05 September 2006
My lovely lady lumps
I am perpetually annoyed by the term "baby bump." I think the tabloids have run out of celebrity names to mash up ("TomKat", "Brangelina", etc.) and are moving on to a nobler goal of desecrating the entire English language.
31 August 2006
Kick em when they're up, kick 'em when they're down
Things that suck about an internal promotion:
1) People assume you know everything.
In a role like mine, the responsibilities are so varied and intense that there's no way a person who's been shadowing his predecessor for two months could possibly have absorbed it all by now. Like they love to say on MTV, "You think you know, but you have no idea." This is especially an issue when you're replacing someone with exceptional experience doing that particular job. Two month, twenty years...something was probably lost in the translation.
2) People assume you know nothing.
In the last two days I've gotten so many e-mails from people telling me things I didn't say because I didn't think I needed to say them. Yes, I know that my group's process is different than your group's process, but they're related, so a rule or improvement that applies to us also applies to you. If it didn't? I wouldn't have forwarded it to you.
3) People who should know better tell you to do something, which is ultimately the incorrect thing to do.
The result, of course, is that I look like I don't know what I'm doing, which encourages people to assume list item #2.
...and of course...
4) People tell you it won't be easy to fill the shoes of the person you're replacing.
Cause I hadn't already had several panic attacks about just that. Thanks for the encouragement.
Of course, I'm not upset about any of these things, however frustrating. My new position is fun and exciting, and it suits me perfectly. Overall, I consider these things a small price to pay for world domination.
1) People assume you know everything.
In a role like mine, the responsibilities are so varied and intense that there's no way a person who's been shadowing his predecessor for two months could possibly have absorbed it all by now. Like they love to say on MTV, "You think you know, but you have no idea." This is especially an issue when you're replacing someone with exceptional experience doing that particular job. Two month, twenty years...something was probably lost in the translation.
2) People assume you know nothing.
In the last two days I've gotten so many e-mails from people telling me things I didn't say because I didn't think I needed to say them. Yes, I know that my group's process is different than your group's process, but they're related, so a rule or improvement that applies to us also applies to you. If it didn't? I wouldn't have forwarded it to you.
3) People who should know better tell you to do something, which is ultimately the incorrect thing to do.
The result, of course, is that I look like I don't know what I'm doing, which encourages people to assume list item #2.
...and of course...
4) People tell you it won't be easy to fill the shoes of the person you're replacing.
Cause I hadn't already had several panic attacks about just that. Thanks for the encouragement.
Of course, I'm not upset about any of these things, however frustrating. My new position is fun and exciting, and it suits me perfectly. Overall, I consider these things a small price to pay for world domination.
09 August 2006
Everybody's got something to hide
My friend and I were discussing interview attire today and she passed along a list of guidelines that must have been written in 1964. For example, "Women with longer hair should wear it back so it doesn't become a distraction." A distraction? I'm sorry, if my hair distracts you, perhaps I can interest you in some Ritalin.
Also up for debate: should women wear skirt suits or pant suits to an interview? Oddly enough, the response is overwhelmingly in favor of skirts, and that seems antiquated to me. The skirt suit mandate just reaks of "Don't be afraid to let them see your feminine side!" These rules must've been written by the same women who, in the 80s, advocated pastel pink suits, the boardroom bow, and shoulderpads.
Internal to our company, I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter what you wear. Our last new team member interviewed in a ratty pair of jeans and a sweater from Bill Cosby's Goodwill pile. She was not only poorly dressed but also completely incompetant, and they still hired her! So I encouraged my friend to go in with confidence - and hot pink platform shoes.
Also up for debate: should women wear skirt suits or pant suits to an interview? Oddly enough, the response is overwhelmingly in favor of skirts, and that seems antiquated to me. The skirt suit mandate just reaks of "Don't be afraid to let them see your feminine side!" These rules must've been written by the same women who, in the 80s, advocated pastel pink suits, the boardroom bow, and shoulderpads.
Internal to our company, I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter what you wear. Our last new team member interviewed in a ratty pair of jeans and a sweater from Bill Cosby's Goodwill pile. She was not only poorly dressed but also completely incompetant, and they still hired her! So I encouraged my friend to go in with confidence - and hot pink platform shoes.
07 August 2006
Is there anybody in there?
I just called my homebuilder's home office to check up on a warranty issue. The automated system told me to dial '1' if I wanted the mailing address, or '0' for an operator.
I chose zero, and was forwarded to the operator's voice mailbox. What? Why does an operator need a voice mailbox? Shouldn't she be, like...there?
I chose zero, and was forwarded to the operator's voice mailbox. What? Why does an operator need a voice mailbox? Shouldn't she be, like...there?
21 July 2006
And I think it's gonna be a long long time
My flight from DFW to St Louis last weekend was largely uneventful. I was seated next to two new age intellectuals, both married (not to each other), who insisted on talking the entire time we were in the air.
Among the gems I overheard was the woman saying that her son had her last name and her daughter had her husband's last name. I can see trying to carry on a mother's maiden name if the father has other brothers, sure. Someone explain to me, though, the purpose of giving the daughter the father's last name. I want to understand.
Just as I was giggling at the self-important nature of their overall conversation, the talk gave way to celebrity baby names. Oh my God, I thought, I'm one of them.
I made it off the flight as quickly as I could, for fear of certain assimilation. Running to the gate for my connecting flight to Columbia, MO, I reached the gate just in time to watch our aircraft pull up.
It was a Jetstream. A prop-plane. Prop as in propeller. As in so old it is probably not functional.
I cautiously made my way up the rickety stairs from the tarmac and found my seat. As the other seven passengers took their places, our timid stewardess exclaimed, "You guys can sit wherever you want today - just make sure you balance the weight out over the wing." Really? Is that something you want to leave up to me and Bobby Jo from Huntsville?
After a few minutes, the July heat started leaving visible pit-stains on me and my fellow travelers. I vowed at that time to find and assassinate the guy who chose the faux-leather seat covers over the stain-resistant poly-cotton blend.
So we sat, boiling in our own clothes, and watched our stewardess take out a 5-pound bag of ice and begin throwing it, with excessive force, against the floor of the plane. I assume she was trying to break up the ice, and not our plane, but I can't say for sure. If I just could've gotten my hands on that ice.
Finally we took off on our grand, 30-minute voyage. The air kicked in, leaving me to worry only about the propeller whirling outside the window, three feet from my head. Somewhere in my brain, the pilot of "Lost" fought swiftly for real estate against my trusty book; luckily, David Sedaris is a tough fighter.
Five minutes after beverage service, our trusty flight stewardess walked a trash bag around to collect our cups. What intrigued me most, thought, was what sat in her other hand: a brown paper lunch sack, top rolled over two or three times, filled with an assortment of mints. But not the 500-count assortment you might buy at Walgreens. No no, dear reader. It appears as though this woman, bless her heart, went to every restaurant in the greater St Louis area, collecting handfulls of after dinner mints. We were offered a choice of spearamints, butterscotch candies, logo wrappers claiming I should eat at Joe's, all the penny candy you could ever need.
I shouldn't complain though, at least one part of my body was fresh. Such luxury accommodations at the low, low price of $350. Thanks a lot, Osama. I think next time I'll take the bus.
Among the gems I overheard was the woman saying that her son had her last name and her daughter had her husband's last name. I can see trying to carry on a mother's maiden name if the father has other brothers, sure. Someone explain to me, though, the purpose of giving the daughter the father's last name. I want to understand.
Just as I was giggling at the self-important nature of their overall conversation, the talk gave way to celebrity baby names. Oh my God, I thought, I'm one of them.
I made it off the flight as quickly as I could, for fear of certain assimilation. Running to the gate for my connecting flight to Columbia, MO, I reached the gate just in time to watch our aircraft pull up.
It was a Jetstream. A prop-plane. Prop as in propeller. As in so old it is probably not functional.
I cautiously made my way up the rickety stairs from the tarmac and found my seat. As the other seven passengers took their places, our timid stewardess exclaimed, "You guys can sit wherever you want today - just make sure you balance the weight out over the wing." Really? Is that something you want to leave up to me and Bobby Jo from Huntsville?
After a few minutes, the July heat started leaving visible pit-stains on me and my fellow travelers. I vowed at that time to find and assassinate the guy who chose the faux-leather seat covers over the stain-resistant poly-cotton blend.
So we sat, boiling in our own clothes, and watched our stewardess take out a 5-pound bag of ice and begin throwing it, with excessive force, against the floor of the plane. I assume she was trying to break up the ice, and not our plane, but I can't say for sure. If I just could've gotten my hands on that ice.
Finally we took off on our grand, 30-minute voyage. The air kicked in, leaving me to worry only about the propeller whirling outside the window, three feet from my head. Somewhere in my brain, the pilot of "Lost" fought swiftly for real estate against my trusty book; luckily, David Sedaris is a tough fighter.
Five minutes after beverage service, our trusty flight stewardess walked a trash bag around to collect our cups. What intrigued me most, thought, was what sat in her other hand: a brown paper lunch sack, top rolled over two or three times, filled with an assortment of mints. But not the 500-count assortment you might buy at Walgreens. No no, dear reader. It appears as though this woman, bless her heart, went to every restaurant in the greater St Louis area, collecting handfulls of after dinner mints. We were offered a choice of spearamints, butterscotch candies, logo wrappers claiming I should eat at Joe's, all the penny candy you could ever need.
I shouldn't complain though, at least one part of my body was fresh. Such luxury accommodations at the low, low price of $350. Thanks a lot, Osama. I think next time I'll take the bus.
05 July 2006
They're coming to take me away
I am puzzled this morning by the appearance of a dry erase board in my cubicle. Despite having worked here for 4 years and having always secretly wanted one, I have never actually requested one. Honestly? I thought I was in the wrong cube for a second.
So here is my dilemma: Do I use this nice, shiny white board before I discover its origin? I feel like I'm the subject in a bizarre social experiment. I suppose it's only a matter of time before the men in white coats arrive....
So here is my dilemma: Do I use this nice, shiny white board before I discover its origin? I feel like I'm the subject in a bizarre social experiment. I suppose it's only a matter of time before the men in white coats arrive....
21 June 2006
Constant craving
The thing I like about "raisin spice"-flavored oatmeal is that I can trick myself into thinking I'm eating an oatmeal raisin cookie.
Delicious. On with the show.
Back in my days as a pro cheerleader, I used to attend a lot of PR events; sign autographs, kiss babies, that sort of thing. One day at an event, a man walked up to me with his wife and kids.
"Hey, I know you. You work at [large aeronautics company west of town]."
I pulled the tablecloth over my exposed midriff and answered affirmatively. "I do, do you work up on the factory mezzanine, too?"
"No, ma'am. I'm a crane operator."
Of course, he was referring to the giant ceiling-mounted cranes used to move heavy aircraft components from one end of the plant to the other.
And of course, I now only wear crew-neck shirts.
Delicious. On with the show.
Back in my days as a pro cheerleader, I used to attend a lot of PR events; sign autographs, kiss babies, that sort of thing. One day at an event, a man walked up to me with his wife and kids.
"Hey, I know you. You work at [large aeronautics company west of town]."
I pulled the tablecloth over my exposed midriff and answered affirmatively. "I do, do you work up on the factory mezzanine, too?"
"No, ma'am. I'm a crane operator."
Of course, he was referring to the giant ceiling-mounted cranes used to move heavy aircraft components from one end of the plant to the other.
And of course, I now only wear crew-neck shirts.
13 June 2006
Just can't get enough
It is so cold in my office today that I considered stuffing a baked potato down my sweater at lunch, for warmth. Yes, I said sweater. It's June in North Texas, and I have to wear a sweater to work for fear of frostbite. The worst part about this is that we've had such consistantly beautiful weather that the top is down on my Jeep, which leaves me to roast on the afternoon drive home. Wool and sweat don't mix, folks, they just don't.
I can't understand why the temperatures in this building have to be set at "Sub-Arctic" year-round. Is someone breeding penguins downstairs? It's going to be horrible when I celebrate the 4th of July with a raging case of pnemonia.
Random funny video of the day.
I can't understand why the temperatures in this building have to be set at "Sub-Arctic" year-round. Is someone breeding penguins downstairs? It's going to be horrible when I celebrate the 4th of July with a raging case of pnemonia.
Random funny video of the day.
05 June 2006
The sweetest thing
Have I told you guys the praline story yet? I don't think I have:
One Monday I was walking out of work - I work above a factory and have to walk through the factory and badge out of a turnstile into the parking lot every day. (So glamorous, I know, don't be jealous now)
On this particular day, I was waiting for a friend to pick me up, because my car was in the shop. One of the hourly plant workers was hanging out by the turnstile on his break, and he struck up a conversation. This was an older man, probably mid-to-late 50s, skin like leather and very gaunt. I was about to turn 21 at the time, not yet as jaded as I am now, so I chatted with him for a bit. He asked where I was from, where I went to school, that sort of thing. My ride showed up and I said goodbye.
The next day, he was there waiting for me when I left. I'd picked up my car the previous afternoon, so I talked to him for a bit and made an excuse to leave. Wednesday afternoon: same story.
On Thursday I got smart. Exhausted from a long week, I picked up my phone and pretended to make a call as I saw him waiting by the turnstile. I continued my fake conversation as I passed, and he walked up and stood right in my path. I looked up, and he said, "Oh, Ah'm sahrry. Ah didn't see yew were on tha phone. Go ahead an finish yur call, Ah'll wait." Sigh.
I finish my fake phone call and fake hang up, saying, "Yes?" At this point I notice he has a small plastic-coated white paper bag in his hand, the kind you get at a candy store if you buy chocolates. He puts it in my hands, clasping his hands over the top, and says, "Mah waife packed this in mah lunch and Ah cain't eat it. Nah Ah rehmembered yew said yew was from LSU, and ah thought yew maight enjoy it."
Completely creeped out, I thanked him and walked hurridly to my car. Safely in the driver's seat, I opened the package. There, wrapped in tissue paper, was...
...a half-eaten praline. And when I say half-eaten, I mean he took a bite out of it. There were teeth-marks, people! Teeth-marks!
Even after 4 years, that makes my skin crawl.
One Monday I was walking out of work - I work above a factory and have to walk through the factory and badge out of a turnstile into the parking lot every day. (So glamorous, I know, don't be jealous now)
On this particular day, I was waiting for a friend to pick me up, because my car was in the shop. One of the hourly plant workers was hanging out by the turnstile on his break, and he struck up a conversation. This was an older man, probably mid-to-late 50s, skin like leather and very gaunt. I was about to turn 21 at the time, not yet as jaded as I am now, so I chatted with him for a bit. He asked where I was from, where I went to school, that sort of thing. My ride showed up and I said goodbye.
The next day, he was there waiting for me when I left. I'd picked up my car the previous afternoon, so I talked to him for a bit and made an excuse to leave. Wednesday afternoon: same story.
On Thursday I got smart. Exhausted from a long week, I picked up my phone and pretended to make a call as I saw him waiting by the turnstile. I continued my fake conversation as I passed, and he walked up and stood right in my path. I looked up, and he said, "Oh, Ah'm sahrry. Ah didn't see yew were on tha phone. Go ahead an finish yur call, Ah'll wait." Sigh.
I finish my fake phone call and fake hang up, saying, "Yes?" At this point I notice he has a small plastic-coated white paper bag in his hand, the kind you get at a candy store if you buy chocolates. He puts it in my hands, clasping his hands over the top, and says, "Mah waife packed this in mah lunch and Ah cain't eat it. Nah Ah rehmembered yew said yew was from LSU, and ah thought yew maight enjoy it."
Completely creeped out, I thanked him and walked hurridly to my car. Safely in the driver's seat, I opened the package. There, wrapped in tissue paper, was...
...a half-eaten praline. And when I say half-eaten, I mean he took a bite out of it. There were teeth-marks, people! Teeth-marks!
Even after 4 years, that makes my skin crawl.
03 June 2006
Viva Las Vegas!
Hey everyone, just wanted to check in and say that I've been in Vegas for the last week without access to (or desire for) a computer. After I finish my detox, I'll be back with more posts.
In the meantime, feel free to peruse some pictures from the trip.
In the meantime, feel free to peruse some pictures from the trip.
24 May 2006
In other words
First there were the lovable Zappa kids - Dweezil, Moon Unit, Diva. Then came Pilot Inspektor. Gwenyth named her first-born Apple, and then all hell broke loose. Now it's like a competition to see who can give their child the most "original" name, and thereby the greatest amount of emotional baggage.
Of course this phenomenon isn't entirely new; it used to just be called indecision. The late Michael Hutchence, frontman for INXS, thought 2 names simply wasn't enough, so he left his daughter the legacy of "Heavenly Hirani Tigerlilly Hutchence." And you know her little hand must get pretty tired filling out those scan-trons on standardized tests. Of course maybe the blame for this lies with her mother, Paula Yates; Paula's other daughter, fathered by singer Bob Geldof, is named - are you ready for this? - Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof.
Yeah.
After the indulgence of the 80s and 90s, celebrities got lazy and just started picking random, inanimate objects as names. Chef Jamie Oliver has two daughters: "Poppy Honey" and "Daisy Boo." Former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell just announced the birth of her newborn "Bluebell Madonna." Bluebell Halliwell? You're kidding, right? Today, intellectual giant Anna Nicole Smith announced plans to name her new daughter "Cherrie Pie." Go ahead and insert your own joke here, because there are simply too many to pick just one.
Enough, people, this has to stop! It's not bad enough that most of them were born to C-list celebrities, now these kids' parents are just stepping up and doing the work for their future bullies. The upshot of this is, of course, that they can all go through group therapy together.
Just watch, in twenty years or so, they'll begin marrying one another and naming their offspring "innovative" names like Chris, Sarah, and Paul. Don't say I didn't warn you.
Of course this phenomenon isn't entirely new; it used to just be called indecision. The late Michael Hutchence, frontman for INXS, thought 2 names simply wasn't enough, so he left his daughter the legacy of "Heavenly Hirani Tigerlilly Hutchence." And you know her little hand must get pretty tired filling out those scan-trons on standardized tests. Of course maybe the blame for this lies with her mother, Paula Yates; Paula's other daughter, fathered by singer Bob Geldof, is named - are you ready for this? - Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof.
Yeah.
After the indulgence of the 80s and 90s, celebrities got lazy and just started picking random, inanimate objects as names. Chef Jamie Oliver has two daughters: "Poppy Honey" and "Daisy Boo." Former Spice Girl Geri Halliwell just announced the birth of her newborn "Bluebell Madonna." Bluebell Halliwell? You're kidding, right? Today, intellectual giant Anna Nicole Smith announced plans to name her new daughter "Cherrie Pie." Go ahead and insert your own joke here, because there are simply too many to pick just one.
Enough, people, this has to stop! It's not bad enough that most of them were born to C-list celebrities, now these kids' parents are just stepping up and doing the work for their future bullies. The upshot of this is, of course, that they can all go through group therapy together.
Just watch, in twenty years or so, they'll begin marrying one another and naming their offspring "innovative" names like Chris, Sarah, and Paul. Don't say I didn't warn you.
23 May 2006
I wear my sunglesses at night
I was recently chastised by a dear reader for not updating my blog more than once a month. To remedy this egregious error, I've set a goal of blogging at least 3 times a week.
Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts.
Last night I was on the phone with a good friend who was telling me about a girl he'd begun dating. A girl who'd broken up with him roughly three times in the past 10 days. Each time, she called the next day, begging him to forgive her and give her another chance.
The reasons for these break-ups seem rational enough. For instance, one time he left song lyrics as his AIM away message, which she interpreted to be him reminiscing about his ex-girlfriend. In reality, it was just a song he liked that was playing when he left the house. Yup. Absolutely rational.
Stories like this one lead me to wonder if the Internet revolution won't be the undoing of our society. Look at Facebook and MySpace. How many people do you know who've broken up over, gotten into huge fights about, or spent hours over-analyzing something they saw on their love interest's webpage? Heck, this girl my friend dated actually yelled at him for not putting her in his "Top 8" list on MySpace. And really, how dare he? They were dating for like, a whole minute!
I imagine the people who design these sites spend considerable effort adding features that will simply manufacture drama. A "Top 8 Friends" list? what purpose does this serve, except to piss people off? An "In a relationship with [Insert Fling's Name Here]" field? You know that's only going to make the switch back to "Single" status that much more painful for someone.
We know way too much about each other nowadays. It's our own fault, some of us - we publish it freely for the world to consume. And it's handy and fun, in terms of being able to keep in touch with friends. It is, however, a little unnerving that you can meet a someone at the bar one night, and, if he's enterprising enough, the next day he will know your last boyfriend's name, your favorite breed of dog, your entire work history, and probably even your bank account numbers.
That is, if he doesn't know them already.
Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts.
Last night I was on the phone with a good friend who was telling me about a girl he'd begun dating. A girl who'd broken up with him roughly three times in the past 10 days. Each time, she called the next day, begging him to forgive her and give her another chance.
The reasons for these break-ups seem rational enough. For instance, one time he left song lyrics as his AIM away message, which she interpreted to be him reminiscing about his ex-girlfriend. In reality, it was just a song he liked that was playing when he left the house. Yup. Absolutely rational.
Stories like this one lead me to wonder if the Internet revolution won't be the undoing of our society. Look at Facebook and MySpace. How many people do you know who've broken up over, gotten into huge fights about, or spent hours over-analyzing something they saw on their love interest's webpage? Heck, this girl my friend dated actually yelled at him for not putting her in his "Top 8" list on MySpace. And really, how dare he? They were dating for like, a whole minute!
I imagine the people who design these sites spend considerable effort adding features that will simply manufacture drama. A "Top 8 Friends" list? what purpose does this serve, except to piss people off? An "In a relationship with [Insert Fling's Name Here]" field? You know that's only going to make the switch back to "Single" status that much more painful for someone.
We know way too much about each other nowadays. It's our own fault, some of us - we publish it freely for the world to consume. And it's handy and fun, in terms of being able to keep in touch with friends. It is, however, a little unnerving that you can meet a someone at the bar one night, and, if he's enterprising enough, the next day he will know your last boyfriend's name, your favorite breed of dog, your entire work history, and probably even your bank account numbers.
That is, if he doesn't know them already.
18 May 2006
Control Myself
It's that time of year again! The ACL lineup has been announced, and I, for one, am super excited to see Ben Harper, G Love, and Galactic on it again.
Now here's the part where I solicit your music knowledge to help me plan my weekend: Out here in the musically undiverse state of Texas, we haven't heard of many of these bands. Which ones are good? I plan on spending the summer investigating new music, so who should earn a spot on my agenda?
Now here's the part where I solicit your music knowledge to help me plan my weekend: Out here in the musically undiverse state of Texas, we haven't heard of many of these bands. Which ones are good? I plan on spending the summer investigating new music, so who should earn a spot on my agenda?
10 May 2006
Machine Head
So I realize it's been a while since my last post, and I promise I'm going to step it up a bit. For the last week I've been playing along with the Lost Experience, which is a sickness and must be stopped. If you don't know what the Lost Experience is, it's probably better for the both of us that I don't explain. The long and short of it is that I am a nerd.
In other news, I haven't had a day off of work since last Monday, and I've averaged something like 5 hours of sleep each night. I'm exhausted, and now it's time to go teach my dance class. Hopefully I don't pass out, especially since last night I was up till 2am mixing a new CD for the class, and it would kind of suck if I didn't get to hear it once all the way through before I die.
In other news, I haven't had a day off of work since last Monday, and I've averaged something like 5 hours of sleep each night. I'm exhausted, and now it's time to go teach my dance class. Hopefully I don't pass out, especially since last night I was up till 2am mixing a new CD for the class, and it would kind of suck if I didn't get to hear it once all the way through before I die.
26 April 2006
Electric Youth
Raise your hand if you care that Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes have had their baby.
Personally, I care only because it means that I get to stop. Hearing. About. It. I think every woman who ever crushed on Cruise as a little girl is heaving a collective sigh of relief that she never got that wish she wrote about in her diary back in '86. I think you could tell me that Tom Cruise eats babies with a chaser of his own filtrated urine and I'd believe you. He's just gotten so unbelievably creepy anymore. I mean, eating his kid's placenta? Raw?
::shudder::
Intrigued by all the press he's gotten, I tried to educate myself a little on the principles of Scientology. A dear friend of mine was once scammed into attending a Scientology meeting under the premise of a job opportunity, and, in her words, "It felt like an after-school special - 'Watch Leah enter the creepy crazy cult.'" People, this stuff is not right! Any religion that bans you from associating with non-members? Is a cult.
I think the only other non-religious entity to which I can compare something like Scientology is the technicolor world of Mary Kay salesladies. Equally fake and perky and "high on life", they will hound you relentlessly to become one of the fold. "Why don't you just come listen to this 20-minute marketing pitch? Even if it's just to help me meet my quota so I can get a pair of pearl earrings. You don't even have to listen." Of course, the unspoken subtext here is that, after attending, you will be hit with a barrage of e-mails, phone calls, solicitations, and baptisms by proxy so great that you'll eventually snap, screaming, "Smooth skin! I want smooth, alien-like skin, with absolutely no variation in color or texture! And I want to spread this Truth to all the women of the world! Please, let me join you!"
In reality, I think that Scientologists and Mary Kay ladies are the kind of equal but opposite forces you heard about back in AP physics. Think about it: Tom Cruise ate his kid's entrails so that he could forever look 35. The inevitable 3rd World War won't be fought for oil or political power...it will be fought for skin-care products.
Personally, I care only because it means that I get to stop. Hearing. About. It. I think every woman who ever crushed on Cruise as a little girl is heaving a collective sigh of relief that she never got that wish she wrote about in her diary back in '86. I think you could tell me that Tom Cruise eats babies with a chaser of his own filtrated urine and I'd believe you. He's just gotten so unbelievably creepy anymore. I mean, eating his kid's placenta? Raw?
::shudder::
Intrigued by all the press he's gotten, I tried to educate myself a little on the principles of Scientology. A dear friend of mine was once scammed into attending a Scientology meeting under the premise of a job opportunity, and, in her words, "It felt like an after-school special - 'Watch Leah enter the creepy crazy cult.'" People, this stuff is not right! Any religion that bans you from associating with non-members? Is a cult.
I think the only other non-religious entity to which I can compare something like Scientology is the technicolor world of Mary Kay salesladies. Equally fake and perky and "high on life", they will hound you relentlessly to become one of the fold. "Why don't you just come listen to this 20-minute marketing pitch? Even if it's just to help me meet my quota so I can get a pair of pearl earrings. You don't even have to listen." Of course, the unspoken subtext here is that, after attending, you will be hit with a barrage of e-mails, phone calls, solicitations, and baptisms by proxy so great that you'll eventually snap, screaming, "Smooth skin! I want smooth, alien-like skin, with absolutely no variation in color or texture! And I want to spread this Truth to all the women of the world! Please, let me join you!"
In reality, I think that Scientologists and Mary Kay ladies are the kind of equal but opposite forces you heard about back in AP physics. Think about it: Tom Cruise ate his kid's entrails so that he could forever look 35. The inevitable 3rd World War won't be fought for oil or political power...it will be fought for skin-care products.
11 April 2006
Solitaire
I should've seen it coming. It was inevitable, really, only a matter of time. I just didn't know it would happen so soon.
I was telling my recently-married friend about my experience being hit on by "Fish Guy #2", the guy behind the fish counter at our grocery. The pick-up attempt itself wasn't very interesting, but still worth noting because last summer there was a "Fish Guy #1" at this same grocery store. Fish Guy #1 was somewhat creepy, had dreds, and was a career fisherman. He used to claim he saw me just about every day, driving around or at other stores, which I thought was a little, um...coincidental. I'm told that he's since moved to New Orleans, bought a yacht, and become a pirate. Fish Guy #2 is just a nice, clean-cut gym-rat who wasn't yet aware that I'm a) way older than him, and b) currently dating someone.
My friend and I were pondering the odds that two guys of wildly different personality types (different from one another AND different from me) doing the same job at the same store might look my way. Do creepy guys secretly crave a dash of "responsible" and "average" in their lives? Do I somehow resemble a fish? And then she said it: "Your life is so interesting. I remember being single."
......scraaaaatch!
Yeah, I should've seen it coming. All but a handful of my friends are married, engaged, or picking out rings. And me? I'm pretty sure I'm now "the single friend".
Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I'm 100% happy being single. I am in NO hurry to get married or to have babies. I've never dreamed about my wedding day, I know nothing about diamond cuts, and I can't take care of a house plant.
I'm doing my own thing on my own time, and I like it just fine. But I wonder if this is the start of that awkward period that comedians are always talking about, when married friends start to live vicariously through my exploits, or whisper among friends, "I don't know why she's still single. Poor thing." I always thought that was an exaggeration, or just sour grapes, but...should I buy myself a scarlet 'S'?
I was telling my recently-married friend about my experience being hit on by "Fish Guy #2", the guy behind the fish counter at our grocery. The pick-up attempt itself wasn't very interesting, but still worth noting because last summer there was a "Fish Guy #1" at this same grocery store. Fish Guy #1 was somewhat creepy, had dreds, and was a career fisherman. He used to claim he saw me just about every day, driving around or at other stores, which I thought was a little, um...coincidental. I'm told that he's since moved to New Orleans, bought a yacht, and become a pirate. Fish Guy #2 is just a nice, clean-cut gym-rat who wasn't yet aware that I'm a) way older than him, and b) currently dating someone.
My friend and I were pondering the odds that two guys of wildly different personality types (different from one another AND different from me) doing the same job at the same store might look my way. Do creepy guys secretly crave a dash of "responsible" and "average" in their lives? Do I somehow resemble a fish? And then she said it: "Your life is so interesting. I remember being single."
......scraaaaatch!
Yeah, I should've seen it coming. All but a handful of my friends are married, engaged, or picking out rings. And me? I'm pretty sure I'm now "the single friend".
Let me make one thing abundantly clear: I'm 100% happy being single. I am in NO hurry to get married or to have babies. I've never dreamed about my wedding day, I know nothing about diamond cuts, and I can't take care of a house plant.
I'm doing my own thing on my own time, and I like it just fine. But I wonder if this is the start of that awkward period that comedians are always talking about, when married friends start to live vicariously through my exploits, or whisper among friends, "I don't know why she's still single. Poor thing." I always thought that was an exaggeration, or just sour grapes, but...should I buy myself a scarlet 'S'?
21 March 2006
Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies
Following is an encounter I recently had at a bar. The funniest part of this is that I've taken absolutely NO creative license with this one; i.e., my recounting of the conversation below is entirely verbatim.
About to head to the next bar, my friends Rita and Desi go to the restroom and Pat goes to close his tab. Standing alone by the bar, I text my roommate to see what she's up to. I'm wearing a black tank top, cropped jeans, and knee-high black boots.
Dude: Are you a pirate?
Me: Excuse me?
Dude: You're dressed like a pirate.
Me: (mildly annoyed) Um, okay.
Dude: Haven't you ever seen that movie, Pirates of the Carribean?
Me: No.
Dude: You're lying.
Me: Nope, haven't seen it.
Dude: (grabbing my hand and swinging it about) Look, I'm just trying to be friendly.
Me: Hey, I'm waiting for my boyfriend...
Dude: How many times have we made eye contact tonight?
Me: What?
Dude: I've seen the way you look at me.
Me: I don't think I've seen you before.
Dude: (getting angry) Honey, I know everyone in this bar, I can get you thrown out of here.
Me: Huh?
Dude: You know, you're not as hot as you think you are.
Me: Um, I don't think I'm hot.
Dude: Oh, whatever.
Me: Sorry, but I don't.
Dude: Hey sweetheart, if that's your thing. (walking away and shouting) Let me know how being a bitch works out for you, okay?
Clearly the most puzzling conversation I've had at a bar. Well, the one on St. Paddy's Day was pretty offensive, but I'll save that one for a rainy day. Guys, if you're looking to pick up a girl at a bar, an insult is probably not your best bet. If you do choose to forgo the standard approach of "being nice", you probably shouldn't be surprised if she doesn't want to talk to you.
About to head to the next bar, my friends Rita and Desi go to the restroom and Pat goes to close his tab. Standing alone by the bar, I text my roommate to see what she's up to. I'm wearing a black tank top, cropped jeans, and knee-high black boots.
Dude: Are you a pirate?
Me: Excuse me?
Dude: You're dressed like a pirate.
Me: (mildly annoyed) Um, okay.
Dude: Haven't you ever seen that movie, Pirates of the Carribean?
Me: No.
Dude: You're lying.
Me: Nope, haven't seen it.
Dude: (grabbing my hand and swinging it about) Look, I'm just trying to be friendly.
Me: Hey, I'm waiting for my boyfriend...
Dude: How many times have we made eye contact tonight?
Me: What?
Dude: I've seen the way you look at me.
Me: I don't think I've seen you before.
Dude: (getting angry) Honey, I know everyone in this bar, I can get you thrown out of here.
Me: Huh?
Dude: You know, you're not as hot as you think you are.
Me: Um, I don't think I'm hot.
Dude: Oh, whatever.
Me: Sorry, but I don't.
Dude: Hey sweetheart, if that's your thing. (walking away and shouting) Let me know how being a bitch works out for you, okay?
Clearly the most puzzling conversation I've had at a bar. Well, the one on St. Paddy's Day was pretty offensive, but I'll save that one for a rainy day. Guys, if you're looking to pick up a girl at a bar, an insult is probably not your best bet. If you do choose to forgo the standard approach of "being nice", you probably shouldn't be surprised if she doesn't want to talk to you.
15 March 2006
The hills are alive
In search of some pseudo-spring-break fun, a group of us went to see "The Hills Have Eyes" this past weekend. Could that movie be any more disturbing? I mean, really, it pretty much bypassed "scary" and went straight on to "f'ed up." Here's the run-down:
1 crucifixion/burning at stake
1 parakeet head bitten off
1 gun pointed at a baby
1 dog limb ripped off and eaten
1 very "meta" soliloquy by a guy with a tumor the size of Dick Cheney
2 rapes
4 axe blows to the head
7 creepy back-woods mutant cannibals
...and of course...
2 hours of my life I will never get back.
Anyone looking for a good scare, skip the theater and pick up a copy of "28 Days Later". You'll thank me later.
1 crucifixion/burning at stake
1 parakeet head bitten off
1 gun pointed at a baby
1 dog limb ripped off and eaten
1 very "meta" soliloquy by a guy with a tumor the size of Dick Cheney
2 rapes
4 axe blows to the head
7 creepy back-woods mutant cannibals
...and of course...
2 hours of my life I will never get back.
Anyone looking for a good scare, skip the theater and pick up a copy of "28 Days Later". You'll thank me later.
14 February 2006
Softly before I scream
I'm not sure why I'm so apathetic toward Valentine's day; I haven't been single once on February 14th in the last 7 years, but still I can't make myself get excited about it. I'm not even sure what I'm doing tonight to celebrate. Hm.
I just think the simplest gifts are the best ones, not the gifts you feel obligated to give. Chocolate, teddy bears, flowers, you can have 'em -- well, no, I'll take that chocolate off your hands.
I was asked recently if I'd ever been to the most over-hyped restaurant in Dallas. I said yes, that an ex had taken me for my birthday 3 years ago. "That guy likes to feel important, huh?" he said. Bingo. Is it that I can't discern whether all the uncomfortable Valentine's Day attention is to make me feel special, or just to impress upon me that you're some kind of baller to whom I should be greatful for giving me the time of day?
All these scripted acts of affection can't be replaced by true, raw appreciation of a person...and you shouldn't need a special day for that.
I just think the simplest gifts are the best ones, not the gifts you feel obligated to give. Chocolate, teddy bears, flowers, you can have 'em -- well, no, I'll take that chocolate off your hands.
I was asked recently if I'd ever been to the most over-hyped restaurant in Dallas. I said yes, that an ex had taken me for my birthday 3 years ago. "That guy likes to feel important, huh?" he said. Bingo. Is it that I can't discern whether all the uncomfortable Valentine's Day attention is to make me feel special, or just to impress upon me that you're some kind of baller to whom I should be greatful for giving me the time of day?
All these scripted acts of affection can't be replaced by true, raw appreciation of a person...and you shouldn't need a special day for that.
05 February 2006
Are you ready for some football?
Do guys in Seattle even know how to play football? Or are they too busy eating sushi and sitting in the coffee shop at REI reading books about sports? I predict: One shiny gold ring for the Bus. Go Steelers!!
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