Colorful
you swim like you're on fire
live like your last day
drink like its water
there's no tomorrow
and you think no one can hear you
raise your hands to be called on
you know all the answers
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
You're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you dance like no one's watching
sing 'till the song ends
then you sing some more
and we can hardly believe it
words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you are an enigma walking
make no excuses for the way that you carry on
and we can hardly believe it
the words that flow from your mouth
drink like its water, hon
drink like its water
you're the most colorful thing that i've seen
you're the most beautiful thing that i've seen
you are so colorful
you are so beautiful
you are the most colorful thing that i've seen
Bus Ride
bus ride
then i'm corss-town
i take my seat
and watch the streets go by
traffic lights
then a left hand turn
i'm almost to the street where you live on
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
next block
that is my stop
i close my eyes visualize the day
three steps
two knocks on your door
the doorknob turns
my stomach burns to say
can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home... to my house
there's no wall
there's no ceiling shadow
i can finally show you
without a key without a door or window
to climb through can i take you home... to my house
can i take you home
can i take you home... to my house
Speak To Me
Dialogue communicate / wasted words circulate / catchy phrases inside joke / sitcom pilot simple folk / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / campaign slogan election year / fiction writer greatest fear / private letters instruction books / formulas ancient script / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / show me before you don't have a chance / shallow words will drown with water from / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me with your heart / speak to me
- all lyrics by Rocco Deluca
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Snow Virgins, Board Lessons, and ERs
One of the things I am most grateful for in this life is that nearly every athletic pursuit I now enjoy as an adult I learned a long, long time ago. My mom tells me I was riding a little tricycle around my big sister’s kindergarten playground at the wee age of two-ish. My parents lied about my age to get me into T-ball and soccer earlier than the required age of five because I was apparently too annoyingly energetic to deal with (and also bigger than most other 4 year olds). And my dad, in his infinite wisdom, stuck my 8-year-old sister and 5-year-old self in skiing lessons for a week while the rest of the adults tackled the slopes together, child- and care-free.
My point is this: all of those sports are difficult, and take most people years to fully learn to the point of comfortably calling themselves intermediates instead of mere amateurs or beginners. This is why, when my best friend announced she was going to learn to snowboard on our vacation this year, I choked on a peanut and said a little prayer for her, and my sanity.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I doubt her ability to pick up a sport, or even her athletic prowess and/or drive to succeed. I choked because I remember all of the falling; the sore muscles; and the bruised legs, arms, and ass – the difference is that I went through that between the ages of 5 and 10 years old when everybody are just little rubber balls of energy, numb to pain and suffering from physical exertion and uncoordinated mistakes. My best friend, however, would be taking on these feats as a 27-year-old Gold’s Gym ellipser – two very different stages in life.
The trip started out with us missing our shuttle up to Vail (a good friend of mine lives there), but, amazingly, neither of us let that small kink deter or even dampen our excitement. We got up there the next morning and were on the slopes in plenty of time to get a full half-day of glorious spring snowboarding under our belts. Before I go on, I have to make the disclaimer that several people hip to the trials and tribulations of first-time snowboarding had expressed to Nate’ the urgent advice of taking lessons since it was her first time. She was fully on board… and then saw how much they cost and made the executive decision to wing it – to which I had no veto power. So, we get up the first lift on a gorgeous spring afternoon in Beav, I somehow talk her through getting off the lift (rather well, I might say, she didn’t even fall!), and Nate’ gets about 150 yards down the first catwalk to a green and calls it. Time of day 1’s death: oh-quick-thirty. In her defense, I do not claim to be a good snowboard instructor. If I was, I wouldn’t be working my current job in the middle of Texas – I’d be living the high-life traveling from resort to resort making a living off of being on the slopes all day. Anyway, I digress…
After that first day she wisely decided she needed to take a lesson, so she signed up for an all-day’er starting the following morning. She was completely excited to learn, undoubtedly because it was from an actual instructor and not her dippy best friend who was giving her such gold as, “uh, so, like turn your back foot when you start to feel like you’re gonna fall…” Glorious advice, if I do say so myself… ugh – thanks for not hating me, Rooms. Anyway, so she hauls off to lessons and I hit the hill by myself, which was actually kinda nice because I had all day to just get lost and go where ever I wanted. I got cranked by some douche-bag not looking where he was going sometime midday, so I decided to take a break and go check on how lessons were coming along… Only to be met with a gleaming smile as Nate’ held up her mangled arm and exclaimed, “I hurt myself snowboarding!” Greeaaat.
The most bad-ass part about it is that she finished the entire day’s lesson with a wrist the size of my thigh (okay, I flatter myself – even her swollen as hell wrist was smaller than my thunder thigh, but you get my point in exaggerating for emphasis). We finished our time up in Vail and decided to go to the Emergency Room once we got to my sister’s place – that’s where we found out it was broken.
So that trip to Colorado will always be an amazing story for Nate’ – first time in snow, first time snowboarding, fell and hurt her wrist wherein it swelled up so bad she got to spend all day clutching at and being clutched by a hot Australian snowboard instructor, and then went to the ER two days later only to find out she broke it. Rooms, you badass, you – thanks for the great story!
My point is this: all of those sports are difficult, and take most people years to fully learn to the point of comfortably calling themselves intermediates instead of mere amateurs or beginners. This is why, when my best friend announced she was going to learn to snowboard on our vacation this year, I choked on a peanut and said a little prayer for her, and my sanity.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I doubt her ability to pick up a sport, or even her athletic prowess and/or drive to succeed. I choked because I remember all of the falling; the sore muscles; and the bruised legs, arms, and ass – the difference is that I went through that between the ages of 5 and 10 years old when everybody are just little rubber balls of energy, numb to pain and suffering from physical exertion and uncoordinated mistakes. My best friend, however, would be taking on these feats as a 27-year-old Gold’s Gym ellipser – two very different stages in life.
The trip started out with us missing our shuttle up to Vail (a good friend of mine lives there), but, amazingly, neither of us let that small kink deter or even dampen our excitement. We got up there the next morning and were on the slopes in plenty of time to get a full half-day of glorious spring snowboarding under our belts. Before I go on, I have to make the disclaimer that several people hip to the trials and tribulations of first-time snowboarding had expressed to Nate’ the urgent advice of taking lessons since it was her first time. She was fully on board… and then saw how much they cost and made the executive decision to wing it – to which I had no veto power. So, we get up the first lift on a gorgeous spring afternoon in Beav, I somehow talk her through getting off the lift (rather well, I might say, she didn’t even fall!), and Nate’ gets about 150 yards down the first catwalk to a green and calls it. Time of day 1’s death: oh-quick-thirty. In her defense, I do not claim to be a good snowboard instructor. If I was, I wouldn’t be working my current job in the middle of Texas – I’d be living the high-life traveling from resort to resort making a living off of being on the slopes all day. Anyway, I digress…
After that first day she wisely decided she needed to take a lesson, so she signed up for an all-day’er starting the following morning. She was completely excited to learn, undoubtedly because it was from an actual instructor and not her dippy best friend who was giving her such gold as, “uh, so, like turn your back foot when you start to feel like you’re gonna fall…” Glorious advice, if I do say so myself… ugh – thanks for not hating me, Rooms. Anyway, so she hauls off to lessons and I hit the hill by myself, which was actually kinda nice because I had all day to just get lost and go where ever I wanted. I got cranked by some douche-bag not looking where he was going sometime midday, so I decided to take a break and go check on how lessons were coming along… Only to be met with a gleaming smile as Nate’ held up her mangled arm and exclaimed, “I hurt myself snowboarding!” Greeaaat.
The most bad-ass part about it is that she finished the entire day’s lesson with a wrist the size of my thigh (okay, I flatter myself – even her swollen as hell wrist was smaller than my thunder thigh, but you get my point in exaggerating for emphasis). We finished our time up in Vail and decided to go to the Emergency Room once we got to my sister’s place – that’s where we found out it was broken.
So that trip to Colorado will always be an amazing story for Nate’ – first time in snow, first time snowboarding, fell and hurt her wrist wherein it swelled up so bad she got to spend all day clutching at and being clutched by a hot Australian snowboard instructor, and then went to the ER two days later only to find out she broke it. Rooms, you badass, you – thanks for the great story!
Monday, April 9, 2007
No More Blonde Moments...
Well, who am I kidding. I’ll still have plenty of them – it’s just that now I’ll look like even more of a jackass because I don’t have the platinum locks to go with it. My mistakes and screw-ups won’t be things I can brush off with a cute little chuckle and wave towards my hair – that would just look ridiculous as a brunette. Yeah, I dyed my hair brown last week. I’m still getting used to it, but I’m pretty sure I really like it. The entire idea of me not being a blonde anymore is something I’ve been curious about for a long time – it’s just that I never took the thought seriously enough to actually go do something about it. It was more just flippant voicing in conversations every now and again about “I wonder what I’d look like with dark hair?” Until one day about two months ago when my best friend and I officially went on a mission to dye my hair dark brown.
We were trying to find fun things to do during a torrential downpour day, so we decided to go rifle through the magazine rack at a huge bookstore in town. I had already talked to Nate’ about wondering what it would look like and she would just shrug and say, “yeah? You should try it then.” But with no real commitment from my best friend I had awful visions of turning myself into Elvira - Mistress of the Dark and wasn’t about to actually do it. Then Nate’ saw a picture in GQ of Cameron Diaz in the sunshine on some island with dark brown hair strategically tousled about her face and eyes and our mission was clear. She looked hot, and the dark hair made her blue eyes totally stand out. So we decided to make it happen.
I made an appointment at a totally swanky salon in the middle of Dallas called Pompeo (didn’t know it was that swanky at the time, a friend of mine with awesome hair referred me) to get it done on my way out of town for vacation. The guy who did my hair was awesome, and I had so much fun picking out the color and watching the whole thing go down! I can’t imagine having to sit through that crap every 4-6 weeks though… ugh – how do those women who are constantly dying their hair do it? This is going to be fun for a while, but I know I’m going to get really tired really quick of having to schedule touch-up appointments.
Anyway, not even two hours after its done Nate’ and I are in the airport to fly out for vacation, and while stopped in the security line (I always get stopped, I have no clue what about me says possible threat to Homeland Security!, but whatever) some dude hit on me. It was hysterical. He wasn’t just some junkie off the street, either – he has four names and a freaking roman numeral! We were laughing about that for a good week. Flirty McFlirterson even gave me his card, and if you’re wondering – yes, I fully intend to email him. I was always told that blondes have more fun, but I think I could make a pretty strong case for staying a brunette! Thanks for talking me into it, Rooms!
Sunday, April 8, 2007
Club T.C.
Before I tell you this story, I have to tell you, trusted blog readers, that I am not at all ashamed about events that transpired throughout that evening.
I’m pretty sure it started back in college. Two great friends of mine love men above all else, and will boldly go where no other image-conscious college junior will go – like an N’Sync concert. They loved Justin Timberlake, but remember, this is pre-hot Justin – this is skinny, curly headed, looks like his voice might crack any moment Justin… but on his way up, I’ll give them that. Anyway, they went, they danced their asses off among screaming pre-teen girls, and they raved to all of us how great it was, completely unashamed (props, ladies).
So, back in like October when one of the duo (now my best friend) called me to tell me that Justin was going to be in Houston for the FutureSexLoveSounds tour in March and do I want to go with her and Chanell. Uh, yes! We basically tell Chanell to get all three tickets when she goes online to get hers. My Mistake #1. She waited online until the second tickets went on sale, and the ensuing conversation went like this:
Chanell: “I got the tickets; you guys owe me $115.”
(Dividing in my head I think, okay that’s not too bad)
Nate’: “okay, so what is that, $57.50 each?”
Chanell: (pauses) “no, $115 each…”
Me: “What the HELL!? Are we sitting on the damn stage?!”
Nate’: (laughing) “we’d better get sweated on!”
I say it like we were mad, but honestly after waiting like four months for the concert to arrive (we got our tickets kinda early) we were excited and sitting on the 4th row juuust to the left of center stage was pretty much worth our $115 each.
So Nate’ and I drove to Chanell’s house in Houston – the plan is get her, go eat, get to downtown H-town for the concert. So we greet and hug, say hi to the fam, and are out – we’re all in jeans, Tay and I have t-shirts on, I’m in my snazzy old school New Balance shoes, Tay’s in flip flops. Chanell’s in a button-up shirt, but she always wears those and she had like sketchers on. I think Chanell and Nate’ had a little eye makeup on, me? Makeup? Pssh! (These details will be important later.)
When we got to the Toyota Center we immediately recognized an amazing venue for people-watching. Nobody had been let in yet, so there were lines curving all the way around the damn building, with ALL sorts of people. The hilarious part about it was that the women were all dressed to the freaking nines to go to this concert. I mean, I didn’t know they made 4-inch stilettos, but apparently everybody there did. So we’re walking through the line in our tennies, jeans, and hoodies watching these sticks of women hobble around in heels they can’t walk in and freeze their asses off because their shirt basically covers their nipples and a strip of skin down their stomach – we were pretty sure we were going to a concert, not a nightclub. Hence the name, Club T.C. It was as if the women thought that by looking all “cute” (enter a multitude of appropriate adjectives: slutty, easy, trashy, etc) Justin would actually make eye contact, realize Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson aren’t enough, pause the concert, and pick them out of the crowd to go backstage and start a life together. Hysterically tragic on their part.
Once we actually took our seats the people watching got even better. The only people in front of us were those who had paid to stand on the floor right by the stage and next to the bar. The concert was actually great, and really fun. What can I say? Justin Timberlake is a good performer. During the intermission, Timbaland came onstage and mixed for about 25 minutes, which is where it really turned into Club T.C. Everybody was dancing, all the clackers were bobbing as much as the stilettos would allow, trying to figure out how have rhythm while trying to clutch their uber-trendy, sequined purses (big enough to hold a tube of chapstick) and their alcoholic beverage at the same time.
And the three of us? We didn’t get sweated on, but we danced and sang our asses off in our Ts, tennies, and hoodies and left with our money’s worth.
I’m pretty sure it started back in college. Two great friends of mine love men above all else, and will boldly go where no other image-conscious college junior will go – like an N’Sync concert. They loved Justin Timberlake, but remember, this is pre-hot Justin – this is skinny, curly headed, looks like his voice might crack any moment Justin… but on his way up, I’ll give them that. Anyway, they went, they danced their asses off among screaming pre-teen girls, and they raved to all of us how great it was, completely unashamed (props, ladies).
So, back in like October when one of the duo (now my best friend) called me to tell me that Justin was going to be in Houston for the FutureSexLoveSounds tour in March and do I want to go with her and Chanell. Uh, yes! We basically tell Chanell to get all three tickets when she goes online to get hers. My Mistake #1. She waited online until the second tickets went on sale, and the ensuing conversation went like this:
Chanell: “I got the tickets; you guys owe me $115.”
(Dividing in my head I think, okay that’s not too bad)
Nate’: “okay, so what is that, $57.50 each?”
Chanell: (pauses) “no, $115 each…”
Me: “What the HELL!? Are we sitting on the damn stage?!”
Nate’: (laughing) “we’d better get sweated on!”
I say it like we were mad, but honestly after waiting like four months for the concert to arrive (we got our tickets kinda early) we were excited and sitting on the 4th row juuust to the left of center stage was pretty much worth our $115 each.
So Nate’ and I drove to Chanell’s house in Houston – the plan is get her, go eat, get to downtown H-town for the concert. So we greet and hug, say hi to the fam, and are out – we’re all in jeans, Tay and I have t-shirts on, I’m in my snazzy old school New Balance shoes, Tay’s in flip flops. Chanell’s in a button-up shirt, but she always wears those and she had like sketchers on. I think Chanell and Nate’ had a little eye makeup on, me? Makeup? Pssh! (These details will be important later.)
When we got to the Toyota Center we immediately recognized an amazing venue for people-watching. Nobody had been let in yet, so there were lines curving all the way around the damn building, with ALL sorts of people. The hilarious part about it was that the women were all dressed to the freaking nines to go to this concert. I mean, I didn’t know they made 4-inch stilettos, but apparently everybody there did. So we’re walking through the line in our tennies, jeans, and hoodies watching these sticks of women hobble around in heels they can’t walk in and freeze their asses off because their shirt basically covers their nipples and a strip of skin down their stomach – we were pretty sure we were going to a concert, not a nightclub. Hence the name, Club T.C. It was as if the women thought that by looking all “cute” (enter a multitude of appropriate adjectives: slutty, easy, trashy, etc) Justin would actually make eye contact, realize Cameron Diaz and Scarlett Johansson aren’t enough, pause the concert, and pick them out of the crowd to go backstage and start a life together. Hysterically tragic on their part.
Once we actually took our seats the people watching got even better. The only people in front of us were those who had paid to stand on the floor right by the stage and next to the bar. The concert was actually great, and really fun. What can I say? Justin Timberlake is a good performer. During the intermission, Timbaland came onstage and mixed for about 25 minutes, which is where it really turned into Club T.C. Everybody was dancing, all the clackers were bobbing as much as the stilettos would allow, trying to figure out how have rhythm while trying to clutch their uber-trendy, sequined purses (big enough to hold a tube of chapstick) and their alcoholic beverage at the same time.
And the three of us? We didn’t get sweated on, but we danced and sang our asses off in our Ts, tennies, and hoodies and left with our money’s worth.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Smokes-A-Lot
There are two types of senior citizens in this world. The first kind make you believe that life truly is a beautiful journey with trials and tribulations that only add grace and understanding to one’s soul. The other kind, however, make you want to revoke driving privileges from everybody over 55 and go Brave New World style creating old folks homes like mad to throw them all in there with nothing to do but watch reruns of Matlock and Murder She Wrote and eat checkers. I distinguish this difference easily: the elderly vs. old people.
The latter lives beneath me in my apartment complex. I call her Smokes-A-Lot, and she’s a nasty, bitter, hateful old woman. Sometimes I feel sorry for her that she just sits in her apartment all day watching TV and getting an occasional visitor (I’m assuming family member), but most of the time I loathe her for the fact that the four packs of hard smokes she wheezes through each day ends up creeping its way up through my floors and vents and fills my entire apartment with her second hand smoke – and she seems incapable of purchasing an Ionic Breeze despite the multiple Sharper Image catalogs I’ve left on her doorstep with the page earmark and item circled in thick, red sharpie. Checkers for her, I tell you. Anyway, she hates me. And I don’t think it’s because of the Sharper Image catalogs – she couldn’t possibly know those are from me.
I decided that she’s an ‘old person’ almost immediately after I moved into my complex. So here’s the back-story: Where I live looks like a row of super big houses, but each building is actually four apartments: two upstairs, two downstairs. I got a great deal on my place because at the time the owners were renovating each apartment and making them SUPER nice, but our building they couldn’t do yet because Smokes-A-Lot and the old dude next to her have lived there for like 10+ years and aren’t going anywhere any time soon. So I asked the landlords if I could move in upstairs at the pre-fixed-up rate, and they and gave me leave to do whatever I wanted to the place since they were just going to gut it after I moved out anyway. One day pretty soon after I had moved in I was hanging pictures at like 3 or 4 in the afternoon. I was on my 4th picture and as I was hammering the nail into the wall I hear banging coming from below. She actually started banging on my ceiling because I was hanging pictures! It’s not like each nail took me 19 tries to get in the wall far enough either, I’m talking two, maybe three taps from the hammer and I was good. This warrants angry banging on the damn ceiling?! Freaking old people.
Anyway, she does little nasty things all the time just to remind me that she sucks. She doesn’t own a car, and yet if I ever happen to park in the space labeled A (which is one space away from my D, mind you) she’ll leave a note on my car telling me that’s her parking space and move my car. If I leave a trash bag on my balcony to take out to the dumpster later she’ll move it right in front of my back door so that I trip on it leaving for work in the morning – sometimes she’ll even leave her trash on the steps up to my apartment in hopes I don’t notice that it’s not mine and take it for her. Sometimes I’m nice and I do, but most of the time I give her a taste of her own medicine and put it right back in front of her door. Now, readers, don’t get all bent out of shape and think that I’m being mean to Smokes-A-Lot. I’ve seen that bitch run after her little yappy ankle-biter of a dog when it gets out, and other than chronic emphysema she’s got nothing wrong with her under that ratty-ass old housecoat.
My friend Blake used to have a Smoke-A-Lot living under him, too, but she wasn’t bitchy. She was just kind of stalker-ish and would somehow know exactly when he got home every day and be waiting for him to walk up the steps so she could talk to him. That’s a way better Smokes-A-Lot than mine. Anyway, the point is that there’s a Smokes-A-Lot in every apartment complex, and I promise, nay, guarantee a good stories if you can find yours. I’ll keep you posted.
The latter lives beneath me in my apartment complex. I call her Smokes-A-Lot, and she’s a nasty, bitter, hateful old woman. Sometimes I feel sorry for her that she just sits in her apartment all day watching TV and getting an occasional visitor (I’m assuming family member), but most of the time I loathe her for the fact that the four packs of hard smokes she wheezes through each day ends up creeping its way up through my floors and vents and fills my entire apartment with her second hand smoke – and she seems incapable of purchasing an Ionic Breeze despite the multiple Sharper Image catalogs I’ve left on her doorstep with the page earmark and item circled in thick, red sharpie. Checkers for her, I tell you. Anyway, she hates me. And I don’t think it’s because of the Sharper Image catalogs – she couldn’t possibly know those are from me.
I decided that she’s an ‘old person’ almost immediately after I moved into my complex. So here’s the back-story: Where I live looks like a row of super big houses, but each building is actually four apartments: two upstairs, two downstairs. I got a great deal on my place because at the time the owners were renovating each apartment and making them SUPER nice, but our building they couldn’t do yet because Smokes-A-Lot and the old dude next to her have lived there for like 10+ years and aren’t going anywhere any time soon. So I asked the landlords if I could move in upstairs at the pre-fixed-up rate, and they and gave me leave to do whatever I wanted to the place since they were just going to gut it after I moved out anyway. One day pretty soon after I had moved in I was hanging pictures at like 3 or 4 in the afternoon. I was on my 4th picture and as I was hammering the nail into the wall I hear banging coming from below. She actually started banging on my ceiling because I was hanging pictures! It’s not like each nail took me 19 tries to get in the wall far enough either, I’m talking two, maybe three taps from the hammer and I was good. This warrants angry banging on the damn ceiling?! Freaking old people.
Anyway, she does little nasty things all the time just to remind me that she sucks. She doesn’t own a car, and yet if I ever happen to park in the space labeled A (which is one space away from my D, mind you) she’ll leave a note on my car telling me that’s her parking space and move my car. If I leave a trash bag on my balcony to take out to the dumpster later she’ll move it right in front of my back door so that I trip on it leaving for work in the morning – sometimes she’ll even leave her trash on the steps up to my apartment in hopes I don’t notice that it’s not mine and take it for her. Sometimes I’m nice and I do, but most of the time I give her a taste of her own medicine and put it right back in front of her door. Now, readers, don’t get all bent out of shape and think that I’m being mean to Smokes-A-Lot. I’ve seen that bitch run after her little yappy ankle-biter of a dog when it gets out, and other than chronic emphysema she’s got nothing wrong with her under that ratty-ass old housecoat.
My friend Blake used to have a Smoke-A-Lot living under him, too, but she wasn’t bitchy. She was just kind of stalker-ish and would somehow know exactly when he got home every day and be waiting for him to walk up the steps so she could talk to him. That’s a way better Smokes-A-Lot than mine. Anyway, the point is that there’s a Smokes-A-Lot in every apartment complex, and I promise, nay, guarantee a good stories if you can find yours. I’ll keep you posted.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
I have good news and bad news...
Well, really there is no good news for you, readers, unless of course you are able to join me in a collective sigh of relief upon hearing my news.
I'll start with the bad news for you: all the stories about my creepy neighbor (aka mannequin boy, aka Operation 303, etc.) that you all love so dearly are going to stop. Why? Well, he got himself fired for being a douche-bag.
Which leads me into the good news for me...
In all seriousness, there is a part of me that, strangely enough, actually feels bad for the guy (I think there's a complex for that... its a Syndrome... a city... Stockholm Syndrome? Something like that. Google it). Yeah, okay so not as bad as the syndrome, but I mean the guy has no friends other than online World of Warcraft guild buddies and two dogs, is from the east coast so has no family in the area, is a social deaf/mute with no people skills, and now has lost his job. It’s sad, and the part of my soul that God is trying really hard to save from eternal damnation is working overtime to conjure up these feelings of pity and well-wishes on Creep-O’s behalf. I won’t get into details on why he’s “no longer with the company” (I love bullshit corporate America terms, don’t you?) but he’s out. Cube has been cleared out, and a peaceful quiet has descended upon my row. Its glorious.
The funny and ironic part is that he’s still my neighbor, which has made my arrival home each evening like a scene from a fucking Mission Impossible movie. I’ve had to resort to rolling by my complex parking area like I’m trying out for a damn rap video, and then depending on where Creep-O’s car happens to be I have two options: 1) drive all the way around my building to park on the other side and walk up the front stairs, only to brave Smokes-A-Lot complaining about the fact that I walk in my apartment, ** or 2) park in my space in the back, in full view of Creep-O’s back door, and work with the evening shadows to shimmy up my back stairs before he sees me.
** Smokes-A-Lot is a nasty, bitter old woman who lives in the apartment below me. She chain smokes what must be 9 packs a day in her apartment, leaking fumes up through the vents causing my whole place to smell like smoke unless I leave every window open and fan on and Febreeze every day, and the old goat has the nerve complain about every last movement or noise I make in my apartment. If I talk with my upstairs neighbor (the cool one) on my balcony for 10 minutes I’ll get a note pinned to my door later on telling me to keep it down because her yappy little ankle-biter of a “dog” gets too excited to rest when there is “so much commotion outside.”
So I guess the bad news is that I’ve lost a “shoo-in” source for good stories, but the good news is that with my newly restored sanity I’ll be able to come up with other outlets from which to find inspiration to write. And to Creep-O, here are a few things I’d like to personally thank you for:
- for teaching me the importance of double bolting my locks
- for being the “Karen” of the group (if you don’t know what this means you need to listen to Dane Cook)
- all the laughs (even though most were at your expense)
- for providing me with constant opportunities to think before I speak and not say everything that pops into my head
It has been interesting, Mannequin Boy. Cheers.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Dopplegangers and Shadow People
First of all, I could not make this up.
This story starts with two of my friends driving back from a Texas A&M basketball game late at night. They were listening to a local radio show in the middle of podunk-ville which was discussing, at length and in all seriousness, the complexity of Shadow People and Doppelgangers. For those of you who are not in tune with the world of creepy, “oh my Goth” night people, don’t worry – I had no clue what the hell that meant either. So to clear it up a little for you here are some definitions:
Shadow People = evil spirits who try to destroy your fleshly being
Doppleganger = your mirror image but they are inherently evil
Riiiiiight. Anyway, Blake and Tim’s vast learnings on the subject were immediately passed onto Nate’ and I at work the next day, in a conversation entirely too rambunctious for its setting and which involved uncontrollable, hyena-esque laughter. Apparently, one very concerned patron of the radio show gave an emotional recounting of a tragic and fearful event in which she narrowly escaped with her life after her shadow person tried to eat her organs in an attempt to take over her life. What is hysterical to me is that all four of us instantly latched onto this AWESOME new vocabulary and have now started tossing around the terms “doppelganger” and “shadow people” like they are a part of anyone’s normal, everyday conversations. The terms are especially useful when describing particularly torturous situations, mostly involving the Operation 303 crew and my creepy-ass neighbor. An example would sound something like this: (Tim to Blake two hours into an excruciating Chamber of Commerce magic show) “I kinda wish the shadow people would kill me so my doppelganger were the one who had to watch this shit instead of me.”
Incase you would like more insight into the Doppleganger, this website provides an astounding amount of information and stimulating debate as to what, actually, a Doppleganger is and is not. http://www.unexplained-mysteries.com/viewarticle.php?id=201
And I quote: “Upon the Earth these creatures cannot hold their former figure so they take a shape that can live in this one. … angels and demons alike have had a fascination with man. When on Earth their first form may seem like that of a spirit ghost. … Even if the Doppelganger is but a myth the story told by them is really one of mankind. We often change and have a sense of duality. Like the doppelganger we but wonder through life searching for that form, that thing we call self, so that we may serve that purpose, so we may end the quest.” -- Alcien Semhazai
What the fuck is this guy talking about?! My favorite part in that quote is when he misspells “wander” in the last sentence, making him look like an even bigger douchebag as he tries to speak intelligently about shadowy evil ghost people who are replicas of our human forms. This stuff is fucking classic if you ask me.
Here’s another fun opinion from “Ophiel” (on the same website mentioned above):
The doppelganger are replacements that come from various underground facilities. (So apparently now we can pluralize the word in the same way we use ‘moose’ for both a moose and several moose – I learn something new every day, I tell you) It is unfair to label them souless. (Unfair, I tell you. UN-fair!... and I think you meant to put another “L” in soulless) Though clones, like us, information is incoded into their genes. (okay, its “encoded” but I’m with you). Most cases of a sighted doppleganger are reported after mass catatrophies (imagine that word with the missing “s” where is should be and try to follow along) where they can be intergrated (or “integrated”, but whatever) into the stream of the holographic universe. (What the fuck is the holographic universe? He lost me…) The person witnessing his doppleganger is usually in a state of distraught, (can you be in a ‘state of distraught?' or did you mean “state of distress?” Dipshit) very depressed, or on the verge of a life changing experiance (“experience”). The feeling of opposition one gets from them, meaning if your good the\'re (I mean good lord, do you KNOW what spell check is?) evil and vice versa, Is simply the manifestation of the latter problems that brought the doppleganger about. Nothing about it is opposite seeing as though duality is strictly a disease of the mind. Okay these last two sentences I don’t even know where to start. First of all, “latter problems”? I didn’t hear of the former, how can we already be discussing latter? And secondly, WTF.
I swear, I don’t even have to write anything myself in this entry and this shit just keeps getting funnier and funnier. My favorite thing about that website is that these people are trying to speak so profoundly/competently about this topic, as though they were discussing the origins global warming or the effects of capitalism on emerging nations. Let me remind you: we're talking about evil shadowy replicas of existing humans.
Anyway, creepy neighbor and his Op:303 clan overheard the four of us talking one day, and have become determined to join our conversation at the slightest hint of the word doppelganger. It really is the perfect cap on our lengthy debate regarding his complete uber-weirdness that he and his Op:303 crew have been so excited and willingly participatory in our discussions involving shadow people and doppelgangers. Apparently, the two wreak havoc on the world of WOW. Somehow I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
Maybe I can find my Doppleganger and figure out how to make her be the one that has to listen to the 303 clan discuss, at length, the party their guild threw on WOW last night. I’m sure I can work out a deal with the Shadow People to let me meet my Doppleganger without them having to kill me. Having an identical evil twin at my disposal could come in extremely handy, and would definitely knock up the story value of any situation.
Anyway, here are some more fun websites to check out on the subject. Check out the last one, there’s actually an org for Shadow People. Hysterical.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doppelg%C3%A4nger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_people
http://www.shadowpeople.org/
This story starts with two of my friends driving back from a Texas A&M basketball game late at night. They were listening to a local radio show in the middle of podunk-ville which was discussing, at length and in all seriousness, the complexity of Shadow People and Doppelgangers. For those of you who are not in tune with the world of creepy, “oh my Goth” night people, don’t worry – I had no clue what the hell that meant either. So to clear it up a little for you here are some definitions:
Shadow People = evil spirits who try to destroy your fleshly being
Doppleganger = your mirror image but they are inherently evil
Riiiiiight. Anyway, Blake and Tim’s vast learnings on the subject were immediately passed onto Nate’ and I at work the next day, in a conversation entirely too rambunctious for its setting and which involved uncontrollable, hyena-esque laughter. Apparently, one very concerned patron of the radio show gave an emotional recounting of a tragic and fearful event in which she narrowly escaped with her life after her shadow person tried to eat her organs in an attempt to take over her life. What is hysterical to me is that all four of us instantly latched onto this AWESOME new vocabulary and have now started tossing around the terms “doppelganger” and “shadow people” like they are a part of anyone’s normal, everyday conversations. The terms are especially useful when describing particularly torturous situations, mostly involving the Operation 303 crew and my creepy-ass neighbor. An example would sound something like this: (Tim to Blake two hours into an excruciating Chamber of Commerce magic show) “I kinda wish the shadow people would kill me so my doppelganger were the one who had to watch this shit instead of me.”
Incase you would like more insight into the Doppleganger, this website provides an astounding amount of information and stimulating debate as to what, actually, a Doppleganger is and is not. http://www.unexplained-mysteries.com/viewarticle.php?id=201
And I quote: “Upon the Earth these creatures cannot hold their former figure so they take a shape that can live in this one. … angels and demons alike have had a fascination with man. When on Earth their first form may seem like that of a spirit ghost. … Even if the Doppelganger is but a myth the story told by them is really one of mankind. We often change and have a sense of duality. Like the doppelganger we but wonder through life searching for that form, that thing we call self, so that we may serve that purpose, so we may end the quest.” -- Alcien Semhazai
What the fuck is this guy talking about?! My favorite part in that quote is when he misspells “wander” in the last sentence, making him look like an even bigger douchebag as he tries to speak intelligently about shadowy evil ghost people who are replicas of our human forms. This stuff is fucking classic if you ask me.
Here’s another fun opinion from “Ophiel” (on the same website mentioned above):
The doppelganger are replacements that come from various underground facilities. (So apparently now we can pluralize the word in the same way we use ‘moose’ for both a moose and several moose – I learn something new every day, I tell you) It is unfair to label them souless. (Unfair, I tell you. UN-fair!... and I think you meant to put another “L” in soulless) Though clones, like us, information is incoded into their genes. (okay, its “encoded” but I’m with you). Most cases of a sighted doppleganger are reported after mass catatrophies (imagine that word with the missing “s” where is should be and try to follow along) where they can be intergrated (or “integrated”, but whatever) into the stream of the holographic universe. (What the fuck is the holographic universe? He lost me…) The person witnessing his doppleganger is usually in a state of distraught, (can you be in a ‘state of distraught?' or did you mean “state of distress?” Dipshit) very depressed, or on the verge of a life changing experiance (“experience”). The feeling of opposition one gets from them, meaning if your good the\'re (I mean good lord, do you KNOW what spell check is?) evil and vice versa, Is simply the manifestation of the latter problems that brought the doppleganger about. Nothing about it is opposite seeing as though duality is strictly a disease of the mind. Okay these last two sentences I don’t even know where to start. First of all, “latter problems”? I didn’t hear of the former, how can we already be discussing latter? And secondly, WTF.
I swear, I don’t even have to write anything myself in this entry and this shit just keeps getting funnier and funnier. My favorite thing about that website is that these people are trying to speak so profoundly/competently about this topic, as though they were discussing the origins global warming or the effects of capitalism on emerging nations. Let me remind you: we're talking about evil shadowy replicas of existing humans.
Anyway, creepy neighbor and his Op:303 clan overheard the four of us talking one day, and have become determined to join our conversation at the slightest hint of the word doppelganger. It really is the perfect cap on our lengthy debate regarding his complete uber-weirdness that he and his Op:303 crew have been so excited and willingly participatory in our discussions involving shadow people and doppelgangers. Apparently, the two wreak havoc on the world of WOW. Somehow I feel like I shouldn’t be surprised by that.
Maybe I can find my Doppleganger and figure out how to make her be the one that has to listen to the 303 clan discuss, at length, the party their guild threw on WOW last night. I’m sure I can work out a deal with the Shadow People to let me meet my Doppleganger without them having to kill me. Having an identical evil twin at my disposal could come in extremely handy, and would definitely knock up the story value of any situation.
Anyway, here are some more fun websites to check out on the subject. Check out the last one, there’s actually an org for Shadow People. Hysterical.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doppelg%C3%A4nger
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shadow_people
http://www.shadowpeople.org/
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Operation: 303
So there is an episode of the American version of The Office where two coworkers mess with the weird guy’s head by sending him fake letters from the CIA and telling him to do certain things. There’s also a hilarious episode where they send him letters to himself from himself in the future, but that’s for a different story. Anyway, I’ve kind of stolen that concept but tweaked it a bit to make it more pertinent to my own office environment. I'm on a mission to mess with my neighbor. Well, not my neighbor, neighbor - she's cool and has done nothing to deserve the level of "messing" I'm thinking. I mean my creepy, "Awkward Acquaintances and TMI" neighbor (if you haven't read that entry in my blog yet, stop reading and go do that). To those of you who know me and want in on it, just say the word, I could use all the help I can get.
Now, you might be thinking that it’s cruel to think of screwing with people like this. To those people I will say only, did you read that blog story I just told you about?! Why do I want to do this? I dunno... vindication, because I can, good ole' fashioned fun, whatever - you name it. This guy is getting on my last nerve. Every day at work I have to watch him literally find ways not to get anything done, which, apparently, gets harder after six months of doing it. He rolls into the office at 9:45am after staying up all night playing World of Warcraft with all his weird cyber buddies, leaves the office at 10am to make a 30 minute coffee run, then spends the next two to three hours tracking down every other WOW player in our office to talk about the neat-o escapades his fucking mage (or whatever the hell the characters in that game are called) had last night (which, by the way, include raiding zeppelins in mid-air, throwing parties for his 'guild', and attending the weddings of other WOW players for the, I quote, free booze - WTF?! ). Right about then its lunchtime, and we all know that takes 90 minutes. In the afternoon he might bother to go to a conference call, but then he's so exhausted from all that work he'll have to find something to yell at the admins about and then go find his WOW cronies again and spend the next hour and a half talking strategy for tonight's quest, then he'll spend about an hour aimlessly walking around the site so nobody can find him to ask him to do anything, and he's out the door by 4:30pm max to get home and start the cycle over again.
So maybe you can see why this guy irks me. Hence, Operation 303. It is very simple, which is why it’s so brilliant. There are three WOW players who all sit right by me at work, and who constantly engage in very animated conversations about some random ass WOW topic. To them, one comment made to passer-by (my friend Blake who's a manager there) can set their little gamer, quest-hungry brains spinning: hey, did you get the details on operation: 303? They want us to get started on that ASAP. WOW’ers hear, but they aren't included, and it sounds like something important - I get instant Dwight-like reactions: What? What is operation: 303? Can I be involved? Is it dangerous? ... No, I tell them, you shouldn’t have heard that. Besides, it’s not like video games, and we don't need anymore help, thanks. I can see the wheels in their heads actually spinning.
What is Operation: 303? Hell if I know. World of Warcraft = WOW = IIIOIII = 303... Just something I thought would be fun. And, oh, it is.
Now, you might be thinking that it’s cruel to think of screwing with people like this. To those people I will say only, did you read that blog story I just told you about?! Why do I want to do this? I dunno... vindication, because I can, good ole' fashioned fun, whatever - you name it. This guy is getting on my last nerve. Every day at work I have to watch him literally find ways not to get anything done, which, apparently, gets harder after six months of doing it. He rolls into the office at 9:45am after staying up all night playing World of Warcraft with all his weird cyber buddies, leaves the office at 10am to make a 30 minute coffee run, then spends the next two to three hours tracking down every other WOW player in our office to talk about the neat-o escapades his fucking mage (or whatever the hell the characters in that game are called) had last night (which, by the way, include raiding zeppelins in mid-air, throwing parties for his 'guild', and attending the weddings of other WOW players for the, I quote, free booze - WTF?! ). Right about then its lunchtime, and we all know that takes 90 minutes. In the afternoon he might bother to go to a conference call, but then he's so exhausted from all that work he'll have to find something to yell at the admins about and then go find his WOW cronies again and spend the next hour and a half talking strategy for tonight's quest, then he'll spend about an hour aimlessly walking around the site so nobody can find him to ask him to do anything, and he's out the door by 4:30pm max to get home and start the cycle over again.
So maybe you can see why this guy irks me. Hence, Operation 303. It is very simple, which is why it’s so brilliant. There are three WOW players who all sit right by me at work, and who constantly engage in very animated conversations about some random ass WOW topic. To them, one comment made to passer-by (my friend Blake who's a manager there) can set their little gamer, quest-hungry brains spinning: hey, did you get the details on operation: 303? They want us to get started on that ASAP. WOW’ers hear, but they aren't included, and it sounds like something important - I get instant Dwight-like reactions: What? What is operation: 303? Can I be involved? Is it dangerous? ... No, I tell them, you shouldn’t have heard that. Besides, it’s not like video games, and we don't need anymore help, thanks. I can see the wheels in their heads actually spinning.
What is Operation: 303? Hell if I know. World of Warcraft = WOW = IIIOIII = 303... Just something I thought would be fun. And, oh, it is.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Power Yoga ≠ Harmonious Serenity
My best friend and I are on a kind of never ending quest to be gloriously fit. We haven't "let ourselves go," as it were, but we both remember skinnier days where we were at the height of our soccer playing and track running years, and we really really want to get back to that level - except that we've agreed that its really flippin' hard when there's nobody around to yell at you to keep going.
For as long as I've been fit, it was because of the sports I played and the teams I was a part of. There was no option to stop running - you veer off to the side, hurl, and catch your ass back up with the team ASAP so you don't end up making everybody go again. Sure, I could train on my own back then, but it was a lot easier to push myself into running a few more sprints when I knew I'd be manned up with fucking Flo-Jo reincarnated as a soccer player who happens to be the other team's wing midfielder in my game this weekend. Now though? I'm 20-something, just worked a long day, and am perfectly fine ellipsing away on level 4 while catching up on the news with my trusty The Week magazine. The only problem is that at that pace it would take 5 hours a day on that machine to get the chiseled, bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass body I'm going for. Sure, my friend and I could motivate each other, except we’re too good of friends for that. Meaning, in the 45th minute on that machine, no matter how encouraging or motivational she sounds when she tells me, you’re almost done! Why don’t you knock it up a few levels and really finish strong?! I have no problem giving her a "go to hell" look and telling her to bite me.
It is with this realization that we decided we needed an intervention, and as we’re not fit enough to join a sports team just yet, we thought that this Power Yoga class at our gym would be perfect. I mean its yoga for pete’s sake – a little stretching and some core strength? Yes, please! Umm, apparently we were wrong. All you birkenstocked, Prana-wearing, modern-day hippies do not be fooled. "Power" Yoga is NOT just the peaceful stretching to the sound of waterfalls that you're used to. Power Yoga, as it turns out, is exactly what I should have expected from the title - and now I can't feel my shoulders.
The only sense in which power yoga is a path to connect with your inner being is that you are going to become acutely aware of every tiny, individual muscle in between each of your ribs that you never knew existed but which are now causing you searing pain with every stretch of your lungs as you breathe in and out. I have an entirely new level of respect for yogis. I mean the human pretzel thing always looked ridiculously hard, but I would just marvel knowing that I’d never try that shit. What is astounding about practicing this art is that all the stuff that looks easy takes an unbelievable amount of strength to execute. Maybe that’s the key – once I get gloriously fit and my body can handle these poses yoga will open my mind up to the harmony and serenity people always rave about. And hell, if nothing else at least the quarters will by flying!
For as long as I've been fit, it was because of the sports I played and the teams I was a part of. There was no option to stop running - you veer off to the side, hurl, and catch your ass back up with the team ASAP so you don't end up making everybody go again. Sure, I could train on my own back then, but it was a lot easier to push myself into running a few more sprints when I knew I'd be manned up with fucking Flo-Jo reincarnated as a soccer player who happens to be the other team's wing midfielder in my game this weekend. Now though? I'm 20-something, just worked a long day, and am perfectly fine ellipsing away on level 4 while catching up on the news with my trusty The Week magazine. The only problem is that at that pace it would take 5 hours a day on that machine to get the chiseled, bounce-a-quarter-off-my-ass body I'm going for. Sure, my friend and I could motivate each other, except we’re too good of friends for that. Meaning, in the 45th minute on that machine, no matter how encouraging or motivational she sounds when she tells me, you’re almost done! Why don’t you knock it up a few levels and really finish strong?! I have no problem giving her a "go to hell" look and telling her to bite me.
It is with this realization that we decided we needed an intervention, and as we’re not fit enough to join a sports team just yet, we thought that this Power Yoga class at our gym would be perfect. I mean its yoga for pete’s sake – a little stretching and some core strength? Yes, please! Umm, apparently we were wrong. All you birkenstocked, Prana-wearing, modern-day hippies do not be fooled. "Power" Yoga is NOT just the peaceful stretching to the sound of waterfalls that you're used to. Power Yoga, as it turns out, is exactly what I should have expected from the title - and now I can't feel my shoulders.
The only sense in which power yoga is a path to connect with your inner being is that you are going to become acutely aware of every tiny, individual muscle in between each of your ribs that you never knew existed but which are now causing you searing pain with every stretch of your lungs as you breathe in and out. I have an entirely new level of respect for yogis. I mean the human pretzel thing always looked ridiculously hard, but I would just marvel knowing that I’d never try that shit. What is astounding about practicing this art is that all the stuff that looks easy takes an unbelievable amount of strength to execute. Maybe that’s the key – once I get gloriously fit and my body can handle these poses yoga will open my mind up to the harmony and serenity people always rave about. And hell, if nothing else at least the quarters will by flying!
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Corporate Debutantes
Last Wednesday I hated my job. Well, really, I hated my bosses for keeping me at said job, but at this point that's just getting a little too nitty gritty. The point is, I was pissed, and here's why:
I work for a huge company. Global enterprise, multi-billion dollar type of huge, and it never ceases to amaze me how we ever get anything done. So here's the back-story. A little over nine months ago I moved into a new position at my job. The typical time in role for this job is 9-18 months before you can effectively say you've mastered it and are ready for something bigger and better, or even just something different. I knew taking this job that I would be ready to move on after around nine months, so, naturally, about two months ago I started getting the word out to other divisions that I would be looking to move to another role soon (in about 3-4 months). I tie off with my boss, let his boss know, and get back to my work.
Well, six weeks ago a buddy in another division calls me up saying he's working on creating a new job that I would be perfect for - am I interested? My answer is heck yes, so I go tell my boss, and I tell my boss's boss, and they say to keep them posted. That job came through last Wednesday, and when I went to aforementioned bosses I definitely got the Big Company Cop-out, Lumberg'eque, uhhh, gee, you know, we really can't afford to lose you right now... answer. Apparently, the way it works here is that your boss(es) have to agree on some set date in the future that they deem fitting for your departure from role, and (god forbid) if for whatever reason your departure would leave your current team in any state of disarray or deficiency they have full authority to hold you back from accepting any other positions. So really, I'm under some form of weird, unspoken rule contract... I just don't get paid $24 million for it. Once said departure date is agreed upon, there is a whole process of announcing your "eligibility to relocate" that is seriously nothing less than a corporate version of a debutante ball where a bunch of big wigs from all different divisions sit around in a room, throw your name up in a PowerPoint slide, and proceed to discuss at length every strength, weakness, and potential job fit they might see for you. Its so involved and intense that I'm mildly shocked that I don't have to show up in a white dress and a tiara escorted by the son of a prominent Honorable Mr. So-and-So.
The good news is that, while I can't take this job, I did get my bosses to agree to my release date and I already have other opportunities in the works. In April I will be unleashed into our own little corporate society, ready to find the perfect job fit and move. I get all fluttery just thinking about it, and, technically, April is spring so I guess I can wear white...
I work for a huge company. Global enterprise, multi-billion dollar type of huge, and it never ceases to amaze me how we ever get anything done. So here's the back-story. A little over nine months ago I moved into a new position at my job. The typical time in role for this job is 9-18 months before you can effectively say you've mastered it and are ready for something bigger and better, or even just something different. I knew taking this job that I would be ready to move on after around nine months, so, naturally, about two months ago I started getting the word out to other divisions that I would be looking to move to another role soon (in about 3-4 months). I tie off with my boss, let his boss know, and get back to my work.
Well, six weeks ago a buddy in another division calls me up saying he's working on creating a new job that I would be perfect for - am I interested? My answer is heck yes, so I go tell my boss, and I tell my boss's boss, and they say to keep them posted. That job came through last Wednesday, and when I went to aforementioned bosses I definitely got the Big Company Cop-out, Lumberg'eque, uhhh, gee, you know, we really can't afford to lose you right now... answer. Apparently, the way it works here is that your boss(es) have to agree on some set date in the future that they deem fitting for your departure from role, and (god forbid) if for whatever reason your departure would leave your current team in any state of disarray or deficiency they have full authority to hold you back from accepting any other positions. So really, I'm under some form of weird, unspoken rule contract... I just don't get paid $24 million for it. Once said departure date is agreed upon, there is a whole process of announcing your "eligibility to relocate" that is seriously nothing less than a corporate version of a debutante ball where a bunch of big wigs from all different divisions sit around in a room, throw your name up in a PowerPoint slide, and proceed to discuss at length every strength, weakness, and potential job fit they might see for you. Its so involved and intense that I'm mildly shocked that I don't have to show up in a white dress and a tiara escorted by the son of a prominent Honorable Mr. So-and-So.
The good news is that, while I can't take this job, I did get my bosses to agree to my release date and I already have other opportunities in the works. In April I will be unleashed into our own little corporate society, ready to find the perfect job fit and move. I get all fluttery just thinking about it, and, technically, April is spring so I guess I can wear white...
Friday, January 5, 2007
Wall of Fame
Every solid, life-long friendship has an identifiable beginning. For Mary and I, it was Post-It notes - I guess post-its have a unique purpose for everybody. In college, we had an entire wall of our dorm room covered with them. It didn't start out that way, but as the year went on more and more things found their way onto the Wall.
Before you get too enraptured by our incredible work ethic and study habits, these post-it notes were not formulas. They weren't even vocabulary words. Really, they had nothing to do with studying or education whatsoever - they were a year's worth of inside jokes, hilarious quotes, and single words that could make either one of us crack up at even a hint of the slightest utterance. It was a year's worth of building blocks to one of the strongest friendships I'll ever have in my entire life, all randomly posted to the wall of a dorm room at UCLA from two people who didn't know each other three months ago and were thrown into the same situation with the same concerns, fears, and goals.
Admittedly, we were the outcasts of our floor, and that's where most of the comments began. We were the two soccer players on a floor of people who had studied their whole life to go to UCLA. We were the two who had to get up at 5:30am for 6am strength training and be able to shower and make it to 8am lecture when the rest of the floor didn't set their alarms to go off until it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. We were different. One day we decided to count the number of times daily we heard the phrase, "are you guys, like, twins?" Which was funny and ironic to both of us because Mary is, in fact, an identical twin. To the UCLA-ers, however, both blonde, both blue eyed, both soccer players = twins. So began the Wall of Fame.
We started to write down every inside joke, every hilarious quote we heard, and other one word reminders of things that would set us off into laughter in a heartbeat. It was our outlet. It was our connection.
I thought of our Wall of Fame today, seven years later, because my best friend Nate' just finished telling me the greatest story ever about getting hit on at a New Year's Eve party. A drunk, nasty, middle-aged married white man definitely said to her, This is my song. It should be your song, too, because you've got junk in your trunk. I have made the executive decision to reinstate the Wall of Fame with that quote. And Mary, in your honor I will add:
fanny-pack guy
damn! I dropped my highlighter
and Mary, can you turn off the lights??
Love you guys, and welcome to the Wall of Fame.
Before you get too enraptured by our incredible work ethic and study habits, these post-it notes were not formulas. They weren't even vocabulary words. Really, they had nothing to do with studying or education whatsoever - they were a year's worth of inside jokes, hilarious quotes, and single words that could make either one of us crack up at even a hint of the slightest utterance. It was a year's worth of building blocks to one of the strongest friendships I'll ever have in my entire life, all randomly posted to the wall of a dorm room at UCLA from two people who didn't know each other three months ago and were thrown into the same situation with the same concerns, fears, and goals.
Admittedly, we were the outcasts of our floor, and that's where most of the comments began. We were the two soccer players on a floor of people who had studied their whole life to go to UCLA. We were the two who had to get up at 5:30am for 6am strength training and be able to shower and make it to 8am lecture when the rest of the floor didn't set their alarms to go off until it was enchilada day in the cafeteria. We were different. One day we decided to count the number of times daily we heard the phrase, "are you guys, like, twins?" Which was funny and ironic to both of us because Mary is, in fact, an identical twin. To the UCLA-ers, however, both blonde, both blue eyed, both soccer players = twins. So began the Wall of Fame.
We started to write down every inside joke, every hilarious quote we heard, and other one word reminders of things that would set us off into laughter in a heartbeat. It was our outlet. It was our connection.
I thought of our Wall of Fame today, seven years later, because my best friend Nate' just finished telling me the greatest story ever about getting hit on at a New Year's Eve party. A drunk, nasty, middle-aged married white man definitely said to her, This is my song. It should be your song, too, because you've got junk in your trunk. I have made the executive decision to reinstate the Wall of Fame with that quote. And Mary, in your honor I will add:
fanny-pack guy
damn! I dropped my highlighter
and Mary, can you turn off the lights??
Love you guys, and welcome to the Wall of Fame.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Awkward Acquaintances and TMI
Normally I don't take advice from comedians, but Dane Cook might have a point. I have recently found myself in a situation where a Snickers bar could be the eventual difference between my life and death. I'll explain.
We have an office weirdo. Every office does, but the magnitude of this man's awkwardness is intensified by the fact that we live, work, and exist in a relatively small, conservative Texas city. This level of weirdness is usually only found in insanely large cities where they can be a member of an entire weird community, with their own weird clubs and hangout spots, where Bomber jackets and horribly awkward comments are expected and, in fact, common. But no, this guy lives here. Works here. And worst of all, he has taken a liking to me.
There is a point where awkwardness turns into straight creepy, and this man could tell you exactly where that point is, and how to sprint straight past GO! and collect your two hundred dollars. I think it started the day I noticed he moved in next door. I had already seen him at work and wondered what was going on in the heads of our senior management to have hired this guy, and then one night I’m out with my best friend and pulling into my driveway I see some dude hauling boxes up the stairs to his apartment, right across the way from me. I think he looks slightly familiar, but think nothing of it. Then I double-take and am sure he looks familiar, and he's looking at me. Then I triple-take, realize its weird co-worker, and instead of saying "welcome to the neighborhood" or "hello again," I spew, "what are you doing here?!" That marked the beginning of a series of the creepiest exchanges I can remember to date, including the famous, "put the lotion in the basket!"
That brief encounter at my apartment complex apparently gave him hope. Maybe he mistook my stare of horrified disbelief for something more akin to a starry-eyed gaze. Maybe he mistook the close proximity of our cubicles at the office for fate, forgetting the fact that he moved floors and evicted a fellow employee to sit caddy corner to me. Whatever the case, my daily routine at work now includes fielding questions about my apartment, our landlords, and my daily workout routine (as he apparently saw me leaving at 5:45am one morning and coming home sweaty 90 minutes later). Conversations, mind you, that are completely out of context for what is going on at the time. His mouth seems to work as most brilliant authors would describe their "stream of consciousness" writing - there are no checks and balances and no system of editing. The problem, of course, is that authors engage in this activity privately, in a journal or diary - when practiced verbally, stream of consciousness is far less brilliant and more like the drunk, senile grandparent at family gatherings who makes all the children cry.
A few weeks ago, several of us from work were sitting at a local restaurant for lunch together. One of the crew, Ryan, is a hilarious story teller, and was recounting the series of events that led to his opening line of, "so I had to tell my 70 year old neighbor to stop hitting on my wife." Basically, when Ryan decided to relocate here for this job, he and his wife bought their house before they arrived in the city. A couple weeks before they were to move out here, they flew out for a weekend to clean the house and get it ready for the movers to put all their stuff in, only to get there and find that the house had been broken into and the box of cleaning supplies and Wheat Thins they had left on the counter were gone. Ryan was talking about how his super old neighbor had started visiting his wife every day, and she just thought he was sweet until one day the old man brought over a CD he had made filled with old jazz versions of booty-jams. Our entire lunch table was joking about their poor, creepy neighbor and laughing about the prospect of Ryan having to walk over there and tell him to stop hitting on his wife when the comment was made in a fit of group laughter that it was probably creepy old man who broke into the house and stole the cleaning supplies and Wheat Thins, and now has them sitting on his own kitchen counter like a small shrine to his wife. Everybody was busting up when Creep-O opens his mouth and says, "yeah, he probably has like a life-sized mannequin in his basement that he puts makeup on and, like, glued little pieces of hair to it to look like her and everything..."
The table was silent for a solid five seconds... which was followed by the the screeching of chairs sliding back on the tiled floor and the rest of us muttering various versions of, "well, I’ve paid so..." as we got out of our seats to leave.
This is where Dane Cook's advice with the Snicker's bar comes in. Recently, the comments have become even more disturbing, and I’m starting to get to the point where I feel like I need to sit down and engage in conversation with him, perhaps offer him an extra Snickers bar that happened to fall out of the machine this morning, for the sole purpose of being skipped over the day his mind finally cracks and he storms into the office with a sawed-off shotgun. Mannequin-boy has become a joke around the office, but I definitely have a stash of leftover Halloween candy in my desk drawer just in case.
We have an office weirdo. Every office does, but the magnitude of this man's awkwardness is intensified by the fact that we live, work, and exist in a relatively small, conservative Texas city. This level of weirdness is usually only found in insanely large cities where they can be a member of an entire weird community, with their own weird clubs and hangout spots, where Bomber jackets and horribly awkward comments are expected and, in fact, common. But no, this guy lives here. Works here. And worst of all, he has taken a liking to me.
There is a point where awkwardness turns into straight creepy, and this man could tell you exactly where that point is, and how to sprint straight past GO! and collect your two hundred dollars. I think it started the day I noticed he moved in next door. I had already seen him at work and wondered what was going on in the heads of our senior management to have hired this guy, and then one night I’m out with my best friend and pulling into my driveway I see some dude hauling boxes up the stairs to his apartment, right across the way from me. I think he looks slightly familiar, but think nothing of it. Then I double-take and am sure he looks familiar, and he's looking at me. Then I triple-take, realize its weird co-worker, and instead of saying "welcome to the neighborhood" or "hello again," I spew, "what are you doing here?!" That marked the beginning of a series of the creepiest exchanges I can remember to date, including the famous, "put the lotion in the basket!"
That brief encounter at my apartment complex apparently gave him hope. Maybe he mistook my stare of horrified disbelief for something more akin to a starry-eyed gaze. Maybe he mistook the close proximity of our cubicles at the office for fate, forgetting the fact that he moved floors and evicted a fellow employee to sit caddy corner to me. Whatever the case, my daily routine at work now includes fielding questions about my apartment, our landlords, and my daily workout routine (as he apparently saw me leaving at 5:45am one morning and coming home sweaty 90 minutes later). Conversations, mind you, that are completely out of context for what is going on at the time. His mouth seems to work as most brilliant authors would describe their "stream of consciousness" writing - there are no checks and balances and no system of editing. The problem, of course, is that authors engage in this activity privately, in a journal or diary - when practiced verbally, stream of consciousness is far less brilliant and more like the drunk, senile grandparent at family gatherings who makes all the children cry.
A few weeks ago, several of us from work were sitting at a local restaurant for lunch together. One of the crew, Ryan, is a hilarious story teller, and was recounting the series of events that led to his opening line of, "so I had to tell my 70 year old neighbor to stop hitting on my wife." Basically, when Ryan decided to relocate here for this job, he and his wife bought their house before they arrived in the city. A couple weeks before they were to move out here, they flew out for a weekend to clean the house and get it ready for the movers to put all their stuff in, only to get there and find that the house had been broken into and the box of cleaning supplies and Wheat Thins they had left on the counter were gone. Ryan was talking about how his super old neighbor had started visiting his wife every day, and she just thought he was sweet until one day the old man brought over a CD he had made filled with old jazz versions of booty-jams. Our entire lunch table was joking about their poor, creepy neighbor and laughing about the prospect of Ryan having to walk over there and tell him to stop hitting on his wife when the comment was made in a fit of group laughter that it was probably creepy old man who broke into the house and stole the cleaning supplies and Wheat Thins, and now has them sitting on his own kitchen counter like a small shrine to his wife. Everybody was busting up when Creep-O opens his mouth and says, "yeah, he probably has like a life-sized mannequin in his basement that he puts makeup on and, like, glued little pieces of hair to it to look like her and everything..."
The table was silent for a solid five seconds... which was followed by the the screeching of chairs sliding back on the tiled floor and the rest of us muttering various versions of, "well, I’ve paid so..." as we got out of our seats to leave.
This is where Dane Cook's advice with the Snicker's bar comes in. Recently, the comments have become even more disturbing, and I’m starting to get to the point where I feel like I need to sit down and engage in conversation with him, perhaps offer him an extra Snickers bar that happened to fall out of the machine this morning, for the sole purpose of being skipped over the day his mind finally cracks and he storms into the office with a sawed-off shotgun. Mannequin-boy has become a joke around the office, but I definitely have a stash of leftover Halloween candy in my desk drawer just in case.
Sunday, October 8, 2006
Delayed Reactions
I watched the night turn into a beautiful sunday morning. My body and I are still working through some jet-lag issues and my sleeping schedule resembles that of a toddler - early to bed, early to rise scenario - very early to rise. I've felt strange the past two days, and can't really shake what is on my mind so writing is what i have always done.
I broke up with my boyfriend of four years about a month ago. He is what is on my mind lately. I tend to do this thing where I push thoughts that would normally hurt way down inside of me and try to pretend like they aren't there so I don't have to deal with how much and why they hurt. My thoughts in the last three days since returning from vacation in Sweden are my delayed reaction to the magnitude of what I have done in ending things with Doug. It took a month for me to allow myself to return to thoughts of him, our relationship, the fact that its over, and, mostly, why its over. What I am dealing with now in examining these thoughts is searching for closure. As prescriptive as that word is, that's the only way I can think of it right now. There were many years where I thought I would marry Doug. Many years I expected to and would've said yes in a heartbeat. Then something changed. Two years ago I wouldn't have had a clue what that change was, but now I think the only way to describe it is that we both started maturing. And things changed.
As put together as I always like to say I am and try to seem, I am just like everybody else: I don't have it all figured out, and most of the time I'm wondering what is going to happen next and just hoping I'm with-it enough to be ready for it. I would love to be able to sit here and explain with total clarity in concise, complete sentences what happened with Doug and why its over, but I can't. I'm a mix of emotions about it, and most of them conflict. Part of me is so sure of my decision was the best one, but then I remember all of the reasons why I loved him for five years and I wonder if I just didn't give it enough time? Did I give up too quickly? How could I have failed to make it work? But I don't have those answers either - I have my gut. Something wasn't right. If I think about what that "something" is my mind swirls around a thousand things, divided equally between what I should/could have done differently or better, and what he could have. Would those things have made any difference? I don't know, but something tells me no. There was something there that wasn't right. When I feel divided between emotions of complete sadness/failure and liberation/freedom... something wasn't right.
We have broken up before, but this time things are different. It would have been easier if he got mad, got defensive, but Doug is a wonderful person so he was just concerned about me. My thoughts return to him and our relationship now for a purpose, I just don't know what that is. There is more for me to learn from that relationship, more that I can take away with me. There was nothing horrible about our relationship, which is probably part of where my hurt comes from. What I have to remember is that it is not over because I failed at something, or because he did. I truly believe that two people can be great people, just not great for each other. Were Doug and I great for each other? I don't know, and I'm not sure he did either. To be on the path that we were on we needed to know, I needed to know, and I didn't. Something wasn't right. Maybe someday I'll know what that something is, maybe I won't. Maybe that something is just my lesson to learn to trust my emotions and my gut and not overanalyze and rationalize everything. I don't know.
What I know is that I loved him the best way I knew how, and that I love him still - a love manifested in my wish for his happiness. I know I temporarily put a dent in that happiness, but I also know that he will find it again and I hope he can be sure in it. Of course this hurts, and this is hard, and this is a new situation to work through - our relationship wasn't horrible. Doug is a chapter of my life I wouldn't take back for anything, and my thoughts linger on him and our relationship for a reason. All I can do is keep thinking, keep pondering, keep searching myself. I just pray for clarity, healing, and learning from it all, and hope he is finding the same.
I broke up with my boyfriend of four years about a month ago. He is what is on my mind lately. I tend to do this thing where I push thoughts that would normally hurt way down inside of me and try to pretend like they aren't there so I don't have to deal with how much and why they hurt. My thoughts in the last three days since returning from vacation in Sweden are my delayed reaction to the magnitude of what I have done in ending things with Doug. It took a month for me to allow myself to return to thoughts of him, our relationship, the fact that its over, and, mostly, why its over. What I am dealing with now in examining these thoughts is searching for closure. As prescriptive as that word is, that's the only way I can think of it right now. There were many years where I thought I would marry Doug. Many years I expected to and would've said yes in a heartbeat. Then something changed. Two years ago I wouldn't have had a clue what that change was, but now I think the only way to describe it is that we both started maturing. And things changed.
As put together as I always like to say I am and try to seem, I am just like everybody else: I don't have it all figured out, and most of the time I'm wondering what is going to happen next and just hoping I'm with-it enough to be ready for it. I would love to be able to sit here and explain with total clarity in concise, complete sentences what happened with Doug and why its over, but I can't. I'm a mix of emotions about it, and most of them conflict. Part of me is so sure of my decision was the best one, but then I remember all of the reasons why I loved him for five years and I wonder if I just didn't give it enough time? Did I give up too quickly? How could I have failed to make it work? But I don't have those answers either - I have my gut. Something wasn't right. If I think about what that "something" is my mind swirls around a thousand things, divided equally between what I should/could have done differently or better, and what he could have. Would those things have made any difference? I don't know, but something tells me no. There was something there that wasn't right. When I feel divided between emotions of complete sadness/failure and liberation/freedom... something wasn't right.
We have broken up before, but this time things are different. It would have been easier if he got mad, got defensive, but Doug is a wonderful person so he was just concerned about me. My thoughts return to him and our relationship now for a purpose, I just don't know what that is. There is more for me to learn from that relationship, more that I can take away with me. There was nothing horrible about our relationship, which is probably part of where my hurt comes from. What I have to remember is that it is not over because I failed at something, or because he did. I truly believe that two people can be great people, just not great for each other. Were Doug and I great for each other? I don't know, and I'm not sure he did either. To be on the path that we were on we needed to know, I needed to know, and I didn't. Something wasn't right. Maybe someday I'll know what that something is, maybe I won't. Maybe that something is just my lesson to learn to trust my emotions and my gut and not overanalyze and rationalize everything. I don't know.
What I know is that I loved him the best way I knew how, and that I love him still - a love manifested in my wish for his happiness. I know I temporarily put a dent in that happiness, but I also know that he will find it again and I hope he can be sure in it. Of course this hurts, and this is hard, and this is a new situation to work through - our relationship wasn't horrible. Doug is a chapter of my life I wouldn't take back for anything, and my thoughts linger on him and our relationship for a reason. All I can do is keep thinking, keep pondering, keep searching myself. I just pray for clarity, healing, and learning from it all, and hope he is finding the same.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Hej... Tack...
For the next several days, I will survive off of "hey" and "thank you." That is the extent of my Swedish vocabulary. Oh, and utgång, but I won't have much occasion to say gate or exit. So far, I've nodded, chuckled, and smiled my way through five different "conversations." Really, it was me politely gesticulating at the imcomprehensive, lightning-fast Swedish as the friendly airport employees address the seemingly pegged 'one of their own'. Uh, nope. No hablo Swedish. Try again. I'm getting good at paying attention to non-verbal cues though. Language, smanguage. Urgän. :) So far I've managed to exhange my US dollars for Krona, catch a bus to the right domestic terminal, check-in at said terminal, get through security, and order an egg and broccoli quiche - all without a lick of Swedish. Although that last one was a mistake. I was trying to get coffee. But I should have started at the beginning, let me go back...
I got to DFW early. Way too early, in fact. I thought international flights required check-in of two to three hours prior to departure. I was wrong. I did everything from checkin to at the gate in less than twenty minutes and had two and a half hours to kill. I flew from Dallas to Newark, NJ and then from Newark to Stockholm, and then from Stockholm caught a domestic flight up to Skellefteå where Bex lives (the childhood friend i'm going to Sweden to visit). First thing i see at my DFW gate to go to New Jersey... three total guidos (forget about it!) and a family of hassidic Jews - all of their way to 'Jersey.' So my plane is filled with people who are the obnoxious equivalent of Fran Drescher, but somehow i got lucky and get a row with an empty middle seat and a flight attendant just bumming a ride. Iäm minding my own business reading the latest Economist manazine, the whole time fielding stares from dozens of New Englanders trying to place why the hell this blonde, birkenstocked, hoodie-clad... Texan?? Nah! is on her way to New Jersey. After a while i quit trying to quantify how mind-fucked they were and just enjoyed reading my magazine.
Anyway, my journey to Sweden is marked, I tell you. Signs everywhere. In my Economist mag, a 5-pager about Sweden's remarkable economic system and how it has been successful here. Very interesting article, actually... and quite informative. Very karmic. And what is right next to the runway in Newark? A fucking IKEA. I couldn't make that up. The layover in Newark is short, easy. I meet a long-time friend I haven't seen in years who lives in the area, and then I'm off to Sweden. Its an eight hour flight and "overnight" so I'm hoping I can fall asleep. Really when I land there at 7:45am its going to be 12:45am my time, so really I'm getting like 2-3 hours sleep on this "overnight" journey. I ran a bit late through security in Newark, too, so no chance of finding a bar to knock a couple back and help make me sleepy. I supposed I could've found somebody who looked as haggard as I did and tried to bumm some Ambien, but I didn't think of that in time. Anyway, I was lucky to get the hour of sleep I got.
I land in Sweden, the land of beautiful people, and it meets every expectation (or better word, stereotype) I had conjured for it. The fucking AIRPORT even looks like something out of a model train village, complete with the quaint, pottery-barn-tries-to-get-that-worn-but-loved-look red planked barn perfectly perched at the edge of the oh-so-still lake surrounded by thousands of trees busy changing into fall colors juuust off the runway. Seriously. Oh, and the entire International terminal at Stockholm Arlanda airport has hardwood floors. Seriously. If I hadnit been in a catatonic state from flying so long i would've taken pictures. I will on the way home, for sure.
So we're caught up. I might have been stressed about finding my domestic flight up to Skellefteå but I had like four hours layover so I was totally okay with winging it and the possibility of getting lost. Except then I found myself about to board a train to downtown Stockholm and thought maybe I should just find my gate and hang out. So that's where I am now. Hanging out at utgång 53. I am enjoying my quiche (and am grateful for the mistake because as it turns out I was hungry), scorched my tongue on the strongest, best damn coffee I've ever had, and I've watched the overcast crack of dawn turn into a beautiful, sunny day in Stockholm. I'm going to like Sweden.
I got to DFW early. Way too early, in fact. I thought international flights required check-in of two to three hours prior to departure. I was wrong. I did everything from checkin to at the gate in less than twenty minutes and had two and a half hours to kill. I flew from Dallas to Newark, NJ and then from Newark to Stockholm, and then from Stockholm caught a domestic flight up to Skellefteå where Bex lives (the childhood friend i'm going to Sweden to visit). First thing i see at my DFW gate to go to New Jersey... three total guidos (forget about it!) and a family of hassidic Jews - all of their way to 'Jersey.' So my plane is filled with people who are the obnoxious equivalent of Fran Drescher, but somehow i got lucky and get a row with an empty middle seat and a flight attendant just bumming a ride. Iäm minding my own business reading the latest Economist manazine, the whole time fielding stares from dozens of New Englanders trying to place why the hell this blonde, birkenstocked, hoodie-clad... Texan?? Nah! is on her way to New Jersey. After a while i quit trying to quantify how mind-fucked they were and just enjoyed reading my magazine.
Anyway, my journey to Sweden is marked, I tell you. Signs everywhere. In my Economist mag, a 5-pager about Sweden's remarkable economic system and how it has been successful here. Very interesting article, actually... and quite informative. Very karmic. And what is right next to the runway in Newark? A fucking IKEA. I couldn't make that up. The layover in Newark is short, easy. I meet a long-time friend I haven't seen in years who lives in the area, and then I'm off to Sweden. Its an eight hour flight and "overnight" so I'm hoping I can fall asleep. Really when I land there at 7:45am its going to be 12:45am my time, so really I'm getting like 2-3 hours sleep on this "overnight" journey. I ran a bit late through security in Newark, too, so no chance of finding a bar to knock a couple back and help make me sleepy. I supposed I could've found somebody who looked as haggard as I did and tried to bumm some Ambien, but I didn't think of that in time. Anyway, I was lucky to get the hour of sleep I got.
I land in Sweden, the land of beautiful people, and it meets every expectation (or better word, stereotype) I had conjured for it. The fucking AIRPORT even looks like something out of a model train village, complete with the quaint, pottery-barn-tries-to-get-that-worn-but-loved-look red planked barn perfectly perched at the edge of the oh-so-still lake surrounded by thousands of trees busy changing into fall colors juuust off the runway. Seriously. Oh, and the entire International terminal at Stockholm Arlanda airport has hardwood floors. Seriously. If I hadnit been in a catatonic state from flying so long i would've taken pictures. I will on the way home, for sure.
So we're caught up. I might have been stressed about finding my domestic flight up to Skellefteå but I had like four hours layover so I was totally okay with winging it and the possibility of getting lost. Except then I found myself about to board a train to downtown Stockholm and thought maybe I should just find my gate and hang out. So that's where I am now. Hanging out at utgång 53. I am enjoying my quiche (and am grateful for the mistake because as it turns out I was hungry), scorched my tongue on the strongest, best damn coffee I've ever had, and I've watched the overcast crack of dawn turn into a beautiful, sunny day in Stockholm. I'm going to like Sweden.
Thursday, August 3, 2006
Climate changes
Its August already?! Damn. It has been a while, again, so I thought I'd say a quick hello and recap a little while...
About a month ago, I was presented with the opportunity to go work out of one of our domestic sites in Roseburg, Oregon for a while. At the time, the only thing I could think of was the fact that an assignment like that would get me out of Texas' notoriously hot July and August weather, and I was quick to jump at the chance. Of course, there were a slew of other things, both personal and professional, that I considered as well when thinking about the move: my parents live up in Seattle now and I'd be closer to them, working in a new site for a couple months would give me a chance to show what I can do and really help another site out, boyfriend is a teacher and July/August is when he's finally out of school and we'd be able to spend some real time together, etc., etc... But ultimately, I decided to take the leap and move for two months.
So far, my entire existence here has been a whirlwind. From the minute I arrived my senses have betrayed my previously allergy-less utopia. I've been reduced to a sneezy, sniveling, red-eyed mess of a woman, which is definitely not fun, or attractive. And the real bitch of it is that I was so excited to get to a place where one can do things outside, in the middle of the day, without melting into the 115+ degree heat index that I've ignored my misery and have been bicycling and hiking through this snot wallowing haze. Allergies really suck.
Anyway, the job has been going well, although honestly I'm learning more of what NOT to do than things to take with me back to my office in TX. I can't help but think of how funny it is that sometimes we think that we're in such hell... until we're thrown into a different situation which is way worse than our own. It isn't all bad, though, by any stretch of the imagination. I've met some great people and there are actually other women around this office who are cool to hang out with, so that's great. And there's the whole pacific Northwest thing that's pretty f'in cool too. A couple weekends ago I went kayaking down the South Umpqua river for five hours with a girl from work and her husband, which was awesome - not a regular occurrence in Tejas, that's for sure. I'll try to be better about posting...
About a month ago, I was presented with the opportunity to go work out of one of our domestic sites in Roseburg, Oregon for a while. At the time, the only thing I could think of was the fact that an assignment like that would get me out of Texas' notoriously hot July and August weather, and I was quick to jump at the chance. Of course, there were a slew of other things, both personal and professional, that I considered as well when thinking about the move: my parents live up in Seattle now and I'd be closer to them, working in a new site for a couple months would give me a chance to show what I can do and really help another site out, boyfriend is a teacher and July/August is when he's finally out of school and we'd be able to spend some real time together, etc., etc... But ultimately, I decided to take the leap and move for two months.
So far, my entire existence here has been a whirlwind. From the minute I arrived my senses have betrayed my previously allergy-less utopia. I've been reduced to a sneezy, sniveling, red-eyed mess of a woman, which is definitely not fun, or attractive. And the real bitch of it is that I was so excited to get to a place where one can do things outside, in the middle of the day, without melting into the 115+ degree heat index that I've ignored my misery and have been bicycling and hiking through this snot wallowing haze. Allergies really suck.
Anyway, the job has been going well, although honestly I'm learning more of what NOT to do than things to take with me back to my office in TX. I can't help but think of how funny it is that sometimes we think that we're in such hell... until we're thrown into a different situation which is way worse than our own. It isn't all bad, though, by any stretch of the imagination. I've met some great people and there are actually other women around this office who are cool to hang out with, so that's great. And there's the whole pacific Northwest thing that's pretty f'in cool too. A couple weekends ago I went kayaking down the South Umpqua river for five hours with a girl from work and her husband, which was awesome - not a regular occurrence in Tejas, that's for sure. I'll try to be better about posting...
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
He said, She said - thoughts on U.S. Soccer
I know I’m jaded, but that's beside the point. My point, to be more precise. I just finished watching the United States play Czech Republic in the 2006 FIFA World Cup (soccer, for those of you who are completely clueless), and can honestly think of no other way to describe the U.S.'s horrendous display of "effort" than utterly lackluster and disappointing - but here's the real bitch of it: why the hell weren't our guys ready to walk onto that field and wreak havoc upon anybody who might possibly stand in their way?
After decades of listening to international critics of the sport call the United States young, outmatched, under prepared, and just straight not as good as the rest of the world, we come out blazing in the 2002 World Cup. We left the world stunned and almost ready to eat their words with our Quarter Final finish and lights-out exceptional performance in the Elite Eight versus Germany. Even after our display of athleticism and accomplishment from the '02 World Cup, the United States has to listen to four more years of criticism about our international squad and our success and hard work is gradually turned into nothing more than a fluke by the time qualifiers come around for this 2006 world venue. And this time the US team talked themselves up. Landon Donovan has been all over TV interviews saying how the US is ready to prove that the world's top 10 teams is where we belong and that we need to be looked at as a threat on the world stage for international soccer. Bruce Arena was even quoted as saying that he's tired of preparation already, that he just wants to go show the world what the United States can do on soccer's world stage. We go into the WC'06 with a #5 world ranking, right behind our first opponent, Czech Republic, who just happen to be #4. And we play like we want nothing more than to be home playing XBOX. SOOO frustrating!
The thing that gets me about it is that, as a women's soccer fan and former player, I find myself getting really heated at the men's team when they show such poor effort on the international level. It’s really hard for me to jump on board with the men's fans who hide behind excuses like, "well the US is behind the rest of the world in men's soccer because it wasn't big here a long time ago like it was everywhere else in the world." How long do you need to catch up, guys? At what point will we be willing/able to admit that maybe our nation's soccer talent just lies in our women more so than our men.
My defensiveness surrounding women's soccer and our success at the international level kicks in almost instantly because I just hold the US Women's National Team at a higher level than I do our men. Naturally, I think, as I’m a woman. But it goes deeper than that. I’m tired of being compared to men's soccer - on every level. When our men do well, I’m tired of the arguments that men's soccer is more interesting than women and I'm tired of the chauvinistic musings of all those testosterone ridden men who staunchly maintain that the US Men could beat the US women in a match. Ya think?! Men and women are a different breed, and men's and women's soccer is a different game entirely. I think the men would win as well, but not without being exhausted and given a good run for their money - men are built bigger, faster, and stronger than women biologically. Men should beat women when pitted against each other in sport just based on physical attributes, but I’d be willing to bet the women had more finesse on the ball, team thinking, and strategic forethought than the men did. When our men do poorly, I’m tired of the women's team being brought into the argument out of no where saying that really, women's soccer only just started on the world stage in 1980, and that the US women have a huge advantage. What advantage? Its two separate games.
Someone very dear to me, who also happens to be a huge US men's soccer fan and also a player himself, just described today's loss perfectly: it is insulting to him as a fan of US men's soccer and a long time soccer player himself to see the US men come out so flat against the Czech Republic and play like they don't care. They should at least want to come out and shut everybody up and play like they have something to prove.
So, male soccer fans of the United States, don't worry about the women's team right now - they aren't the ones who just caught you flat and beat you 3-0 in your opening game of the World Cup. Why don't you pick something worth while to be concerned about - like the US men's team strategy or training procedures. In the meantime, maybe if you look through your chauvinism you could learn a thing or two from the women - like consistency.
After decades of listening to international critics of the sport call the United States young, outmatched, under prepared, and just straight not as good as the rest of the world, we come out blazing in the 2002 World Cup. We left the world stunned and almost ready to eat their words with our Quarter Final finish and lights-out exceptional performance in the Elite Eight versus Germany. Even after our display of athleticism and accomplishment from the '02 World Cup, the United States has to listen to four more years of criticism about our international squad and our success and hard work is gradually turned into nothing more than a fluke by the time qualifiers come around for this 2006 world venue. And this time the US team talked themselves up. Landon Donovan has been all over TV interviews saying how the US is ready to prove that the world's top 10 teams is where we belong and that we need to be looked at as a threat on the world stage for international soccer. Bruce Arena was even quoted as saying that he's tired of preparation already, that he just wants to go show the world what the United States can do on soccer's world stage. We go into the WC'06 with a #5 world ranking, right behind our first opponent, Czech Republic, who just happen to be #4. And we play like we want nothing more than to be home playing XBOX. SOOO frustrating!
The thing that gets me about it is that, as a women's soccer fan and former player, I find myself getting really heated at the men's team when they show such poor effort on the international level. It’s really hard for me to jump on board with the men's fans who hide behind excuses like, "well the US is behind the rest of the world in men's soccer because it wasn't big here a long time ago like it was everywhere else in the world." How long do you need to catch up, guys? At what point will we be willing/able to admit that maybe our nation's soccer talent just lies in our women more so than our men.
My defensiveness surrounding women's soccer and our success at the international level kicks in almost instantly because I just hold the US Women's National Team at a higher level than I do our men. Naturally, I think, as I’m a woman. But it goes deeper than that. I’m tired of being compared to men's soccer - on every level. When our men do well, I’m tired of the arguments that men's soccer is more interesting than women and I'm tired of the chauvinistic musings of all those testosterone ridden men who staunchly maintain that the US Men could beat the US women in a match. Ya think?! Men and women are a different breed, and men's and women's soccer is a different game entirely. I think the men would win as well, but not without being exhausted and given a good run for their money - men are built bigger, faster, and stronger than women biologically. Men should beat women when pitted against each other in sport just based on physical attributes, but I’d be willing to bet the women had more finesse on the ball, team thinking, and strategic forethought than the men did. When our men do poorly, I’m tired of the women's team being brought into the argument out of no where saying that really, women's soccer only just started on the world stage in 1980, and that the US women have a huge advantage. What advantage? Its two separate games.
Someone very dear to me, who also happens to be a huge US men's soccer fan and also a player himself, just described today's loss perfectly: it is insulting to him as a fan of US men's soccer and a long time soccer player himself to see the US men come out so flat against the Czech Republic and play like they don't care. They should at least want to come out and shut everybody up and play like they have something to prove.
So, male soccer fans of the United States, don't worry about the women's team right now - they aren't the ones who just caught you flat and beat you 3-0 in your opening game of the World Cup. Why don't you pick something worth while to be concerned about - like the US men's team strategy or training procedures. In the meantime, maybe if you look through your chauvinism you could learn a thing or two from the women - like consistency.
Friday, June 9, 2006
1 step forward, 9,999,999 steps back...
I've brought the phrase "struggle spice" to a whole new level. On a quick side note: for those of you who've not yet integrated that into your vernacular - pick it up, its a keeper. I'm in this new job, and even my damn title is confusing - Process Lead - can you see anything of redeeming value in that? Didn't think so. I knew that with promotions came another level of responsibility that usually requires some adjustment time, but jeez... this is ridiculous.
I found out the day after I got back from Maui (I haven't mentioned that I was in Maui yet, but that story will be coming soon - is a good one) that the boss whose team I was working so hard to get back on was leaving our site to go take another job within our company. Its a great opportunity for him, but I was really bummed out because he's a great guy to work for, and has been immensely helpful in guiding my own career and even personal development. As if losing my boss wasn't a big enough chunk out of my learning curve, this job's training program is what we in mainstream Corporate America like to call, "sink or swim."
I am now five weeks into my new job, and am still struggling on a daily basis to figure out what the hell I should be doing with my time at work. There are some things I know to do: pull certain reports for certain people by certain days or they go apeshit, spend a couple hours each morning analyzing reports on both our previous day's and week to date numbers to find out where we're missing and then try to think of how to fill the gaps so that we're not missing goal... but really other than that I'm clueless - and the worst part is that there is no boss for me to go ask for help or get direction from. Instead, I try one of 700 million random ideas that come to my mind as to what I think might be the right answer, and keep repeating that trial and error process until I want to either jump off of a very tall building or go chew on glass. As a result, I spend lots of time every day trying to look busy and just getting stressed out because I know that there are things out there that I don't know I should be doing right now and in my head I just see this huge proverbial pile of "to do" items getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger...
It's quite an unnerving feeling to go from knowing everything about my job to knowing absolutely nothing about my job and not really even knowing where to start finding anything out. If every promotion I come across at this company is like this I'm screwed. I'll have an awesome title but constantly feel like I have the education level of a kindergartener because I can't figure anything out. I wonder if I should just color the reports before my meetings - at least then my kindergarten education would come in handy.
I found out the day after I got back from Maui (I haven't mentioned that I was in Maui yet, but that story will be coming soon - is a good one) that the boss whose team I was working so hard to get back on was leaving our site to go take another job within our company. Its a great opportunity for him, but I was really bummed out because he's a great guy to work for, and has been immensely helpful in guiding my own career and even personal development. As if losing my boss wasn't a big enough chunk out of my learning curve, this job's training program is what we in mainstream Corporate America like to call, "sink or swim."
I am now five weeks into my new job, and am still struggling on a daily basis to figure out what the hell I should be doing with my time at work. There are some things I know to do: pull certain reports for certain people by certain days or they go apeshit, spend a couple hours each morning analyzing reports on both our previous day's and week to date numbers to find out where we're missing and then try to think of how to fill the gaps so that we're not missing goal... but really other than that I'm clueless - and the worst part is that there is no boss for me to go ask for help or get direction from. Instead, I try one of 700 million random ideas that come to my mind as to what I think might be the right answer, and keep repeating that trial and error process until I want to either jump off of a very tall building or go chew on glass. As a result, I spend lots of time every day trying to look busy and just getting stressed out because I know that there are things out there that I don't know I should be doing right now and in my head I just see this huge proverbial pile of "to do" items getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger...
It's quite an unnerving feeling to go from knowing everything about my job to knowing absolutely nothing about my job and not really even knowing where to start finding anything out. If every promotion I come across at this company is like this I'm screwed. I'll have an awesome title but constantly feel like I have the education level of a kindergartener because I can't figure anything out. I wonder if I should just color the reports before my meetings - at least then my kindergarten education would come in handy.
Don't worry, I'm alive
I know, you wouldn't think that's possible considering how long I've been gone... but then again you don't work for a computer company. I guess I should start by conceding to you all that I'm a slacker when it comes to updating my blog - I'm sorry to the masses who live and die by my overwhelmingly inciteful and inspiring postings. I hope none of you have taken up a new hobby of ripping out your hair since you have been neglected for over a month. Yes, you DID detect some sarcasm...
So let me explain - I'll give you the macro view first. So I've been busting my ass for the past two years for a company where being a complete over-achiever actually pays off - meritocracy is a wonderful system. However, for those who are afflicted with veritably inescapable perfectionism (yours truly) this creates a monstrous problem: I work all the time. 14 hours days are not unusual, in which no detail is left un-examined and un-tackled. Great news for the paycheck, but in the wake of the CHA-CHING! I hear after every pay period I'm left with this awful feeling of knowing I need to do more. So after a year of being a manager, I was getting antsy. I wanted the next position. Less hours (theoretically), better days off, more responsibilities, and most of all - something different. Adult Onset ADD was starting to kick in, and I needed to do something ELSE. So I started to prepare for interviews. Long story short, at the end of April I got word from the guy whose workgroup I was trying to get hired for that there were positions opening up soon and that interviews would probably be starting late next week. Awesome I have over a week to prepare!
And then the whirlwind started. On my day off I got a call from aforementioned guy, telling me that I had four interviews tomorrow. Um, excuse me? Yeah, as in 12 hours from now. I guess I should have been more grateful for the heads up, but all I could think about was the fact that I had done absolutely nothing to prepare. So I spent pretty much all night preparing for said FOUR interviews. Miraculously, they turned out fine, and I ended up getting the job! But that's not why I've been incommunicado for the past month.
I left the next day to go to Colorado to visit my big sister and her new baby, then came back to work for four days, and then left for Maui for eight days (won a trip through work - like I said, meritocracy is amazing). Got back from Maui on 5/21, and for the past three weeks have frantically been trying to figure out what the hell i'm supposed to be doing in this new position. So there are several things in which I feel that you should feel obliged to join in my merriment, and not upset that I've neglected my blog:
1. My big sister had a baby!! (and I got a vacation to go to CO to visit)
2. I got a promotion and am no longer a slave to insanely weird office hours
3. I got another vacation to Maui for free through work
While glorious, all of that stress, unbelievable ambiguity, and ever-changing work environment probably bumped my "acutal age" up 20 years - but don't worry, I'm alive... and have a really kick-ass tan.
So let me explain - I'll give you the macro view first. So I've been busting my ass for the past two years for a company where being a complete over-achiever actually pays off - meritocracy is a wonderful system. However, for those who are afflicted with veritably inescapable perfectionism (yours truly) this creates a monstrous problem: I work all the time. 14 hours days are not unusual, in which no detail is left un-examined and un-tackled. Great news for the paycheck, but in the wake of the CHA-CHING! I hear after every pay period I'm left with this awful feeling of knowing I need to do more. So after a year of being a manager, I was getting antsy. I wanted the next position. Less hours (theoretically), better days off, more responsibilities, and most of all - something different. Adult Onset ADD was starting to kick in, and I needed to do something ELSE. So I started to prepare for interviews. Long story short, at the end of April I got word from the guy whose workgroup I was trying to get hired for that there were positions opening up soon and that interviews would probably be starting late next week. Awesome I have over a week to prepare!
And then the whirlwind started. On my day off I got a call from aforementioned guy, telling me that I had four interviews tomorrow. Um, excuse me? Yeah, as in 12 hours from now. I guess I should have been more grateful for the heads up, but all I could think about was the fact that I had done absolutely nothing to prepare. So I spent pretty much all night preparing for said FOUR interviews. Miraculously, they turned out fine, and I ended up getting the job! But that's not why I've been incommunicado for the past month.
I left the next day to go to Colorado to visit my big sister and her new baby, then came back to work for four days, and then left for Maui for eight days (won a trip through work - like I said, meritocracy is amazing). Got back from Maui on 5/21, and for the past three weeks have frantically been trying to figure out what the hell i'm supposed to be doing in this new position. So there are several things in which I feel that you should feel obliged to join in my merriment, and not upset that I've neglected my blog:
1. My big sister had a baby!! (and I got a vacation to go to CO to visit)
2. I got a promotion and am no longer a slave to insanely weird office hours
3. I got another vacation to Maui for free through work
While glorious, all of that stress, unbelievable ambiguity, and ever-changing work environment probably bumped my "acutal age" up 20 years - but don't worry, I'm alive... and have a really kick-ass tan.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Schpeech Impedimentsch
I am one hundred percent convinced that some of the best times I remember I'm going to hell for taking such joy in. Seriously. There's no way that God is too busy doing something else to notice, and I just have these awful mental pictures of a Father Time look-a-like with a halo 'tsk'ing' and scribbling furiously in an enormous book while Saint Peter sits in dimly lit corner, perched on his workbench, dubiously fixing the most impenetrable looking padlock you've ever seen. Regardless of the mental images though, they remain my fondest memories and inspire endless giggling every time it comes to mind. Besides, I'd rather keep telling myself that we all do things that probably make God wonder if he set his goals to high for humanity.
To anyone who has ever been on a team of some sort, you'll know what I mean when I say there's just a random bond that a team setting creates with people who would otherwise probably have nothing in common or not really spend the time to get to know each other. This is how my club soccer team was in high school. The goofy shit that we cracked up about amazes me, but also feels so natural to look back on and chuckle. We were an enormous, dysfunctional family. A few of us in particular hung out together all the time - literally. We did everything together, and looked for fun everywhere. In one tourney in particular, we were playing our arch rivals. We hated this team and it was always a great match. We were all in defensive positions for the team, so our bond transferred onto the field quite well, and also made the team fun. In this particular instance, the game was tense. We weren't playing poorly, but we weren't winning either, and everybody on our team could feel that pressure. There wasn't any laughing going on that game, and we were all perfectly in tune with what needed to be done on the field and we were just trying to execute on it.
At one point, their team got possession and was coming down the right side of the field on an attack. One of their girls got through several of our teammates and was gunning towards our goal looking to send the ball to the opposite side of the field so they could try to score. All three of us looked at each other with a look of understood terror as we watched this scenario unfold upfield, and immediately went about our business. Right as we were falling into place and getting ready to stop this one of their players flew down the opposite side of the field screaming "cross it! CROSS IT!!" This doesn't seem like a big deal, but she had a speed impediment. She had the speech impediment that made "s" sounds come out like they were being pushed through tin foil. So the phrase swimming pool would be hell for this girl, and would later become a phrase that my horrible friends and I would repeat over and over through gasping laughter. Schwimming Pool. Another fun one was Indianapolisch Coltsch. Fun times... I'm sorry, God.
To anyone who has ever been on a team of some sort, you'll know what I mean when I say there's just a random bond that a team setting creates with people who would otherwise probably have nothing in common or not really spend the time to get to know each other. This is how my club soccer team was in high school. The goofy shit that we cracked up about amazes me, but also feels so natural to look back on and chuckle. We were an enormous, dysfunctional family. A few of us in particular hung out together all the time - literally. We did everything together, and looked for fun everywhere. In one tourney in particular, we were playing our arch rivals. We hated this team and it was always a great match. We were all in defensive positions for the team, so our bond transferred onto the field quite well, and also made the team fun. In this particular instance, the game was tense. We weren't playing poorly, but we weren't winning either, and everybody on our team could feel that pressure. There wasn't any laughing going on that game, and we were all perfectly in tune with what needed to be done on the field and we were just trying to execute on it.
At one point, their team got possession and was coming down the right side of the field on an attack. One of their girls got through several of our teammates and was gunning towards our goal looking to send the ball to the opposite side of the field so they could try to score. All three of us looked at each other with a look of understood terror as we watched this scenario unfold upfield, and immediately went about our business. Right as we were falling into place and getting ready to stop this one of their players flew down the opposite side of the field screaming "cross it! CROSS IT!!" This doesn't seem like a big deal, but she had a speed impediment. She had the speech impediment that made "s" sounds come out like they were being pushed through tin foil. So the phrase swimming pool would be hell for this girl, and would later become a phrase that my horrible friends and I would repeat over and over through gasping laughter. Schwimming Pool. Another fun one was Indianapolisch Coltsch. Fun times... I'm sorry, God.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Unsought Meaning
Sometimes I wonder why the things that seem to give me the most meaning in life come from exteral sources. Regardless of how perfect the revelation is I usually end up asking myself, "shouldn't such inspiration come from within?" Its like I'm biting off of somebody else's truths. I find inspiration and meaning in the smallest things, and I wonder why these instances of clarity can't come to me more often. I heard this tonight, and loved it. Bitten or not, I think its beautiful.
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
I've also remembered this since I was forced to memorize it in 9th grade Honors English, oblivious to what this could possibly mean at the time, but somehow never being able to get it out of my head:
INVICTUS
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
Funny how much meaning we can find in some things...
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
I've also remembered this since I was forced to memorize it in 9th grade Honors English, oblivious to what this could possibly mean at the time, but somehow never being able to get it out of my head:
INVICTUS
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
Funny how much meaning we can find in some things...
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