you out anymore. You have changed from the low maintenance, agreeable BofA I once knew into the multi-national, billion dollar corporation equivalent of an Upper East Side non-working wife – you are sucking me dry, BofA.
But I'm frustrated, BofA. I'm upset and I'm confused and I'm frustrated. Here we are, getting along just swimmingly, and then yesterday get an email from you saying you've increased my credit limit to $13,000.
Well, you know what? That's bullshit BofA. Are you trying to bankrupt me? What in our history together makes you think I can pay off $13,000 in purchases? You don’t know me at all if you think I need a credit line equivalent to that of a small country. Am I not good to you, BofA? Don't I pay your bill on time every month? Yes, yes I most certainly do. What more do you want from me? I give all I can to you, BofA – I just don’t have any more to give. We've known each other a long time, and I thought we trusted each other. I trusted you. You know me, BofA, but apparently you'd rather base your opinion of me on what your gossipy, soulless friends the credit bureaus have to say.
And what gets me even more is the e-mail you sent me today, not even 24 hours after I got your other message. It says you want to make sure I'm protected from identity theft. Oh, really? One minute you blindside me and throw our relationship in my face, and the next you want to protect me like my mother or something?! You should be thinking about protecting me from bankruptcy, BofA.
God, BofA. I just. Don't. Get you.
So what do we do now? Obviously, this changes things. I won't be able to use you now and not feel like a stupid, irresponsible child. From now on, every time you come out of my wallet, I'll hurt a little. Your deep-blue palate and zippy logo will no longer make me proud; it will make me feel small and useless.
But I want to stay with you, BofA. I guess it might be a matter of convenience, which I know isn't necessarily healthy, but somehow I feel like we might be able to salvage things. Maybe it’s the airline miles you give me for every dollar I spend. Things may have changed, but you do still have $8,000 on you since I called your ass and knocked that shit back down. And $8000 is better than nothing. Let's take some time to give each other room to breathe, and see where we are at the end of the next billing cycle.
Warm Regards,
ESK
Where did we go wrong? When we met, so many years ago, we were a perfect match! I had just come off a bad relationship with Wells Fargo, and you were there. I was a high school kid, too broke to pay for a checking account and you, what did you do for me? You said ‘have your checking for free!’ So we started going together, and things were great. I was growing with you, becoming a better, more responsible person every day we spent together. You had a $5,000 spending limit, but I, in an extraordinary display of self-discipline, swore I'd only use two-thirds of it. And I never used more. I did that because I respected you. I respected the exclusivity of our relationship.
But I just can’t figure you out anymore. You have changed from the low maintenance, agreeable BofA I once knew into the multi-national, billion dollar corporation equivalent of an Upper East Side non-working wife – you are sucking me dry, BofA.
But I'm frustrated, BofA. I'm upset and I'm confused and I'm frustrated. Here we are, getting along just swimmingly, and then yesterday get an email from you saying you've increased my credit limit to $13,000.
Well, you know what? That's bullshit BofA. Are you trying to bankrupt me? What in our history together makes you think I can pay off $13,000 in purchases? You don’t know me at all if you think I need a credit line equivalent to that of a small country. Am I not good to you, BofA? Don't I pay your bill on time every month? Yes, yes I most certainly do. What more do you want from me? I give all I can to you, BofA – I just don’t have any more to give. We've known each other a long time, and I thought we trusted each other. I trusted you. You know me, BofA, but apparently you'd rather base your opinion of me on what your gossipy, soulless friends the credit bureaus have to say.
And what gets me even more is the e-mail you sent me today, not even 24 hours after I got your other message. It says you want to make sure I'm protected from identity theft. Oh, really? One minute you blindside me and throw our relationship in my face, and the next you want to protect me like my mother or something?! You should be thinking about protecting me from bankruptcy, BofA.
God, BofA. I just. Don't. Get you.
So what do we do now? Obviously, this changes things. I won't be able to use you now and not feel like a stupid, irresponsible child. From now on, every time you come out of my wallet, I'll hurt a little. Your deep-blue palate and zippy logo will no longer make me proud; it will make me feel small and useless.
But I want to stay with you, BofA. I guess it might be a matter of convenience, which I know isn't necessarily healthy, but somehow I feel like we might be able to salvage things. Maybe it’s the airline miles you give me for every dollar I spend. Things may have changed, but you do still have $8,000 on you since I called your ass and knocked that shit back down. And $8000 is better than nothing. Let's take some time to give each other room to breathe, and see where we are at the end of the next billing cycle.
Warm Regards,
ESK
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Cafeteria Ladies
I can count the number of people who are allowed to call me “babe” or “sweetie” on one hand.
- Betty (my mom) – she spent like 30 years teaching preschool and just has the disposition. And she’s my mom. Mom’s pretty much get a free pass.
- My boyfriend – limited to “baby,” and only allowed because it is only used in private moments and my actual name is still used in 99% of all conversation.
- Pat and/or John – pseudo-grandparents who have known me since I was born, and raised 5 kids of their own before me
- Jesus – this one should be obvious
There is a certain type of person who never uses first names. I haven’t figured out what the reasoning behind it is, but they are usually older, and have enough of a matronly air about them that most everybody just lets it pass and considers it endearing. The cafeteria ladies at work are like this, but they are extra intriguing because they aren’t old, not even a little. I’d be shocked if they were over 30. But no matter who walks through their checkout counter there is never a sir, ma’am, or miss uttered. The CEO of the company, a man worth like $80 billion, could walk through and they’d still call him hon.
Every time I go get something from downstairs, they remind me of the Dane Cook bit where he’s talking about the time he cut somebody in line and got into a verbal sparring match with a horrendous douchebag. It’s the man-fight progression of fake sarcastic jeering until the heavy name calling cuts in: hey Pal…. I don’t think so, Buddy…. Not on your life, Chief…. Bring it Gaylord! For lots of women, the Sweetie --> Babe --> Hon progression is the same. Each time one of these women calls me sweetie I want to punch something. I have no idea why, but it’s the same ire that was invoked in me whenever, during warm-up for soccer games in high school or college, whenever a teammate would say, “let’s go ladies!” I would cringe. Maybe I have a problem with people who use such familiar terms of endearment on perfect strangers because I feel so misunderstood most of the time. Maybe it bugs me because I know people who call everybody babe or hon and they are incredibly shallow, narcissistic, and fake in nearly every way imaginable. In any case, it remains hilarious to see a 50-something year old man be called sweetie by a 25-year-old cashier when purchasing his proudly-brewed Starbucks – the universe seems to have reversed.
- Betty (my mom) – she spent like 30 years teaching preschool and just has the disposition. And she’s my mom. Mom’s pretty much get a free pass.
- My boyfriend – limited to “baby,” and only allowed because it is only used in private moments and my actual name is still used in 99% of all conversation.
- Pat and/or John – pseudo-grandparents who have known me since I was born, and raised 5 kids of their own before me
- Jesus – this one should be obvious
There is a certain type of person who never uses first names. I haven’t figured out what the reasoning behind it is, but they are usually older, and have enough of a matronly air about them that most everybody just lets it pass and considers it endearing. The cafeteria ladies at work are like this, but they are extra intriguing because they aren’t old, not even a little. I’d be shocked if they were over 30. But no matter who walks through their checkout counter there is never a sir, ma’am, or miss uttered. The CEO of the company, a man worth like $80 billion, could walk through and they’d still call him hon.
Every time I go get something from downstairs, they remind me of the Dane Cook bit where he’s talking about the time he cut somebody in line and got into a verbal sparring match with a horrendous douchebag. It’s the man-fight progression of fake sarcastic jeering until the heavy name calling cuts in: hey Pal…. I don’t think so, Buddy…. Not on your life, Chief…. Bring it Gaylord! For lots of women, the Sweetie --> Babe --> Hon progression is the same. Each time one of these women calls me sweetie I want to punch something. I have no idea why, but it’s the same ire that was invoked in me whenever, during warm-up for soccer games in high school or college, whenever a teammate would say, “let’s go ladies!” I would cringe. Maybe I have a problem with people who use such familiar terms of endearment on perfect strangers because I feel so misunderstood most of the time. Maybe it bugs me because I know people who call everybody babe or hon and they are incredibly shallow, narcissistic, and fake in nearly every way imaginable. In any case, it remains hilarious to see a 50-something year old man be called sweetie by a 25-year-old cashier when purchasing his proudly-brewed Starbucks – the universe seems to have reversed.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Fake Ice!
My life as I know it changed forever in a ground-breaking way over this past Thanksgiving weekend. During the last eight years I’ve spent in Texas, I’ve played this little game with myself to constantly be on the lookout for the most Texan or country thing I have ever seen. I’ve been unable to top two things since 2004: 1) the phrase, “I’ll tell yew whut…” and 2) chicken fried steak. These and many more of my outsider, “yankee” preconceptions were shattered in four small days.
It all started with the simple fact that our weekend of tryptophan induced Thanks was to be held in Mertens, Texas. You don’t know where that is? Don’t worry, neither does the rest of Texas. Mertens is a small dwelling (not really sure it’s actually large enough to be called a town) in central Texas that exists because farmers still exist. I can’t be quoted on this, but I would bet my right arm that there are more cattle in Mertens than people, hell, probably more tractors too. We were going there because that’s where Tim’s mother and her husband (yes, a farmer) live.
I digress – there is far too much to this weekend to capture succinctly if I get off track – so on Wednesday evening Tim and I pick up his girls and continue our drive out to Gammy and Gampie’s farm. The following day is spent jumping over, through, and on haystacks to keep ourselves entertained, piling in the four-wheelers and racing the pack of dogs for two miles to the creek bed to go exploring, and of course stuffing ourselves silly and watching football.
On Black Friday, our solution to avoiding the shopping crowds and spending craze was to go out to a town just north and visit the ice skating rink Tim’s mom had seen advertised in the paper. Should be fun! Hell, it was already in the high 30s and felt like the north pole, we might as well go ice skating. It was a 40 minute drive to the town, and of course one of the girls wanted to go and the other one didn’t. We overruled Negative Nancy, however, and were soon piled in the car to go. It was a cheerful drive – everybody cheered up and was happy to get out of the house and go skate. We had a little trouble finding the place, but soon turned a corner and saw a picket fence surrounding blinding white, and a lone skater tottering around out there. The girls instantly started chattering and wanted to get going. Tim and I exchanged knowing glances that were later explained to mean, respectively: “this shit is tiny - thank God, now I don’t have get out there and risk busting my ass,” and “an outdoor rink? In Texas? I know its cold but still just 40 degrees… how the hell do they keep that thing frozen?? Is it cooled from underground? A town like this can’t afford that kind of technology… what the hell.”
Tim had to chat with Negative Nancy back at the car, so I suggested to her sister that we go ask how much it costs and start trying on skates until they were ready to join. We get all our info and walk to the fence to watch the skaters… and it hits us at the same time: its fake fucking ice. I’m immediately horrified and can only think of the 10 year old beside me and how crushed she is going to be and what do I say to her? But I didn’t get anything out because as soon as I look down, her face is already turned up towards mine and she hisses out, “oh my god, it’s not even real ice!!” I could do nothing but try with all my energy to hold in a laugh. That didn’t work. We broke out in a dead sprint to Tim at the same exact time, me reaching him first only because of my longer legs. It took a solid minute for the look of comprehension to dawn on his face, even with both of us repeating our shocking finding in pause-less unison for 60 seconds. The next five minutes were spent catching our breath and quieting our laughter.
Don’t think that just because the ice was fake that the girls didn’t want to skate. Oh no. We paid their six dollars each and watched them march around that giant cutting board for nearly thirty minutes. The rink attendants watched people struggle and kept saying, “just rub your skates back and forth real quick, the warmer the blades are the faster you’ll glide!” No fucking shit – hot metal cuts through two inch thick plastic faster than cold metal? And notice they didn’t say “skate.” That entire establishment was a giant bumblefuck. When the younger one had to go to the bathroom, they told her that if she took off her skates she was done for the day, but then said she couldn’t leave the grounds to go to the bathroom, which was an outhouse in a dark alley across the street. I have a picture of Tim carrying his 8-year old in full onesie ski suit and ice skates across the street so he could set her in the porta-potty to pee. The trip was topped off when “Santa” came rolling down main street. I use quotation marks here because he looked more like a child molester in his faded red suit and jankety go-cart with radio-flyer duct taped to the back with unkempt children strewn about it, sort of waving and haphazardly tossing out candy. After all the shenanigans, we decided to call it a day, but not before gathering in front of the fake ice rink and posing for a picture, replacing the traditional “cheese!” with a hearty, “fake ice!” You can even see families marching in ice skates across the background. I have that photo framed.
It all started with the simple fact that our weekend of tryptophan induced Thanks was to be held in Mertens, Texas. You don’t know where that is? Don’t worry, neither does the rest of Texas. Mertens is a small dwelling (not really sure it’s actually large enough to be called a town) in central Texas that exists because farmers still exist. I can’t be quoted on this, but I would bet my right arm that there are more cattle in Mertens than people, hell, probably more tractors too. We were going there because that’s where Tim’s mother and her husband (yes, a farmer) live.
I digress – there is far too much to this weekend to capture succinctly if I get off track – so on Wednesday evening Tim and I pick up his girls and continue our drive out to Gammy and Gampie’s farm. The following day is spent jumping over, through, and on haystacks to keep ourselves entertained, piling in the four-wheelers and racing the pack of dogs for two miles to the creek bed to go exploring, and of course stuffing ourselves silly and watching football.
On Black Friday, our solution to avoiding the shopping crowds and spending craze was to go out to a town just north and visit the ice skating rink Tim’s mom had seen advertised in the paper. Should be fun! Hell, it was already in the high 30s and felt like the north pole, we might as well go ice skating. It was a 40 minute drive to the town, and of course one of the girls wanted to go and the other one didn’t. We overruled Negative Nancy, however, and were soon piled in the car to go. It was a cheerful drive – everybody cheered up and was happy to get out of the house and go skate. We had a little trouble finding the place, but soon turned a corner and saw a picket fence surrounding blinding white, and a lone skater tottering around out there. The girls instantly started chattering and wanted to get going. Tim and I exchanged knowing glances that were later explained to mean, respectively: “this shit is tiny - thank God, now I don’t have get out there and risk busting my ass,” and “an outdoor rink? In Texas? I know its cold but still just 40 degrees… how the hell do they keep that thing frozen?? Is it cooled from underground? A town like this can’t afford that kind of technology… what the hell.”
Tim had to chat with Negative Nancy back at the car, so I suggested to her sister that we go ask how much it costs and start trying on skates until they were ready to join. We get all our info and walk to the fence to watch the skaters… and it hits us at the same time: its fake fucking ice. I’m immediately horrified and can only think of the 10 year old beside me and how crushed she is going to be and what do I say to her? But I didn’t get anything out because as soon as I look down, her face is already turned up towards mine and she hisses out, “oh my god, it’s not even real ice!!” I could do nothing but try with all my energy to hold in a laugh. That didn’t work. We broke out in a dead sprint to Tim at the same exact time, me reaching him first only because of my longer legs. It took a solid minute for the look of comprehension to dawn on his face, even with both of us repeating our shocking finding in pause-less unison for 60 seconds. The next five minutes were spent catching our breath and quieting our laughter.
Don’t think that just because the ice was fake that the girls didn’t want to skate. Oh no. We paid their six dollars each and watched them march around that giant cutting board for nearly thirty minutes. The rink attendants watched people struggle and kept saying, “just rub your skates back and forth real quick, the warmer the blades are the faster you’ll glide!” No fucking shit – hot metal cuts through two inch thick plastic faster than cold metal? And notice they didn’t say “skate.” That entire establishment was a giant bumblefuck. When the younger one had to go to the bathroom, they told her that if she took off her skates she was done for the day, but then said she couldn’t leave the grounds to go to the bathroom, which was an outhouse in a dark alley across the street. I have a picture of Tim carrying his 8-year old in full onesie ski suit and ice skates across the street so he could set her in the porta-potty to pee. The trip was topped off when “Santa” came rolling down main street. I use quotation marks here because he looked more like a child molester in his faded red suit and jankety go-cart with radio-flyer duct taped to the back with unkempt children strewn about it, sort of waving and haphazardly tossing out candy. After all the shenanigans, we decided to call it a day, but not before gathering in front of the fake ice rink and posing for a picture, replacing the traditional “cheese!” with a hearty, “fake ice!” You can even see families marching in ice skates across the background. I have that photo framed.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Hydro Death Trap
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.
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.
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...
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