Change is… well, it's just change.
So I started this excellent new job (yes, yay!) and I’m doing training. God, do I hate training. The only thing I hate more then being trained is training others – it’s EXHAUSTING and takes FOREVER and can never really be ORGANIZED and makes me put things into ALL CAPITAL LETTERS… But hey, at least when you’re the doof being trained (me=doof) you’ve got a couple of weeks where you can keep falling back on the classic excuse: “I’m new. I don’t know nuthin.”
The old job was in the finance area. This new one is in a hospital.
CAVEAT: I’m not a doctor, nor am I playing one on TV. Or here at this job. Nor am I a nurse, or a therapist or ANYTHING ELSE THAT REALLY MATTERS. So please, don’t bother asking any questions about “what does it mean when…” or “is it bad if…” or even the classic “it hurts when I do this.” (seriously, why do these people keep doing that?) I don’t have any answers for you. My position is administrative, and not the impressive “I’m in charge of this area – I’m the administrator!” (which is heard in a big, awesome, booming voice) kind of way. I’m administrative in the “Jean, take a memo.” kind of way. If you want help with formatting your letter or creating an Excel spreadsheet or ordering office supplies, I’m your girl. Otherwise ask Dr. Spock. He knows everything. (ok, so just there? My geek was totally showing.)
This new job is in a hospital. And here are some interesting differences between any other office job I’ve ever had and one in a hospital:
1. Everyone pays attention to how often you wash your hands. To an almost obsessive degree. Now if I were working with patients or other sick people I’d understand that. Or even if I were serving food! But I’m mostly typing and making copies, so who cares if I scrubbed my digits for a full 30 seconds or not? It’s strange.
2. You really need to know when you’re addressing a doctor and when you aren’t. Because if you call someone “Mr. Amazo” and he’s really “DOCTOR Amazo”? Yeah, he will remove your spleen. Right there. With his eyes of death. On the one hand I want to reply with a well-phrased “paging Doctor Massive, Earth-Dwarfing Ego!!” but I guess I’d want the kudos too if I went to school forever, ever, ever. Or if I held the power of life and death in my bare hands. Whatever.
3. Every writing implement in the joint has the name of a pharmacy on it. And pharmacy pens are fascinating: they’re always ball-of-point, always, and they’re brightly colored, and always a combination of these bright colors. Like the pen on my keyboard is orange and pink and sports a word that is at once both hip and trendy sounding while also sounding vaguely latinesque. Also? They run out of ink in about 4 seconds. In the time it would take me to write the full name of the drug they’re promoting I’d be out of ink. So every meeting I've been to so far has a constant stream of "do you have a pen I could borrow?" running through it.
4. Your friends' medical lives are no longer private, because you keep running into them in the halls. "Hey, I didn't know you were pregnant! Or have mono! Or filling out that perscription for penicilin!" Awkward...
5. The other things you see in the halls are sometimes bleeding and sometimes crying and sometimes about to share their tummy-insideness... These and many more things are things that you just don't see at the bank/realtor/library/marketing firm, etc. I'm perfecting my "I'm looking you generally in the face so as to not be rude but not looking you actually in the eye because if I do that I'll have to look at where you used to have 2 eyes but now have a number less then 2. In the eye department. And then not stare. but not look away. Wow, how are we still not to your floor???" mojo. because I don't want to be cold or mean, but I also don't want to be rude. and I think they still consider it rude to stare-stare-STARE with your mouth open and a horified-yet-fascinated expression on your face. Right? Miss Manners? Anyone?
Many things are the same for this office job as most others. However, the different things are pretty different. and be so proud of me: I haven't once told any of the doctors with whom I work that "it hurts when I do that." Not once! I'm so VERY strong!
Friday, August 31, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Will the real Mr. Wonderful please stand up!
So here I sit, with one fellow who seems very intent on meeting me (about which a sane person would say “how flattering!” but I say “clear signs of his lack of good judgment and/or questionable sanity”) and another fellow who is so off-limits as to be made of cyanide-laced-plutonium-snake-bullets! And of course I’m most giggly about Dr. Cyanide.
Don’t worry – I’m not crazy myself (although I play one on tv). Never shall I poop where I also eat. (ew.) But it’s the difference between the known commodity (i.e. I know this forbidden fruit is smart and handsome and successful and cool, and did I mention he winks? He’s a champion winker? Sigh about the winking.) vs. the unknown commodity (i.e. online dude who could look like Lurch or be as talkative as Lurch or as successful as Lurch or be in any manner Lurchfull.) I go towards what I already know, even when I also already know that what I know is a no-go.
But correct me if I’m wrong: the winking was dirty pool on Dr. Cyanide’s part, yes? I mean, he also knows that he’s fruit of the No-No-No-No-No variety, so why must he tease?
The Queen suggested (because how smart is she? Oh so smart!) that I peek at his left hand. And I will. Even though I a little bit don’t want to know, because of COURSE he’s married and probably a Dad and therefore even more cyanidey and plutoniumish. That’s too much evidence and I wouldn’t even be able to fantasize anymore. Right now I can get a total Pretty Woman/Working Girl/Name Your Completely Unrealistic Chick Flick Where The Girl Does What Nobody Should Do and Wins Anyway Here-type fantasy going when I need a little pick-me-up.
But once I know he’s married? I will fantasize no more.
I tried to fantasize about Potential Dude, but I can’t shed the certain feeling that anybody found through this channel couldn’t possibly be a winner. My fantasies about Potential Dude normally end up with him borrowing money, or possibly my car. To pick up the drums. For his band. Which someday will totally be the next Megadeath or Starland Vocal Band. (shudder)
ANYWAY, by this weekend I’m guessing that one man will be officially married and the other officially crazy/creepy/crappy, and so I guess I should really enjoy this, the week of wacky, faboo potential! The week where my fantasy life could be of a mysterious stranger who pursues me (and may or may not be a millionaire or prince of a foreign land!) or a handsome professional type who’s a total sweetie, and the exciting prospect of fruit all “hands-offy!”
Don’t worry – I’m not crazy myself (although I play one on tv). Never shall I poop where I also eat. (ew.) But it’s the difference between the known commodity (i.e. I know this forbidden fruit is smart and handsome and successful and cool, and did I mention he winks? He’s a champion winker? Sigh about the winking.) vs. the unknown commodity (i.e. online dude who could look like Lurch or be as talkative as Lurch or as successful as Lurch or be in any manner Lurchfull.) I go towards what I already know, even when I also already know that what I know is a no-go.
But correct me if I’m wrong: the winking was dirty pool on Dr. Cyanide’s part, yes? I mean, he also knows that he’s fruit of the No-No-No-No-No variety, so why must he tease?
The Queen suggested (because how smart is she? Oh so smart!) that I peek at his left hand. And I will. Even though I a little bit don’t want to know, because of COURSE he’s married and probably a Dad and therefore even more cyanidey and plutoniumish. That’s too much evidence and I wouldn’t even be able to fantasize anymore. Right now I can get a total Pretty Woman/Working Girl/Name Your Completely Unrealistic Chick Flick Where The Girl Does What Nobody Should Do and Wins Anyway Here-type fantasy going when I need a little pick-me-up.
But once I know he’s married? I will fantasize no more.
I tried to fantasize about Potential Dude, but I can’t shed the certain feeling that anybody found through this channel couldn’t possibly be a winner. My fantasies about Potential Dude normally end up with him borrowing money, or possibly my car. To pick up the drums. For his band. Which someday will totally be the next Megadeath or Starland Vocal Band. (shudder)
ANYWAY, by this weekend I’m guessing that one man will be officially married and the other officially crazy/creepy/crappy, and so I guess I should really enjoy this, the week of wacky, faboo potential! The week where my fantasy life could be of a mysterious stranger who pursues me (and may or may not be a millionaire or prince of a foreign land!) or a handsome professional type who’s a total sweetie, and the exciting prospect of fruit all “hands-offy!”
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Good, solid advice
OK, so some of you out there may be starting new jobs, like I am, and you want to start things out RIGHT. And I applaud that! Starting things out right is highly underrated! There are all sorts of good lessons that people just don't think to learn, and that will help you with the starting of things out-rightly!
For instance, be sure to learn people's names as soon as you can.
Oh, and try to take notes, lots of notes.
And never, ever, ever GET A CRUSH ON SOMEONE WHO IS KIND OF YOUR BOSS.
Oh no, you would never do that. Only a complete idiot would let themselves develop any kind of flitty, heart-poundy headrush just because a boss-type-person comes up and grabs their hand. Only a COMPLETE idiot. Because how dumb really? Dumb like "ooh, look, a fan! What happens when I stick my tongue into the blades? Surprise and horror -- it hurt? Wow, so not expected!" dumb. Like "hello Mr. Fork, please meet the insides of Mrs. Toaster!" dumb.
You, my smart and sensible friends, would never catch yourself looking way too deeply into some handsome boss-type's eyes just because he's looking right back at you (a little too intensely) and then realize that the last part of what he was saying was something you should have been writing down and weren't and now you have to come up with an excuse for why he needs to repeat that part since you were, after all, STARING RIGHT AT HIM, SEEMING FOR ALL THE WORLD TO BE LISTENING TO EVERYTHING THAT HE SAID! No, no, no you would NOT.
What else could I suggest for you and your out right starting of things? Well, it’s good to ask questions, lots of questions. Be sure to start off as organized as possible. Be optimistic – everyone likes the cheerful Charlie.
I saw that! Not EVERYONE! Bosses on whom you should not be crushing don’t like cheerful Charlie, or maybe they do, but even so you should be crush-free there! No crushes, none! No crushing in the workplace at all! That way you won’t meet someone and think they’re crushy and get intrigued and then find out “oh yeah, that guy? That’s someone who is kind of a boss of yours. Yeah, he is nice, isn’t he?” and then have to boil your own head.
You already know that smart, handsome, friendly boss-types are going to be married anyway, and probably with kids or something, and so even if they weren't a boss-type (and therefore totally off limits anyway) they'd STILL be a foolish choice for crushing upon. Because you are smart and wise and don't sit around thinking up new and marvelous ways to make your life even more absurd and (I may have mentioned this, but because it bears repeating) DUMB, DUMB, D-U-U-U-U-U-U-M-B-B-B-B!!!!
Oh, and be sure to wash your hands. Because at least you have your health. Good luck with the new job!
For instance, be sure to learn people's names as soon as you can.
Oh, and try to take notes, lots of notes.
And never, ever, ever GET A CRUSH ON SOMEONE WHO IS KIND OF YOUR BOSS.
Oh no, you would never do that. Only a complete idiot would let themselves develop any kind of flitty, heart-poundy headrush just because a boss-type-person comes up and grabs their hand. Only a COMPLETE idiot. Because how dumb really? Dumb like "ooh, look, a fan! What happens when I stick my tongue into the blades? Surprise and horror -- it hurt? Wow, so not expected!" dumb. Like "hello Mr. Fork, please meet the insides of Mrs. Toaster!" dumb.
You, my smart and sensible friends, would never catch yourself looking way too deeply into some handsome boss-type's eyes just because he's looking right back at you (a little too intensely) and then realize that the last part of what he was saying was something you should have been writing down and weren't and now you have to come up with an excuse for why he needs to repeat that part since you were, after all, STARING RIGHT AT HIM, SEEMING FOR ALL THE WORLD TO BE LISTENING TO EVERYTHING THAT HE SAID! No, no, no you would NOT.
What else could I suggest for you and your out right starting of things? Well, it’s good to ask questions, lots of questions. Be sure to start off as organized as possible. Be optimistic – everyone likes the cheerful Charlie.
I saw that! Not EVERYONE! Bosses on whom you should not be crushing don’t like cheerful Charlie, or maybe they do, but even so you should be crush-free there! No crushes, none! No crushing in the workplace at all! That way you won’t meet someone and think they’re crushy and get intrigued and then find out “oh yeah, that guy? That’s someone who is kind of a boss of yours. Yeah, he is nice, isn’t he?” and then have to boil your own head.
You already know that smart, handsome, friendly boss-types are going to be married anyway, and probably with kids or something, and so even if they weren't a boss-type (and therefore totally off limits anyway) they'd STILL be a foolish choice for crushing upon. Because you are smart and wise and don't sit around thinking up new and marvelous ways to make your life even more absurd and (I may have mentioned this, but because it bears repeating) DUMB, DUMB, D-U-U-U-U-U-U-M-B-B-B-B!!!!
Oh, and be sure to wash your hands. Because at least you have your health. Good luck with the new job!
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Putting the blame squarely where it belongs.
First, this is totally the fault of The Queen. Except that it's the fault of me because I'm foolish enough to listen to her. And also I was foolish enough to start this damned online thing in the first place. But in the end? We’re blaming The Queen.
For what? For the fact that I just sent an email to Potential Dude agreeing to the first meeting.
Of course now I’m crafting just the right E-pology for when I come to my senses and don’t actually meet him. KIDDING! (probably)
The meeting won’t happen all that soon – this weekend was already booked to the gills and I never have available time on Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays – so I have several days to think about this. And thinking about this is the worst thing for Mr. Potential. Because given enough time it’s entirely possible that I’ll come to senses of some sort. My gut says “poop idea” and if I go with my gut I don’t go to meet Potential Dude.
But I do go, and why do I go? I go for you guys. For you, my trusty readers in Seattle and Minneapolis and Silverton and Chicago… For you, my noble, lovely, witty and clever readers I will go and meet this silly, silly man.
But you can’t make me like it.
For what? For the fact that I just sent an email to Potential Dude agreeing to the first meeting.
Of course now I’m crafting just the right E-pology for when I come to my senses and don’t actually meet him. KIDDING! (probably)
The meeting won’t happen all that soon – this weekend was already booked to the gills and I never have available time on Mondays, Tuesdays or Wednesdays – so I have several days to think about this. And thinking about this is the worst thing for Mr. Potential. Because given enough time it’s entirely possible that I’ll come to senses of some sort. My gut says “poop idea” and if I go with my gut I don’t go to meet Potential Dude.
But I do go, and why do I go? I go for you guys. For you, my trusty readers in Seattle and Minneapolis and Silverton and Chicago… For you, my noble, lovely, witty and clever readers I will go and meet this silly, silly man.
But you can’t make me like it.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Where I get a question with no good answers...
OK, so this guy really likes to ask questions. Questions, questions, questions. "Who was the first host of SNL?" (George Carlin) "Who was the only President to have ever been divorced?" (Ronald Reagan) "Hey, why don't we meet face to face?"
Ummm, what?
4 days? 6 messages? And we're meeting? Woah! That seems awfully fast to me, especially from a guy who doesn't even show up on film! Meet already? Yeah, I'm not crazy about that idea. Because 5 days ago I didn't even know this guy existed! And all I know now is that he also seems to be an enthusiast of trivia (or is skilled at finding interesting trivia questions on Google, which is a different kind of quality but a quality too I guess) and likes to move fast!
Also did I mention that I'm a little bit nervous by the sheer level of contact so far? Do the math -- 4 days, but 6 messages. That means that at least once there was more then one message in a given day. And in fact there were actually 3 messages on this one day! Three messages? I was gearing up to send a reply along the lines of "dude, you really need to pace yourself" when the third one dropped "hey, let's meet" on my head.
Now I have to admit that I don't even have any time at all to meet him even if I was yippy-skippy about the idea. Like no time at all for the next 3-4 days, so at least I have an easy and honest excuse to give him. Which gives me some time to figure out what else to tell him, but really? I'm not excited about going to "let's meet" already.
Right now I'm still totally, totally safe. This guy could be completely sanity-free (now with less impulse control, but still all the same great taste!) and it wouldn't really be any kind of problem for me. But it's like watching a scary movie -- once I shatter that fourth wall my illusion of safety is bye, bye!
Sigh. I wish this were more fun. Felt less like work, or obligation. It seems like a bad sign when replying to suitor's emails reminds me of homework. And right now this is one of those terrible word problems -- "Steve meets a girl online and sends her 6 messages in 4 days. He then asks to travel 7 miles to meet her at 8pm. How many episodes of Primetime Crime have started this way?" -- and I don't have any answer just yet.
Ummm, what?
4 days? 6 messages? And we're meeting? Woah! That seems awfully fast to me, especially from a guy who doesn't even show up on film! Meet already? Yeah, I'm not crazy about that idea. Because 5 days ago I didn't even know this guy existed! And all I know now is that he also seems to be an enthusiast of trivia (or is skilled at finding interesting trivia questions on Google, which is a different kind of quality but a quality too I guess) and likes to move fast!
Also did I mention that I'm a little bit nervous by the sheer level of contact so far? Do the math -- 4 days, but 6 messages. That means that at least once there was more then one message in a given day. And in fact there were actually 3 messages on this one day! Three messages? I was gearing up to send a reply along the lines of "dude, you really need to pace yourself" when the third one dropped "hey, let's meet" on my head.
Now I have to admit that I don't even have any time at all to meet him even if I was yippy-skippy about the idea. Like no time at all for the next 3-4 days, so at least I have an easy and honest excuse to give him. Which gives me some time to figure out what else to tell him, but really? I'm not excited about going to "let's meet" already.
Right now I'm still totally, totally safe. This guy could be completely sanity-free (now with less impulse control, but still all the same great taste!) and it wouldn't really be any kind of problem for me. But it's like watching a scary movie -- once I shatter that fourth wall my illusion of safety is bye, bye!
Sigh. I wish this were more fun. Felt less like work, or obligation. It seems like a bad sign when replying to suitor's emails reminds me of homework. And right now this is one of those terrible word problems -- "Steve meets a girl online and sends her 6 messages in 4 days. He then asks to travel 7 miles to meet her at 8pm. How many episodes of Primetime Crime have started this way?" -- and I don't have any answer just yet.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Danger, Will Me-binson
For a minute last night (yes, the same night!) I thought Potential Dude had ruined it. He started out pretty strong, with a clever and even pseudo-charming message and references to pop culture and such, and even with the smoking (cannot tell you what a turn-off that is, because yuck-yuck-YUUUUUUUCK!!!) and the age question I was officially intrigued. I even replied, which I’d been pretty sure would NEVER happen.
Then, about half an hour later, this weird thing happens. My browser pops up this little window without me saying “hey browser, pop up a little window won’t you?” and when it develops all the way it turns out to be some kind of magic talking box. And the talker is Potential Dude and the message is instant and says something like “send me your email address so you can tell me!” and I went “Gah!” followed immediately by “DIE INSTANT MESSAGEY BOX!!!!” and clicked it dead!
Now, were Beautiful Dreamer in my place she’d have been very excited about this additional, this spontaneous and this super-speedy contact. But for me? Too much! I just sent you an reply not more then 30 minutes ago and you’re clamoring for more? And you want my email address? Way, way too much, Mr. Potential Dude!
Here’s the thing: I LOVE me some internet, don’t get me wrong! I think it’s just about the most amazing invention of my whole life, right after Fudgicles and that powdery chemical candy that you eat with the candy stick, right? But I’m also CONSTANTLY aware of the massive population of whackadoodle nut-chiladas out there! If they did a poll of the internet to find out the ratio of doodle-bugs to non-doodle-bugs I’m sure it would be 50/50 IF THE RATIONAL PEOPLE ARE LUCKY! And OF the population of scary-freaky-odd-sad-broken-crazy-gahgahgahgah-types out on the net, I’m sure close to 200% of them are searching the online dating universe for a partner.
And at this point someone out there is all “hey, YOU’RE out there searching for a partner on the web. Are you saying there’s something wrong with you?” And I’m all “are you NEW? HELLO!!! Of course I know there’s stuff wrong with me! I’m Lady High Empress of the Whackadoodles, keeper of the scepter of RBBRRBBBRRBBRRBBRR!!!” and you’re all “what, you really think there’s something so weird about you?” and I’m all “didn’t you read this post? And this one? And pick any post you want, they all scream “Run from the crazy single lady before she snares you with her box of nasty sarcasm and pudding!” and you’re all “wha- um, I don’t… I mean I just, uh, er, I um-“ and I’m all “Woopity, whoopity, whoopidy! Lookit me, I’m all invisible! Somebody catch that giant flying turnip because it took my cheese-shoes!”…
But enough about me.
This morning there were another two messages. Twice the number of messages I was going for. 200% more messages then I’d been looking to get. And at this point I’m expecting “You’re so excellent, what should we name the first baby?, I don’t want you to spend so much time with your girlfriends anymore, does this dress make me look fat?” and I don’t even want to OPEN the messages.
Don’t worry, I finally opened them and they were fine. Lots more questions – I think this guy thinks he can take me in a pop culture challenge! – but mostly normal. So I sent another reply today. This is bordering on conversational at this point, folks.
Then, about half an hour later, this weird thing happens. My browser pops up this little window without me saying “hey browser, pop up a little window won’t you?” and when it develops all the way it turns out to be some kind of magic talking box. And the talker is Potential Dude and the message is instant and says something like “send me your email address so you can tell me
Now, were Beautiful Dreamer in my place she’d have been very excited about this additional, this spontaneous and this super-speedy contact. But for me? Too much! I just sent you an reply not more then 30 minutes ago and you’re clamoring for more? And you want my email address? Way, way too much, Mr. Potential Dude!
Here’s the thing: I LOVE me some internet, don’t get me wrong! I think it’s just about the most amazing invention of my whole life, right after Fudgicles and that powdery chemical candy that you eat with the candy stick, right? But I’m also CONSTANTLY aware of the massive population of whackadoodle nut-chiladas out there! If they did a poll of the internet to find out the ratio of doodle-bugs to non-doodle-bugs I’m sure it would be 50/50 IF THE RATIONAL PEOPLE ARE LUCKY! And OF the population of scary-freaky-odd-sad-broken-crazy-gahgahgahgah-types out on the net, I’m sure close to 200% of them are searching the online dating universe for a partner.
And at this point someone out there is all “hey, YOU’RE out there searching for a partner on the web. Are you saying there’s something wrong with you?” And I’m all “are you NEW? HELLO!!! Of course I know there’s stuff wrong with me! I’m Lady High Empress of the Whackadoodles, keeper of the scepter of RBBRRBBBRRBBRRBBRR!!!” and you’re all “what, you really think there’s something so weird about you?” and I’m all “didn’t you read this post? And this one? And pick any post you want, they all scream “Run from the crazy single lady before she snares you with her box of nasty sarcasm and pudding!” and you’re all “wha- um, I don’t… I mean I just, uh, er, I um-“ and I’m all “Woopity, whoopity, whoopidy! Lookit me, I’m all invisible! Somebody catch that giant flying turnip because it took my cheese-shoes!”…
But enough about me.
This morning there were another two messages. Twice the number of messages I was going for. 200% more messages then I’d been looking to get. And at this point I’m expecting “You’re so excellent, what should we name the first baby?, I don’t want you to spend so much time with your girlfriends anymore, does this dress make me look fat?” and I don’t even want to OPEN the messages.
Don’t worry, I finally opened them and they were fine. Lots more questions – I think this guy thinks he can take me in a pop culture challenge! – but mostly normal. So I sent another reply today. This is bordering on conversational at this point, folks.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Houston, we have contact.
Get this: the only thing freakier then going for months and months and not getting an interesting messages? Turns out it's getting an interesting message.
My cheery little email tells me I have a message (more then a nod, better then a wink, less creepy then "eye contact" -- an actual message) from someone on fweewove.com, and in my usual jaded form I approach it with grains and nuggets and boulders of salt. And first thing I notice is this guy also likes to reference being a father in his username, which I still find kind of creepy. So I'm now even more shoulder-chippy.
And this shoulder-chippiness? It’s comfortable. I am relieved this guy is also flawed. Just like everyone else so far. I proceed to find the rest of the flaws so I can craft yet another mocky-mockiting blog post.
But then I read the actual message, and weeelllll crap. He says many of the right things, the bastard! Like he knew some of the authors that I’d referenced and challenged my assertion that I will kick pop culture expert butt on Vh1 (rather then thinking, as any rational person would, “what a sad, sad little woman to have this be a goal.”) and included “going to car races” and “swearing” as things he enjoys to do. Which means there would be things that we could do together! (“we totally cussed this guy out, and it was so romantic we ran home and had racecar sex!”)
But guess what? Not being able to reject the guy was MUCH more freaky then the freaky guys with horns and hooks and dog lovers. Did I mention big old crap? Because CRAP!
I found some things that are definite drawbacks (like dude, if they say they want someone who doesn’t smoke at all I’m not sure it works well to state that “you’re quitting. Again.”) and also he’s older then the oldest guy I said I wanted to meet and might be a vampire (no picture. I know, I know! I totally know!) and he MIGHT be a janitor (and I know it would be wrong of me to reject someone for being a janitor, but I’d probably do it as I am a very bad person) so I’m not web-surfing for china patterns or anything.
But I did reply.
And then thought seriously about puking.
So just when I thought it was time to change the focus of this blog to something more productive (cooking with your feet, snipe-breeding, my feelings about the socio-economic developments in lower-upper-WhosisWhatsis-a-Topia…) something might finally be happening. On the free site, no less!
Needless to say, my peoples, I’ll keep you posted. (except for the puking. I’ll keep that to myself. Which you know is a lie. I keep nothing but the names of the innocent to myself. And sometimes the puking.)
My cheery little email tells me I have a message (more then a nod, better then a wink, less creepy then "eye contact" -- an actual message) from someone on fweewove.com, and in my usual jaded form I approach it with grains and nuggets and boulders of salt. And first thing I notice is this guy also likes to reference being a father in his username, which I still find kind of creepy. So I'm now even more shoulder-chippy.
And this shoulder-chippiness? It’s comfortable. I am relieved this guy is also flawed. Just like everyone else so far. I proceed to find the rest of the flaws so I can craft yet another mocky-mockiting blog post.
But then I read the actual message, and weeelllll crap. He says many of the right things, the bastard! Like he knew some of the authors that I’d referenced and challenged my assertion that I will kick pop culture expert butt on Vh1 (rather then thinking, as any rational person would, “what a sad, sad little woman to have this be a goal.”) and included “going to car races” and “swearing” as things he enjoys to do. Which means there would be things that we could do together! (“we totally cussed this guy out, and it was so romantic we ran home and had racecar sex!”)
But guess what? Not being able to reject the guy was MUCH more freaky then the freaky guys with horns and hooks and dog lovers. Did I mention big old crap? Because CRAP!
I found some things that are definite drawbacks (like dude, if they say they want someone who doesn’t smoke at all I’m not sure it works well to state that “you’re quitting. Again.”) and also he’s older then the oldest guy I said I wanted to meet and might be a vampire (no picture. I know, I know! I totally know!) and he MIGHT be a janitor (and I know it would be wrong of me to reject someone for being a janitor, but I’d probably do it as I am a very bad person) so I’m not web-surfing for china patterns or anything.
But I did reply.
And then thought seriously about puking.
So just when I thought it was time to change the focus of this blog to something more productive (cooking with your feet, snipe-breeding, my feelings about the socio-economic developments in lower-upper-WhosisWhatsis-a-Topia…) something might finally be happening. On the free site, no less!
Needless to say, my peoples, I’ll keep you posted. (except for the puking. I’ll keep that to myself. Which you know is a lie. I keep nothing but the names of the innocent to myself. And sometimes the puking.)
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Horns. The man is sporting danged horns.
So not kidding. I checked out who's lookin' at me on freewove.com and hey, lookit that: a dude wearing H-O-R-N-S. Also, not little pudgy horns like the devil wears when they dress him in an Italian suit and silk tie, no no! Picture Bullwinkle. Then double-it. Now imagine him looking at me on his computer. Also did I mention the kilt? It would be wrong of me not to mention it, as nothing goes with horns like a kilt.
So I had to know who hornyman was! Yeah I clicked on him -- wouldn't you? Well the horns are certainly the gateway to his wacky-osity, but there's plenty of fun to sift through. He's a pagan, he doesn't drink but he DOES take certain "herbs", he named his kid after a color, and not a common color... I won't give any names, of course, so let's just call his kid Peuce. Or possibly Ochre. (and please don't lose sight of the horns! "OK little Persimmon, tell the rest of the class something about your daddy?" "My daddy is horny!")
Final straw: the question posed by the website (by which one is supposed to get a better idea of your eternal you) was "what is on your coffee table?" answer: "D&D figures and many differently-shaped dice." Check please!
And so the hunt continues.
So I had to know who hornyman was! Yeah I clicked on him -- wouldn't you? Well the horns are certainly the gateway to his wacky-osity, but there's plenty of fun to sift through. He's a pagan, he doesn't drink but he DOES take certain "herbs", he named his kid after a color, and not a common color... I won't give any names, of course, so let's just call his kid Peuce. Or possibly Ochre. (and please don't lose sight of the horns! "OK little Persimmon, tell the rest of the class something about your daddy?" "My daddy is horny!")
Final straw: the question posed by the website (by which one is supposed to get a better idea of your eternal you) was "what is on your coffee table?" answer: "D&D figures and many differently-shaped dice." Check please!
And so the hunt continues.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Sisters are doin' it by themselves!
Where the hell have I been, right? I mean dang, it’s been something like a week, right? Yeah, even I’m disgusted with myself. I am a bad, bad blogger.
But see, here’s the deal: last weekend I did all of the least “searching for a guy” things that I could. I drove hours and hours away from my typical hunting grounds; I gathered around me only other women, and most of them married and often mommied; I barricaded myself (we/ourselves) into a fancy house with scented soaps and fancy towels and shelves and shelves of chick flicks and ABBA cds for three days; and we CRAFTED.
Some chums, some gal-pals if you will, and I spent the weekend at this Crafter’s B&B right on a big body of water, and we just did our respective crafty things from Friday afternoon straight through until Sunday afternoon. So NOT a guy time. The estrogen levels in that place would have given boobs to a rock. Also I’m pleased to report that everyone played nice! You know how it is with a group of women – we should be so danged civilized and reasonable, and yet 9 times out of 10 the whole thing ends up with hair pulling and eye gouging. So disappointing.
However this weekend was drama-free! Not that we were all inseparable – I’ll admit that it was kind of funny to watch everyone quietly judge our officially damaged party member while she crafted on and on, oblivious and yet also still so darned da-a-a-a-ama-a-a-a-aged – but we all got along super-good and shared in-jokes… On the fun-o-meter this was a 6-snort weekend!
Plus bonus: I didn’t think about men at all the whole time. Not once did I think about “how can I find a new way to make a connection with someone packing a roll of quarters?” I didn’t stress about checking the dating websites or “should I wink back? Should I nudge? Would coyly waving my fingers from beneath a huge brimmed hat be the way to go?” All this online flirting is exhausting and, frankly, NOT ALWAYS FUN! I’d even go so far as to describe it, of late, as workity-work-work! Sigh.
Anyway, I appreciate you guys giving me a little time off from the daily grind (say it with me now: dirty!) and now that my girly-weekend is finished I’ll get back to the job at hand. I do have a few new ideas, and apparently there’s a whole new pack of round, goofy, hunter-golfers waiting to hear from me, so…
But see, here’s the deal: last weekend I did all of the least “searching for a guy” things that I could. I drove hours and hours away from my typical hunting grounds; I gathered around me only other women, and most of them married and often mommied; I barricaded myself (we/ourselves) into a fancy house with scented soaps and fancy towels and shelves and shelves of chick flicks and ABBA cds for three days; and we CRAFTED.
Some chums, some gal-pals if you will, and I spent the weekend at this Crafter’s B&B right on a big body of water, and we just did our respective crafty things from Friday afternoon straight through until Sunday afternoon. So NOT a guy time. The estrogen levels in that place would have given boobs to a rock. Also I’m pleased to report that everyone played nice! You know how it is with a group of women – we should be so danged civilized and reasonable, and yet 9 times out of 10 the whole thing ends up with hair pulling and eye gouging. So disappointing.
However this weekend was drama-free! Not that we were all inseparable – I’ll admit that it was kind of funny to watch everyone quietly judge our officially damaged party member while she crafted on and on, oblivious and yet also still so darned da-a-a-a-ama-a-a-a-aged – but we all got along super-good and shared in-jokes… On the fun-o-meter this was a 6-snort weekend!
Plus bonus: I didn’t think about men at all the whole time. Not once did I think about “how can I find a new way to make a connection with someone packing a roll of quarters?” I didn’t stress about checking the dating websites or “should I wink back? Should I nudge? Would coyly waving my fingers from beneath a huge brimmed hat be the way to go?” All this online flirting is exhausting and, frankly, NOT ALWAYS FUN! I’d even go so far as to describe it, of late, as workity-work-work! Sigh.
Anyway, I appreciate you guys giving me a little time off from the daily grind (say it with me now: dirty!) and now that my girly-weekend is finished I’ll get back to the job at hand. I do have a few new ideas, and apparently there’s a whole new pack of round, goofy, hunter-golfers waiting to hear from me, so…
Sunday, August 05, 2007
They matched me up with science. Science!
OK, so apparently Yenta.com is done. I'm kind of amazed that they didn't automatically renew me or send me an email to let me know I was about to be 'let go' or anything. I am also surprised to find that my reaction to being no longer subscribed was kind of a little internal "whew!" I guess I wasn't enjoying that whole thing.
BUT I still have that whole "finding wove" goal to fulfill and so I decided to click the button inviting me to check out Yenta.com's more involved version, where you answer complex questions and they find you complex matches. Because here's the deal: "come and find your matches for FREE, FREE, FREE! and you only have to give us money if we find someone you want to connect with!" It's very tempting, although it does sound like eventually I'll be sitting there paying ransom for them to let my lovah free. But I'll burn that bridge once we get there. For now I had yet ANOTHER series of questions to answer.
This one had some very odd additions, beyond the standard stuff ("does your match smoke? Drink? eat babies? How many babies? raw or bar-b-qued babies?...") which kind of fascinated me. Like there were these little designs where you were supposed to click buttons to make one part of the picture match the size of another, and it was timed. Also there was one where you had to pick the diagram that most closely matched your finger sizes. (is your ring finger longer then your index finger? Shorter? Missing?) And one where you had these four photographs of people smiling, and you were supposed to indicate which of the smiles you trusted and which you didn't. (I didn't trust the one with the pointy canine teeth, because hello? Vampire? Duh!)
So by the time I was all finished I realized that these questions made the whole thing seem downright scientific! Like you'd have to believe that any match they bring you would be Mr. Wight because they reached the conclusion via science. Science! Of course this must be the dude for me -- his finger question probably matched mine! We're probably finger-compatible! Or maybe they put us together because we can resize random shapes very quickly, both of us. Which would be important as we raise our kids, as you can't bring up children with someone who is slow to resize a hexagon, for god's sake. That would be madness! At the very least I can rest assured that any mate I settle down with will distrust vampires just like I do.
So I'll give this new, science-based channel a little time and see what they come up with. I'm either all excited OR I'm sitting on an electroscope.
BUT I still have that whole "finding wove" goal to fulfill and so I decided to click the button inviting me to check out Yenta.com's more involved version, where you answer complex questions and they find you complex matches. Because here's the deal: "come and find your matches for FREE, FREE, FREE! and you only have to give us money if we find someone you want to connect with!" It's very tempting, although it does sound like eventually I'll be sitting there paying ransom for them to let my lovah free. But I'll burn that bridge once we get there. For now I had yet ANOTHER series of questions to answer.
This one had some very odd additions, beyond the standard stuff ("does your match smoke? Drink? eat babies? How many babies? raw or bar-b-qued babies?...") which kind of fascinated me. Like there were these little designs where you were supposed to click buttons to make one part of the picture match the size of another, and it was timed. Also there was one where you had to pick the diagram that most closely matched your finger sizes. (is your ring finger longer then your index finger? Shorter? Missing?) And one where you had these four photographs of people smiling, and you were supposed to indicate which of the smiles you trusted and which you didn't. (I didn't trust the one with the pointy canine teeth, because hello? Vampire? Duh!)
So by the time I was all finished I realized that these questions made the whole thing seem downright scientific! Like you'd have to believe that any match they bring you would be Mr. Wight because they reached the conclusion via science. Science! Of course this must be the dude for me -- his finger question probably matched mine! We're probably finger-compatible! Or maybe they put us together because we can resize random shapes very quickly, both of us. Which would be important as we raise our kids, as you can't bring up children with someone who is slow to resize a hexagon, for god's sake. That would be madness! At the very least I can rest assured that any mate I settle down with will distrust vampires just like I do.
So I'll give this new, science-based channel a little time and see what they come up with. I'm either all excited OR I'm sitting on an electroscope.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
You lookin' at me?
So my attempt to find exactly the right guy for me kind of,... what's the word? Oh yeah, hit the old crapparoo! Mostly because I'm just not looking for Mr. Right+family. Also, I'm pretty much a bottom and I cannot support that many people on me. Bad for the back.
Tonight I noticed there's a "reverse search" button. Apparently I could come at this from the other direction, and rather then ask to see the guys who are "perfect" for me I could look at the guys for whom I would be perfect. Now this, says I, sounds like the way to go!
Because here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking "why should I be in charge of picking the right guy? Clearly I SUCK at that! The one time I've done that in the past I wound up with a peach of a guy who's best attributes were "he hasn't hit me just yet. Also he's a really heavy sleeper, so he'll never hear me strike the match!" And since then my selection process has resulted in an extremely impressive collection of whole lotta nothin' So I should let the guys pick me! And then it will be voila - instant fish!"
I push the button.
Once again the result is... slim. In that there is only one guy. I'll go ahead and kill your suspense: we won't be picking out any china patterns. Why? What could be wrong? is it possible that I'm being just too darned picky? OR could there be bonafide reasons for me to rubber stamp this guy? What could these reasons be? (why the hell do I keep asking you guys questions like this? Don't I understand that this is not a conversation? Am I just completely addicted to question marks? Sorry, where were we...) Oh yeah, what reasons could there be for me to reject this guy? Could it be:
- that his online moniker is "daddy(something)"? I'm glad if you're excited about being a father, but when you make that your dating moniker it's saying something very different. And creepy. Creepy different.
- that he lives something like 90 min. away? Dude, I gotta think of the planet. If I started commuting 3 hours a day for a booty call I'd be removed from Al Gore's Five!
- that he doesn't have a picture? Ummm, yeah!
But those are just additional reasons.
You see, when I first clicked on to this profile the first thing I noticed (right after the creepy Daddy handle totally creeped me out right away, all creepy, but anyway) was this sentence:
I scrolled down and here's what his criteria says:
Age range: 18 to 65
Height: 4" to 7'11"
Build: Petite, Slender, Average, Athletic, Few Extra Pounds, Full Figured, Proportional, Body Builder, Tall and Lanky
Physical Appearance: Any
(I'm not kidding -- this info is copied and pasted directly from his profile!)
Marital status: Any
Race: Caucasian; African American; Asian; Multi-racial; Hispanic; East Indian; American Indian; Other
Religion: Any
Smoking preference: Doesn't smoke; Occasionally/Socially; Regularly; Trying to quit; Any
Drinking preference: Any
Children preference: Any
Race: Caucasian; African American; Asian; Multi-racial; Hispanic; East Indian; American Indian; Other
(you're seeing it already, right?)
Education Level: Any
Eye Color: Any
Hair Preference: Blonde; Dirty-Blonde; Light Brown; Auburn; Brunette / Brown; Strawberry Blonde; Red; Black; Salt & Pepper; White; Bald/Shaven; Subject to change without notice
Pets Owned: A dog owner; A cat owner; A reptile owner; A fish owner; A rodent owner; A bird owner; Call me Old McDonald; Petless
Political Party: Any
Sense of Humor: Any
Bests Physical Feature: Any.
Oh yes, not just any lady will do! It must be any lady except a 66 year old, 8 foot tall eskimo athiest who chain smokes, has a green mohawk and owns a pet giraffe.
and I will give up my giraffe for no man!
Tonight I noticed there's a "reverse search" button. Apparently I could come at this from the other direction, and rather then ask to see the guys who are "perfect" for me I could look at the guys for whom I would be perfect. Now this, says I, sounds like the way to go!
Because here's what I'm thinking. I'm thinking "why should I be in charge of picking the right guy? Clearly I SUCK at that! The one time I've done that in the past I wound up with a peach of a guy who's best attributes were "he hasn't hit me just yet. Also he's a really heavy sleeper, so he'll never hear me strike the match!" And since then my selection process has resulted in an extremely impressive collection of whole lotta nothin' So I should let the guys pick me! And then it will be voila - instant fish!"
I push the button.
Once again the result is... slim. In that there is only one guy. I'll go ahead and kill your suspense: we won't be picking out any china patterns. Why? What could be wrong? is it possible that I'm being just too darned picky? OR could there be bonafide reasons for me to rubber stamp this guy? What could these reasons be? (why the hell do I keep asking you guys questions like this? Don't I understand that this is not a conversation? Am I just completely addicted to question marks? Sorry, where were we...) Oh yeah, what reasons could there be for me to reject this guy? Could it be:
- that his online moniker is "daddy(something)"? I'm glad if you're excited about being a father, but when you make that your dating moniker it's saying something very different. And creepy. Creepy different.
- that he lives something like 90 min. away? Dude, I gotta think of the planet. If I started commuting 3 hours a day for a booty call I'd be removed from Al Gore's Five!
- that he doesn't have a picture? Ummm, yeah!
But those are just additional reasons.
You see, when I first clicked on to this profile the first thing I noticed (right after the creepy Daddy handle totally creeped me out right away, all creepy, but anyway) was this sentence:
"Not just any lady will do!"Tell me, if you saw this within someone's carefully crafted profile you'd think they'd really painted a specific picture of what they're looking for, right? This is someone who does not want to waste any time on someone obviously not matching his criteria. And apparently, based on how I found him on the site, I AM his criteria! I should be that magic lady he's looking for! Maybe this could work after all!
I scrolled down and here's what his criteria says:
Age range: 18 to 65
Height: 4" to 7'11"
Build: Petite, Slender, Average, Athletic, Few Extra Pounds, Full Figured, Proportional, Body Builder, Tall and Lanky
Physical Appearance: Any
(I'm not kidding -- this info is copied and pasted directly from his profile!)
Marital status: Any
Race: Caucasian; African American; Asian; Multi-racial; Hispanic; East Indian; American Indian; Other
Religion: Any
Smoking preference: Doesn't smoke; Occasionally/Socially; Regularly; Trying to quit; Any
Drinking preference: Any
Children preference: Any
Race: Caucasian; African American; Asian; Multi-racial; Hispanic; East Indian; American Indian; Other
(you're seeing it already, right?)
Education Level: Any
Eye Color: Any
Hair Preference: Blonde; Dirty-Blonde; Light Brown; Auburn; Brunette / Brown; Strawberry Blonde; Red; Black; Salt & Pepper; White; Bald/Shaven; Subject to change without notice
Pets Owned: A dog owner; A cat owner; A reptile owner; A fish owner; A rodent owner; A bird owner; Call me Old McDonald; Petless
Political Party: Any
Sense of Humor: Any
Bests Physical Feature: Any.
Oh yes, not just any lady will do! It must be any lady except a 66 year old, 8 foot tall eskimo athiest who chain smokes, has a green mohawk and owns a pet giraffe.
and I will give up my giraffe for no man!
Monday, July 30, 2007
Getting every bit of what I paid for.
So I decided to sit down and complete my fweewove.com profile. Everything. My likes, my dislikes, religious beliefs, political stance, favorite food, biggest fear, place I'd least like to be kicked (Barcelona)... the whole she-bang! This, I figured, was the key to finding my true wove! If I don't let them know who I really am and what I really want, I reasoned, then how could I expect them to help me? It took some time, but I got it done, and with my newly specific search parameters I called for a match.
And this is what I got:
And in case you need more excellent information I should mention that Fabio here looks to be about 5 and a half feet tall. And 3 and a half feet wide. With kind of a dirty Teddy Ruxpin thing goin' on. And did I mention he's looking not for a special lady, but more for an additional, or "spare" if you will, special lady. A sparecial lady. He apparently is so overflowing, so bubbling over with masculine machismo magic that just one, or possibly two, or maybe even three to five women just can't satiate him. Nor, apparently, can two to five daily donuts. But really, who could resist such animal magnetism? (cough, gag, pinch of vomit into my mouth...)
Not only was this the first match that my newly specific search brought me, but it was the ONLY MATCH. The ONLY ONE. This is IT. If I am to go to the person with which I am meant to be I will have to dig deep, deep into my Mr. Rogers training and really rock my sharing skills. Please Mr. Polyamorous (which is, I believe, Latin for uber-randy, which is German for mucho-horny, which is Spanish for "I actually think I can get a bunch of women to come have loose sex with me despite my personal appearance and wife plus kids."), won't you be my neighbor?
I will admit, people, that this response to such specificity is disappointing. It's sure a good thing I didn't pay for this one!
And this is what I got:
"polyamorous, looking for another new relationship"Apparently my Mr. Right is shacked up with a Mrs. Right and a couple of little Rightlings, but they have an understanding. And a corral of "friends" on the side. And an opening for a new "friend." And probably hot-and-cold running cable-porn. And an uncanny ability to give me the fuzzy, leaping, sideways-hinged and double-barrelled heebie-jeebies! (brief pause for shudder dance of a thousand great googly-mooglies!)
And in case you need more excellent information I should mention that Fabio here looks to be about 5 and a half feet tall. And 3 and a half feet wide. With kind of a dirty Teddy Ruxpin thing goin' on. And did I mention he's looking not for a special lady, but more for an additional, or "spare" if you will, special lady. A sparecial lady. He apparently is so overflowing, so bubbling over with masculine machismo magic that just one, or possibly two, or maybe even three to five women just can't satiate him. Nor, apparently, can two to five daily donuts. But really, who could resist such animal magnetism? (cough, gag, pinch of vomit into my mouth...)
Not only was this the first match that my newly specific search brought me, but it was the ONLY MATCH. The ONLY ONE. This is IT. If I am to go to the person with which I am meant to be I will have to dig deep, deep into my Mr. Rogers training and really rock my sharing skills. Please Mr. Polyamorous (which is, I believe, Latin for uber-randy, which is German for mucho-horny, which is Spanish for "I actually think I can get a bunch of women to come have loose sex with me despite my personal appearance and wife plus kids."), won't you be my neighbor?
I will admit, people, that this response to such specificity is disappointing. It's sure a good thing I didn't pay for this one!
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I don't need a man, I need an accountant...
Today I started my day with all those wonderful morning things. Birds chirping. sunlight pouring in the window. Little kitty faces nuzzling me to "get the hell up already!" An email from my bank gentling letting me know that if I was hoping to overdraw my bank account by about $100 then Mission Accomplished!
Oh crap.
See, here's the deal: I don't balance my checking account. I never have. Or more to say I've tried a couple of times, but it doesn't work w/ my sad little brain.
But I also just about NEVER write checks, and this is exactly why: the time delay thing. That's what got me here. Checks I wrote a couple of weeks ago just finally, yesterday, hit my bank. Why? I have no idea. Either the businesses that I wrote these checks to don't really need the money or they are as bad at managing their funds as I am, but whatever. It doesn't matter why. They get to do that, because I'm supposed to remember that I wrote these checks and until they come out of the bank I'm supposed to remember that they're out there. That's what I'm supposed to do.
That's clearly, though, not what I do. Or did. For me it's much more "once spent, it's gone." I'd written these checks weeks ago and I'd mentally called them "done" and so when I paid my bills online the other night I failed to say to myself "oh yeah, and remember that the balance you're seeing here now is actually $200 LESS then that. Even though it doesn't look like it now. But remember that. Because it is."
The other funny part (funny like "god, what the HELL is wrong with me really?" funny) is that I have a check for $250 in my purse. With a deposit slip clipped jauntily to it. All ready for depositing and enjoying in all it's monetary goodness. This has been there for a while, but I keep forgetting to GO to the bank. Because not only do I hate to write checks, but I hate to get them too. In my perfect world we'd get rid of actual cash and little paper slips that pretend to be cash and we'd all just have the little magic chip in our thumb that we stick on the magic thumbchip reader and it KNOWS how much money we have and moves it from person's bank acct A to retail person's acct B. Right then. Done and done.
The only reason that I wrote a bunch of checks in the first place, thereby confusing my normal money management system, is because the purse got stolen. So here's the big punchline to that story: Though the DoucheBage who stole my purse got only $3 in cash, he has since cost me (figuring in my head, carry the 2, picture me w/ tongue sticking out corner of mouth while I have to think about numbers...) about $400. Ha. ha. ha...
The Queen has told me many times about how in her relationship with the King it's very clear who manages the money: he does. Not because she can't (she can do math. She's smart and also hot.) but because she's like me: she doesn't WANT to manage the money. She knows that they have different strengths and weaknesses, and one of his strengths is being really good at keeping their money situation copasetic, and one of her strengths is buying super-cool shoes. And as long as he does his part, and then tells her how much money there is in the super-cool shoe budget, she can do her part.
So as I build my idea of the perfect dude here's absolutely one of my requirements: money-management-man. I'd be happy making that money, putting it into the bank (via direct deposit of course), fixing the car, wiring the stereo and disposing of the cat poop and dead snakes. If he'll make dinner, clean the bathroom and manage the money. Anybody know someone like that? Anybody? Anybody?
Oh crap.
See, here's the deal: I don't balance my checking account. I never have. Or more to say I've tried a couple of times, but it doesn't work w/ my sad little brain.
But I also just about NEVER write checks, and this is exactly why: the time delay thing. That's what got me here. Checks I wrote a couple of weeks ago just finally, yesterday, hit my bank. Why? I have no idea. Either the businesses that I wrote these checks to don't really need the money or they are as bad at managing their funds as I am, but whatever. It doesn't matter why. They get to do that, because I'm supposed to remember that I wrote these checks and until they come out of the bank I'm supposed to remember that they're out there. That's what I'm supposed to do.
That's clearly, though, not what I do. Or did. For me it's much more "once spent, it's gone." I'd written these checks weeks ago and I'd mentally called them "done" and so when I paid my bills online the other night I failed to say to myself "oh yeah, and remember that the balance you're seeing here now is actually $200 LESS then that. Even though it doesn't look like it now. But remember that. Because it is."
The other funny part (funny like "god, what the HELL is wrong with me really?" funny) is that I have a check for $250 in my purse. With a deposit slip clipped jauntily to it. All ready for depositing and enjoying in all it's monetary goodness. This has been there for a while, but I keep forgetting to GO to the bank. Because not only do I hate to write checks, but I hate to get them too. In my perfect world we'd get rid of actual cash and little paper slips that pretend to be cash and we'd all just have the little magic chip in our thumb that we stick on the magic thumbchip reader and it KNOWS how much money we have and moves it from person's bank acct A to retail person's acct B. Right then. Done and done.
The only reason that I wrote a bunch of checks in the first place, thereby confusing my normal money management system, is because the purse got stolen. So here's the big punchline to that story: Though the DoucheBage who stole my purse got only $3 in cash, he has since cost me (figuring in my head, carry the 2, picture me w/ tongue sticking out corner of mouth while I have to think about numbers...) about $400. Ha. ha. ha...
The Queen has told me many times about how in her relationship with the King it's very clear who manages the money: he does. Not because she can't (she can do math. She's smart and also hot.) but because she's like me: she doesn't WANT to manage the money. She knows that they have different strengths and weaknesses, and one of his strengths is being really good at keeping their money situation copasetic, and one of her strengths is buying super-cool shoes. And as long as he does his part, and then tells her how much money there is in the super-cool shoe budget, she can do her part.
So as I build my idea of the perfect dude here's absolutely one of my requirements: money-management-man. I'd be happy making that money, putting it into the bank (via direct deposit of course), fixing the car, wiring the stereo and disposing of the cat poop and dead snakes. If he'll make dinner, clean the bathroom and manage the money. Anybody know someone like that? Anybody? Anybody?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Looking for Lawrence of Arabia, getting Larry the Cable Guy
Ya know how 2 weeks ago I said I was gonna take a break from the manhunt? Yeah, well as I feared no sooner did I decide that then the free and local online dating site spit out several "hey baby!" connections. Because irony has such a messed up sense of humor. And so I went to check them out, because if they're coming to me the LEAST I can do is meet them half way!
Apparently the type that I attract is something like this:
Sigh.
I'm not trying to be picky, although I'm sure that's how I sound. And I'm not expecting Brad Pitt or Robert Redford or even Robert DeNiro or even Robert Wagner! But how 'bout not Robert the unemployed manure salesman? How 'bout not Bobby the trophy snipe hunter? How 'bout not Bobbo the trained monkey? 'kay? Really? How 'bout?
I'm gonna work with the idea that I should take the time to fill in more of my blanks on the freebie matchmaking site. Really all they know about me is girl, age, location, not dead, likes boys, homo sapien. Doesn't give them too much to work with. And who knows, maybe there's a box I can check that say's things like "no dudes who enjoy gutting anything." or "not interested in learning to appreciate "chawin' tabacki" or "anyone who says grace over a bag of Cheetos need not apply." (although to be clear: Cheeto enthusiasts are very welcome! Yeah, wipe me all over with that fake, neon-orange powder-o-wove, baby! ...sorry, too much?)
The other trend that just keeps being true is that if they're cute they're also looking for someone who can "keep up with them" as they bike the Rocky Mountains or free-climb the Space Needle. I don't think the right person for me would consider teaching a turbo-spinning class a reasonable hobby. I'm more looking for someone who thinks that learning to pick up socks with your toes is a reasonable hobby. I'd just like them to be kinda cute while they're walking off that foot cramp. (be a man!)
So as of tonight I return to the hunt by fleshing out my profile with fweewove.com. (hmmph. Fleshing out. Dirty.) I'll tell them what I want and don't want and then I'm sure they'll come knocking on my (email) door and say "what ho, we have foundeth for you yon stallion of beautiest brow and galliant heart! He doth profess much wove for you and asks do you feel the same?" And I will reply forsooth:
"I'm sorry, did you call me a ho?"
Apparently the type that I attract is something like this:
- Cowboy hat
- moustache, no beard
- wears cammo. In the city.
- enjoys hunting/fishing/other death-oriented hobbies
- wants to treat someone like a queen/goddess/right purty filly
- has 2-6 kids that just might need a new baby mama
- bears a striking resemblence to someone who just might have an interest in gettin' er done.
Sigh.
I'm not trying to be picky, although I'm sure that's how I sound. And I'm not expecting Brad Pitt or Robert Redford or even Robert DeNiro or even Robert Wagner! But how 'bout not Robert the unemployed manure salesman? How 'bout not Bobby the trophy snipe hunter? How 'bout not Bobbo the trained monkey? 'kay? Really? How 'bout?
I'm gonna work with the idea that I should take the time to fill in more of my blanks on the freebie matchmaking site. Really all they know about me is girl, age, location, not dead, likes boys, homo sapien. Doesn't give them too much to work with. And who knows, maybe there's a box I can check that say's things like "no dudes who enjoy gutting anything." or "not interested in learning to appreciate "chawin' tabacki" or "anyone who says grace over a bag of Cheetos need not apply." (although to be clear: Cheeto enthusiasts are very welcome! Yeah, wipe me all over with that fake, neon-orange powder-o-wove, baby! ...sorry, too much?)
The other trend that just keeps being true is that if they're cute they're also looking for someone who can "keep up with them" as they bike the Rocky Mountains or free-climb the Space Needle. I don't think the right person for me would consider teaching a turbo-spinning class a reasonable hobby. I'm more looking for someone who thinks that learning to pick up socks with your toes is a reasonable hobby. I'd just like them to be kinda cute while they're walking off that foot cramp. (be a man!)
So as of tonight I return to the hunt by fleshing out my profile with fweewove.com. (hmmph. Fleshing out. Dirty.) I'll tell them what I want and don't want and then I'm sure they'll come knocking on my (email) door and say "what ho, we have foundeth for you yon stallion of beautiest brow and galliant heart! He doth profess much wove for you and asks do you feel the same?" And I will reply forsooth:
"I'm sorry, did you call me a ho?"
I don't hear you calling anymore!
A quick update to report that my family of strays are now with new families. I spent most of Saturday with a sad little box of "Aww, look at the kittens!" and both of the wee cat children found new homes. Just about the time that I had given up hope some lovely, magical, fabulous, perfect and also my favorite person EVER lady dropped out of the sky and said "low, I will give this small and sweet grey kitty mama a home!" And once I'd deposited her to her new home, and also promised to grant any wish this woman might ever make including donation of my first born child (shut up, it could happen!), I breathed my first solid sigh of relief in about a week. I'm so glad those kitties have real, honest-to-goodness homes! And they're not my home!
Friday, July 20, 2007
It's not a decision, it's a calling. A very bad calling.
I know the goal for this blog was the pursuit of wove, but now I realize that's not my destiny. No, I'm going to be a crazy cat lady instead! I'm already well on my way, and the way it's just kind of falling in my lap makes me realize the ugly truth of crazy cat ladies: nobody chooses to become a crazy cat lady. The cats choose you.
I have 2 kitties that I picked out. I went and met and loved and bonded and brought them home and now they're my bestest little kitty roomates who I love tons and tons. I didn't think 2 cats was excessive!
Then there was Junebug the Wonder Kitty, who came prancing out of the wilds right to me and said "I am for you James Kir- er, Femtastic!" I found her another home and thought "whew!, glad that worked out!" and figured that was a bullet well-dodged! Sure, there was this other stray cat that had come around my house a couple of times, but I didn't know for SURE that it was homeless! Besides, my neighborhood has a ton of houses with all sorts of lovely people who I know will give this sweet little grey kitty a home. I did my part w/ Junebug already, so I'm off the hook. Seriously, off the hook. See that hook there? I'm totally off of it!
I kept saying this over and over, even as the little grey kitty came around more and more. Even as I caught her in the house once eating my kitty's food. Even as I started to put kibble out for her (as I finally determined) on the corner. (I put the food on the corner so as to try to create a difference between my house, and the kitties who should be there, vs. the food that magically arrives on the corner. Except that even the brain of a kitty figured out that the food came from the house closest to the corner.)
I talked to my local shelter to find out how I could bring Grey Kitty to them, since I knew she'd get snapped up in a heartbeat since she's cute and small and sweet and oh so endearing, and I had to care for her for 3 months before they could take her. (It's this whole jurisdiction thing, very complicated and stupid but oh well.) So I kept feeding her for the last 2+ months and I was gonna go ahead and take her in because having her camped in my carport was very stressful and confusing for the kitties who felt like they should be defending their territory. "Hey you, other kitty, get the heck away from my- is that my person bringing you food? What the?" and like that.
Yeah, I was all set to take Grey Kitty to the shelter last week, but things were too dang busy. No problem, though, because I'll take her this week! Sure! I'll take her, and hey what's that coming out of the bushes after her? Well crapville, there's a little grey kitten! And look, it has a sibling! Grey Kitty has been hiding a couple of kittens this whole time, and now I have ALL THREE of them camped out in my carport!
I can be strict and heartless with a stray cat and set rules about "you go out of my yard now, kitty, because you are not my kitty and my kitties live here and see how I show them with my actions that I love them the mostest and that I'm just not wanting you to starve to death? Because you are NOT my kitty!" But you can't do that to kittens!
So as of right now I am feeding and caring for, at least in some way, a total of 5 cats. FIVE CATS. From two to five in a week. Because the universe has a very sick sense of humor and also because I am a spinster and we're where the cats go. We have some sort of subsonic hum that can only be heard by single men (very off-putting; sends them screaming in the other direction) and stray cats. They'll be coming out of the bushes in packs soon.
I must confess that I had a hint of my destiny before. Back when I first posted about my new kitties I got an email from some folks inviting me to become a cat blogger. Apparently there is a whole culture of people who spend their creative energy writing only about felis domestica. And they saw me as a future crazy cat lady, who would eventually need somewhere to channel her crazy cat lady energy. Why not a blog where I talk about all of my cats? I think it will go something like this:
June 12, 2013:
"Today Junebug the third made her first dooky in the new litter pan. We were all so excited and proud of her!
We threw the traditional dooky party with Fancy Feast cake and mouse-shaped liver snaps (for the kitties) and puffy Cheetos and Vodka (for me), and after we'd all sung the dooky-dooky song to her I turned on a Top Cat DVD and napped while they watched. Except for Sturgeon, of course, who is still grounded and not allowed any tv while he's thinking about why it's not ok to sharpen your claws on the waterbed.
Tomorrow Sarabell, Winkerswise, Big Sue, Little Sue, Steven and I are all having our monthly tea party. I'm baking fish-shaped nip cookies as a special treat, and it's Steven's turn to pick what style of hats we wear. I'm looking forward to it, because he really does have excellent taste in hats.
We also have to vote on EstherKay's application to join the Tea Party club. I know she's fun, but sometimes she has impulse-control issues..."
I have 2 kitties that I picked out. I went and met and loved and bonded and brought them home and now they're my bestest little kitty roomates who I love tons and tons. I didn't think 2 cats was excessive!
Then there was Junebug the Wonder Kitty, who came prancing out of the wilds right to me and said "I am for you James Kir- er, Femtastic!" I found her another home and thought "whew!, glad that worked out!" and figured that was a bullet well-dodged! Sure, there was this other stray cat that had come around my house a couple of times, but I didn't know for SURE that it was homeless! Besides, my neighborhood has a ton of houses with all sorts of lovely people who I know will give this sweet little grey kitty a home. I did my part w/ Junebug already, so I'm off the hook. Seriously, off the hook. See that hook there? I'm totally off of it!
I kept saying this over and over, even as the little grey kitty came around more and more. Even as I caught her in the house once eating my kitty's food. Even as I started to put kibble out for her (as I finally determined) on the corner. (I put the food on the corner so as to try to create a difference between my house, and the kitties who should be there, vs. the food that magically arrives on the corner. Except that even the brain of a kitty figured out that the food came from the house closest to the corner.)
I talked to my local shelter to find out how I could bring Grey Kitty to them, since I knew she'd get snapped up in a heartbeat since she's cute and small and sweet and oh so endearing, and I had to care for her for 3 months before they could take her. (It's this whole jurisdiction thing, very complicated and stupid but oh well.) So I kept feeding her for the last 2+ months and I was gonna go ahead and take her in because having her camped in my carport was very stressful and confusing for the kitties who felt like they should be defending their territory. "Hey you, other kitty, get the heck away from my- is that my person bringing you food? What the?" and like that.
Yeah, I was all set to take Grey Kitty to the shelter last week, but things were too dang busy. No problem, though, because I'll take her this week! Sure! I'll take her, and hey what's that coming out of the bushes after her? Well crapville, there's a little grey kitten! And look, it has a sibling! Grey Kitty has been hiding a couple of kittens this whole time, and now I have ALL THREE of them camped out in my carport!I can be strict and heartless with a stray cat and set rules about "you go out of my yard now, kitty, because you are not my kitty and my kitties live here and see how I show them with my actions that I love them the mostest and that I'm just not wanting you to starve to death? Because you are NOT my kitty!" But you can't do that to kittens!
So as of right now I am feeding and caring for, at least in some way, a total of 5 cats. FIVE CATS. From two to five in a week. Because the universe has a very sick sense of humor and also because I am a spinster and we're where the cats go. We have some sort of subsonic hum that can only be heard by single men (very off-putting; sends them screaming in the other direction) and stray cats. They'll be coming out of the bushes in packs soon.
I must confess that I had a hint of my destiny before. Back when I first posted about my new kitties I got an email from some folks inviting me to become a cat blogger. Apparently there is a whole culture of people who spend their creative energy writing only about felis domestica. And they saw me as a future crazy cat lady, who would eventually need somewhere to channel her crazy cat lady energy. Why not a blog where I talk about all of my cats? I think it will go something like this:
June 12, 2013:
"Today Junebug the third made her first dooky in the new litter pan. We were all so excited and proud of her!
We threw the traditional dooky party with Fancy Feast cake and mouse-shaped liver snaps (for the kitties) and puffy Cheetos and Vodka (for me), and after we'd all sung the dooky-dooky song to her I turned on a Top Cat DVD and napped while they watched. Except for Sturgeon, of course, who is still grounded and not allowed any tv while he's thinking about why it's not ok to sharpen your claws on the waterbed.
Tomorrow Sarabell, Winkerswise, Big Sue, Little Sue, Steven and I are all having our monthly tea party. I'm baking fish-shaped nip cookies as a special treat, and it's Steven's turn to pick what style of hats we wear. I'm looking forward to it, because he really does have excellent taste in hats.
We also have to vote on EstherKay's application to join the Tea Party club. I know she's fun, but sometimes she has impulse-control issues..."
SIGH.
...I guess this weekend I'll need to shop for a large plot of land, a double-wide trailer to move to the land, a bulk-deal on litter pans and some teeny-tiny fancy hats... help!
...I guess this weekend I'll need to shop for a large plot of land, a double-wide trailer to move to the land, a bulk-deal on litter pans and some teeny-tiny fancy hats... help!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Jumpin on the curseword band wagon officially
Since we're off-mission right now anyway I'm going to indulge myself. But first? The backstory:
I read (and, by the way, LOVE!) the blog www.fasterthankudzu.com on a daily basis. You can see it over there, on the left with my other links, looking so shiny and clever. And it is. And the recent post was about using curse words in one's blog vs. in one's books. I commented initially but realized that it was a juicy enough topic I wanted to steal it for my own!
Now, I have no books. Or I should say more accurately, I have written no books and had none published, so I don't have to worry about how much I curse in my books. However I do talk. Man oh man do I talk! And I also curse sometimes. And so for me the question is more about cursing in this blog vs. cursing in life.
Those who have been before (and are by definition my favorites. Get you some chocolate or a pillow?) know that when the time comes to use the nasty words I tend to diffuse them by not using ALL the required letters. I go the old fashioned "f*ck" or "sh*t" route, which either indicates that I don't want to actually swear OR that I'm punishing the vowels involved. You who already know the word I'm alluding to also know what I'm going for, but some newbie or young innocent who breezes through won't be smacked in the puss w/ something they weren't expecting. And if you don't know me in real life this may have given you the idea that I'm not a user of the words oh-so dirty.
F*ck no! Oh my friends I do curse. I was taught by my father, the master, and I'm GOOD! A swearing savant, if you will! I've been known to make dock workers blush! I can pull out THE nastiest, grittiest, most costic and evil words when the situation merits it! But in my own life, when choosing the words to shoot out my gobb (and yes I DO choose my words carefully, despite how lightening-fast they come flying out!) I try to limit my use of the nasties to only occasionally. Not because I think using them is in any way BAD, but more because I appreciate the weight and power that they continue to have from me simply because I don't use them so much. In other words, when folks hear me really let loose a blue streak they tend to prick up their ears and come to see what's happening. "Oooh, Femtastic is a-swearin', let's go see what she smacked w/ a hammer!"
So why don't I let loose with the potty-mouth here? Because I don't know you guys like that. Actually I don't know most of you guys at ALL! I love that you come to see what craziness has most recently tumbled from my fingers in the form of words, but you don't know me and I don't know you, and it's just plain rude to slap you in the face w/ something you may find offensive when I don't even know you! In my real life the cursing would either happen in front of those who know me, and who also swear plenty so can't get offended, or in a situation where I've decided I don't give a rat's ass who I'm offending. Guy hits my car in the parking lot and I'm gonna let it fly! Kid starts picking on a smaller kid and watch the ears burst into flames! I hit
But not here. This is a safe place.
Last question from the initial post that started this whole thing was about whether there were words that nobody should ever use. Because I guess there are folks out there who consider specific words to be evil or full of poison and therefore outlawable. To that I answer with this story:
I was a grown-up in a Community College Humanities course some several years ago. For the most part I enjoyed sitting at the back of the class and trying to remember when I had EVER been so fresh-faced and innocent as all the 'just out of highschool' kids in the class. They were so cute with their "I would never compromise my morals ever, no matter how much money!" or their "you mean sometimes people will tell you to do something even when they know it might be wrong? It can't be!!!" I didn't want to be the one to shatter their rosey-colored glasses so I mostly kept my big, jaded, bitter mouth shut.
But one day when the class wandered in we were greeted with a chalk board on which had been written about 45 different words that were used as insults or degrading terms to certain groups. It was a nice collection of words really -- the teacher had sat around w/ his colleagues for a couple hours to get as varied a selection as possible, from "Uncle Tom" to "Yellow" to "Wop" or "Spic" and even the infamous "N Word." and everything in between. And the question he posed to the class was this: are there words that are so terrible they should be banned from use forever more?
I saw this question as a no-brainer and was actually amazed at how many kids attempted to make the argument that there were words that were that terrible and should be banned. They debated the "N word" in the classic "you can't use it because you're white, but me and my black friends use it in a different way and should be allowed to." form. There was discussion about why all of the words shouldn't be banned. (Um, 'scuse me but if we ban "Uncle Tom" then what do I call my Dad's brother, Tom? Also, isn't "yellow" a color too? What? Oh, we can't say "colored" anyway? Ok...) There was discussion about how to decide which words would be banned and how to even enforce it! I kept waiting for someone to take the stand of "no words should ever be banned" but it didn't come and didn't come. So I finally had to step up. And this is what I said:
"Words are tools. They have no power on their own, but only what people give them. What matters is not the word, but the way that someone uses it. You can kill someone with a hammer, but we're not going to ban all hammers, right? You cannot ever ban any word."
Now I am NOT a particularly wise person, and so I was flabber-boggled at the response in the room. It was like someone had just invented fire! Heated debate, raised voices, the occasional "oh, snap!" or "you buggin!" (mostly from the lame white kids) and I don't remember what the final outcome was. I just know that to this day I still think that's one of the smartest things I've ever said (never had much competition) and I think it's still true. What do you guys think? Keep the discussion going!
Word to Big Bird.
I read (and, by the way, LOVE!) the blog www.fasterthankudzu.com on a daily basis. You can see it over there, on the left with my other links, looking so shiny and clever. And it is. And the recent post was about using curse words in one's blog vs. in one's books. I commented initially but realized that it was a juicy enough topic I wanted to steal it for my own!
Now, I have no books. Or I should say more accurately, I have written no books and had none published, so I don't have to worry about how much I curse in my books. However I do talk. Man oh man do I talk! And I also curse sometimes. And so for me the question is more about cursing in this blog vs. cursing in life.
Those who have been before (and are by definition my favorites. Get you some chocolate or a pillow?) know that when the time comes to use the nasty words I tend to diffuse them by not using ALL the required letters. I go the old fashioned "f*ck" or "sh*t" route, which either indicates that I don't want to actually swear OR that I'm punishing the vowels involved. You who already know the word I'm alluding to also know what I'm going for, but some newbie or young innocent who breezes through won't be smacked in the puss w/ something they weren't expecting. And if you don't know me in real life this may have given you the idea that I'm not a user of the words oh-so dirty.
F*ck no! Oh my friends I do curse. I was taught by my father, the master, and I'm GOOD! A swearing savant, if you will! I've been known to make dock workers blush! I can pull out THE nastiest, grittiest, most costic and evil words when the situation merits it! But in my own life, when choosing the words to shoot out my gobb (and yes I DO choose my words carefully, despite how lightening-fast they come flying out!) I try to limit my use of the nasties to only occasionally. Not because I think using them is in any way BAD, but more because I appreciate the weight and power that they continue to have from me simply because I don't use them so much. In other words, when folks hear me really let loose a blue streak they tend to prick up their ears and come to see what's happening. "Oooh, Femtastic is a-swearin', let's go see what she smacked w/ a hammer!"
So why don't I let loose with the potty-mouth here? Because I don't know you guys like that. Actually I don't know most of you guys at ALL! I love that you come to see what craziness has most recently tumbled from my fingers in the form of words, but you don't know me and I don't know you, and it's just plain rude to slap you in the face w/ something you may find offensive when I don't even know you! In my real life the cursing would either happen in front of those who know me, and who also swear plenty so can't get offended, or in a situation where I've decided I don't give a rat's ass who I'm offending. Guy hits my car in the parking lot and I'm gonna let it fly! Kid starts picking on a smaller kid and watch the ears burst into flames! I hit
But not here. This is a safe place.
Last question from the initial post that started this whole thing was about whether there were words that nobody should ever use. Because I guess there are folks out there who consider specific words to be evil or full of poison and therefore outlawable. To that I answer with this story:
I was a grown-up in a Community College Humanities course some several years ago. For the most part I enjoyed sitting at the back of the class and trying to remember when I had EVER been so fresh-faced and innocent as all the 'just out of highschool' kids in the class. They were so cute with their "I would never compromise my morals ever, no matter how much money!" or their "you mean sometimes people will tell you to do something even when they know it might be wrong? It can't be!!!" I didn't want to be the one to shatter their rosey-colored glasses so I mostly kept my big, jaded, bitter mouth shut.
But one day when the class wandered in we were greeted with a chalk board on which had been written about 45 different words that were used as insults or degrading terms to certain groups. It was a nice collection of words really -- the teacher had sat around w/ his colleagues for a couple hours to get as varied a selection as possible, from "Uncle Tom" to "Yellow" to "Wop" or "Spic" and even the infamous "N Word." and everything in between. And the question he posed to the class was this: are there words that are so terrible they should be banned from use forever more?
I saw this question as a no-brainer and was actually amazed at how many kids attempted to make the argument that there were words that were that terrible and should be banned. They debated the "N word" in the classic "you can't use it because you're white, but me and my black friends use it in a different way and should be allowed to." form. There was discussion about why all of the words shouldn't be banned. (Um, 'scuse me but if we ban "Uncle Tom" then what do I call my Dad's brother, Tom? Also, isn't "yellow" a color too? What? Oh, we can't say "colored" anyway? Ok...) There was discussion about how to decide which words would be banned and how to even enforce it! I kept waiting for someone to take the stand of "no words should ever be banned" but it didn't come and didn't come. So I finally had to step up. And this is what I said:
"Words are tools. They have no power on their own, but only what people give them. What matters is not the word, but the way that someone uses it. You can kill someone with a hammer, but we're not going to ban all hammers, right? You cannot ever ban any word."
Now I am NOT a particularly wise person, and so I was flabber-boggled at the response in the room. It was like someone had just invented fire! Heated debate, raised voices, the occasional "oh, snap!" or "you buggin!" (mostly from the lame white kids) and I don't remember what the final outcome was. I just know that to this day I still think that's one of the smartest things I've ever said (never had much competition) and I think it's still true. What do you guys think? Keep the discussion going!
Word to Big Bird.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Change is hard. Even good change.
In two weeks I can't complain about my J-O-B anymore. Well, I can, but it won't be my J-O-B. I took the new, most excellent job offer and gave notice and now for the next 2 weeks I'll be that girl who's leaving. I know I can expect all of the following:
- Spontaneous gushing about how much people will miss me. Not because I'm awesome (though some may actually think I am. A sad, sheltered some who have not experienced true awesomeness.) but because when someone gives notice and you're nice people you tell them often that you will miss them. It is what you do and if you do not then you are not nice people. Simple as that. And I've been working with some very, very nice people! Gush away!
- Subtle, mostly-joking digs from the co-workers I'm leaving behind about the level of hassle I'm leaving them with. When you leave a job (voluntarily) you are expected to feel guilty about it up to the day you leave. Sometimes this expected guilt will actually bleed into weeks after the job, if you keep in touch with folks. This is a small price to pay for getting a new and excellent job, and I'm prepared to pay it. (And also I really don't do guilt. But I'll pretend. cue basset hound eyes...)
- Panicky realizations by either boss of something that they need me to be sure and do/fix/document/set fire to/cover in chocolate or mock-hump. (I'm very good at the mock humping.) For just such instances have I been practicing my reassuring nod and hand pat-pat. "There, there, it's gonna be ok." I'll say, and pat-pat and nod, nod, nod. And then hope they'll forget about it for the next 3 or so weeks.
- Questions about the new job that I won't really know the answer to. Actually I'm already getting those and beginning to realize that I don't know a BUNCH of stuff about the new job. What I do know? Dental! I'll have DENTAL! I will continue to eat me both Jolly Ranchers and also nummy corn on the cob thanks to the new job!
I'm trying to figure out what projects I started that I should finish and what stuff I do that I've never written down and other ways that I can help the transition. But 'tween you and me? The second I dropped the bomb I was already 50% out the door. I keep hearing my own voice saying "not my problem anymore!" in the back of my head. I'm not especially proud of this, and whenever I hear it I'm inspired to do something helpful to compensate. And I also think this is true of just about anyone who decides to leave a job for a new one, and especially a better one.
But still, change is hard. So I'm sure the next two weeks will be a crusher! Just gotta keep the new job (we'll call the new employer SnazzyCo., because many of the things that they do for their employees are very snazzy!) out there as the goal. Here I come, SnazzyCo!
Friday, July 13, 2007
It's too late for me -- save yourself.
I'm officially encouraging everyone to wash their hands of me. Seriously, its time, because my Lord what a mess am I! And I'm not talking about your everyday, run-of-the-mill mess, because I can normally bang that out in a couple of days (and maintain that level of mess for weeks!). For instance, the last time that my kitchen counter was less covered with dirty dishes then not was some time in May. (one word in my defense: I have no dishwasher, so it's all "fill the sink and wash by hand." And also I hate to do dishes very, very much. I should own stock in paper plates, ok?)
In terms of day-to-day train wreck I'm well versed. My vacuum cleaner could be resold as "almost new -- hardly ever been used!" The cobwebs in the upper reaches of my house are waiting for a 3rd callback to be in the next Indiana Jones movie. The other day I apparently got distracted 1/2-way through cleaning the cat box. I know this because the next day I found a little paper turd bag sitting 1/2-full right in front of the box, the scooper still leaning up against the edge. And the scoop full of fresh poop. Like the cat said "get this thing out of here! If you've forgotten what it's for, let me remind you!"
Still, it's refreshing to know that as much of a caricature of the absurd as I am normally can still be improved on, and here's my latest lameness: I'm 99% sure I'm going to be offered a new job and I'm a little bummed about it.
SHE'S BUMMED ABOUT A NEW JOB, PEOPLE! FEEL FREE TO STONE HER TO DEATH WITH NO PITY!
I have a job right now that is ok. It pays enough to cover the necessary and allow me a little fun. It's well within my skills and doesn't stress me out very often. The people are not evil. None of them. And I've worked with the evil, so I know of what I speak. The guys who are my bosses are very nice, seem to honestly want good things for me and ask me how I am with SO much sincerity that I feel great pressure to answer with details. But I'm sad most mornings when I have to get up to come here because it's not a great job. It's the big mondo-corporation that I work for which bums me out, and the lack of accomplishing anything that might make a real difference and the lack of people here who are my people. (they're not evil -- they're just not my people.) It's the dirth of anything to shoot for, the limitations on pay and benefits (especially the benefits) and the general not caring so much. And so I've been keeping my eyes open for a better job.
So about a month ago my aunt, who is so much like me that when we're at family gatherings and having a conversation together I think my brother in law wants to bury his head in the dip (we're loud, boistrous, over the top. Shocking, I know -- I seem SO shy here.), gets a promotion at the hospital where she works (administrative stuff) and suggests that I apply for her old job. Her old job is with one of the best employers in Hippyville, would pay a smidge better, has excellent benefits, including dental (swoon!) and many opportunities to move up and on, and has people that I would probably really mesh with. Such as my aunt. And did I mention dental? mention it through the teeth that are wanting to fall completely out of my mouth?
So apply I do, and they like me (because SO much like the person who had the job who they already like) and I get good feelings that an offer may be coming soon. (after all, people don't ask you to pee in a cup in a secure bathroom on a whim, right? Oh, and the pee story will come in a future post.)
So, to recap: not so happy at ok job, new job w/ better pay and bennies and such drops into lap, looks like I'll get hired and this makes me sad. SAD!
I don't really get it myself. But I have a theory. I blame the dream job from a few months ago.
See, after having had jobs a-plenty over the last 20 years I was really resolved to the idea that if I don't want to be abysmally poor all the time I'll have to work a job that isn't what I really want to do. What I really want to do, frankly, is THIS, but get paid well with benefits and vacation and occasional spontaneous gifties. But the people who do this will tell you that there's a one in a
I've been there before. All Scarlet O'Hara like I pledged that once I was out I wasn't going back. And so I rock the corporate, uninspiring but dependable job.
But then all of the sudden someone says to me "hey, there's a chance that you could actually be creative and challenged by a job and look forward to going to work and also work where you want and (big finish!) get paid a more-then-livable wage for it. Interested?" which broke my candy-coating. I tried, oh I so tried, to not get too excited, since I knew it was a long shot and I didn't have professional experience as a writer and I'd wasted years of my life not playing enough online video games (what the hell was I thinking anyway?). But just because you know you shouldn't get your hopes set on something doesn't mean hopes don't get set.
The job was not to be, and I thought I was ok with it. But here I am awaiting the call that says "how would you like us to improve many areas of your life just by asking you to do very similar things as you're doing now but for us instead?" and part of me is actually sad. And, therefore, lame.
I'm hoping that by voicing my lameness to those who love me either in spite of, or perhaps because of, my massive character and personality flaws (that would be you guys, and by the way look how smart and yet attractive you all are!) it will exercise the demons and set my brain free. This job is a good thing and could lead to many other good things. And hell, I haven't even been offered the job yet! And also there are people who have NO job, which is who I was only 2.5 years ago and man did THAT suck. So enough with the sad. If you want to write so badly then shut up and do it. And in the meantime get your goddamn teeth fixed!
In terms of day-to-day train wreck I'm well versed. My vacuum cleaner could be resold as "almost new -- hardly ever been used!" The cobwebs in the upper reaches of my house are waiting for a 3rd callback to be in the next Indiana Jones movie. The other day I apparently got distracted 1/2-way through cleaning the cat box. I know this because the next day I found a little paper turd bag sitting 1/2-full right in front of the box, the scooper still leaning up against the edge. And the scoop full of fresh poop. Like the cat said "get this thing out of here! If you've forgotten what it's for, let me remind you!"
Still, it's refreshing to know that as much of a caricature of the absurd as I am normally can still be improved on, and here's my latest lameness: I'm 99% sure I'm going to be offered a new job and I'm a little bummed about it.
SHE'S BUMMED ABOUT A NEW JOB, PEOPLE! FEEL FREE TO STONE HER TO DEATH WITH NO PITY!
I have a job right now that is ok. It pays enough to cover the necessary and allow me a little fun. It's well within my skills and doesn't stress me out very often. The people are not evil. None of them. And I've worked with the evil, so I know of what I speak. The guys who are my bosses are very nice, seem to honestly want good things for me and ask me how I am with SO much sincerity that I feel great pressure to answer with details. But I'm sad most mornings when I have to get up to come here because it's not a great job. It's the big mondo-corporation that I work for which bums me out, and the lack of accomplishing anything that might make a real difference and the lack of people here who are my people. (they're not evil -- they're just not my people.) It's the dirth of anything to shoot for, the limitations on pay and benefits (especially the benefits) and the general not caring so much. And so I've been keeping my eyes open for a better job.
So about a month ago my aunt, who is so much like me that when we're at family gatherings and having a conversation together I think my brother in law wants to bury his head in the dip (we're loud, boistrous, over the top. Shocking, I know -- I seem SO shy here.), gets a promotion at the hospital where she works (administrative stuff) and suggests that I apply for her old job. Her old job is with one of the best employers in Hippyville, would pay a smidge better, has excellent benefits, including dental (swoon!) and many opportunities to move up and on, and has people that I would probably really mesh with. Such as my aunt. And did I mention dental? mention it through the teeth that are wanting to fall completely out of my mouth?
So apply I do, and they like me (because SO much like the person who had the job who they already like) and I get good feelings that an offer may be coming soon. (after all, people don't ask you to pee in a cup in a secure bathroom on a whim, right? Oh, and the pee story will come in a future post.)
So, to recap: not so happy at ok job, new job w/ better pay and bennies and such drops into lap, looks like I'll get hired and this makes me sad. SAD!
I don't really get it myself. But I have a theory. I blame the dream job from a few months ago.
See, after having had jobs a-plenty over the last 20 years I was really resolved to the idea that if I don't want to be abysmally poor all the time I'll have to work a job that isn't what I really want to do. What I really want to do, frankly, is THIS, but get paid well with benefits and vacation and occasional spontaneous gifties. But the people who do this will tell you that there's a one in a
I've been there before. All Scarlet O'Hara like I pledged that once I was out I wasn't going back. And so I rock the corporate, uninspiring but dependable job.
But then all of the sudden someone says to me "hey, there's a chance that you could actually be creative and challenged by a job and look forward to going to work and also work where you want and (big finish!) get paid a more-then-livable wage for it. Interested?" which broke my candy-coating. I tried, oh I so tried, to not get too excited, since I knew it was a long shot and I didn't have professional experience as a writer and I'd wasted years of my life not playing enough online video games (what the hell was I thinking anyway?). But just because you know you shouldn't get your hopes set on something doesn't mean hopes don't get set.
The job was not to be, and I thought I was ok with it. But here I am awaiting the call that says "how would you like us to improve many areas of your life just by asking you to do very similar things as you're doing now but for us instead?" and part of me is actually sad. And, therefore, lame.
I'm hoping that by voicing my lameness to those who love me either in spite of, or perhaps because of, my massive character and personality flaws (that would be you guys, and by the way look how smart and yet attractive you all are!) it will exercise the demons and set my brain free. This job is a good thing and could lead to many other good things. And hell, I haven't even been offered the job yet! And also there are people who have NO job, which is who I was only 2.5 years ago and man did THAT suck. So enough with the sad. If you want to write so badly then shut up and do it. And in the meantime get your goddamn teeth fixed!
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