The fundraiser dinner at my old high school reminded me one of really great thing about my alma mater, and ironically enough, it was something about the food. I lined up with all those other members of the community and went through that same twisting cafeteria line that I once raced to get to at the sound of a bell. I remembered how I used to pass underclassmen mercilessly and kind of regretted being such a jerk. I waited patiently this time, asked for one baked potato and one piece of bread, then proceeded to the drink line, where I opted for Pepsi instead of sweet tea. I was helping myself at the salad bar, getting lettuce and other vegetable items while my mother examined the salad dressing choices. I couldn't see the dressings from where I was, so I asked, "What kind of dressings do they have?" I was really asking, "Do they have that Hidden Valley ranch crap or something I can stomach?" Mama didn't understand the true intent of my question, so she answered, "Italian, ranch, and thousand island."
I finally got to the dressings, and there I saw it: a big squirtable jug of ranch dressing. Then I remembered one of the truly great things about grades nine through twelve - my high school made the best ranch dressing.
We're talking as good as my mother's homemade here. In this world of institutionalized food and canned and processed meats and vegetables, the ranch dressing was the one thing you could count upon. There were always two big canisters of it at lunch sitting on the condiments stand, and if you had second lunch, those canisters were dangerously low. We all abused it. Our lunch trays were those thick plastic kind with partitions, and for most kids, one of those partitions was just for ranch dressing. Tater tots, french fries, even those square pizzas were improved by dipping them into the ranch partition. I won't say that I didn't experiment with ranch dressing and green beans a couple of times. We very rarely even had salad at lunch, but the dressing was always there.
Some lunch lady that works at my school probably makes it. She wears a hairnet, is old, and likely does not make very much. She is referred to by the rest of the staff by Miss and her first name, which is probably some old lady name like Florence or Ruth. Her job, by all accounts, probably kinda sucks. She gets there early to prepare institution food, and then has to stay and clean up after a swarm of ungrateful and messy kids who have no perspective on life at all. But she makes homemade ranch dressing in huge batches for those stupid ingrates, because even a lunch lady can have pride in her job. It comforts me that after five years, she is still there, providing excellent ranch dressing and making school lunch tolerable.
This woman, whoever she is, she probably does not realize how important she is to the school. When she retires, the morale of the entire student body will crumble the day her last batch of ranch dressing runs out. No one will even know why, but everyone will notice a general malaise over the school. No one will think to attribute it to a lack of good ranch dressing.
So lunch lady, I salute you. Thank you for making high school that much better.
5.27.2006
5.23.2006
my high school glory days.
My friend Amy goes to high school every day. She has to, because she teaches there. I don't know how she does it. I remember high school, and it was fine while I was there, but as soon as I graduated, I shook high school off of myself like a dog shakes water. I was done with that. I've been back to my alma mater once in the five years since I graduated, and that was four years ago. But I found myself back there one recent Friday night at a fundraiser dinner with my parents.
The fundraiser was put on by the athletic boosters club, a group basically consisting of the parents of student-athletes and possibly some bored former students who still find themselves living in the area. My parents are not in the athletic boosters, nor were they ever, not even when I was a student-athlete. But they like a nice tax writeoff every now and again, so they attend these dinners. I called at the last minute and said I was going to be in town the night they were going, and so I got roped in, too. Free low-grade steak? Okay, but only if it comes with a baked potato.
I am always afraid of running into people who knew me when. I'm not sure why. It's not as if I have anything to be ashamed of in terms of my status in life. Graduated from college early, steady job in an industry known for paying well, living in the comparatively big city, unmarried, but seriously involved. I think I just hate having to reduce the past five years of my life to a couple of sentences for someone who, truthfully, does not care. What I do now and where I live and my marital status do not define me, thanks for asking. But what can I say? I ask the same questions of these people, and maybe they hate giving me their answers, too.
Anyway.
Since this was an athletic boosters event, most of the school staff in attendence were coaches. I was pretty involved in the athletic program, playing three years of varsity basketball and four years of varsity volleyball. These were the people I was dreading to see, these were the ones that I knew would want to make small talk with me. I took a deep breath and prepared myself.
No one recognized me.
I haven't changed that much. My hair is longer, and I wear glasses now, but other than that, I am the same exact person. I used to walk through these halls with the knowledge that everyone knew me. Not everyone liked me, but they knew who I was. I played varsity sports, I was the salutatorian, I was in half a dozen clubs, I was a news anchor on the morning announcements. My face was on the TV twice a week. I was important, darnit, and now you people don't even know who I am. You, the coach over there, you used to know my free throw average and my shoe size, and now you can't even put a name to my face. A couple of people looked at me and realized that they probably were supposed to know who I was, and some of them probably even narrowed it down to a couple of people based on the fact that they recognized my parents. No one called me by name.
I've gotten used to being anonymous in my post-graduation days, but I guess I still clung to the fact that there was a time when my name and face carried some clout, and now it seems as if that has been taken away, too. I didn't even consider high school to be that much of an important time in my life; I called them my high school glory days as a joke. Like I said, it was just this period of my life and then it was over and I was done with it. I remember high school as being kind of fickle, and well, I guess I was right.
That night, I also saw some former classmates of mine, a pair of brothers who were the basketball coach's sons and team stars. I was well-known, but they were popular. Everyone wanted to be their friends, and the girls all had crushes on them. Sure, some of the nerdy kids who didn't understand about what was cool wanted to be my friend, but they were the minority. Nah, everyone, and I mean everyone, liked these guys. Even cynical as I was, I remember being delighted when one of them laughed at my joke once, though I had the sense not to show my pride. I didn't talk to the guys at the dinner, partly because I was afraid of them, still the popular kids in my mind, not recognizing me. Despite my vestigial feelings of awe, I realized that they are not important anymore either. Realizing their similar situation admittedly made me feel better about myself. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, I thought, not caring that some probably would have counted me among the fallen mighty.
I suppose that is the nature of high school. It has to be in a place where the cast of characters changes every year. Some other kid is playing my role there now, and everyone thinks that kid is important somehow in the grand scheme of things, not knowing about how I used to matter and then faded away. I mean, I was only following whoever it was before me, and maybe our names are all on some school plaque somewhere in the basement, but we're all just names. Since my high school doesn't matter all that much to me anymore, I suppose it's only fitting that the people there aren't overly concerned about me either.
It's sort of a relief, actually, that high school doesn't matter. We all get another chance to be important, whatever that even means, and though I did well in high school, I would not want my life to be judged based on what I was then. I was just like everybody else: a stupid kid. And though I don't always agree with how people are ranked out in the real world, I have to admit, it's better than it was in high school.
But I admit it, my pride was wounded, which is probably healthy, considering my over-healthy ego. I thought I'd said goodbye to my high school glory days five years ago, when in fact, I didn't really let them go until an athletic booster dinner a couple of weeks ago. And you know what? I'll probably still cling a little to them. Because along with all those other kids thinking I was important, I sure thought I was, too. I was mighty in my own mind, and oh, how I have fallen.
The fundraiser was put on by the athletic boosters club, a group basically consisting of the parents of student-athletes and possibly some bored former students who still find themselves living in the area. My parents are not in the athletic boosters, nor were they ever, not even when I was a student-athlete. But they like a nice tax writeoff every now and again, so they attend these dinners. I called at the last minute and said I was going to be in town the night they were going, and so I got roped in, too. Free low-grade steak? Okay, but only if it comes with a baked potato.
I am always afraid of running into people who knew me when. I'm not sure why. It's not as if I have anything to be ashamed of in terms of my status in life. Graduated from college early, steady job in an industry known for paying well, living in the comparatively big city, unmarried, but seriously involved. I think I just hate having to reduce the past five years of my life to a couple of sentences for someone who, truthfully, does not care. What I do now and where I live and my marital status do not define me, thanks for asking. But what can I say? I ask the same questions of these people, and maybe they hate giving me their answers, too.
Anyway.
Since this was an athletic boosters event, most of the school staff in attendence were coaches. I was pretty involved in the athletic program, playing three years of varsity basketball and four years of varsity volleyball. These were the people I was dreading to see, these were the ones that I knew would want to make small talk with me. I took a deep breath and prepared myself.
No one recognized me.
I haven't changed that much. My hair is longer, and I wear glasses now, but other than that, I am the same exact person. I used to walk through these halls with the knowledge that everyone knew me. Not everyone liked me, but they knew who I was. I played varsity sports, I was the salutatorian, I was in half a dozen clubs, I was a news anchor on the morning announcements. My face was on the TV twice a week. I was important, darnit, and now you people don't even know who I am. You, the coach over there, you used to know my free throw average and my shoe size, and now you can't even put a name to my face. A couple of people looked at me and realized that they probably were supposed to know who I was, and some of them probably even narrowed it down to a couple of people based on the fact that they recognized my parents. No one called me by name.
I've gotten used to being anonymous in my post-graduation days, but I guess I still clung to the fact that there was a time when my name and face carried some clout, and now it seems as if that has been taken away, too. I didn't even consider high school to be that much of an important time in my life; I called them my high school glory days as a joke. Like I said, it was just this period of my life and then it was over and I was done with it. I remember high school as being kind of fickle, and well, I guess I was right.
That night, I also saw some former classmates of mine, a pair of brothers who were the basketball coach's sons and team stars. I was well-known, but they were popular. Everyone wanted to be their friends, and the girls all had crushes on them. Sure, some of the nerdy kids who didn't understand about what was cool wanted to be my friend, but they were the minority. Nah, everyone, and I mean everyone, liked these guys. Even cynical as I was, I remember being delighted when one of them laughed at my joke once, though I had the sense not to show my pride. I didn't talk to the guys at the dinner, partly because I was afraid of them, still the popular kids in my mind, not recognizing me. Despite my vestigial feelings of awe, I realized that they are not important anymore either. Realizing their similar situation admittedly made me feel better about myself. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, I thought, not caring that some probably would have counted me among the fallen mighty.
I suppose that is the nature of high school. It has to be in a place where the cast of characters changes every year. Some other kid is playing my role there now, and everyone thinks that kid is important somehow in the grand scheme of things, not knowing about how I used to matter and then faded away. I mean, I was only following whoever it was before me, and maybe our names are all on some school plaque somewhere in the basement, but we're all just names. Since my high school doesn't matter all that much to me anymore, I suppose it's only fitting that the people there aren't overly concerned about me either.
It's sort of a relief, actually, that high school doesn't matter. We all get another chance to be important, whatever that even means, and though I did well in high school, I would not want my life to be judged based on what I was then. I was just like everybody else: a stupid kid. And though I don't always agree with how people are ranked out in the real world, I have to admit, it's better than it was in high school.
But I admit it, my pride was wounded, which is probably healthy, considering my over-healthy ego. I thought I'd said goodbye to my high school glory days five years ago, when in fact, I didn't really let them go until an athletic booster dinner a couple of weeks ago. And you know what? I'll probably still cling a little to them. Because along with all those other kids thinking I was important, I sure thought I was, too. I was mighty in my own mind, and oh, how I have fallen.
5.21.2006
nowhere is safe.
The worst part about living in the dorms was that there was no place to cry. Your bedroom, which at home had been your sanctuary, was now shared with someone else. You couldn't have a good cry without inviting questions that you would then have to either answer with a (probably) lengthy explanation or a sniffled, "I don't want to talk about it." Then, whether you answered or not, your barriers are down and there you are in all your vulnerable red-cheeked glory. Even if, by chance, you have a sympathetic roommate who does not think you are a weirdo, no one likes to have someone cry in front of them, because it makes things awkward.
You can't go into the bathroom, because that too is shared. Most students can't even go have a sob in their cars, because they had to park them far, far away, and by the time you get there, you've sobbed in front of half the students on campus. No place is your own, and if you, by chance, happen to find somewhere that for a while at least is your own, you can never be sure that someone won't come along and make it their own, too. I actually can't decide if that's worse or better to have a stranger see you cry than someone you know and will have to face again.
Some cry a lot and others not so much, and so perhaps they've not ever thought of this disadvantage to communal living. Maybe they've only noticed that there's no safe place to have sex, but no one is sympathetic towards that. Complain to someone about that, and they'll tell that, son, in their day, they had to have sex in the backseat of a Corvair during a snowstorm then walk home barefoot, you kids these days. Complain about having no good place for a sobfest, then someone will ask whatever reason you have for one, and you're back where you started. Even now, you are all judging me, wondering just what was going on during my first year of college that I've come back four years later to gripe at length that I didn't have a haven for my tears.
I don't want to talk about it.
You can't go into the bathroom, because that too is shared. Most students can't even go have a sob in their cars, because they had to park them far, far away, and by the time you get there, you've sobbed in front of half the students on campus. No place is your own, and if you, by chance, happen to find somewhere that for a while at least is your own, you can never be sure that someone won't come along and make it their own, too. I actually can't decide if that's worse or better to have a stranger see you cry than someone you know and will have to face again.
Some cry a lot and others not so much, and so perhaps they've not ever thought of this disadvantage to communal living. Maybe they've only noticed that there's no safe place to have sex, but no one is sympathetic towards that. Complain to someone about that, and they'll tell that, son, in their day, they had to have sex in the backseat of a Corvair during a snowstorm then walk home barefoot, you kids these days. Complain about having no good place for a sobfest, then someone will ask whatever reason you have for one, and you're back where you started. Even now, you are all judging me, wondering just what was going on during my first year of college that I've come back four years later to gripe at length that I didn't have a haven for my tears.
I don't want to talk about it.
5.20.2006
the high price of furniture and rugs.
Just in case you ever wondered...*
*Please note that this link may not do much for you if you don't have a highspeed connection.**
**Sorry, Mom.
*Please note that this link may not do much for you if you don't have a highspeed connection.**
**Sorry, Mom.
5.17.2006
my party.
A Saturday night, spent out beyond the reach of all cell phone towers on top of a mountain and down a gravel road while dance music played loudly and a girl in jeans and a do-rag twirled balls of fire on opposite ends of a long rope.
Did I mention that I was at a wedding?
Did I also mention that the girl twirling fire was the bride?
I've been to a lot of weddings, but none like this. I've even been to outdoor weddings in the middle of nowhere, though technically, I didn't go to this one. Josh and I arrived after the ceremony, just as the cake was being cut and the wedding party was finishing up their toasts. Either our arrival was the signal for the fun stuff to begin or we're just lucky like that. No, scratch that: Josh is just lucky like that. Me, I always arrive embarrassingly early or on-time. If I try to show up fashionably late, I'm still earlier than everyone else or I'm too late and all the cool people have already left.
Once we got there, we spent the bulk of the evening away from the regular reception with a bunch of other kids our age, sitting in the grass, drinking, and goofing off. The bride would frequently sneak off to join us, her dress bunched up in her arms to keep it clean, revealing her painted Chuck Taylors. She'd hang out, smoke a cigarette, then sigh and say she had to go back and be social or dance or whatever it is that you're supposed to do on your special day. We were the real party, the group of twenty-somethings messing up their dress clothes by sitting in the grass and talking about whatever.
It got dark and Josh and I walked back to the official festivities to say good-bye. When we got back, we noticed the fire-dancing. I was dumbstruck. I wondered if I could think of any girls who would even change out of their wedding dresses at their reception. I came up with no suspects. Twirling fire was definitely out of the question. Everyone was clapping in time to the music, dancing, having a good time. It was at that point that I realized: People could have fun at a wedding.
I suppose I've had fun at a wedding. But it was dress nicely, free food and drink, socialize quietly kind of fun. It was not drinking, partying, fire-twirling kind of fun. A wedding day is supposed to be the most important in the life of the bride, but brides never seem to enjoy the day all that much. They're stressed out from planning and dealing with family. They enjoy it in that they realize they're doing something grownup and significant, but they spend all their time being the focus and mingling, hello, thanks for coming, yes, I look lovely. They don't get to do what they want.
Someday, I want to get married. I want to look beautiful and be surrounded by everyone I love and eat chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Then I want to be able to realize that it's my party, and I can twirl fire if I want to.
Did I mention that I was at a wedding?
Did I also mention that the girl twirling fire was the bride?
I've been to a lot of weddings, but none like this. I've even been to outdoor weddings in the middle of nowhere, though technically, I didn't go to this one. Josh and I arrived after the ceremony, just as the cake was being cut and the wedding party was finishing up their toasts. Either our arrival was the signal for the fun stuff to begin or we're just lucky like that. No, scratch that: Josh is just lucky like that. Me, I always arrive embarrassingly early or on-time. If I try to show up fashionably late, I'm still earlier than everyone else or I'm too late and all the cool people have already left.
Once we got there, we spent the bulk of the evening away from the regular reception with a bunch of other kids our age, sitting in the grass, drinking, and goofing off. The bride would frequently sneak off to join us, her dress bunched up in her arms to keep it clean, revealing her painted Chuck Taylors. She'd hang out, smoke a cigarette, then sigh and say she had to go back and be social or dance or whatever it is that you're supposed to do on your special day. We were the real party, the group of twenty-somethings messing up their dress clothes by sitting in the grass and talking about whatever.
It got dark and Josh and I walked back to the official festivities to say good-bye. When we got back, we noticed the fire-dancing. I was dumbstruck. I wondered if I could think of any girls who would even change out of their wedding dresses at their reception. I came up with no suspects. Twirling fire was definitely out of the question. Everyone was clapping in time to the music, dancing, having a good time. It was at that point that I realized: People could have fun at a wedding.
I suppose I've had fun at a wedding. But it was dress nicely, free food and drink, socialize quietly kind of fun. It was not drinking, partying, fire-twirling kind of fun. A wedding day is supposed to be the most important in the life of the bride, but brides never seem to enjoy the day all that much. They're stressed out from planning and dealing with family. They enjoy it in that they realize they're doing something grownup and significant, but they spend all their time being the focus and mingling, hello, thanks for coming, yes, I look lovely. They don't get to do what they want.
Someday, I want to get married. I want to look beautiful and be surrounded by everyone I love and eat chocolate cake with cream cheese icing. Then I want to be able to realize that it's my party, and I can twirl fire if I want to.
5.16.2006
recruiting.
I was walking back to my car in the Southpoint Mall parking lot in Durham when a black guy in a silver car pulled alongside me. The lot was jam packed, and so I assumed the guy was stalking me for my parking space. He rolled his window down and said something to me. Rather than try to figure out what he said, I figured he was asking about my parking spot, and so I answered, "Yeah, it's right over there," while pointing to my car twenty feet away. He shook his head and decided to enunciate as he repeated, "Do you smoke?"
Oh. A real life drug offer experience! Cool!
Thanking the heavens I hadn't coincidentally answered something affirmative that had made sense the first time, I shook my head no and kept walking. He drove away. My mother and my D.A.R.E. officer would have been proud.
The whole situtation seemed a little weird and very sketchy. Why had he asked me that? Even without knowing the answer to why he asked, I'm pretty sure that answering in the negative was the correct solution. Still, there are a few explanations for his question.
One: He was looking to buy some drugs - highly unlikely. White people may drive around black neighborhoods asking people if they have any drugs, but black guys in nice cars do not drive around malls asking white girls for drugs.
Two: He sells drugs and was looking for someone that might be interested in making a purchase. That is possible - this was in a private college town, so there are probably lots of rich white girls who like to smoke pot. But does this dude really need to go around soliciting? Durham is a town with many sketchy areas. I'm sure there are plenty of people who will be happy to buy his wares without him having to go out and find them. Advertising is always a good idea in business, unless your business happens to be illegal. I confess, I do not know much about business or drug dealers, but demand never seems to be a problem for them.
Three: He was recruiting crack-whores. I guess that's a rather harsh way to put it. But imagine that this fellow fancies me, because he's got bad eyesight or whatever. As a drug dealer, he knows that he has a valued commodity, and as a girl, he knows that I, by definition, have a valued commodity. It's not uncommon for drugs or sex to act as currency, and it could be that he and I would build a sort of business relationship based on the exchange of our special currencies.
*Shudder.
What's most upsetting about that third scenario is the fact that he picked me. Apparently, I look like a future crack-whore; I fit the profile. I really don't know all that much about girls who sell their bodies for drugs, but I in no way imagined that I look like I would fit in with them. I was wearing jeans, sandals, a vintage t-shirt, and glasses. The drug addicts in the movies never wear specs. Maybe I should get a haircut or something.
The whole scene lasted probably five seconds and was only scary afterwards, when I realized what had probably happened and the implications thereof. I realized that my fifth grade D.A.R.E. program had prepared me to say no to drugs, but the curriculum never said anything about what to say to a life of prostitution in exchange for drugs. Luckily, I managed to come through without having been coached. My mother and my D.A.R.E. officer would have been proud.
Oh. A real life drug offer experience! Cool!
Thanking the heavens I hadn't coincidentally answered something affirmative that had made sense the first time, I shook my head no and kept walking. He drove away. My mother and my D.A.R.E. officer would have been proud.
The whole situtation seemed a little weird and very sketchy. Why had he asked me that? Even without knowing the answer to why he asked, I'm pretty sure that answering in the negative was the correct solution. Still, there are a few explanations for his question.
One: He was looking to buy some drugs - highly unlikely. White people may drive around black neighborhoods asking people if they have any drugs, but black guys in nice cars do not drive around malls asking white girls for drugs.
Two: He sells drugs and was looking for someone that might be interested in making a purchase. That is possible - this was in a private college town, so there are probably lots of rich white girls who like to smoke pot. But does this dude really need to go around soliciting? Durham is a town with many sketchy areas. I'm sure there are plenty of people who will be happy to buy his wares without him having to go out and find them. Advertising is always a good idea in business, unless your business happens to be illegal. I confess, I do not know much about business or drug dealers, but demand never seems to be a problem for them.
Three: He was recruiting crack-whores. I guess that's a rather harsh way to put it. But imagine that this fellow fancies me, because he's got bad eyesight or whatever. As a drug dealer, he knows that he has a valued commodity, and as a girl, he knows that I, by definition, have a valued commodity. It's not uncommon for drugs or sex to act as currency, and it could be that he and I would build a sort of business relationship based on the exchange of our special currencies.
*Shudder.
What's most upsetting about that third scenario is the fact that he picked me. Apparently, I look like a future crack-whore; I fit the profile. I really don't know all that much about girls who sell their bodies for drugs, but I in no way imagined that I look like I would fit in with them. I was wearing jeans, sandals, a vintage t-shirt, and glasses. The drug addicts in the movies never wear specs. Maybe I should get a haircut or something.
The whole scene lasted probably five seconds and was only scary afterwards, when I realized what had probably happened and the implications thereof. I realized that my fifth grade D.A.R.E. program had prepared me to say no to drugs, but the curriculum never said anything about what to say to a life of prostitution in exchange for drugs. Luckily, I managed to come through without having been coached. My mother and my D.A.R.E. officer would have been proud.
5.12.2006
a big to-do.
I found a website that was basically a compilation of lists of things people wanted to do before they died. I made one of these lists once, back during my senior year of high school. I don't remember what was on my list, though I probably have it lying around somewhere. I'm pretty sure "milk a cow" was on there.
Anyway, the website is an interesting read, though a lot of the lists share the same items. Apparently, finding a soul mate is pretty high on everyone's to-do list. I picked out some of the more interesting ones that I found to share with you so that you don't have to peruse 100 lists to find the gems. Oh, what a good girl am I.
It's possible that I'm going to come off as a colossal bitch when I write this, because these lists are kind of personal, and I'm just one more random blogger offering my opinion. Who am I to critique someone's life goals? I want to milk a cow.
Pamela, 41, Ocean Springs, MS
- Color my hair
- Buy new furniture
- Get my dog groomed
See, I kinda think Pamela didn't understand the assignment, unless Pamela knows somehow that she is going to die today. That's a Wednesday list, right there. Or maybe Pamela is very depressed, and she just needs to take things one day at a time, by order of her therapist. On the opposite end, maybe Pamela is very happy and has accomplished all the major things she ever wanted to do, and really, being able to have a nicely-groomed dog, new furniture, and a kicky new hair color is just icing on the cake.
Pablo, 24, Carcass Cobh, Antartica
- Ride in a hot air balloon
- Save the North European Earth Worm
- Invent a cure for depression, epilepsy, diabeties, kidney failure, schizophrenia, brain damage and eating disorders
- Become good at something meaningful
- Own children
Such a weird list, though maybe that's what happens when you live in Antartica. Aside from the amusing phrasing of "own children" (perhaps to pull the sleigh around in the snow?), I like the fact that after he saves a species and cures all the diseases, he wants to really tuck in and do something meaningful. It makes me wonder what Pablo is good at now that he recognizes he's good at something, but it's not that cool. Maybe he's a computer programmer or something. By the way, is there really a place in Antartica named Carcass Cobh? Awesome.
Leo, 15, Wyoming
- Go to college
- Build an invention to benefit mankind
- Have kids (1 boy & 1 girl)
- Live till I'm at least 70 years old
- Visit all 50 states
- Make an animation for the internet
- Be thought of as someone's hero
- Go on all the roller coasters in Cedar Point
- See a natural phenomenon
- Buy a penguin
- Go to the Playboy Mansion
- Learn how to play poker
- Go to a baseball game with my dad
This one depresses me. A lot of these lists depress me. This one seems like your typical fifteen-year-old boy list, including the token reference to attractive, mostly-naked women. It's very ambitious, though a couple of them are easily do-able, and some of them are somewhat bizarre. But then you get to that last one, and you realize that visiting the Playboy Mansion and inventing something grand are at about the same rank as going to a baseball game with his dad. I wonder where his dad is, and why they're not going to any baseball games. Maybe he could get the Playboy bunnies to play baseball while he's visiting and thereby knock out two items at once.
Scott, 39, Dallas
- Run naked in a desert
- Visit all major Civil War battlefields
- See a game at all Major League ballparks
- Read all works by Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Ian Fleming
- See Liverpool play at Anfield
- Summit one of the world's top 20 highest peaks (probably #20)
Not a bad list for Scott, though the reason I noted it was because of the literature item. Aside from the idea that reading all of Shakespeare will take up all the time Scott probably has left, there is that very unlikely trio of Shakespeare, Hemingway, and...Ian Fleming. I like James Bond and all, but I would hardly put him up there with the Bard or Hemingway. I also wonder if reading all of Fleming includes one of his lesser-known triumphs, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
J, 19, Torrance, CA
- Start up my own (successful) clothing company
- Buy a Welsh Corgi and name him Ein
- Lose weight and keep it off
- Tour/live in Europe and Japan
- Live in Portland, OR (again)
- Get full sleeves (tattoos), a back piece, and a hip piece
- Have a smart baby that I've trained before birth to be trilingual
- Eat shark fin soup
- Visit Montreal
- Own a mansion with the following ameneties: Recording studio (for the bf), Design Studio, gi-normous bathroom, a front gate complete with 20' statues in the classical greek style of myself and my boyfriend (complete with gems for eyes), and a gaming room
- Obtain a position of influence
J did not submit a good list, and that's probably why she didn't submit her whole name. Some people seem to confuse the idea of the list with some other list, perhaps the list of things you would do if all laws of space and time were null just for you. The house idea is kinda hokey and unrealistic, and that trilingual fetus thing is downright ridiculous. I wonder what languages she's going to teach it (I assume French, English and Japanese, so she can take it to Japan and Montreal). I guess my idea of the list is different from people like her. Me, I would put things on my list that could possibly happen. Yes, I would like to birth a trilingual baby as well, but I'm going to stick to wanting to milk a cow. Suggestions like hers make me think that she just wasn't taking the idea seriously, that she was just someone who offhandedly answered it without sitting down and thinking what she really wanted. I guess I see this as an exercise for someone to figure out what they actually want to do with their time and then do those things. That's just me. I would also suggest that she clarify the position of influence item. You could say that a club bouncer is a position of influence.
Jenny, 33, San Jose, CA
- Design and make costumes for a children's theater
- Build a strawbale house
- Forgive my father being an alcoholic
Jenny made a good list. She wants to do interesting things (like the house), plus follow a dream (the theatre), as well as make amends with her past and her dad. I tend to like these short and realistic, but obviously meaningful lists.
Mo Mo, 33, Pennsylvania
- Divorce and find true love
De-pressing.
Lorna, 18, Stamford, Lincs, UK
- Complete my make-up course
- Be a well known make-up artist/Designer
- Be eco-friendly
- Go back in time and change things for better
- Have my own brand
- Watch my kids grow
- Fall down Angel Falls
- Travel round south east Asia
- Prove people wrong
Again, I don't like this list much because of the conflict with reality, but I am curious about the last one. It seems like people always save the last one for the best, like maybe that was the first one they thought of, but they didn't want to put it first and emphasize it because it's the most important one, but kind of secret. Anyway, I assume that it means that Lorna has had a lot of doubters in her life, and she just wants to show them that she's not a complete loser, that she can go back in time if she wants to. However, I like the idea that Lorna is just some sort of correctness freak, and maybe she wants to go around accosting people and conclusively proving them wrong about something, anything, even if it's their spelling.
Bethan, 25, Melbourne, Australia
- Have a collection of my photographs published in a book
- Live in New York
- Learn how to leave the perfect answering machine message
I saved this list for that last item alone, and all I can say is me too, Bethan, me too.
* To read more lists without the benefit of my delightful commentary, head here.
Anyway, the website is an interesting read, though a lot of the lists share the same items. Apparently, finding a soul mate is pretty high on everyone's to-do list. I picked out some of the more interesting ones that I found to share with you so that you don't have to peruse 100 lists to find the gems. Oh, what a good girl am I.
It's possible that I'm going to come off as a colossal bitch when I write this, because these lists are kind of personal, and I'm just one more random blogger offering my opinion. Who am I to critique someone's life goals? I want to milk a cow.
Pamela, 41, Ocean Springs, MS
- Color my hair
- Buy new furniture
- Get my dog groomed
See, I kinda think Pamela didn't understand the assignment, unless Pamela knows somehow that she is going to die today. That's a Wednesday list, right there. Or maybe Pamela is very depressed, and she just needs to take things one day at a time, by order of her therapist. On the opposite end, maybe Pamela is very happy and has accomplished all the major things she ever wanted to do, and really, being able to have a nicely-groomed dog, new furniture, and a kicky new hair color is just icing on the cake.
Pablo, 24, Carcass Cobh, Antartica
- Ride in a hot air balloon
- Save the North European Earth Worm
- Invent a cure for depression, epilepsy, diabeties, kidney failure, schizophrenia, brain damage and eating disorders
- Become good at something meaningful
- Own children
Such a weird list, though maybe that's what happens when you live in Antartica. Aside from the amusing phrasing of "own children" (perhaps to pull the sleigh around in the snow?), I like the fact that after he saves a species and cures all the diseases, he wants to really tuck in and do something meaningful. It makes me wonder what Pablo is good at now that he recognizes he's good at something, but it's not that cool. Maybe he's a computer programmer or something. By the way, is there really a place in Antartica named Carcass Cobh? Awesome.
Leo, 15, Wyoming
- Go to college
- Build an invention to benefit mankind
- Have kids (1 boy & 1 girl)
- Live till I'm at least 70 years old
- Visit all 50 states
- Make an animation for the internet
- Be thought of as someone's hero
- Go on all the roller coasters in Cedar Point
- See a natural phenomenon
- Buy a penguin
- Go to the Playboy Mansion
- Learn how to play poker
- Go to a baseball game with my dad
This one depresses me. A lot of these lists depress me. This one seems like your typical fifteen-year-old boy list, including the token reference to attractive, mostly-naked women. It's very ambitious, though a couple of them are easily do-able, and some of them are somewhat bizarre. But then you get to that last one, and you realize that visiting the Playboy Mansion and inventing something grand are at about the same rank as going to a baseball game with his dad. I wonder where his dad is, and why they're not going to any baseball games. Maybe he could get the Playboy bunnies to play baseball while he's visiting and thereby knock out two items at once.
Scott, 39, Dallas
- Run naked in a desert
- Visit all major Civil War battlefields
- See a game at all Major League ballparks
- Read all works by Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Ian Fleming
- See Liverpool play at Anfield
- Summit one of the world's top 20 highest peaks (probably #20)
Not a bad list for Scott, though the reason I noted it was because of the literature item. Aside from the idea that reading all of Shakespeare will take up all the time Scott probably has left, there is that very unlikely trio of Shakespeare, Hemingway, and...Ian Fleming. I like James Bond and all, but I would hardly put him up there with the Bard or Hemingway. I also wonder if reading all of Fleming includes one of his lesser-known triumphs, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
J, 19, Torrance, CA
- Start up my own (successful) clothing company
- Buy a Welsh Corgi and name him Ein
- Lose weight and keep it off
- Tour/live in Europe and Japan
- Live in Portland, OR (again)
- Get full sleeves (tattoos), a back piece, and a hip piece
- Have a smart baby that I've trained before birth to be trilingual
- Eat shark fin soup
- Visit Montreal
- Own a mansion with the following ameneties: Recording studio (for the bf), Design Studio, gi-normous bathroom, a front gate complete with 20' statues in the classical greek style of myself and my boyfriend (complete with gems for eyes), and a gaming room
- Obtain a position of influence
J did not submit a good list, and that's probably why she didn't submit her whole name. Some people seem to confuse the idea of the list with some other list, perhaps the list of things you would do if all laws of space and time were null just for you. The house idea is kinda hokey and unrealistic, and that trilingual fetus thing is downright ridiculous. I wonder what languages she's going to teach it (I assume French, English and Japanese, so she can take it to Japan and Montreal). I guess my idea of the list is different from people like her. Me, I would put things on my list that could possibly happen. Yes, I would like to birth a trilingual baby as well, but I'm going to stick to wanting to milk a cow. Suggestions like hers make me think that she just wasn't taking the idea seriously, that she was just someone who offhandedly answered it without sitting down and thinking what she really wanted. I guess I see this as an exercise for someone to figure out what they actually want to do with their time and then do those things. That's just me. I would also suggest that she clarify the position of influence item. You could say that a club bouncer is a position of influence.
Jenny, 33, San Jose, CA
- Design and make costumes for a children's theater
- Build a strawbale house
- Forgive my father being an alcoholic
Jenny made a good list. She wants to do interesting things (like the house), plus follow a dream (the theatre), as well as make amends with her past and her dad. I tend to like these short and realistic, but obviously meaningful lists.
Mo Mo, 33, Pennsylvania
- Divorce and find true love
De-pressing.
Lorna, 18, Stamford, Lincs, UK
- Complete my make-up course
- Be a well known make-up artist/Designer
- Be eco-friendly
- Go back in time and change things for better
- Have my own brand
- Watch my kids grow
- Fall down Angel Falls
- Travel round south east Asia
- Prove people wrong
Again, I don't like this list much because of the conflict with reality, but I am curious about the last one. It seems like people always save the last one for the best, like maybe that was the first one they thought of, but they didn't want to put it first and emphasize it because it's the most important one, but kind of secret. Anyway, I assume that it means that Lorna has had a lot of doubters in her life, and she just wants to show them that she's not a complete loser, that she can go back in time if she wants to. However, I like the idea that Lorna is just some sort of correctness freak, and maybe she wants to go around accosting people and conclusively proving them wrong about something, anything, even if it's their spelling.
Bethan, 25, Melbourne, Australia
- Have a collection of my photographs published in a book
- Live in New York
- Learn how to leave the perfect answering machine message
I saved this list for that last item alone, and all I can say is me too, Bethan, me too.
* To read more lists without the benefit of my delightful commentary, head here.
5.11.2006
hot and now.
This morning, a gentleman in a nice suit was standing in the lobby of our office, looking to speak to our director of software and holding some Krispy Kreme boxes. A few minutes later, he was shown into the office across the hall from mine, which happens to belong to that same director of software. From what I overheard before the door was shut, it seemed to be an interview situation. I thought this odd, because interviews were typically done in the conference room with several people. Also, interviewees don't usually bring food.
After he left, I trotted across the hall to ask who the guy was. Apparently, he was a very persistent applicant who wanted a summer internship here. He'd called several times, each time being very forward and clear about his abilities and his goals, and now he'd come in.
And the doughnuts?
The guy is currently employed at Krispy Kreme, and he brought those in, I suppose, to suck up. He must not have realized that we are a small company, only thirty or so people deep, and so he brought six dozen doughnuts. Six dozen fresh, hot-and-now, glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I hate to encourage brown-nosing, but give that man a job!
After he left, I trotted across the hall to ask who the guy was. Apparently, he was a very persistent applicant who wanted a summer internship here. He'd called several times, each time being very forward and clear about his abilities and his goals, and now he'd come in.
And the doughnuts?
The guy is currently employed at Krispy Kreme, and he brought those in, I suppose, to suck up. He must not have realized that we are a small company, only thirty or so people deep, and so he brought six dozen doughnuts. Six dozen fresh, hot-and-now, glazed Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I hate to encourage brown-nosing, but give that man a job!
5.10.2006
a new way to walk.
I remember, from back when I knew you before, the way you walk.
I remember looking up from my book and seeing you return from class while on my park bench. You had this casual swaying gait, always leaning slightly to your right (I think). You carried one of those messenger bags for your books, and so I thought that you swayed that way because of the extra weight on the one side. I notice the way people walk, it's the easiest way to recognize them from a distance when haircolor and approximate body shape let you down. I can't figure out my own walk. I've spied on myself in shop windows and glass doors, but either the angle is bad or I'm too self-conscious to behave naturally. I worry that I swing my hips too much. I wonder what a walk says about the person who owns it, what I am broadcasting to the world. I wonder if anyone else notices and thinks about these things and whether they know what it all means. I wonder, if I do swing my hips too much, what that says about me.
Who knows?
I can still picture you over the top of the book I pretend to read so I don't look like I am waiting for you. And now, after all these years, I see that the sway is yours and not a byproduct of your baggage (not physical anyway, though possibly emotional?), as you come toward me with empty arms, asking me to fill them.
Which I do.
I remember looking up from my book and seeing you return from class while on my park bench. You had this casual swaying gait, always leaning slightly to your right (I think). You carried one of those messenger bags for your books, and so I thought that you swayed that way because of the extra weight on the one side. I notice the way people walk, it's the easiest way to recognize them from a distance when haircolor and approximate body shape let you down. I can't figure out my own walk. I've spied on myself in shop windows and glass doors, but either the angle is bad or I'm too self-conscious to behave naturally. I worry that I swing my hips too much. I wonder what a walk says about the person who owns it, what I am broadcasting to the world. I wonder if anyone else notices and thinks about these things and whether they know what it all means. I wonder, if I do swing my hips too much, what that says about me.
Who knows?
I can still picture you over the top of the book I pretend to read so I don't look like I am waiting for you. And now, after all these years, I see that the sway is yours and not a byproduct of your baggage (not physical anyway, though possibly emotional?), as you come toward me with empty arms, asking me to fill them.
Which I do.
5.08.2006
endorsement.
And now for a word from our sponsors.
I found a new music website recently, and I think I'm in love. It's based on the idea that if a person likes a musician, that person will like other artists with similar features. You enter an artist or a band or a song that you like, and then the site will play other songs that you might like based on what you already like. As songs play, you can say whether or not you like them, which I assume is used to further determine a specific style that you enjoy. You can enter more bands and create a bunch of different "stations" based on your tastes. Basically, the site is like that guy you meet at a party somewhere who asks what kind of music you listen to and then suggests other, much cooler and more obscure things you might also like so as to impress you. Except that the website is not hitting on you, so you can trust it.
The site is free, though it will stop playing every dozen or so songs to ask you to register, which consists of nothing more personal than your email. I think this might just be for identification purposes, because they haven't emailed me anything yet (and I used my real email address). Once you do register, there are no interruptions whatsoever. There are no commercials, just song after song. It runs within your internet browser, so you can just minimize it and listen while you work. Sound quality is very good, though obviously I wouldn't recommend it on dialup. Each song is accompanied by artist and album information, plus helpful links.
It's an interesting concept. Obviously, it has its limitations as there are some qualities of music that may be enjoyable but not necessarily defineable. For me, originality and uniqueness are fairly big factors in how much I like a band. So if the program plays a band because it's what I heard before and liked, I wonder if I will dislike the new song just because I have essentially heard it before. When you enter an artist, the program will tell what the defining characteristics for the artist are going to be that allows the program to pick other similar artists. I've not used it enough to see how thorough it is - does it rely simply on the kind of instruments featured or the song style, or do things like the wit or subject matter of the lyrics factor in? The website claims it looks at everything, everything, but I am not yet convinced.
I have been impressed with the variety of artists. This program has brought up some very obscure, independent music for me, and I've already become interested in a few new-to-me bands through the site. I feel like I'm hard to impress in that aspect. However, it seems almost necessary to include the smaller labels to make this project successful, otherwise it's just another streaming radio station. No one is going to learn about new bands if all the bands can be heard on the radio anyway.
I've only been using the site for about a week now, so it's hard to say how it will stand the test of time. I wonder how well it will get to know me - will it manage to figure out my tastes so completely that I never again hear a song that I have to give a thumbs down? And like any sort of new media, it seems a matter of time before it goes commercial. I see this as only more reason to enjoy it now, while I can.
I feel like the idea is solid. It really is just like having friends who know what you like and suggest things they've come across, and I've found most of my favorite bands through the suggestions of others. It's just a matter of the implementation. To do the job right is no trivial task, but I feel like these people are on to something. Of course, you have to keep in mind that this program is not meant to be a radio station, so you're going to get repeats on artists and songs within a short time frame. It's just a suggestion box.
Alright, I'm done with my endorsement. I'm sorry to burden you with such advertising, but I'm not being paid or hitting on you, so you can trust me, too. For those of you who are interested in finding new, good music, I do recommend the site. For those of you who are not interested in that, well, what's wrong with you?
Pandora
I found a new music website recently, and I think I'm in love. It's based on the idea that if a person likes a musician, that person will like other artists with similar features. You enter an artist or a band or a song that you like, and then the site will play other songs that you might like based on what you already like. As songs play, you can say whether or not you like them, which I assume is used to further determine a specific style that you enjoy. You can enter more bands and create a bunch of different "stations" based on your tastes. Basically, the site is like that guy you meet at a party somewhere who asks what kind of music you listen to and then suggests other, much cooler and more obscure things you might also like so as to impress you. Except that the website is not hitting on you, so you can trust it.
The site is free, though it will stop playing every dozen or so songs to ask you to register, which consists of nothing more personal than your email. I think this might just be for identification purposes, because they haven't emailed me anything yet (and I used my real email address). Once you do register, there are no interruptions whatsoever. There are no commercials, just song after song. It runs within your internet browser, so you can just minimize it and listen while you work. Sound quality is very good, though obviously I wouldn't recommend it on dialup. Each song is accompanied by artist and album information, plus helpful links.
It's an interesting concept. Obviously, it has its limitations as there are some qualities of music that may be enjoyable but not necessarily defineable. For me, originality and uniqueness are fairly big factors in how much I like a band. So if the program plays a band because it's what I heard before and liked, I wonder if I will dislike the new song just because I have essentially heard it before. When you enter an artist, the program will tell what the defining characteristics for the artist are going to be that allows the program to pick other similar artists. I've not used it enough to see how thorough it is - does it rely simply on the kind of instruments featured or the song style, or do things like the wit or subject matter of the lyrics factor in? The website claims it looks at everything, everything, but I am not yet convinced.
I have been impressed with the variety of artists. This program has brought up some very obscure, independent music for me, and I've already become interested in a few new-to-me bands through the site. I feel like I'm hard to impress in that aspect. However, it seems almost necessary to include the smaller labels to make this project successful, otherwise it's just another streaming radio station. No one is going to learn about new bands if all the bands can be heard on the radio anyway.
I've only been using the site for about a week now, so it's hard to say how it will stand the test of time. I wonder how well it will get to know me - will it manage to figure out my tastes so completely that I never again hear a song that I have to give a thumbs down? And like any sort of new media, it seems a matter of time before it goes commercial. I see this as only more reason to enjoy it now, while I can.
I feel like the idea is solid. It really is just like having friends who know what you like and suggest things they've come across, and I've found most of my favorite bands through the suggestions of others. It's just a matter of the implementation. To do the job right is no trivial task, but I feel like these people are on to something. Of course, you have to keep in mind that this program is not meant to be a radio station, so you're going to get repeats on artists and songs within a short time frame. It's just a suggestion box.
Alright, I'm done with my endorsement. I'm sorry to burden you with such advertising, but I'm not being paid or hitting on you, so you can trust me, too. For those of you who are interested in finding new, good music, I do recommend the site. For those of you who are not interested in that, well, what's wrong with you?
Pandora
5.05.2006
uncle walter.
Your Uncle Walter's going on and on.
Where did you go that you were gone so long?
How could you leave me here so long with Uncle Walter?
-Ben Folds Five, "Uncle Walter"
The cool kids think I'm cool because I have an Uncle Walter. Nevermind that he goes by his middle name, and we all call him Uncle Freeman. Come to think of it, Uncle Freeman's a pretty cool name, too.
I associated Uncle Freeman with several things, but most of all, I associated him with fishin'. Uncle Freeman lived down on the North Carolina coast, where my dad would take us kids to visit him and Aunt Esther and Aunt Jane and Grandmother Dolly before she died. We usually stayed with Aunt Esther and all of her cats. One morning of our visit, usually Saturday, we'd get up at the crack of dawn and go to Freeman's house after a breakfast of slightly frozen Eggo waffles and skim milk. Freeman would be waiting with his boat hooked up to his pickup. We'd all pile into the truck and drive a couple of miles to some local access area, where we'd push the boat into the Bogue Sound. Uncle Freeman's dog, Blacky, would come, too. Blacky was a black lab, a constant fixture in all those years of visits. I remember wondering the last time I was there if it was even the same dog, or if perhaps Uncle Freeman kept getting black labs and naming them the same name. Either seemed likely.
We never went pole fishin'. I've been pole fishin' only a few times in my life, but I've been net fishin' a lot. It seems to me now that net fishin' is cheating, though. You basically make a big circle with a net that extends from the surface of the water to the ground, trapping all the fish that happen to be in the area at the time. Then you walk around and scare them into the net. When you see a splash, you know some poor fish is thrashing around, trying to get out of its nylon prison, and you go and untangle it and put it in the bucket. I was never really brave enough to try and extract the fish from the net, so I was in charge of the bucket, which was this big metal basin with a piece of twine tied to one handle. I would drag it around to wherever Freeman or my dad had caught a fish and they would throw it in. Sometimes I couldn't get there quick enough and I'd see Freeman walking around with two or three fish hanging off his fingers like slimy shoes.
Sometimes we'd catch a big haul, sometimes not. Blacky was a big help - he was much better at running around, scaring all the fish into the net than we were. After we stopped getting hits, we'd climb back into the boat and start bringing in the net. We'd often find a bunch of fish caught in this last haul, sometimes crabs, too. Either we'd missed their desparate efforts to get free, or they'd just not made much of an effort. Either way, we had them now. All the fish we'd caught would go into a cooler, their eyes staring ahead, their little gills pumping back and forth, unable to extract air from air. Some of the more stubborn ones would still flop around for a while, but after a few minutes, they all fell still with their eyes still open, but their gills not moving. Uncle Freeman would drive the boat to some other spot and we'd do it all again. I guess he knew the layout of the sound pretty well; to me, it all just looked like water, water, and more water. I never tried to pay attention to where we went or how we'd ever get back. Mostly, I'd dangle my hand over the side of the boat and feel the spray as I looked around at the birds and the other boats out on the sound that day.
Mostly we caught mullet, which I didn't even know was a hairstyle for a long time. But sometimes there were flounder or bluefish or hogfish - they always delighted me with their little grunts. It never occurred to me to doubt my dad's accuracy in identifying each fish, because my dad taught high school chemistry, and he was a scientist.
Once the sun starting getting up high enough in the sky, we'd head back to where we'd parked the truck. Back at Freeman's house, my dad and Freeman would go out in the backyard and clean fish. I might have watched this process a couple of times, but mostly I stayed away. It was smelly, nasty work, and if you hung around too much, you'd be enlisted to help. So I'd play outside with Blacky or maybe go inside and watch the Ray Stevens video Uncle Freeman had. If Uncle Freeman didn't already have a half-finished game of solitaire going on his coffee table, I'd start one up with the battered deck of cards he kept on the accent table next to the couch. Uncle Freeman and Aunt Sally's house never changed. It always was laid out the same, with the same lava lamp that only got used when kids like me who were born in the 80s came over and asked to see what it did, the same old exercise bike gathering dust in the dining room, the same old carpet. It even smelled the same, a smell that I could never recall when I wasn't there, but as soon as I walked in the door, went, "Oh yeah, that's it."
I never really knew Uncle Freeman as an adult. I hadn't been out to see him in several years, ever since Aunt Sally died. I probably haven't been fishin' in a decade. If I had the opportunity, I'd go again in the heartbeat. There are few things in this world that are worth getting up at dawn for, but fishin' with Uncle Freeman is one of them.
We buried Uncle Freeman last month. It was cold and rainy and no one cried much. Uncle Freeman was old, and his health had been declining for a long time. After the family had potluck lunch at the church after the funeral, we all sat around and told Freeman stories. For me, that was the saddest part, because my father and aunts and cousins were telling stories about a man I didn't even know. Older relatives slip away before I'm adult enough to know them as anything but another grown-up that shared a family name. The only time I could even see that the Freeman they talked about was the same one that I knew was when they told fishin' stories. True, there were a lot of those, because Uncle Freeman liked to fish. But he also liked to help out his neighbor and garden and tell stories that he'd read in the Reader's Digest as if they had happened to him. I heard tales about a man who told stories that were always entertaining, but that you couldn't always quite trust, and I was surprised at how it reminded me of my brothers and sisters - a new generation in the same family. I knew Freeman and I were relatives in the blood sense, but I don't think I ever got before how much we were related.
I suppose that is the way at funerals for people that you knew in a limited sense - you come out not saddened by what has been lost, but by what you missed out on by not knowing the person more completely. You didn't lose it, you never had it. It was the same at my grandmother's funeral, and at my grandfather's, my aunt's, my other aunt. Maybe you have to be an adult to see the older generations as anything but old. It is only the stories that keep people young and illustrate how they were before time started to catch up with them. I worry that my children will never get to know my parents, that I will tell them stories later to have them respond with surprise because the person in the story didn't sound like the grandma or grandpa they knew.
Even though I came out feeling like I has missed out by not knowing Freeman outside his old boat, I came out saddened by the fact that the younger kids in my family were missing out on even that much. There was a lot more to my uncle than going out on the sound with an old black lab and some netting, but even that much was pretty good.
5.03.2006
brilliant brunette.
I want you to be honest with me here. Whatever you say, it's not going to hurt my feelings, okay? I think we have that kind of relationship where I can ask you a question about my appearance and you can tell me the honest-to-God truth and it's cool, you know? I mean, if I can't take the truth, then it's my own fault for asking for it, so you really can't be to blame. I'm not going to get mad. Really.
Does my hair look browner today?
There are a lot of shampoos out there. I have never been convinced that one shampoo is any better than any other, at least not for the price you pay. I'm sure there's something out there that costs $50 for four ounces and is made of ground-up peacock bones, but I tend to buy whatever is on sale and smells nice. I pay an extra fifty cents for the smells-nice factor, because I can tell the difference. I like to get free samples of the more expensive ones to try them for special occasions and to reaffirm my belief that I'm not missing anything by buying sub-buck hair products.
I got one in the mail yesterday and used it today, even though today is not a special occasion. These samples are always new products that have some sort of gimmick, whether it be volumizing or strengthening or revitalizing, whatever that means in terms of hair. This one is made to make brown hair more brown. When I signed up for the free sample, I remember picking out my hair color, so there aren't poor blondes out there receiving shampoo to turn their hair brown. My sample included a Shine Release shampoo, a Light Reflecting conditioner, and a Shine Shock glosser, which I think I used incorrectly. I particularly like the idea of the Shine Release shampoo, as if there is a treasure trove of shininess hiding within each individual strand of hair, but it's trapped and has to be set free. The Light Reflecting conditioner seems kinda weird. It apparently makes my hair reflective, which seems to be the same thing as making it shiny. Maybe it contains ground-up glass or something.
The idea is solid. This gimmick is a good one because it's not been done before (that I know of, but I'm really not an expert in the field), and because it's going to appeal to women. It says, "You are beautiful already, and if you had one flaw, it would be that there just isn't enough of the natural you shining through. Release your inner beauty." Of course, releasing your inner hair color just seems to mean to make your hair shiny, which has been done before. Luckily, people are stupid.
My hair is brown. I'm not sure how you could make it any browner, so I think maybe the idea is to make hair go from plain old brown to BROWN!. The series of products is called "Brilliant Brunette," which I can only assume means that your hair will become exciting, not that you will become smarter. I might pay extra for shampoo that did that.
But you have to think that the makers of this shampoo only made a brunette version because they couldn't go excluding half of their market. Even the picture on the package shows a girl with the reddest brown hair you could still call brown. Brunettes are the smart ones in the jokes because they don't get anything else - it's assumed they're staying at home studying every night instead of going out on dates. Brown is the color of mud, of rat hair, of animal waste. Even when it's shiny, then it's just the color of fresh animal waste.
Or maybe the makers of these products thought of them because of brunettes. Hmm, they said, we need a group of sensible women who think secretly that they are a little drab but who are too practical or proud to dye their hair to some exciting color. Hey! Brunettes! Let's make their hair shiny! What if we just smeared fresh animal waste in their hair? Yeah, good idea! But make it smell like coconuts.
My hair does smell like coconuts. It also seems softer. But BROWN! doesn't look that much different from brown - maybe the stuff doesn't work in fluorescent light. In which case, the thing is a bust anyway, because those are the kind of lights used at the library, and that's where all the brunettes are anyway.
Does my hair look browner today?
There are a lot of shampoos out there. I have never been convinced that one shampoo is any better than any other, at least not for the price you pay. I'm sure there's something out there that costs $50 for four ounces and is made of ground-up peacock bones, but I tend to buy whatever is on sale and smells nice. I pay an extra fifty cents for the smells-nice factor, because I can tell the difference. I like to get free samples of the more expensive ones to try them for special occasions and to reaffirm my belief that I'm not missing anything by buying sub-buck hair products.
I got one in the mail yesterday and used it today, even though today is not a special occasion. These samples are always new products that have some sort of gimmick, whether it be volumizing or strengthening or revitalizing, whatever that means in terms of hair. This one is made to make brown hair more brown. When I signed up for the free sample, I remember picking out my hair color, so there aren't poor blondes out there receiving shampoo to turn their hair brown. My sample included a Shine Release shampoo, a Light Reflecting conditioner, and a Shine Shock glosser, which I think I used incorrectly. I particularly like the idea of the Shine Release shampoo, as if there is a treasure trove of shininess hiding within each individual strand of hair, but it's trapped and has to be set free. The Light Reflecting conditioner seems kinda weird. It apparently makes my hair reflective, which seems to be the same thing as making it shiny. Maybe it contains ground-up glass or something.
The idea is solid. This gimmick is a good one because it's not been done before (that I know of, but I'm really not an expert in the field), and because it's going to appeal to women. It says, "You are beautiful already, and if you had one flaw, it would be that there just isn't enough of the natural you shining through. Release your inner beauty." Of course, releasing your inner hair color just seems to mean to make your hair shiny, which has been done before. Luckily, people are stupid.
My hair is brown. I'm not sure how you could make it any browner, so I think maybe the idea is to make hair go from plain old brown to BROWN!. The series of products is called "Brilliant Brunette," which I can only assume means that your hair will become exciting, not that you will become smarter. I might pay extra for shampoo that did that.
But you have to think that the makers of this shampoo only made a brunette version because they couldn't go excluding half of their market. Even the picture on the package shows a girl with the reddest brown hair you could still call brown. Brunettes are the smart ones in the jokes because they don't get anything else - it's assumed they're staying at home studying every night instead of going out on dates. Brown is the color of mud, of rat hair, of animal waste. Even when it's shiny, then it's just the color of fresh animal waste.
Or maybe the makers of these products thought of them because of brunettes. Hmm, they said, we need a group of sensible women who think secretly that they are a little drab but who are too practical or proud to dye their hair to some exciting color. Hey! Brunettes! Let's make their hair shiny! What if we just smeared fresh animal waste in their hair? Yeah, good idea! But make it smell like coconuts.
My hair does smell like coconuts. It also seems softer. But BROWN! doesn't look that much different from brown - maybe the stuff doesn't work in fluorescent light. In which case, the thing is a bust anyway, because those are the kind of lights used at the library, and that's where all the brunettes are anyway.
5.02.2006
a short entry about a long day.
"Hey, uh, Mike?"
"Yeah?"
"You ever get the feeling that you're writing really bad code?"
"All the time."
"Just making sure."
"Yeah?"
"You ever get the feeling that you're writing really bad code?"
"All the time."
"Just making sure."
5.01.2006
a slight chance of showers.
"Jennifer is pregnant."
My reaction to this statement was something along the lines of "How can Jennifer be pregnant? Isn't she like 8?" But no, my mother told me, Jennifer is like 17 now, and all discussion aside as to whether 17 is emotionally mature enough to be having a baby, 17 is definitely physically mature enough to have a baby. I remember Jennifer as being the ash-blond little girl who used to show up at the neighborhood swimming pool or who used to always want to help take care of the little babies during Sunday service. And now she was well on her way to taking care of a little baby full-time, all without a high school diploma, a wedding ring, or (likely) any indication of what exactly her life is going to be like.
The announcement wasn't widely made in the church until she was about four months along. And then what? She's going to keep the baby. The father is known, around, and involved, but not proposing, because he's probably just a kid, too. Her parents are not going to kick her out. It's going to be a girl, and it's going to be named Madison. Most surprising of all, the ladies of the church are throwing her a shower. Okay, so the shower isn't going to be held in the fellowship hall after service like most church showers, but the women of the church are all invited.
For those of you who are not familiar with rural Southern United Methodist church-goers, they by and large are not really down with premarital sex. I'm sure they realize that it happens, and they are willing to overlook that fact as long as it's not thrown in their faces with things like cohabitation and unwed mothers. When I found out that Jennifer was pregnant, I wondered how the church family would react. Usually the birth of a baby is a wonderful, joyous occasion, met with much hugging and tears and requests to hold the tiny new person. But if that baby was not wrapped within the safe and traditional two-parent family, if that baby stood for something considered sinful just by being alive, what would the reaction be then?
I am so proud of my old church. I was afraid that Jennifer would be shunned, mocked, turned away when she most needed the help of a long roster of experienced mothers. Not having the shower at the church is a compromise, but having it at all is a big step in the right direction. Condemnation would not be the answer when the deed is already done. Sex is not the issue anymore, the baby is the issue. And no matter the situation, a birth should still be something to celebrate.
My mother says that everyone sins, but that some people's sins show up more than others. It's easy to condemn those who suffer from vices we do not share or who wear great big scarlet letters of their trangressions. Far too often that is what Christians do, though it is decidedly not the Christian thing to do - casting the first stone and whatnot. But it is easier to distance yourself from obvious sin so as to not have to face the fact you are no better, just more concealed. And even that concealment is only from other humans, other imperfect beings. There may be visible sin, but there is no invisible sin when it comes to God. He's got magic sin glasses or something.
Of course there will be talk, and there may even be talk at at the shower, but I feel certain that the gossipers will fall silent as time goes on, particularly once the baby starts attending church. Rural Southern United Methodists love little babies, no matter how the parents chose to make them.
My reaction to this statement was something along the lines of "How can Jennifer be pregnant? Isn't she like 8?" But no, my mother told me, Jennifer is like 17 now, and all discussion aside as to whether 17 is emotionally mature enough to be having a baby, 17 is definitely physically mature enough to have a baby. I remember Jennifer as being the ash-blond little girl who used to show up at the neighborhood swimming pool or who used to always want to help take care of the little babies during Sunday service. And now she was well on her way to taking care of a little baby full-time, all without a high school diploma, a wedding ring, or (likely) any indication of what exactly her life is going to be like.
The announcement wasn't widely made in the church until she was about four months along. And then what? She's going to keep the baby. The father is known, around, and involved, but not proposing, because he's probably just a kid, too. Her parents are not going to kick her out. It's going to be a girl, and it's going to be named Madison. Most surprising of all, the ladies of the church are throwing her a shower. Okay, so the shower isn't going to be held in the fellowship hall after service like most church showers, but the women of the church are all invited.
For those of you who are not familiar with rural Southern United Methodist church-goers, they by and large are not really down with premarital sex. I'm sure they realize that it happens, and they are willing to overlook that fact as long as it's not thrown in their faces with things like cohabitation and unwed mothers. When I found out that Jennifer was pregnant, I wondered how the church family would react. Usually the birth of a baby is a wonderful, joyous occasion, met with much hugging and tears and requests to hold the tiny new person. But if that baby was not wrapped within the safe and traditional two-parent family, if that baby stood for something considered sinful just by being alive, what would the reaction be then?
I am so proud of my old church. I was afraid that Jennifer would be shunned, mocked, turned away when she most needed the help of a long roster of experienced mothers. Not having the shower at the church is a compromise, but having it at all is a big step in the right direction. Condemnation would not be the answer when the deed is already done. Sex is not the issue anymore, the baby is the issue. And no matter the situation, a birth should still be something to celebrate.
My mother says that everyone sins, but that some people's sins show up more than others. It's easy to condemn those who suffer from vices we do not share or who wear great big scarlet letters of their trangressions. Far too often that is what Christians do, though it is decidedly not the Christian thing to do - casting the first stone and whatnot. But it is easier to distance yourself from obvious sin so as to not have to face the fact you are no better, just more concealed. And even that concealment is only from other humans, other imperfect beings. There may be visible sin, but there is no invisible sin when it comes to God. He's got magic sin glasses or something.
Of course there will be talk, and there may even be talk at at the shower, but I feel certain that the gossipers will fall silent as time goes on, particularly once the baby starts attending church. Rural Southern United Methodists love little babies, no matter how the parents chose to make them.
4.28.2006
all greek to me.
Imagine everyone that you ever hated in high school. Imagine anyone who ever made fun of you or made you feel bad about yourself or who ever dismissed you as though you were not even there. Imagine the people you despised but whose friend you still wanted to be. Imagine the people who somehow got a lucky break in terms of parentage and wealth and appearance and never let you forget that you didn't. Get a good picture of all those people in your mind.
Now imagine being in a room with them.
For the first time in my life, I went to a frat party. Josh's band was paid to play an afternoon social event at a hotel turned fraternity house, and I went, like the good, supportive girlfriend that I am, and then I spent the whole time wondering how on earth I had ended up there. The house was this beautiful historic hotel, an old lodge with hardwood floors and big brick fireplaces. I walked in carrying Josh's bass and wondered if it was the place where they shot "The Shining."
This was the rich frat. Greek societies are already known for their wealth, but this was the fraternity where all the brothers had the same last names as well-known companies. While the guys set up and tuned, I looked at the pictures of frat boys past. Rows upon rows of similar-looking, clean-cut white boys wearing matching suits, a few guys with long sideburns or chin-length hair thrown in to keep up the diversity. I noticed a pasty dork every once in a while and wondered if he had to pay extra fees, some sort of unattractive tax. Honestly - I wouldn't be all that surprised.
I looked at my afternoon before me, looming in its polo-shirted expanse, and I decided that I needed a beer. I suppose that's the good thing about being an outcast at a frat party - by definition, there's going to be booze. So I sat and drank my beer while the guys played and everyone else mingled. There were maybe 30 frat guys with a smattering of a dozen or so girls mixed in. Judging by the girls, it was strapless shade-of-red dress day, and I hadn't gotten the memo. I thought it was ratty used t-shirt and jeans with bleach-stain sneakers day. I must have gotten my days mixed up.
It was me and the band against everyone else, a giant game of "One of These Things Is Not Like the Other." See if you can pick us out - we're the ones with the holes in our clothes that were not there when we bought them. True, some of the girls were wearing clothes that were made to look old, as if those girls were trying to look like us, but no one was fooled.
I spent my time listening to the music, drinking my beer, and watching all the pretty people. I was free to do so, because no one spoke to me. I wasn't even a blip on the radar. I was glad, because I was afraid that if anyone were to talk to me, it would be some charitable girl who started the conversation with a kindly, "You know, you could be pretty if you tried."
Then I started wondering if I could be pretty if I tried. I looked at those girls and tried to figure out how they were all different, and yet all somehow the same, wondering if I could duplicate the sameness.
I could do it. Give me six weeks, and I could do it. I only need that long because I have to lose some weight and get a tan. So that means a membership at the tanning salon, and an eating disorder; I picked bulimia since at least I'd still get to eat. It doesn't take long to get an expensive haircut and a manicure, and I'm only a trip to the mall and a maxed-out credit card away from a new, socially-acceptable wardrobe. I'd also have to learn to apply makeup, but I figure with a patient teacher, I could master that, too. Then put me back here and see things change. See who talks to me now.
I think if I had the money and the patience, I would do it. I'd do it just to see if I am right, to see if I am treated differently. I am already instantly accepted in a certain kind of group because of the way I dress, but I want to see if I could get that same immediate acceptance in a group that ignores me now.
Most of those girls were not better-looking than I am. They were mostly regular girls straddling average but making up for it with maintenance. A couple were actually beautiful, and there was one homely one. I have reached a pleasant happy medium where I am mostly satisfied with the way I look without having to work on it too much. And at the end of the afternoon, it was me that the bassist looked over in my ratty t-shirt and bleach-stained sneakers and remarked, "You're hot."
Now imagine being in a room with them.
For the first time in my life, I went to a frat party. Josh's band was paid to play an afternoon social event at a hotel turned fraternity house, and I went, like the good, supportive girlfriend that I am, and then I spent the whole time wondering how on earth I had ended up there. The house was this beautiful historic hotel, an old lodge with hardwood floors and big brick fireplaces. I walked in carrying Josh's bass and wondered if it was the place where they shot "The Shining."
This was the rich frat. Greek societies are already known for their wealth, but this was the fraternity where all the brothers had the same last names as well-known companies. While the guys set up and tuned, I looked at the pictures of frat boys past. Rows upon rows of similar-looking, clean-cut white boys wearing matching suits, a few guys with long sideburns or chin-length hair thrown in to keep up the diversity. I noticed a pasty dork every once in a while and wondered if he had to pay extra fees, some sort of unattractive tax. Honestly - I wouldn't be all that surprised.
I looked at my afternoon before me, looming in its polo-shirted expanse, and I decided that I needed a beer. I suppose that's the good thing about being an outcast at a frat party - by definition, there's going to be booze. So I sat and drank my beer while the guys played and everyone else mingled. There were maybe 30 frat guys with a smattering of a dozen or so girls mixed in. Judging by the girls, it was strapless shade-of-red dress day, and I hadn't gotten the memo. I thought it was ratty used t-shirt and jeans with bleach-stain sneakers day. I must have gotten my days mixed up.
It was me and the band against everyone else, a giant game of "One of These Things Is Not Like the Other." See if you can pick us out - we're the ones with the holes in our clothes that were not there when we bought them. True, some of the girls were wearing clothes that were made to look old, as if those girls were trying to look like us, but no one was fooled.
I spent my time listening to the music, drinking my beer, and watching all the pretty people. I was free to do so, because no one spoke to me. I wasn't even a blip on the radar. I was glad, because I was afraid that if anyone were to talk to me, it would be some charitable girl who started the conversation with a kindly, "You know, you could be pretty if you tried."
Then I started wondering if I could be pretty if I tried. I looked at those girls and tried to figure out how they were all different, and yet all somehow the same, wondering if I could duplicate the sameness.
I could do it. Give me six weeks, and I could do it. I only need that long because I have to lose some weight and get a tan. So that means a membership at the tanning salon, and an eating disorder; I picked bulimia since at least I'd still get to eat. It doesn't take long to get an expensive haircut and a manicure, and I'm only a trip to the mall and a maxed-out credit card away from a new, socially-acceptable wardrobe. I'd also have to learn to apply makeup, but I figure with a patient teacher, I could master that, too. Then put me back here and see things change. See who talks to me now.
I think if I had the money and the patience, I would do it. I'd do it just to see if I am right, to see if I am treated differently. I am already instantly accepted in a certain kind of group because of the way I dress, but I want to see if I could get that same immediate acceptance in a group that ignores me now.
Most of those girls were not better-looking than I am. They were mostly regular girls straddling average but making up for it with maintenance. A couple were actually beautiful, and there was one homely one. I have reached a pleasant happy medium where I am mostly satisfied with the way I look without having to work on it too much. And at the end of the afternoon, it was me that the bassist looked over in my ratty t-shirt and bleach-stained sneakers and remarked, "You're hot."
4.26.2006
all of the above.
You are a twenty-three-year-old, single computer programmer taking your ten-year-old niece out to lunch at Taco Bell after a morning of high-yield yard saling. She sits down with her food while you stand up next to the table, determining if you have enough napkins, silverware, and other eating accessories. Your niece shoots you in the chest with her straw paper. Do you:
A.) Sigh disapprovingly and look unamused without saying anything, thereby putting a tension in the air, which then causes the entire meal to be conducted in awkward silence. She will know her misdeed and not commit such silly acts anymore without you having to say a word.
B.) Start lecturing her about not acting like a child, at least not in public. Be sure to stress the importance of growing up and emphasize the advantages to increased responsibility so that you do not come off as too strict.
C.) Ignore her with the understanding that giving attention to such acts only increases their frequency.
D.) Smile at her and dismiss the incident, showing that you are an adult with more important things to worry about than lecturing her over an innocent prank, but that you have not forgotten your own carefree childhood. Kids will be kids.
E.) Shoot back.
Option E. Duh.
My straw paper hit her directly in the eye, and stuck in her glasses. I felt like the biggest failure as an adult ever, that I could not even take a ten-year-old to Taco Bell without directly causing her bodily harm. But Social Services didn't swarm upon me, and no one started giving me option B. We had a pleasant lunch talking about my job, the concept of compromise, and the difference between circus clowns and hippies, and she seemed to be without emotional or physical scarring. We left happy and full, a girl and her aunt, or a girl and her niece, depending on how you look at it.
A.) Sigh disapprovingly and look unamused without saying anything, thereby putting a tension in the air, which then causes the entire meal to be conducted in awkward silence. She will know her misdeed and not commit such silly acts anymore without you having to say a word.
B.) Start lecturing her about not acting like a child, at least not in public. Be sure to stress the importance of growing up and emphasize the advantages to increased responsibility so that you do not come off as too strict.
C.) Ignore her with the understanding that giving attention to such acts only increases their frequency.
D.) Smile at her and dismiss the incident, showing that you are an adult with more important things to worry about than lecturing her over an innocent prank, but that you have not forgotten your own carefree childhood. Kids will be kids.
E.) Shoot back.
Option E. Duh.
My straw paper hit her directly in the eye, and stuck in her glasses. I felt like the biggest failure as an adult ever, that I could not even take a ten-year-old to Taco Bell without directly causing her bodily harm. But Social Services didn't swarm upon me, and no one started giving me option B. We had a pleasant lunch talking about my job, the concept of compromise, and the difference between circus clowns and hippies, and she seemed to be without emotional or physical scarring. We left happy and full, a girl and her aunt, or a girl and her niece, depending on how you look at it.
4.24.2006
jumping ship.
"Morning, Sandra. How was your long weekend - you took Friday off, right?"
"Yeah, I did. It was a good weekend. I hear there was a little drama while I was gone."
"Drama?"
"Yeah, with Tim leaving."
"Oh, that. Yeah, that happened. Hey, uh, listen, do you kinda wonder about everyone leaving? I mean, it seems like someone's leaving the company every couple of months, and-"
"You wonder if you're missing something by not being unhappy here."
"Exactly."
"I don't know. I've thought the same thing. Like, what's wrong with me. Clearly this isn't a good place to work because so many other people are jumping ship."
"Right."
"I used to work at a restaurant that had a really high employee turnover. A lot of people lasted less than a month, some less than a week. And I kept wondering what I was missing that I didn't want to leave, too. I finally figured out that the place was just kind of a weird environment that took a particular type of person to appreciate working there. Turns out that I was that kind of person, and the other people who stuck it out were all fun, interesting, amazing people. By the time I had to leave, I realized how much I had loved working there."
"So I guess if it ain't broke, don't fix it."
"Yeah. But I mean, I'm young and single, so I can pretty much leave whenever if I had to. But I dunno. I'm okay where I am right now."
"Maybe our expectations are too low."
"Maybe. Keeps us happy."
"Yup. I'll take it."
"Yeah, I did. It was a good weekend. I hear there was a little drama while I was gone."
"Drama?"
"Yeah, with Tim leaving."
"Oh, that. Yeah, that happened. Hey, uh, listen, do you kinda wonder about everyone leaving? I mean, it seems like someone's leaving the company every couple of months, and-"
"You wonder if you're missing something by not being unhappy here."
"Exactly."
"I don't know. I've thought the same thing. Like, what's wrong with me. Clearly this isn't a good place to work because so many other people are jumping ship."
"Right."
"I used to work at a restaurant that had a really high employee turnover. A lot of people lasted less than a month, some less than a week. And I kept wondering what I was missing that I didn't want to leave, too. I finally figured out that the place was just kind of a weird environment that took a particular type of person to appreciate working there. Turns out that I was that kind of person, and the other people who stuck it out were all fun, interesting, amazing people. By the time I had to leave, I realized how much I had loved working there."
"So I guess if it ain't broke, don't fix it."
"Yeah. But I mean, I'm young and single, so I can pretty much leave whenever if I had to. But I dunno. I'm okay where I am right now."
"Maybe our expectations are too low."
"Maybe. Keeps us happy."
"Yup. I'll take it."
4.20.2006
teaching the crooks to spell.
Phishing is quite a brilliant concept. It plays upon fear and idiocy, both of which humans in general seem to have quite a lot of. I've been getting several phishing emails a week now, and I have grown increasingly irritated about them. My email provider is competant enough to send them straight to the spam box, so their presence isn't really in my way. No, I am insulted at how obvious they are. It seems like you have to really be an idiot now to fall for these things. I could understand back when phishing was new and no one knew about it, then you could probably get away with some of the obvious mistakes. They might look a little odd or possibly make you wonder for half a second, but then you realize that your PayPal account is in jeopardy, so you forget that little nagging feeling and sign away your life. I even rather enjoy the little irony they present: you give away your personal information to criminals to protect your personal information from criminals. No, phishing irritates me because it is an insult to my intelligence.
There are all the obvious signs that the credit card companies will list on their websites. For one thing, if you click the link and it doesn't even go to the site it says it's going to, that's a big hint. Then there is fact that the real companies have sworn up and down to never ask for your information in that manner. You have to go to their real site and sign in with your user name and whatever. Fine, you follow those rules, you'll be safe. But there are other signs that make these emails reek of a scam.
The misspelled words really get to me. I guess you've all figured that out by now, as misspellings anywhere get on my nerves. If my credit card company can't spell, then I don't want them to be my credit card company. Who knows what else they're screwing up while they're ignoring their spell-check? I am always tempted to red ink those emails and send them back with a message like "not working up to your potential" scrawled on there somewhere. I feel like this is an obvious one, a sign that the phishers have gotten lazy. It's not like their job is all that hard anyway, so they really have no excuse for slacking off. I can pretty much tell instantly that an email from "Verifyed by Visa" is not legit.
There is also the fact that I repeatedly get these emails about accounts that I do not have. Oh, crap, my American Express account might be in danger. Wait - is this an email from the future, when I actually have an American Express account?
The thing is, people wouldn't do this scam if it didn't work. There are people who use the internet but still haven't bothered to educate themselves about protecting themselves there. There are people who can't recognize poor use of the English language. And there are people who who no longer even remember what accounts they do and don't have. I'm almost tempted to say that these people deserve to be cheated, but I won't go that far. Phishing is pretty rotten.
By the way, most companies (the legit ones) have a way for you to report phishing. If you go to the real website of the company, there's usually an email address where you can forward the phishy emails. I've found that doing this actually helps decrease the amount of spam I get, plus I get to feel like I'm doing something to help when I don't have time to write acidic and sarcastic replies to the bums. Everybody wins.
There are all the obvious signs that the credit card companies will list on their websites. For one thing, if you click the link and it doesn't even go to the site it says it's going to, that's a big hint. Then there is fact that the real companies have sworn up and down to never ask for your information in that manner. You have to go to their real site and sign in with your user name and whatever. Fine, you follow those rules, you'll be safe. But there are other signs that make these emails reek of a scam.
The misspelled words really get to me. I guess you've all figured that out by now, as misspellings anywhere get on my nerves. If my credit card company can't spell, then I don't want them to be my credit card company. Who knows what else they're screwing up while they're ignoring their spell-check? I am always tempted to red ink those emails and send them back with a message like "not working up to your potential" scrawled on there somewhere. I feel like this is an obvious one, a sign that the phishers have gotten lazy. It's not like their job is all that hard anyway, so they really have no excuse for slacking off. I can pretty much tell instantly that an email from "Verifyed by Visa" is not legit.
There is also the fact that I repeatedly get these emails about accounts that I do not have. Oh, crap, my American Express account might be in danger. Wait - is this an email from the future, when I actually have an American Express account?
The thing is, people wouldn't do this scam if it didn't work. There are people who use the internet but still haven't bothered to educate themselves about protecting themselves there. There are people who can't recognize poor use of the English language. And there are people who who no longer even remember what accounts they do and don't have. I'm almost tempted to say that these people deserve to be cheated, but I won't go that far. Phishing is pretty rotten.
By the way, most companies (the legit ones) have a way for you to report phishing. If you go to the real website of the company, there's usually an email address where you can forward the phishy emails. I've found that doing this actually helps decrease the amount of spam I get, plus I get to feel like I'm doing something to help when I don't have time to write acidic and sarcastic replies to the bums. Everybody wins.
4.17.2006
just a buck.
First off, a story:
I have a friend named Laura who can be a little ditzy. She's a smart girl and she's now a college graduate, working at broadening the minds of 11-year-olds in Asheboro. But yeah, she doesn't always think before she speaks. Once she and I were in a group of friends in high school, and someone told a story about the Dollar Store. I got a devilish gleam in my eye, and I asked, "Hey, Laura, how much does stuff cost at the Dollar Store?" Laura rolled her eyes indignantly at me, as if I were the biggest idiot ever and replied haughtily, "I don't know. I've never been there."
Herein lies the genius of the Dollar Store. They rely heavily on the idea that a dollar is not a lot of money. "It's only a dollar!" they say. You go in there, and you see something that you realize you will use eventually, say shampoo. You think, hey, I've heard of that brand, and it's only a dollar. So you buy some shampoo, not realizing that the same shampoo can be bought at Wal-Mart for maybe $0.85 or even the grocery store for $0.94. The Dollar Store is sneaky like that. Most people go into a place like Wal-Mart or a grocery store with specific needs. You buy shampoo at Wal-Mart when you are out of shampoo. And at that point, you need shampoo, so you don't consult the price. But you might walk up and down the aisles of a Dollar Store because it's a small place and because everything is only a dollar. So you see the shampoo, realize the price, and start stocking up on shampoo when you can get it cheaper elsewhere. It is brilliance.
That being said, I like the Dollar Store. I don't buy my shampoo there. If you've not been in a Dollar Store recently, you might be surprised at what you can find. For instance, I've heard tell that you can buy condoms there, though I've never seen them. I assume they come in 4-packs or something. Then, after you stock up on your dollar store condoms, you can also buy pregnancy tests there.
I like the Dollar Store because it's easy math. You can have your money all ready by the time you get to the counter. One night, I was waiting in line at the Dollar Store, and a mother was waiting behind me with her daughter. The mother was trying to explain that the daughter did not have enough money to buy the chewing gum in addition to the other three items she already had, because they had only $4.25 to pay for them; North Carolina has a 7% sales tax. The daughter was arguing with her mother, saying that she would wait and ask the cashier how much money they needed before she gave up her precious Juicy Fruit. I was annoyed at the daughter for doubting her mother and annoyed at the mother for passing up this valuable opportunity to teach her daughter how to calculate sales tax. Sure enough, the total was $4.28. I had three cents, so I offered it to them. I immediately regretted doing so, and wanted to add, "Unless you were trying to teach your daughter a lesson here, in which case, I do not have three cents." By that time, the cashier herself had offered the little girl three cents, so I was taken out of the transaction as just some nice stranger lady.
All this Dollar Store talk is the result of my recent photography hobby. I've had that beautiful and expensive digital camera for months now, but I'm finally getting around to developing some pictures. So now I have about 150 pictures, and I just want to litter my apartment walls with them and let them proclaim, "Lookit! I've made ART!" The Dollar Store has lots of frames, a fair percentage of them not tacky. They have these little frames just the right size and style for my pictures and taste, and they sell them in two-packs. Or at least, they did until I went to each of the five Dollar Tree Stores in the Winston-Salem area and bought them all. I also bought some photo albums. Photo display does not have to be an expensive habit. Except now I'm running out of wall space, so I suppose I'm going to have to go and buy some more walls. Maybe I should pick up some shampoo while I'm out.
I have a friend named Laura who can be a little ditzy. She's a smart girl and she's now a college graduate, working at broadening the minds of 11-year-olds in Asheboro. But yeah, she doesn't always think before she speaks. Once she and I were in a group of friends in high school, and someone told a story about the Dollar Store. I got a devilish gleam in my eye, and I asked, "Hey, Laura, how much does stuff cost at the Dollar Store?" Laura rolled her eyes indignantly at me, as if I were the biggest idiot ever and replied haughtily, "I don't know. I've never been there."
Herein lies the genius of the Dollar Store. They rely heavily on the idea that a dollar is not a lot of money. "It's only a dollar!" they say. You go in there, and you see something that you realize you will use eventually, say shampoo. You think, hey, I've heard of that brand, and it's only a dollar. So you buy some shampoo, not realizing that the same shampoo can be bought at Wal-Mart for maybe $0.85 or even the grocery store for $0.94. The Dollar Store is sneaky like that. Most people go into a place like Wal-Mart or a grocery store with specific needs. You buy shampoo at Wal-Mart when you are out of shampoo. And at that point, you need shampoo, so you don't consult the price. But you might walk up and down the aisles of a Dollar Store because it's a small place and because everything is only a dollar. So you see the shampoo, realize the price, and start stocking up on shampoo when you can get it cheaper elsewhere. It is brilliance.
That being said, I like the Dollar Store. I don't buy my shampoo there. If you've not been in a Dollar Store recently, you might be surprised at what you can find. For instance, I've heard tell that you can buy condoms there, though I've never seen them. I assume they come in 4-packs or something. Then, after you stock up on your dollar store condoms, you can also buy pregnancy tests there.
I like the Dollar Store because it's easy math. You can have your money all ready by the time you get to the counter. One night, I was waiting in line at the Dollar Store, and a mother was waiting behind me with her daughter. The mother was trying to explain that the daughter did not have enough money to buy the chewing gum in addition to the other three items she already had, because they had only $4.25 to pay for them; North Carolina has a 7% sales tax. The daughter was arguing with her mother, saying that she would wait and ask the cashier how much money they needed before she gave up her precious Juicy Fruit. I was annoyed at the daughter for doubting her mother and annoyed at the mother for passing up this valuable opportunity to teach her daughter how to calculate sales tax. Sure enough, the total was $4.28. I had three cents, so I offered it to them. I immediately regretted doing so, and wanted to add, "Unless you were trying to teach your daughter a lesson here, in which case, I do not have three cents." By that time, the cashier herself had offered the little girl three cents, so I was taken out of the transaction as just some nice stranger lady.
All this Dollar Store talk is the result of my recent photography hobby. I've had that beautiful and expensive digital camera for months now, but I'm finally getting around to developing some pictures. So now I have about 150 pictures, and I just want to litter my apartment walls with them and let them proclaim, "Lookit! I've made ART!" The Dollar Store has lots of frames, a fair percentage of them not tacky. They have these little frames just the right size and style for my pictures and taste, and they sell them in two-packs. Or at least, they did until I went to each of the five Dollar Tree Stores in the Winston-Salem area and bought them all. I also bought some photo albums. Photo display does not have to be an expensive habit. Except now I'm running out of wall space, so I suppose I'm going to have to go and buy some more walls. Maybe I should pick up some shampoo while I'm out.
4.12.2006
lady grey.
I have found my first grey hair.
It should be noted that I have actually found many grey hairs in the past. I've found whole clusters of them. But those hairs were not on my head, and therefore not worthy of worrying or writing about. This grey hair was on my head, stealthily stuck in among all the innocent little brown hairs.
I am twenty-three years old and more than a little traumatized.
The worst thing about this grey hair, besides the fact that it is on my head and not someone else's, is the fact that it is long. My hair is fairly long, almost long enough for me to go around topless without really showing anything - not that I measure my hair in terms of how much of my breasts it covers up. I've got some layers in there, plus some semi-bangs around my face, so I've got a wide variety of lengths. This little grey hair was one of the longest hairs in the bunch. That means it has been there, being all grey for a long time. That means that I really had my first grey hair when I was maybe twenty-one.
I did not pluck it out. It was so awfully long and strong-looking that I couldn't bear to just rip it out. Now I can't find it anymore, though, because I have a lot of brown hairs. It's no surprise that since its existence eluded me for two years, it's able to hide again amongst the hairs that look like they belong on the head of a twenty-three-year-old. Or maybe all the nice brown hairs found it and forcefully threw it out, crying, "She's too young and vibrant! Go away, you hideous and premature sign of aging!"
I called my mother, expecting sympathy. No, she laughed and said, "You know, your Aunt Rita was completely white-headed by the time she was twenty-nine."
I think that is the meanest thing anyone's ever said to me.
And now I fully expect to be like poor Aunt Rita. I've got these mental images of myself at my wedding, my hair blending in with my dress - I won't even need a veil if I just wear my bangs long and in my face. Pretty soon after that, my hair will thin out and I'll have to get one of those old lady perms and I'll never get to go around topless. I'll go around with my kids and people will think I'm their great-great-grandmother. That's all assuming I even get married, since now I'll have to find someone who will want to marry me based on my personality.
I've never really been all that impressed with my natural hair color. It is brown. Like my eye color and like my blood-type, I've managed to be saddled with the kind that most everyone else has. Brunettes reportedly don't have as much fun nor are we seen as fiesty, though we do have the small consolation of winning all the blond jokes. My hair has some nice highlights in the sun, but nothing that can't be beat by highlights in a bottle. But now I think that it is surely the most beautiful color that ever graced a head. I beg of my hair to stay brown, it can even get mousier if it wants, just as long as it doesn't look like the mice that are bred solely to be fed to large reptiles.
It should be noted that I have actually found many grey hairs in the past. I've found whole clusters of them. But those hairs were not on my head, and therefore not worthy of worrying or writing about. This grey hair was on my head, stealthily stuck in among all the innocent little brown hairs.
I am twenty-three years old and more than a little traumatized.
The worst thing about this grey hair, besides the fact that it is on my head and not someone else's, is the fact that it is long. My hair is fairly long, almost long enough for me to go around topless without really showing anything - not that I measure my hair in terms of how much of my breasts it covers up. I've got some layers in there, plus some semi-bangs around my face, so I've got a wide variety of lengths. This little grey hair was one of the longest hairs in the bunch. That means it has been there, being all grey for a long time. That means that I really had my first grey hair when I was maybe twenty-one.
I did not pluck it out. It was so awfully long and strong-looking that I couldn't bear to just rip it out. Now I can't find it anymore, though, because I have a lot of brown hairs. It's no surprise that since its existence eluded me for two years, it's able to hide again amongst the hairs that look like they belong on the head of a twenty-three-year-old. Or maybe all the nice brown hairs found it and forcefully threw it out, crying, "She's too young and vibrant! Go away, you hideous and premature sign of aging!"
I called my mother, expecting sympathy. No, she laughed and said, "You know, your Aunt Rita was completely white-headed by the time she was twenty-nine."
I think that is the meanest thing anyone's ever said to me.
And now I fully expect to be like poor Aunt Rita. I've got these mental images of myself at my wedding, my hair blending in with my dress - I won't even need a veil if I just wear my bangs long and in my face. Pretty soon after that, my hair will thin out and I'll have to get one of those old lady perms and I'll never get to go around topless. I'll go around with my kids and people will think I'm their great-great-grandmother. That's all assuming I even get married, since now I'll have to find someone who will want to marry me based on my personality.
I've never really been all that impressed with my natural hair color. It is brown. Like my eye color and like my blood-type, I've managed to be saddled with the kind that most everyone else has. Brunettes reportedly don't have as much fun nor are we seen as fiesty, though we do have the small consolation of winning all the blond jokes. My hair has some nice highlights in the sun, but nothing that can't be beat by highlights in a bottle. But now I think that it is surely the most beautiful color that ever graced a head. I beg of my hair to stay brown, it can even get mousier if it wants, just as long as it doesn't look like the mice that are bred solely to be fed to large reptiles.
4.10.2006
science!
In my wine science class, we do the experiments that everybody wanted to do in high school chemistry, but there was no time because you had to learn all those chicken wire drawings. Last week, we were doing the whole series of tests on a freshly mixed batch of white wine. I was in the group measuring total acidity, and it was my turn. Basically, you drip drip drip one chemical into some wine mixed with another chemical, and when the wine turns pink, then you stop and measure how much of the first chemical it took to turn the wine pink. Then that measurement tells you how acidic the wine is. Or something like that.
The drip drip drip part takes a little dexterity, because you have to drip drip drip the chemical and swirl swirl swirl this little flask of wine at the same time. I kind of enjoy doing these, except my constant fear is that I will drip drip drip too much, and then rather than having a lovely and delicate shade of pale pink, I will have a bright and garish shade of hot pink. And then I'll have to do it over again. I suppose if the wine industry the world over decided to go for the hot pink, we could just change the standard, but luckily the wine industry, even the wine science industry, is more fashionable than that.
Anyway, I do enjoy these basic experiments. They are simple, yet neat. Dr. Bob meanders around the lab, watching us, critiquing our technique ("Embrace the buret!"), and delightedly exclaiming, "Science!" I always want to start singing that Thomas Dolby song from the 80s when he makes this last exclamation, but refrain.
Wednesday night, I was preparing to do the titration (the technical term for drip drip drip), with Daisy in her green flowered glasses watching closely at my elbow. Daisy is short, with long greying hair. She is enthusiastic about her classes, always bringing in extra information that she found on the web. Daisy is also a hippie; I think she plans on naming her vineyard after the band Little Feat. As I was getting ready to embrace the buret, Daisy said, "When you get ready to do this, I'll sing you a song." And she did.
In Heaven, there is no beer.
That's why we drink it down here.
And when we're gone from here,
all our friends will be drinking all our beer.
In Heaven, there are no smokes.
That's why we'll take another toke.
And when we all have croaked,
all our friends will be taking all our smokes.
She clapped her hands and marched her feet to her titration song. I was giggling so much that by the time she started the second verse, I almost overshot and missed the delicate shade of pale pink. Then I would have had to do it all over again. I wondered if this was how all those important research chemists at universities all over the world did their experiments.
Science!
The drip drip drip part takes a little dexterity, because you have to drip drip drip the chemical and swirl swirl swirl this little flask of wine at the same time. I kind of enjoy doing these, except my constant fear is that I will drip drip drip too much, and then rather than having a lovely and delicate shade of pale pink, I will have a bright and garish shade of hot pink. And then I'll have to do it over again. I suppose if the wine industry the world over decided to go for the hot pink, we could just change the standard, but luckily the wine industry, even the wine science industry, is more fashionable than that.
Anyway, I do enjoy these basic experiments. They are simple, yet neat. Dr. Bob meanders around the lab, watching us, critiquing our technique ("Embrace the buret!"), and delightedly exclaiming, "Science!" I always want to start singing that Thomas Dolby song from the 80s when he makes this last exclamation, but refrain.
Wednesday night, I was preparing to do the titration (the technical term for drip drip drip), with Daisy in her green flowered glasses watching closely at my elbow. Daisy is short, with long greying hair. She is enthusiastic about her classes, always bringing in extra information that she found on the web. Daisy is also a hippie; I think she plans on naming her vineyard after the band Little Feat. As I was getting ready to embrace the buret, Daisy said, "When you get ready to do this, I'll sing you a song." And she did.
In Heaven, there is no beer.
That's why we drink it down here.
And when we're gone from here,
all our friends will be drinking all our beer.
In Heaven, there are no smokes.
That's why we'll take another toke.
And when we all have croaked,
all our friends will be taking all our smokes.
She clapped her hands and marched her feet to her titration song. I was giggling so much that by the time she started the second verse, I almost overshot and missed the delicate shade of pale pink. Then I would have had to do it all over again. I wondered if this was how all those important research chemists at universities all over the world did their experiments.
Science!
4.04.2006
bitter cuttings.
I just realized that it's been about a year and a half, and I am still angry about the cutting board.
I had this great little cutting board, see, about yay long and half-a-yay wide. Small enough to stash somewhere and be unobtrusive, small enough to whip out when you only needed to cut a tomato. It was the single girl's cutting board, and I liked it a lot. It was real wood, and I found it at a yard sale for a quarter at a time when I just happened to be looking for a nice little cutting board. It's so rare that the yard sales give you what you're looking for. More often, they give you what you never knew you needed.
When I moved out of the commune, I took my marvelous little cutting board to my new place. I received a friendly call from one of my ex-roommates a couple of weeks later. I think we talked about something else, and the subject of the cutting board was really more of an "oh, by the way..." thing. She told me that I had her cutting board.
Um, no. I didn't.
Sure I did, she said. Remember? It's little and brown and has that great little handle, so convenient. I must have accidentally packed her cutting board with my things.
Um, no. I packed my cutting board with my things.
She insisted that it was hers. She even told me this elaborate story about how she got it from her dad when he remarried and combined households. I thought that story was a dirty trick, saying that the cutting board had come to her as a result of a situation that had caused her not more than a little emotional strife. This is why you should never get divorced: someone is going to get screwed out of a cutting board someday.
I argued with her a little. I was just about to point out the small rectangular mark left by the price tag from where I had bought it for a quarter at the yard sale. The scar of the price tag was my proof and my downfall. As soon as I thought about playing my trump card, I realized that it was just a stupid quarter and that I should get over it.
Sometimes I go out of my way to be the bigger person, just to teach myself a lesson. The cutting board incident was one of those times. But because I had not really learned the lesson, I delivered the cutting board by leaving it on her doorstep one day when I knew she wasn't going to be home. There's only so much injury I can take.
I saw her a couple of weeks later, and to my chagrin, she brought up a conversation about the cutting board, thanking me for dropping it by. I remarked at what a great little cutting board it was, and she emphatically agreed. "And," she added, "that's why I was so pissed off when my roommate left it in the wet sink under some dishes and it got all warped. I had to throw it out!"
Go ahead. I dare you to let that happen to you, and you try and not be a little bitter about it over a year later. It can't be done.
I had this great little cutting board, see, about yay long and half-a-yay wide. Small enough to stash somewhere and be unobtrusive, small enough to whip out when you only needed to cut a tomato. It was the single girl's cutting board, and I liked it a lot. It was real wood, and I found it at a yard sale for a quarter at a time when I just happened to be looking for a nice little cutting board. It's so rare that the yard sales give you what you're looking for. More often, they give you what you never knew you needed.
When I moved out of the commune, I took my marvelous little cutting board to my new place. I received a friendly call from one of my ex-roommates a couple of weeks later. I think we talked about something else, and the subject of the cutting board was really more of an "oh, by the way..." thing. She told me that I had her cutting board.
Um, no. I didn't.
Sure I did, she said. Remember? It's little and brown and has that great little handle, so convenient. I must have accidentally packed her cutting board with my things.
Um, no. I packed my cutting board with my things.
She insisted that it was hers. She even told me this elaborate story about how she got it from her dad when he remarried and combined households. I thought that story was a dirty trick, saying that the cutting board had come to her as a result of a situation that had caused her not more than a little emotional strife. This is why you should never get divorced: someone is going to get screwed out of a cutting board someday.
I argued with her a little. I was just about to point out the small rectangular mark left by the price tag from where I had bought it for a quarter at the yard sale. The scar of the price tag was my proof and my downfall. As soon as I thought about playing my trump card, I realized that it was just a stupid quarter and that I should get over it.
Sometimes I go out of my way to be the bigger person, just to teach myself a lesson. The cutting board incident was one of those times. But because I had not really learned the lesson, I delivered the cutting board by leaving it on her doorstep one day when I knew she wasn't going to be home. There's only so much injury I can take.
I saw her a couple of weeks later, and to my chagrin, she brought up a conversation about the cutting board, thanking me for dropping it by. I remarked at what a great little cutting board it was, and she emphatically agreed. "And," she added, "that's why I was so pissed off when my roommate left it in the wet sink under some dishes and it got all warped. I had to throw it out!"
Go ahead. I dare you to let that happen to you, and you try and not be a little bitter about it over a year later. It can't be done.
4.03.2006
spared rod soup.
Some more waitress stories today.
Don't change in your car, or someone might get hurt.
The employee parking lot at Vintner's was behind the building, and the kitchen had two windows overlooking the gravel lot. One mid-morning, a waitress was coming in to work. She changed into her work clothes in the car right underneath one of the kitchen windows. On the other side of that window was one of the lunch cooks, cutting vegetables to prep for lunch. He became so distracted by the sight of that waitress changing that he cut his finger and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. I don't know that the girl ever knew.
Something to cover up the soup spoons
My boss, Joe, was in constant fear of waste and/or theft. He would lock up the supply cabinet of various items that he felt were being used wastefully so that when we needed more, we would have to ask him personally. The list of items that were locked up grew as time went on and included: soup spoons, lemons, ketchup bottles, dessert syrups. The soup spoons were a particular peeve of his, since he was convinced the wait staff was stealing his silver. At one point, I used the last of a dessert syrup bottle, so I had to go ask Joe for another. He began griping and fussing as usual about how we and all of our generation were wasteful and how we were driving him out of business. He said he bet that I had two or three bottles of the syrup in my car. I smiled and said, "Well, yes, but I have to have something to cover up all the soup spoons." It's a good thing he liked me.
Spared Rod Soup
Everybody hated waiting on kids. One guy got fired for full-out refusing to wait on families with children. There were exceptions, but by and large, rich, snobby people who vacationed in Blowing Rock did not have the most well-behaved children. Plus, kids make a mess, they're loud, and they often have special requests. I had this table of a family of four once around the holidays. Two parents with two little boys around the age of seven and nine, i.e. old enough to know better. They were the first table of the day and they were sitting in the sunroom, where our Christmas tree was. The kids were running around the sunroom, pulling ornaments off the tree (I swear, I heard one of them ask their mother if they could take the ornaments with them). At one point, the kids went to the bathroom, taking unattended detours all over the restaurant. The parents had a marvelous time, sitting and drinking alcoholic coffee drinks and blithely ignoring their children. I suggested to my friend that he should go into the sunroom and say aloud "Spare the rod and spoil the child" and then just walk out. Then, my friend dared me to tell them that the soup du jour was "Spared Rod Soup." The thought of that was enough to get me through the rest of the day.
Don't change in your car, or someone might get hurt.
The employee parking lot at Vintner's was behind the building, and the kitchen had two windows overlooking the gravel lot. One mid-morning, a waitress was coming in to work. She changed into her work clothes in the car right underneath one of the kitchen windows. On the other side of that window was one of the lunch cooks, cutting vegetables to prep for lunch. He became so distracted by the sight of that waitress changing that he cut his finger and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. I don't know that the girl ever knew.
Something to cover up the soup spoons
My boss, Joe, was in constant fear of waste and/or theft. He would lock up the supply cabinet of various items that he felt were being used wastefully so that when we needed more, we would have to ask him personally. The list of items that were locked up grew as time went on and included: soup spoons, lemons, ketchup bottles, dessert syrups. The soup spoons were a particular peeve of his, since he was convinced the wait staff was stealing his silver. At one point, I used the last of a dessert syrup bottle, so I had to go ask Joe for another. He began griping and fussing as usual about how we and all of our generation were wasteful and how we were driving him out of business. He said he bet that I had two or three bottles of the syrup in my car. I smiled and said, "Well, yes, but I have to have something to cover up all the soup spoons." It's a good thing he liked me.
Spared Rod Soup
Everybody hated waiting on kids. One guy got fired for full-out refusing to wait on families with children. There were exceptions, but by and large, rich, snobby people who vacationed in Blowing Rock did not have the most well-behaved children. Plus, kids make a mess, they're loud, and they often have special requests. I had this table of a family of four once around the holidays. Two parents with two little boys around the age of seven and nine, i.e. old enough to know better. They were the first table of the day and they were sitting in the sunroom, where our Christmas tree was. The kids were running around the sunroom, pulling ornaments off the tree (I swear, I heard one of them ask their mother if they could take the ornaments with them). At one point, the kids went to the bathroom, taking unattended detours all over the restaurant. The parents had a marvelous time, sitting and drinking alcoholic coffee drinks and blithely ignoring their children. I suggested to my friend that he should go into the sunroom and say aloud "Spare the rod and spoil the child" and then just walk out. Then, my friend dared me to tell them that the soup du jour was "Spared Rod Soup." The thought of that was enough to get me through the rest of the day.
3.30.2006
here phishy, phishy, phishy.
From: service @ chase. com <>
Reply-To: "service @ chase. com"
Date: Mar 27, 2006 11:28 AM
Subject: CHASE Account Security Measures Notification [ Account Suspended 02:45:10 DST-0400 UTC]
Chase Bank Online. Department Notice
You have received this E-mail because you or someone else had used your
Account from different locations.
For security purposes, we required to open an investigation on this matter.
In order to safeguard your Account , we require you to confirm you Banking Details.
We recently have discovered that multiple computers have attempted to log into your CHASE Bank Online Banking account, and multiple password failures were presented before the logons. We now require you to re-validate your account information to us. If this is not completed by March 27 2006, we will be forced to suspend your account indefinitely, as it may have been used for fraudulent purposes. We thank you for your cooperation in this manner.
Please Click Here or on the link below to re-validate your account information :
http://www.chase.com/user300340004445
Please note:
If we do not receive the appropriate Account Verification within 48 hours , we will
assume this Chase Bank Account is fraudulent and it will be suspended. The
purpose of this Verification is to ensure that your Bank Account has not been
fraudulently used and to combat fraud from our Community.
Dear Sir or Madam:
I have recently heard rumors that certain despicable scoundrels have been trying to cheat innocent and unsuspecting individuals such as myself by sending them what appears to be a legitimate email from a legitimate source asking for sensitive financial information. These emails may even come in the guise of a security alert, saying that the user must validate an account to ward off fraudulent use. Perhaps you have heard of this terrible event as well. Since I know that the Chase Bank is a very reputable company, one that works to protect its customers, I would like to make a suggestion in regards to your recent email to me so that your customers will not confuse your email with one from someone who finds him or herself hard up for cash, integrity, and basic decency.
I was surprised to read your email, not only because of its contents, but also because I would have thought that an email from a company such as the Chase Bank would have been not only spell-checked, but checked for grammar and punctuation as well. You might want to invest in someone more familiar with the English language to write your form letters. I realize that English-speakers, particularly ones with a basic high school understanding of the language, are hard to come by these days and probably cost more. You, no doubt, are passing along the savings of hiring nonnative speakers to me, the customer. However, I think that some customers might be suspicious of such a poorly-written letter from a veritable giant in the financial world. I think that you will have more luck with making your customers feel secure if you take that extra effort to proof your communications, and I can tell that security is clearly your top priority. This is a mere suggestion, and as you are an old and established successful company, you probably know what's best in your business.
Also in regards to your email, I was very distraught to find that my account with the Chase Bank might be invalidated on this very day because I had not acted quickly enough to verify my information. I had actually been out of town when I received the email and had I not checked my email this morning, I might not have been able to verify my account in time to protect it from suspension. Then I remembered that I don't have an account with the Chase Bank. Therefore, feel free to suspend my account in the name of security. Seeing as how I was completely unaware of its existence, I wasn't using it anyway. Thank goodness for people like you protecting the little people like me from the stinking, rotten, filthy crooks out there. You just can't trust anyone anymore, but I feel better knowing that the Chase Bank is doing its utmost to uphold the rights of the people.
Sincerely,
user300340004445
Reply-To: "service @ chase. com"
Date: Mar 27, 2006 11:28 AM
Subject: CHASE Account Security Measures Notification [ Account Suspended 02:45:10 DST-0400 UTC]
Chase Bank Online. Department Notice
You have received this E-mail because you or someone else had used your
Account from different locations.
For security purposes, we required to open an investigation on this matter.
In order to safeguard your Account , we require you to confirm you Banking Details.
We recently have discovered that multiple computers have attempted to log into your CHASE Bank Online Banking account, and multiple password failures were presented before the logons. We now require you to re-validate your account information to us. If this is not completed by March 27 2006, we will be forced to suspend your account indefinitely, as it may have been used for fraudulent purposes. We thank you for your cooperation in this manner.
Please Click Here or on the link below to re-validate your account information :
http://www.chase.com/user300340004445
Please note:
If we do not receive the appropriate Account Verification within 48 hours , we will
assume this Chase Bank Account is fraudulent and it will be suspended. The
purpose of this Verification is to ensure that your Bank Account has not been
fraudulently used and to combat fraud from our Community.
Dear Sir or Madam:
I have recently heard rumors that certain despicable scoundrels have been trying to cheat innocent and unsuspecting individuals such as myself by sending them what appears to be a legitimate email from a legitimate source asking for sensitive financial information. These emails may even come in the guise of a security alert, saying that the user must validate an account to ward off fraudulent use. Perhaps you have heard of this terrible event as well. Since I know that the Chase Bank is a very reputable company, one that works to protect its customers, I would like to make a suggestion in regards to your recent email to me so that your customers will not confuse your email with one from someone who finds him or herself hard up for cash, integrity, and basic decency.
I was surprised to read your email, not only because of its contents, but also because I would have thought that an email from a company such as the Chase Bank would have been not only spell-checked, but checked for grammar and punctuation as well. You might want to invest in someone more familiar with the English language to write your form letters. I realize that English-speakers, particularly ones with a basic high school understanding of the language, are hard to come by these days and probably cost more. You, no doubt, are passing along the savings of hiring nonnative speakers to me, the customer. However, I think that some customers might be suspicious of such a poorly-written letter from a veritable giant in the financial world. I think that you will have more luck with making your customers feel secure if you take that extra effort to proof your communications, and I can tell that security is clearly your top priority. This is a mere suggestion, and as you are an old and established successful company, you probably know what's best in your business.
Also in regards to your email, I was very distraught to find that my account with the Chase Bank might be invalidated on this very day because I had not acted quickly enough to verify my information. I had actually been out of town when I received the email and had I not checked my email this morning, I might not have been able to verify my account in time to protect it from suspension. Then I remembered that I don't have an account with the Chase Bank. Therefore, feel free to suspend my account in the name of security. Seeing as how I was completely unaware of its existence, I wasn't using it anyway. Thank goodness for people like you protecting the little people like me from the stinking, rotten, filthy crooks out there. You just can't trust anyone anymore, but I feel better knowing that the Chase Bank is doing its utmost to uphold the rights of the people.
Sincerely,
user300340004445
3.27.2006
underdog.
I know that I already wrote my token March Madness entry, but I can't think of anything else to write about, so screw it.
My bracket got all shot to crap this weekend. I had 10 of the Sweet Sixteen teams, and I have 0 Final Four teams. I was in second place last Thursday, and though I'm still not far down in the points, I'm in the uncomfortable position of having picked teams to win games in which they are not even participating. That would be some kind of NCAA miracle. No office pool money will be coming my way, and now I have only one consolation: with my own personal interests out of the way, I can root for anyone I please.
I am a rotten gambler. Not just because I am mostly uninformed about what I'm betting on, not even because I find it difficult to not pick teams that happen to live within a couple of hours from here. I am a rotten gambler because when it comes to the games, I still want to pull for the underdog. It's the worst during the first couple of rounds. There are always the big upsets, the thirteen seed over the four, the twelve over the five, etc. I look down at my bracket and I see that I have that number four team going to the Final Four. I know that if they lose now, I might as well count my $5 for lost. But man, look at those poor thirteen-seeders, the college players with no chance of ever seeing NBA action on teams which may be making their second or third or even first tournament appearance in tournament history. How can you not root for them? They've got the audacity to show up and give this nationally ranked team a good run for our entertainment and their own advancement, the least we can do is cheer as they try to make the unthinkable come true. These are not the hot shots who have spent the season making the play of the day, having every single one of their games televised across the nation. These are the little guys who seemed to come from nowhere because no one is really sure where exactly their little college is located.
Underdogs are inspiration all in themselves, and I think their seeming obliviousness to the futility of their goal is something that appeals to all of us. I can think of maybe two times in my athletic history where I was not the underdog, and more often than not, I was more like the six-feet-underdog. All of us can imagine being the champion, the big shot, but all of us can relate to being the nobody.
It got to the point this year where I considered not participating in the office pool next year. The conflict of interest was too much for me. I like this little team and I want to root for them, but I also like my five dollars and the opportunity of increasing it ten-fold. I'm just not sure that mere mortals are cut out for this kind of internal distress. I understand that betting in a pool is just supposed to be fun and that you're really more paying for the entertainment value. But honestly? I was already pretty entertained.
So as I wave goodbye to my money and wonder whether I got five dollars worth of entertainment filling in a bracket and then later delightedly highlighting the games I'd picked right, I look at the current standings and wonder who in the world would have ever picked an eleven seed to be in the Final Four. Probably nobody except the players' mothers. I picked them to go down in the very first round and I was noticeably quiet as I watched them upset UNC in a house full of jubilant NC State kids. I didn't bet on them before, but I'm pulling for them now.
My bracket got all shot to crap this weekend. I had 10 of the Sweet Sixteen teams, and I have 0 Final Four teams. I was in second place last Thursday, and though I'm still not far down in the points, I'm in the uncomfortable position of having picked teams to win games in which they are not even participating. That would be some kind of NCAA miracle. No office pool money will be coming my way, and now I have only one consolation: with my own personal interests out of the way, I can root for anyone I please.
I am a rotten gambler. Not just because I am mostly uninformed about what I'm betting on, not even because I find it difficult to not pick teams that happen to live within a couple of hours from here. I am a rotten gambler because when it comes to the games, I still want to pull for the underdog. It's the worst during the first couple of rounds. There are always the big upsets, the thirteen seed over the four, the twelve over the five, etc. I look down at my bracket and I see that I have that number four team going to the Final Four. I know that if they lose now, I might as well count my $5 for lost. But man, look at those poor thirteen-seeders, the college players with no chance of ever seeing NBA action on teams which may be making their second or third or even first tournament appearance in tournament history. How can you not root for them? They've got the audacity to show up and give this nationally ranked team a good run for our entertainment and their own advancement, the least we can do is cheer as they try to make the unthinkable come true. These are not the hot shots who have spent the season making the play of the day, having every single one of their games televised across the nation. These are the little guys who seemed to come from nowhere because no one is really sure where exactly their little college is located.
Underdogs are inspiration all in themselves, and I think their seeming obliviousness to the futility of their goal is something that appeals to all of us. I can think of maybe two times in my athletic history where I was not the underdog, and more often than not, I was more like the six-feet-underdog. All of us can imagine being the champion, the big shot, but all of us can relate to being the nobody.
It got to the point this year where I considered not participating in the office pool next year. The conflict of interest was too much for me. I like this little team and I want to root for them, but I also like my five dollars and the opportunity of increasing it ten-fold. I'm just not sure that mere mortals are cut out for this kind of internal distress. I understand that betting in a pool is just supposed to be fun and that you're really more paying for the entertainment value. But honestly? I was already pretty entertained.
So as I wave goodbye to my money and wonder whether I got five dollars worth of entertainment filling in a bracket and then later delightedly highlighting the games I'd picked right, I look at the current standings and wonder who in the world would have ever picked an eleven seed to be in the Final Four. Probably nobody except the players' mothers. I picked them to go down in the very first round and I was noticeably quiet as I watched them upset UNC in a house full of jubilant NC State kids. I didn't bet on them before, but I'm pulling for them now.
3.22.2006
wine-y things.
Let's make it a wine three-fer, shall we?
Thing 1: Dr. Bob has met everybody.
And I mean everybody. I'm not just talking about the kind of everybodies that make wine dorks choke on their sample tastings of Cabernet with awe and jealousy. He knew Timothy Leary. Calls him Tim. He hung out with Ken Kesey. And - he used to work with the guy that played Lazar Wolf in the movie version of "Fiddler on the Roof." Okay, so Ken Kesey was probably a lot more important, but man, Lazar Wolf. Dr. Bob is awesome.
Thing 2: Science is romantic.
I'm taking only one class this semester, called Wine and Grape Science. Wine seems to be a straightforward enough beverage: you grow a grape, you squash it, you wait awhile, you name it something in french, you drink it. Voila! It's easy to forget that fermentation is a scientific phenomenon. Plus, I am here to tell you that there is a whole crapload of science behind making wine. It's true that there does not have to be: a lot of winemakers forego the scientific aspect, I suppose because it's not very romantic or because they don't know how. Ah, but science is romantic! Anyway, I'm loving this class. We do basic chemistry experiments that expose certain qualities of a wine and then we talk about how the science stuff translates into the taste of the wine. I think this is part of what I like about wine: it combines science and art. I have a similar feeling about computer science - yes, it is technical, but to be good at it, you need imagination. Wine is the same way. You can do all the measurements you want to help you along the way to great wine, but at the end of the day, you still have to taste it and judge it on very subjective terms. Me, I like to use both halves of my brain, and winemaking is a much better way to do that than, say, writing technical manuals.
Thing 3: I know what I'm doing.
I have this wine day-by-day calender for 2006 that I bought at the Dollar Tree when the year was about 1/6 over. It has various tips and trivia and wine etiquette guides, but it also occasionally has a recommendation for a bottle of wine to try. A lot of them are in $20-$30 range, which is a little high for me to buy solely based on description. But if the description sounds enticing and the price tag looks reasonable, I'll head down to my local wine superstore and pick up a bottle. There are so many wines out there that you really have to be kind of adventurous in your tasting. I was doing just that a couple weeks back - there was a $7 bottle of Spanish wine that was recommended. I found it on the shelves and noticed that right under the supply of bottles was a copy of the page from the very same calender that I had. In fact, I had a matching page in my back pocket. A salesman happened by, a little garrulous guy with a stereotypical New York accent who I like quite a bit because he's so enthusiastic. He wanted to see what I had picked out and was immediately impressed. I almost pulled out my calender page, but I was so flattered at the fact that someone thought I actually knew what I was doing in this vast and varied wine world that I decided to let the ruse stand. In fact, I was so flattered that I bought a bottle of a wine that he recommended to me based on the one I was already buying. Hrm. I bet he compliments everyone on what they're buying.
Thing 1: Dr. Bob has met everybody.
And I mean everybody. I'm not just talking about the kind of everybodies that make wine dorks choke on their sample tastings of Cabernet with awe and jealousy. He knew Timothy Leary. Calls him Tim. He hung out with Ken Kesey. And - he used to work with the guy that played Lazar Wolf in the movie version of "Fiddler on the Roof." Okay, so Ken Kesey was probably a lot more important, but man, Lazar Wolf. Dr. Bob is awesome.
Thing 2: Science is romantic.
I'm taking only one class this semester, called Wine and Grape Science. Wine seems to be a straightforward enough beverage: you grow a grape, you squash it, you wait awhile, you name it something in french, you drink it. Voila! It's easy to forget that fermentation is a scientific phenomenon. Plus, I am here to tell you that there is a whole crapload of science behind making wine. It's true that there does not have to be: a lot of winemakers forego the scientific aspect, I suppose because it's not very romantic or because they don't know how. Ah, but science is romantic! Anyway, I'm loving this class. We do basic chemistry experiments that expose certain qualities of a wine and then we talk about how the science stuff translates into the taste of the wine. I think this is part of what I like about wine: it combines science and art. I have a similar feeling about computer science - yes, it is technical, but to be good at it, you need imagination. Wine is the same way. You can do all the measurements you want to help you along the way to great wine, but at the end of the day, you still have to taste it and judge it on very subjective terms. Me, I like to use both halves of my brain, and winemaking is a much better way to do that than, say, writing technical manuals.
Thing 3: I know what I'm doing.
I have this wine day-by-day calender for 2006 that I bought at the Dollar Tree when the year was about 1/6 over. It has various tips and trivia and wine etiquette guides, but it also occasionally has a recommendation for a bottle of wine to try. A lot of them are in $20-$30 range, which is a little high for me to buy solely based on description. But if the description sounds enticing and the price tag looks reasonable, I'll head down to my local wine superstore and pick up a bottle. There are so many wines out there that you really have to be kind of adventurous in your tasting. I was doing just that a couple weeks back - there was a $7 bottle of Spanish wine that was recommended. I found it on the shelves and noticed that right under the supply of bottles was a copy of the page from the very same calender that I had. In fact, I had a matching page in my back pocket. A salesman happened by, a little garrulous guy with a stereotypical New York accent who I like quite a bit because he's so enthusiastic. He wanted to see what I had picked out and was immediately impressed. I almost pulled out my calender page, but I was so flattered at the fact that someone thought I actually knew what I was doing in this vast and varied wine world that I decided to let the ruse stand. In fact, I was so flattered that I bought a bottle of a wine that he recommended to me based on the one I was already buying. Hrm. I bet he compliments everyone on what they're buying.
3.20.2006
busted.
Last Thursday morning, I'm staring at an empty bracket, trying to decide who is favored to win in a contest between two college basketball teams which I know nothing about. Hmm, Wichita State Shockers? What kind of a mascot is that? Nah, they're never gonna win anything.
My bracket completed, I was all ready to hand it in along with my $5 to the guy who runs our office pool. I feel no remorse for the fact that I just used up fifteen minutes of company time to fill out a bracket, since this pool is obviously company-approved. They did hand out the blank brackets during a company-wide meeting and encourage everyone to participate. But before I hand in what is sure to be another losing prediction, I decide to print out another bracket so that I can make a copy of my prediction. Last year, I forgot to do this, and so I had no idea how well or badly I was doing in the pool. Okay, I knew that I was doing badly, but I like to know just how badly.
I turn to Google and type in the words "NCAA bracket." The first link that pops up is for CBS SportsLine. I click it, and am directed to my company's web page. Huh. That's weird. I hit the Back button to return to the Google results, and try hitting the CBS link again. Once again, I find myself staring at the same logo that graces the building where I now sit. This cannot be a coincidence. Suddenly, I realize: busted.
Feeling a little guilty about using company time to play games, since I've obviously now been caught at it, I go back and hit the second link that Google gave me. This time, I am able to print out a clean bracket without a glaring reminder of who paid for the 15 minutes I just spent. On my way back from the printer, I stop to talk to the web site guy. I might as well confess, now that my hands are bright red anyway.
What I didn't know was this: CBS SportsLine is streaming the games of the first three rounds live this year over their website. Our network guy, hearing of this, decided to block that site so we weren't all sitting at our desks, using up the company's bandwidth. It was only a lucky chance that Google returned the same site as the first choice for a bracket search. The network guy didn't figure that anyone would even run into the blocked site.
I was the first person to discover the block, but since all this happened to me before any games even started, my bracket story was believed, and I was declared innocent of trying to watch the games on the clock. Later that afternoon, however, Roger was not so lucky.
My bracket completed, I was all ready to hand it in along with my $5 to the guy who runs our office pool. I feel no remorse for the fact that I just used up fifteen minutes of company time to fill out a bracket, since this pool is obviously company-approved. They did hand out the blank brackets during a company-wide meeting and encourage everyone to participate. But before I hand in what is sure to be another losing prediction, I decide to print out another bracket so that I can make a copy of my prediction. Last year, I forgot to do this, and so I had no idea how well or badly I was doing in the pool. Okay, I knew that I was doing badly, but I like to know just how badly.
I turn to Google and type in the words "NCAA bracket." The first link that pops up is for CBS SportsLine. I click it, and am directed to my company's web page. Huh. That's weird. I hit the Back button to return to the Google results, and try hitting the CBS link again. Once again, I find myself staring at the same logo that graces the building where I now sit. This cannot be a coincidence. Suddenly, I realize: busted.
Feeling a little guilty about using company time to play games, since I've obviously now been caught at it, I go back and hit the second link that Google gave me. This time, I am able to print out a clean bracket without a glaring reminder of who paid for the 15 minutes I just spent. On my way back from the printer, I stop to talk to the web site guy. I might as well confess, now that my hands are bright red anyway.
What I didn't know was this: CBS SportsLine is streaming the games of the first three rounds live this year over their website. Our network guy, hearing of this, decided to block that site so we weren't all sitting at our desks, using up the company's bandwidth. It was only a lucky chance that Google returned the same site as the first choice for a bracket search. The network guy didn't figure that anyone would even run into the blocked site.
I was the first person to discover the block, but since all this happened to me before any games even started, my bracket story was believed, and I was declared innocent of trying to watch the games on the clock. Later that afternoon, however, Roger was not so lucky.
3.15.2006
puberty of a cold.
I'm in the voice alteration stage of a sinus infection. I've had enough of these things to know how they affect my body. The first day, I have a sore throat, as well as a lingering feeling of needing to hock something out of my throat without being able to. This stage is followed by a couple of days of steady coughing, sneezing, and overwhelming snot production. Then comes the voice change, which is accompanied by a decrease in the snot production, and finally, recovery.
The trouble with my current stage is that it's so much more noticeable than the others. I've been blowing my nose to the point of rawness for two days now, but when my "Good Morning" sounds like something you'd hear from a veteran smoker, people stare and ask, "Holy crap, what's wrong with you?" This question never fails to irritate me, because it's the same thing that's been wrong with me for about days now, thanks for noticing. People avoid me or start giving me suggestions for cures when I'm already on the brink of recovery. In fact, the voice change usually comes at the same time as a remarkable improvement in my well-being, so I'm actually feeling a heck of a lot better, I just sound worse. By now, it's too late for sympathy.
People at work, in their misguided efforts to make me feel better, tell me that I should go home, I'm sick! I repeatedly tell them, "I feel better than I sound." Most likely, the day when a day of rest would have benefitted me most had already passed. They urge me to go home, so much that I begin to suspect them of trying to get rid of me so that they won't catch whatever it is that is making me sound so awful. And I just think, Ha ha! You suckers, you've already caught it.
That makes me feel a little better.
The trouble with my current stage is that it's so much more noticeable than the others. I've been blowing my nose to the point of rawness for two days now, but when my "Good Morning" sounds like something you'd hear from a veteran smoker, people stare and ask, "Holy crap, what's wrong with you?" This question never fails to irritate me, because it's the same thing that's been wrong with me for about days now, thanks for noticing. People avoid me or start giving me suggestions for cures when I'm already on the brink of recovery. In fact, the voice change usually comes at the same time as a remarkable improvement in my well-being, so I'm actually feeling a heck of a lot better, I just sound worse. By now, it's too late for sympathy.
People at work, in their misguided efforts to make me feel better, tell me that I should go home, I'm sick! I repeatedly tell them, "I feel better than I sound." Most likely, the day when a day of rest would have benefitted me most had already passed. They urge me to go home, so much that I begin to suspect them of trying to get rid of me so that they won't catch whatever it is that is making me sound so awful. And I just think, Ha ha! You suckers, you've already caught it.
That makes me feel a little better.
3.09.2006
deforestation.
It's Thursday night, and I do not want to shave my legs.
This is the schedule of my existence: Monday thru Friday evening, I live a miserable Josh-less existence, spent going to work, pining, attending my wine classes, pining, and calling him up on the telephone and pining for him out loud to him. Friday afternoon, I leave work early and drive one hour and forty minutes to Raleigh. Upon my arrival in Raleigh, I spend wonderful quality Josh-full time. At 7:30 Sunday night, I sigh that I have to go soon. At 8:30 Sunday night, I say I have to go. At 9:30, I say that I really have to go, and at 9:45, I leave. Then I drive the hour and forty minutes back (stopping in Mebane to get gas and a snack). Upon my arrival home, I call Josh again to tell him that I got home safely before I pass out in my bed, only to wake up Monday morning, my heart heavy with Josh withdrawal.
You'd think I was sixteen years old.
Oh, don't worry. I know that it is ridiculous. I am fully aware that it is high school all over again. I don't care. I have the benefit of high school romance without making all the stupid mistakes that I made in high school. I make new, adult mistakes.
Mondays are the worst. Tuesdays still suck pretty bad. I start to see the light of the weekend on Wednesday, and by Thursday, I am excited because I am so close to going to Raleigh again that I can actually do prep-work. I always intend to pack on Thursday nights, but I get lazy and don't. I do shave my legs on Thursday nights. Probably the only advantage to a boyfriend you see once a week is only having to shave that often.
But now it's Thursday, and it's starting to get to be the time when I usually head to bed, but I haven't shaved my legs yet. And I don't particularly want to do it. Every time I shave my legs, I'm again amazed that it only took twenty minutes or so and wasn't really that painful. It's just getting up the impetus to do it. I am tired. I had a long day at work. I just did this crap last week. Et cetera.
I can't pretend that he won't notice. If you're not familiar with the afflictions of dark-haired females, let me just tell you that a lack of body hair is not something we suffer from. And, nice boy that he is, he'll probably pick my poor tired feet into his lap and rub them tenderly while I gaze adoringly at him, and then he'll cut his finger on my stubbly ankle hair. I suppose I could just not let him massage my feet, but what kind of a solution is that?
It's not as if he would care. He would laugh and say, "Stubbly Sandra" and then keep going. He's had serious girlfriends before, he knows the deal. He knows that girls don't have pillow fights in their underwear, he knows that we burp and sweat, and he knows that we don't shave regularly in the winter. He understands that if he is in the position to see a girl's legs in the winter, then he is in a position of privilege and he can't go complaining about the state of things.
But I am afraid to not shave. Not because he will care, but because it will seem to me that the honeymoon is over. Not the literal honeymoon, just that sweet time in the beginning of a relationship when everything is new and you still always want to be at your very best around the person. I am more than comfortable enough with him to let him see my legs unshaven, it's just the fact that I still want to be special for him.
Maybe it's too late for all that, and razors or not, the honeymoon is over. That's not so bad. I know people who call it boring, but there's a lot to be said for being completely comfortable around someone. I suppose I shouldn't worry about having hairy legs around a guy who has seen me throw up. And I admit to being strangely charmed by the way he picks his nose in front of me. I just want the best of both worlds: a man who doesn't make me feel like I have to shave my legs, but for whom I still want to.
And now that I've made you all nauseated from the syrupy state of my relationship, I'm going to go shave my legs, because it's Thursday, and I am in love.
This is the schedule of my existence: Monday thru Friday evening, I live a miserable Josh-less existence, spent going to work, pining, attending my wine classes, pining, and calling him up on the telephone and pining for him out loud to him. Friday afternoon, I leave work early and drive one hour and forty minutes to Raleigh. Upon my arrival in Raleigh, I spend wonderful quality Josh-full time. At 7:30 Sunday night, I sigh that I have to go soon. At 8:30 Sunday night, I say I have to go. At 9:30, I say that I really have to go, and at 9:45, I leave. Then I drive the hour and forty minutes back (stopping in Mebane to get gas and a snack). Upon my arrival home, I call Josh again to tell him that I got home safely before I pass out in my bed, only to wake up Monday morning, my heart heavy with Josh withdrawal.
You'd think I was sixteen years old.
Oh, don't worry. I know that it is ridiculous. I am fully aware that it is high school all over again. I don't care. I have the benefit of high school romance without making all the stupid mistakes that I made in high school. I make new, adult mistakes.
Mondays are the worst. Tuesdays still suck pretty bad. I start to see the light of the weekend on Wednesday, and by Thursday, I am excited because I am so close to going to Raleigh again that I can actually do prep-work. I always intend to pack on Thursday nights, but I get lazy and don't. I do shave my legs on Thursday nights. Probably the only advantage to a boyfriend you see once a week is only having to shave that often.
But now it's Thursday, and it's starting to get to be the time when I usually head to bed, but I haven't shaved my legs yet. And I don't particularly want to do it. Every time I shave my legs, I'm again amazed that it only took twenty minutes or so and wasn't really that painful. It's just getting up the impetus to do it. I am tired. I had a long day at work. I just did this crap last week. Et cetera.
I can't pretend that he won't notice. If you're not familiar with the afflictions of dark-haired females, let me just tell you that a lack of body hair is not something we suffer from. And, nice boy that he is, he'll probably pick my poor tired feet into his lap and rub them tenderly while I gaze adoringly at him, and then he'll cut his finger on my stubbly ankle hair. I suppose I could just not let him massage my feet, but what kind of a solution is that?
It's not as if he would care. He would laugh and say, "Stubbly Sandra" and then keep going. He's had serious girlfriends before, he knows the deal. He knows that girls don't have pillow fights in their underwear, he knows that we burp and sweat, and he knows that we don't shave regularly in the winter. He understands that if he is in the position to see a girl's legs in the winter, then he is in a position of privilege and he can't go complaining about the state of things.
But I am afraid to not shave. Not because he will care, but because it will seem to me that the honeymoon is over. Not the literal honeymoon, just that sweet time in the beginning of a relationship when everything is new and you still always want to be at your very best around the person. I am more than comfortable enough with him to let him see my legs unshaven, it's just the fact that I still want to be special for him.
Maybe it's too late for all that, and razors or not, the honeymoon is over. That's not so bad. I know people who call it boring, but there's a lot to be said for being completely comfortable around someone. I suppose I shouldn't worry about having hairy legs around a guy who has seen me throw up. And I admit to being strangely charmed by the way he picks his nose in front of me. I just want the best of both worlds: a man who doesn't make me feel like I have to shave my legs, but for whom I still want to.
And now that I've made you all nauseated from the syrupy state of my relationship, I'm going to go shave my legs, because it's Thursday, and I am in love.
3.08.2006
let it go.
A spacious, but windowless office, late afternoon. A young, attractive, yet completely competant-looking woman is sitting at a large desk working on her computer. New Trainee enters, Sandra makes a hasty yet deft movement with her mouse to hide the internet browser.
New Trainee: I need a short function for the install that finds the parent directory.
Sandra: Oh, actually, I have one. I wrote it a while back. I'll email it to you.
New Trainee exits. Ten minutes pass.
New Trainee: Hey, Sandra, that code you sent me doesn't work.
Sandra's eye twitches.
Sandra: It doesn't work? What does it do?
New Trainee: It gets the grandparent directory, the one above the one I want. I was going to modify it but I didn't understand the code.
Sandra's eye twitches again, more noticeably this time.
Sandra: Oh. I wrote that a while back, so I don't really remember it much. If it's getting the wrong directory, you can just modify it to get the child directory of the one it's getting now.
New Trainee: Also, it doesn't work if there's a backslash at the end.
Sandra: There's a function to remove the last backslash, just use that.
New Trainee: Oh yeah, I've used that before. Well, it still doesn't get, I mean it doesn't work anyway.
Sandra: Okay, then modify the code so that it does.
New Trainee: Oh, okay. (Exits.)
Sandra sighs heavily. She is obviously facing the internal struggle of going into New Trainee's office and demanding to see hard evidence that her beautiful code does not work versus acting like a regular human being and minding her own business. Her eye begins to twitch every few seconds, she taps her fingers on the keyboard without typing anything, and her jaw is set.
Sandra(chanting softly to herself): Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
Sandra sighs in resignation and writes frustrated blog entry, knowing that readers will have no choice but to assume that her code is always flawless and that New Trainee is just an idiot. She does not feel better.
New Trainee: I need a short function for the install that finds the parent directory.
Sandra: Oh, actually, I have one. I wrote it a while back. I'll email it to you.
New Trainee exits. Ten minutes pass.
New Trainee: Hey, Sandra, that code you sent me doesn't work.
Sandra's eye twitches.
Sandra: It doesn't work? What does it do?
New Trainee: It gets the grandparent directory, the one above the one I want. I was going to modify it but I didn't understand the code.
Sandra's eye twitches again, more noticeably this time.
Sandra: Oh. I wrote that a while back, so I don't really remember it much. If it's getting the wrong directory, you can just modify it to get the child directory of the one it's getting now.
New Trainee: Also, it doesn't work if there's a backslash at the end.
Sandra: There's a function to remove the last backslash, just use that.
New Trainee: Oh yeah, I've used that before. Well, it still doesn't get, I mean it doesn't work anyway.
Sandra: Okay, then modify the code so that it does.
New Trainee: Oh, okay. (Exits.)
Sandra sighs heavily. She is obviously facing the internal struggle of going into New Trainee's office and demanding to see hard evidence that her beautiful code does not work versus acting like a regular human being and minding her own business. Her eye begins to twitch every few seconds, she taps her fingers on the keyboard without typing anything, and her jaw is set.
Sandra(chanting softly to herself): Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
Sandra sighs in resignation and writes frustrated blog entry, knowing that readers will have no choice but to assume that her code is always flawless and that New Trainee is just an idiot. She does not feel better.
3.06.2006
ice cubes.
Another drunken New Year's, this one two years ago. I don't remember what I was drinking, some cocktail of expensive colored vodka and a soda. I was drunk. I'd been drunk before and I've been drunk since. Most times I enjoy it. But there's this line that gets crossed after so many drinks where I'm not in control anymore and then I don't like it at all. That night, I was well beyond that line, sitting on a table, a big round one with one center leg and a fat base supporting it. Abandoned drinks and party favors sat on the table with me, as did a friend of mine, also very drunk. A close encounter with the toilet was in his near future. We were just sitting there, taking it in, neither of us in much of a state to make conversation. Then I felt everything shifting in slow motion, like when you fall in a dream: you can't observe it any real way, but you know somehow that it's happening without being able to do anything to stop it. I managed to stand up before everything came down, but gravity got the best of the table and all its other occupants. Glassware and ice everywhere. Everyone shouted in surprise and then laughed jovially at us, look at dumb drunk Sandra, she flipped a table. I was so confused, about alcohol, about the mess, about gravity, about the disapproving stare my boyfriend was giving me from across the room. People swarmed around us to help right the table and clean up the mess; alcohol inspires a certain comraderie among people. Miraculously, nothing was broken, and once the glassware was picked up, people lost interest in the cleaning endeavor and went back to their memorable night in the making. Except me. There was still ice everywhere and I was still in a fog, my mind receiving so much stimuli that I was unable to understand any of it. So I got down on the floor and picked up ice cubes, one at a time, putting them in a red plastic Solo cup. There was all this...this...this crap going on and I couldn't comprehend any of it, but I could pick up ice cubes. I could focus on ice cubes, one at a time, into the red cup until the mess was gone.
And sometimes I don't even have to be drunk to feel like that, to not feel in control even enough to sort out the things I'm seeing and hearing and feeling and tasting and smelling. Then I just have to figure out a way to sit down on the floor with my red plastic Solo cup and pick up all the ice cubes, one at a time, into the red cup until the mess is gone.
And sometimes I don't even have to be drunk to feel like that, to not feel in control even enough to sort out the things I'm seeing and hearing and feeling and tasting and smelling. Then I just have to figure out a way to sit down on the floor with my red plastic Solo cup and pick up all the ice cubes, one at a time, into the red cup until the mess is gone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)