It was Chinese New Year in second grade. We had all made our pretty red envelopes ready. Each of us had a piece of the creamy hard candy and now we were learning about the Chinese New Year Calendar and how some people are roosters and some people are dogs and some people are dragons.
"What year were you born in?" My teacher, a large Hawaiian woman who always wore truly horrible muu-muu's, asked my classmate Kyle.
"Uh...82?" Kyle squeaked out.
"Right, so according to this chart you were born in the year of the dog. The dog is known to be very honest and attentive. They listen more than talk and they make the best friends. Dog people are very hard-workers."
I listened to the whole thing about the dog, I read the paragraph, I thought it sounded a lot like me.
"Now, all of you need to research which sign you are. Look up the year you were born and then find out if you are a rooster or a dog or a rat. Then write a paragraph about the year you were born in."
There was a scramble and pile of kids in front of the big Chinese Sign with the Calendar and years printed on it. I hung back for a second, slowed by a need to not be crushed and a nagging thought in the back of my brain. The whole class was in second grade.
I looked over at one of my best friends who was also sitting and waiting. Mahealani was the same age I was.
Kyle was the same age Mahealani was.
If we were all in the second grade, and we were all the same age...
A couple kids bounced back to our table:
"I'm a dog too!"
"So am I. We're the same."
"Cool. Mazelle is a dog too."
None of the kids at my table save Mahealani were hard workers. I knew that for a fact. And Mazelle was definitely not a good friend. She lived down the street from me and was my first friend when we moved to Hawaii. She was now regarded as both dumb and the cruelest girl to ever live. She never listened and was really mean. She was definitely not like a dog person.
"What are you?" my table-mate asked.
I looked at the mess of kids still clambering at the sign. I finally figured out that nagging feeling that was in the back of my brain. "I'm a dog." I replied.
"No you're not, you don't even know, you didn't even go look."
"I'm a dog." I said again and then looked at the floor knowing I was about to get all the attention of the class very soon. I concentrated on getting my pencil out and my note book so I could write my paragraph.
"Mrs. Salazar!!!! {Katy} didn't go look at the board but she's writing her paper already!" The typical little traitor yelled.
"{Katy} what lunar year are you?" The monster in the muu-muu asked.
"I'm a dog." I repeated, fully aware that she was yelling across the room at me and now everyone was very interested.
"Did you look at the sign to find out?" She boomed?
"No, I'm the same as Kyle." I said matter-of-fact.
"Just because Kyle is a dog doesn't mean you are. You have to look on the sign."
"We're the same age. I was born in 1982 too." I hadn't argued with a teacher before. This was new and scary territory.
"{Katy} go up to the sign and look up your year."
The territory was too scary. I walked up to the sign, looked at the year 1982 and saw a picture of a dog. Everyone's eyes were following me and the laughs weren't even hidden.
"I'm a dog." I told her.
"Good. Now why don't you write about what it means to be a dog."
What it means to be a dog? After that day it meant arguing for your point, if only to get the idea out there. Even if it's wrong...at least there is discussion of information over censorship. At least there is another way to look at things. After that day being a dog meant chewing on the hand that fed you till you got the food.
Kung Hee Fat Choy!
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Monday, January 30, 2006
Whatcha Reading?
Books in the pile on my bedside table right now:
Emma - Jane Austen
The Good Earth - Pearl S. Buck
Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
Body Art: A History - Unknown
Rue Morgue Magazine
Shakespeare: A Biography - Peter Akroyd
Moliere - Collected Works - Moliere (duh)
The Chronicles of Narnia Completed Set - C.S. Lewis
Anthem - Ayn Rand
Jonathan Livingston Seagull - Richard Bach
Emma - Jane Austen
The Good Earth - Pearl S. Buck
Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
Body Art: A History - Unknown
Rue Morgue Magazine
Shakespeare: A Biography - Peter Akroyd
Moliere - Collected Works - Moliere (duh)
The Chronicles of Narnia Completed Set - C.S. Lewis
Anthem - Ayn Rand
Jonathan Livingston Seagull - Richard Bach
Thursday, January 26, 2006
Spooky
We have a large door that is made of glass. It looks out onto our deck and the huge lawn beyond. During the day when it's sunny and pretty you can sit in the den and watch deer splash around in the "crik" and eat our glass.
At night the doors are pitch black and mostly reflect what's inside the house. This is disconcerting, especially when I'm sitting on the floor watching something like "Masters of Horror" at midnight on a Friday. During these times I have to turn my back to the door and focus on the t.v. completely. Sometimes throwing a blanket over my head scarf style so I won't look at the large gapping holes of black opening out into the abyss. Maybe it's the scary movies, or the freaky music, or the fact I'm sitting downstairs, alone in an empty house while the "men" are upstairs and wouldn't care even if they could hear me scream but my mind goes wild over the glass doors.
I am always frightened that some night or other I will look at the slate of shiny black and suddenly see a disembodied head come out of the gloom. I'm sure this head won't actually be disembodied. In fact I'm sure it's very bodied, complete with a fully bodied, bloody knife ready to hack me into several tiny pieces.
Last night we weren't watching "Masters of Horror". People on the television weren't screaming and the nice warm fire accompanied by the nice warm husband allowed me to let me glass-door-guard down. Instead I was settling in to hear my husband tell about another plan to relive his boyhood. (A horror story in and of itself.)
"It'd be cool. I can get some black powder and a bunch of pipe..."
GASP!
Suddenly, something at the bottom of the glass door caught my attention. Rising up from the ground, outside in the cold, wintery, dark was something round. Something white. From far into the reaches beyond human sight it moved close to the glass. Features came into view, a nose, a mouth - both small. Surrounded by a dingy sort of white halo making a face. Inches away from a door that lead straight into my home. And finally, two large, glowing eyes. It peered into our house through the thin glass, fog came from it's breath. It heard me gasp...
My hand flew to my mouth. My heart jumped into my throat and pounded away. I sat straight as an arrow and trembled as it's red, firey eyes turned towards me. We met one another's gaze. I could feel my breath come back and warm the hand covering my lips, I could see the face turn just slightly to get a better look at me. It's features were placid, but the eyes showed a look of equal surprise to my own. Then...
"Kitty!!!"
My husband finally turned his head to look at the specter haunting our doorway. The white fluffy cat looked at us both in confusion as if it were surprised there were people in the big house. His hair was damp but fluffed up from the wind and the storm. It's ears were barely visible through all the fur and it's white face looked ghostly and pale surrounded by the dark night.
It looked between us a few more times, it's big glowing eyes growing larger and larger - then it took off into the yard.
So much for burly, tough axe murderers. They're all a bunch of pussy cats.
At night the doors are pitch black and mostly reflect what's inside the house. This is disconcerting, especially when I'm sitting on the floor watching something like "Masters of Horror" at midnight on a Friday. During these times I have to turn my back to the door and focus on the t.v. completely. Sometimes throwing a blanket over my head scarf style so I won't look at the large gapping holes of black opening out into the abyss. Maybe it's the scary movies, or the freaky music, or the fact I'm sitting downstairs, alone in an empty house while the "men" are upstairs and wouldn't care even if they could hear me scream but my mind goes wild over the glass doors.
I am always frightened that some night or other I will look at the slate of shiny black and suddenly see a disembodied head come out of the gloom. I'm sure this head won't actually be disembodied. In fact I'm sure it's very bodied, complete with a fully bodied, bloody knife ready to hack me into several tiny pieces.
Last night we weren't watching "Masters of Horror". People on the television weren't screaming and the nice warm fire accompanied by the nice warm husband allowed me to let me glass-door-guard down. Instead I was settling in to hear my husband tell about another plan to relive his boyhood. (A horror story in and of itself.)
"It'd be cool. I can get some black powder and a bunch of pipe..."
GASP!
Suddenly, something at the bottom of the glass door caught my attention. Rising up from the ground, outside in the cold, wintery, dark was something round. Something white. From far into the reaches beyond human sight it moved close to the glass. Features came into view, a nose, a mouth - both small. Surrounded by a dingy sort of white halo making a face. Inches away from a door that lead straight into my home. And finally, two large, glowing eyes. It peered into our house through the thin glass, fog came from it's breath. It heard me gasp...
My hand flew to my mouth. My heart jumped into my throat and pounded away. I sat straight as an arrow and trembled as it's red, firey eyes turned towards me. We met one another's gaze. I could feel my breath come back and warm the hand covering my lips, I could see the face turn just slightly to get a better look at me. It's features were placid, but the eyes showed a look of equal surprise to my own. Then...
"Kitty!!!"
My husband finally turned his head to look at the specter haunting our doorway. The white fluffy cat looked at us both in confusion as if it were surprised there were people in the big house. His hair was damp but fluffed up from the wind and the storm. It's ears were barely visible through all the fur and it's white face looked ghostly and pale surrounded by the dark night.
It looked between us a few more times, it's big glowing eyes growing larger and larger - then it took off into the yard.
So much for burly, tough axe murderers. They're all a bunch of pussy cats.
Monday, January 23, 2006
The Cars Who Lunch
I work in an area with lots of large office buildings. The economy being what is it (whatever that means) there are a lot of office buildings that are not filled and even more parking lots that remain empty.
Well mostly empty. From the periods of 8am to 12pm and again at 1pm and 5pm the parking lots look desolate and sad.
But when noon rolls around the parking lots look populated but no less sad. Noon is when the cubicle dwellers become the car dwellers, again, for an hour.
It's no different than the bench lunchers you find in more urban settings but we suburban/industrial-lites have taken the requisite twelve-inch-barrier minimum to the next level.
When we lunch we have to be at least one parking space and a few easy-listening stations away from eachother.
When I worked in New York you'd hit a deli or a street stand for your gastric monstrosities. (I particularly liked the grumpy italian sandwich man in SoHo because he loved pretty girls and hated pretty men. Which meant free italian cookies for me and sharp words for GQ grinding his crotch against my ass. The fact that grumpy italian sandwich guy was probably just jealous because he wanted to be the one grinding against the girls didn't escape me...but hey...free cookies!) After braving your mostly disgruntled lunchman you'd sit on a bench, either on a traffic island or in a park and stare straight ahead. Eat, wipe your mouth, throw your stuff away and go. And under no circumstances do you ever make eye contact. Sometimes you'd take a magazine, newspaper or book with you, to aide you in the anti-social thing.
It never did work for me. Even in other large cities. People always came up to me and talked. I supposed when you think of scary, potential serial-killer scenarios that arise from talking with complete stranger you don't picture me and my tuna fish sandwich on wheat.
But I bet you will from now on, won't you?
In anycase now that I work in a less walking-friendly area I take my precious lunch hours in my car. Along with 15 other people who share my particular favorite parking area. (A parking lot that is covered in a lot of trees and was built for a mostly-empty business park.) Today I spent my lunch hour cleaning out my car and managed to take a quick look around at all the people I was spending this hour with.
Three large trucks were parking in the lot. They each had two men in them and all looked severely ticked that they had to truck around the place in the rain. None of them were speaking to one another, but I think one was talking to his chicken sandwich.
Four little silver cars. All of them silver. My car is also silver. We could have been a school of fish. Two of them had their front drivers seats "missing" which means that the drivers had pushed them back in order to take a nice 60 minute nap before going back to their cubes. The other two were eating McDonalds and Taco Bell. The woman left her headlights on, both of them were getting steamy windows from the heat inside.
Then there was the ambulance that is always parked there. No one is ever in it. I like to think the EMT's are taking naps in the back too. At least they have comfy cots.
Lastly there is a black jeep that always pulls in around 12:45pm. He always has a girl with him, sometimes a few. The music is loud and the food always looks yummier in there.
That's 13-15 people I have lunch with every time I get out of the office. They're regulars. I recognize their cars and trucks. I could quote their license plates. But I am certain that if asked I could tell you what the drivers looked like.
The thing about the car lunchers is that we take that whole "no eye contact" thing to the extreme. We've created cubicles in our parking lots to mirror the ones in our offices. We all sit and look straight ahead at a windshield instead of a computer screen. We listen to the same crappy radio music that plays on our headphones in the office. We all just mindless eat whatever grey fast-food we found that day. And we never, ever need to acknowledge that outside those steel doors, someone else is there.
I have to admit, it feels safe. I like that I can get a cheeseburger and not worry that the other ladies at the office will comment on the fact I'm eating something with so much fat. The guy napping two cars down from me doesn't care if I eat something fattening. He would never say "I can't imagine how you keep your girlish figure with that food." He would never tell me about the latest article on Diabetes in the Washington Post. He doesn't bother me, I don't bother him.
And more importantly my car-cube allows me the chance to close a door. A real door. Heck I can lock it. No one can barge into my car the way they barge into my cubicle. No one can relax and rest their butt on my dashboard while they play with my air-freshner. Sure, my cellphone may ring, but I am not required to answer that one.
That's what the car lunch is, it's really true solitude in a box. I can imagine that those people who stretch out in their drivers seat can look up at the sky and actually, for one hour in the whole day, feel completely alone.
And somehow I think that this might not be such a bad thing.
Well mostly empty. From the periods of 8am to 12pm and again at 1pm and 5pm the parking lots look desolate and sad.
But when noon rolls around the parking lots look populated but no less sad. Noon is when the cubicle dwellers become the car dwellers, again, for an hour.
It's no different than the bench lunchers you find in more urban settings but we suburban/industrial-lites have taken the requisite twelve-inch-barrier minimum to the next level.
When we lunch we have to be at least one parking space and a few easy-listening stations away from eachother.
When I worked in New York you'd hit a deli or a street stand for your gastric monstrosities. (I particularly liked the grumpy italian sandwich man in SoHo because he loved pretty girls and hated pretty men. Which meant free italian cookies for me and sharp words for GQ grinding his crotch against my ass. The fact that grumpy italian sandwich guy was probably just jealous because he wanted to be the one grinding against the girls didn't escape me...but hey...free cookies!) After braving your mostly disgruntled lunchman you'd sit on a bench, either on a traffic island or in a park and stare straight ahead. Eat, wipe your mouth, throw your stuff away and go. And under no circumstances do you ever make eye contact. Sometimes you'd take a magazine, newspaper or book with you, to aide you in the anti-social thing.
It never did work for me. Even in other large cities. People always came up to me and talked. I supposed when you think of scary, potential serial-killer scenarios that arise from talking with complete stranger you don't picture me and my tuna fish sandwich on wheat.
But I bet you will from now on, won't you?
In anycase now that I work in a less walking-friendly area I take my precious lunch hours in my car. Along with 15 other people who share my particular favorite parking area. (A parking lot that is covered in a lot of trees and was built for a mostly-empty business park.) Today I spent my lunch hour cleaning out my car and managed to take a quick look around at all the people I was spending this hour with.
Three large trucks were parking in the lot. They each had two men in them and all looked severely ticked that they had to truck around the place in the rain. None of them were speaking to one another, but I think one was talking to his chicken sandwich.
Four little silver cars. All of them silver. My car is also silver. We could have been a school of fish. Two of them had their front drivers seats "missing" which means that the drivers had pushed them back in order to take a nice 60 minute nap before going back to their cubes. The other two were eating McDonalds and Taco Bell. The woman left her headlights on, both of them were getting steamy windows from the heat inside.
Then there was the ambulance that is always parked there. No one is ever in it. I like to think the EMT's are taking naps in the back too. At least they have comfy cots.
Lastly there is a black jeep that always pulls in around 12:45pm. He always has a girl with him, sometimes a few. The music is loud and the food always looks yummier in there.
That's 13-15 people I have lunch with every time I get out of the office. They're regulars. I recognize their cars and trucks. I could quote their license plates. But I am certain that if asked I could tell you what the drivers looked like.
The thing about the car lunchers is that we take that whole "no eye contact" thing to the extreme. We've created cubicles in our parking lots to mirror the ones in our offices. We all sit and look straight ahead at a windshield instead of a computer screen. We listen to the same crappy radio music that plays on our headphones in the office. We all just mindless eat whatever grey fast-food we found that day. And we never, ever need to acknowledge that outside those steel doors, someone else is there.
I have to admit, it feels safe. I like that I can get a cheeseburger and not worry that the other ladies at the office will comment on the fact I'm eating something with so much fat. The guy napping two cars down from me doesn't care if I eat something fattening. He would never say "I can't imagine how you keep your girlish figure with that food." He would never tell me about the latest article on Diabetes in the Washington Post. He doesn't bother me, I don't bother him.
And more importantly my car-cube allows me the chance to close a door. A real door. Heck I can lock it. No one can barge into my car the way they barge into my cubicle. No one can relax and rest their butt on my dashboard while they play with my air-freshner. Sure, my cellphone may ring, but I am not required to answer that one.
That's what the car lunch is, it's really true solitude in a box. I can imagine that those people who stretch out in their drivers seat can look up at the sky and actually, for one hour in the whole day, feel completely alone.
And somehow I think that this might not be such a bad thing.
This is my rubberband
There is this odd phenomena that once my life starts getting really interesting - I have no desire to write about it. Those moments when my life is plodding step after plodding step is much more conducive to observation and fiction that makes for good blogging. Or psuedo-fiction. Or dramatic non-fiction. Okay - histrionics.
The fact is that 2006 came rushing in far faster than anyone would have expected. By anyone I mean me. Especially considering that 2005 sat in neutral for a full 365 days. Here we are not even one month into it and suddenly I'm staring down huge life changes for not just me but the most important person in my life. This is good. Being able to actually move forward, discover things and change is good.
But I don't want to blog about it.
The fact is around this time of year is when you read other blogs start talking about "re-focusing" their "blog design" and how they're going to get back on the "topic". Quite frankly this blog never had a topic. It was just an excuse for me to sit and write because I like to sit and write. And more-over I have enough "re-focusing of structure" right now to do me for...well...the next six months.
So instead of the quirky "state of the blogs" and the "this is what I plan" stuff you find at the "better" blogs I'm doing the opposite.
I refuse to get focused or planned or structured with this blog. In fact, if I can manage it I'm gonna get even more messy and confusing and crazy. Remember when you were a teenager and had that journal that was literally stuffed with a bunch of scraps of paper and tidbits and pictures and those napkins from the cafeteria that you put doodles on during lunch and really wanted to keep? The one that was so packed and so full that the binding came apart and you had to hold the cover on with a rubber band?
Well that's what this blog is to me. Like my purse and my car - crap is going to come in - but it won't come out. (By the way, thank my husband for that analogy.)
The fact is that 2006 came rushing in far faster than anyone would have expected. By anyone I mean me. Especially considering that 2005 sat in neutral for a full 365 days. Here we are not even one month into it and suddenly I'm staring down huge life changes for not just me but the most important person in my life. This is good. Being able to actually move forward, discover things and change is good.
But I don't want to blog about it.
The fact is around this time of year is when you read other blogs start talking about "re-focusing" their "blog design" and how they're going to get back on the "topic". Quite frankly this blog never had a topic. It was just an excuse for me to sit and write because I like to sit and write. And more-over I have enough "re-focusing of structure" right now to do me for...well...the next six months.
So instead of the quirky "state of the blogs" and the "this is what I plan" stuff you find at the "better" blogs I'm doing the opposite.
I refuse to get focused or planned or structured with this blog. In fact, if I can manage it I'm gonna get even more messy and confusing and crazy. Remember when you were a teenager and had that journal that was literally stuffed with a bunch of scraps of paper and tidbits and pictures and those napkins from the cafeteria that you put doodles on during lunch and really wanted to keep? The one that was so packed and so full that the binding came apart and you had to hold the cover on with a rubber band?
Well that's what this blog is to me. Like my purse and my car - crap is going to come in - but it won't come out. (By the way, thank my husband for that analogy.)
Friday, January 20, 2006
Color Coordination
Among my other duties about my office I am also called to procure "office things" for new employees and associates who are either being moved in a bigger office or (less prestigious) into a smaller cubicle.
Usually it's not that big of a deal. Gather a few folders, paperclips, staples and other sundry then a couple of things to put them in. Most of the time my hunting techniques entail crawling through dirty, spidery crawlspaces and closets that have been attacked by the clutter monster. On "lucky" days I will get the chance to scavenge in the remnants of a cubicle whose inhabitant has recently left. During the last employee purge people would literally circle cubes like vultures circle an animal about to cross the road. If you're gonna get his by a Mack Truck eventually couldn't we just have a small taste now? As soon as the employee had taken their last piece of "personal decoration" the cube would be swarmed with people sinking their teeth into the nice, unsqueaky stapler and the keyboard that doesn't have a sticky "k".
And usually that's about the extent of the complaints when it comes to office supplies. Nothing works like new and no one gets anything that is new. The shiny new boxes from Office Max and Staples contain toys for the people coming to replace us, rather than the people doing the work now. So we squeak and stick a little longer, till I can find that golden Swingline that's been hiding in the pantry of the third floor kitchen.
Complaints about poorly working equipment I can understand. I will go out of my way to look for something that works a little better or doesn't smell so funny, but lately I've been working with someone who had a much more annoying request.
Everything has to be the same color.
This particular person is a little higher on the food chain than most so one would assume that my job would be a little easier. For him I can fill out a supply request form and actually buy him stuff. But stuff within reason, the stuff on our contract, the stuff that's cheap. For two months now I've been scouting out inboxes and staplers for him. I even went so far as to surrender (after being pointedlytold asked) my own inboxes in his search for something black.
Today though I thought my searching would finally come to an end. After having brought him all he supplies he needed three times, and having been sent away in search of something "Similar, but different" three times each I finally had procured him a black stapler 4 inches rather than the normal 6, a black staple remover that was sufficiently sharpened, a black inbox that held legal paper rather than letter, a black paper clip holder that had a tinted box rather than clear, and a black tape dispenser that didn't say "Scotch". Finally after all that I had receive the last piece of the puzzle. I victoriously carried to his office a brand-spanking-new pair of scissors - fresh out of the Staples box, in their original packaging. Normally our scissors are small, dull, and have the name of some other company printed on them. I swear, it was like carrying the Olympic torch - same amount of stares, less flame.
"Katy, this handle is dark blue, is it possible for me to get a black handled scissors...or is that too much?"
Blink, Blink, Blink.
Usually it's not that big of a deal. Gather a few folders, paperclips, staples and other sundry then a couple of things to put them in. Most of the time my hunting techniques entail crawling through dirty, spidery crawlspaces and closets that have been attacked by the clutter monster. On "lucky" days I will get the chance to scavenge in the remnants of a cubicle whose inhabitant has recently left. During the last employee purge people would literally circle cubes like vultures circle an animal about to cross the road. If you're gonna get his by a Mack Truck eventually couldn't we just have a small taste now? As soon as the employee had taken their last piece of "personal decoration" the cube would be swarmed with people sinking their teeth into the nice, unsqueaky stapler and the keyboard that doesn't have a sticky "k".
And usually that's about the extent of the complaints when it comes to office supplies. Nothing works like new and no one gets anything that is new. The shiny new boxes from Office Max and Staples contain toys for the people coming to replace us, rather than the people doing the work now. So we squeak and stick a little longer, till I can find that golden Swingline that's been hiding in the pantry of the third floor kitchen.
Complaints about poorly working equipment I can understand. I will go out of my way to look for something that works a little better or doesn't smell so funny, but lately I've been working with someone who had a much more annoying request.
Everything has to be the same color.
This particular person is a little higher on the food chain than most so one would assume that my job would be a little easier. For him I can fill out a supply request form and actually buy him stuff. But stuff within reason, the stuff on our contract, the stuff that's cheap. For two months now I've been scouting out inboxes and staplers for him. I even went so far as to surrender (after being pointedly
Today though I thought my searching would finally come to an end. After having brought him all he supplies he needed three times, and having been sent away in search of something "Similar, but different" three times each I finally had procured him a black stapler 4 inches rather than the normal 6, a black staple remover that was sufficiently sharpened, a black inbox that held legal paper rather than letter, a black paper clip holder that had a tinted box rather than clear, and a black tape dispenser that didn't say "Scotch". Finally after all that I had receive the last piece of the puzzle. I victoriously carried to his office a brand-spanking-new pair of scissors - fresh out of the Staples box, in their original packaging. Normally our scissors are small, dull, and have the name of some other company printed on them. I swear, it was like carrying the Olympic torch - same amount of stares, less flame.
"Katy, this handle is dark blue, is it possible for me to get a black handled scissors...or is that too much?"
Blink, Blink, Blink.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Typical
You scored as English. You should be an English major! Your passion lies in writing and expressing yourself creatively, and you hate it when you are inhibited from doing so. Pursue that interest of yours!
What is your Perfect Major? (PLEASE RATE ME!!<3) created with QuizFarm.com |
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Captain! It's an Iceberg!
There is blog called Opinionistas that is one of those trendy blogs. The New York Times has written about it, everyone reads it, if you read and of the other trendy blogs then you'll be directed to it at some point. It's a "hip" blog.
There is also another blog that only recently popped up and is not so widely read. It's called Opinionistas Sucks.
Yes, that's right. There is a blog that is purely for picking apart another blog. I think this smells like those websites people made to tout their own friends websites. "I'm like, so in love with Jennifer and her website. This all about Jennifer." and then Jennifer would have a website that was "All about how much I totally love Kyle 4EVA. Stay Sweet! And look at his website!"
Isn't the fact that there is a blog about another blog just the beginning of the end. And since the first blog mentioned the second hasn't the beast been unleashed? Won't blog1 post about blog2 who is posting about blog1 posting about blog2 which is posting about blog1 posting about...
The mirror-on-mirror action is just too much for me to take. Surely this new development signals the demise of the blogosphere. Doesn't this mean that the blog thing is on the way out. I mean honestly. A few people will get a book deal, some might even make a movie but by the time it's really ready the trend will be gone. The books will go straight to the bargin bin with the other garbage that publishers use to fill between the last Harry Potter and the next. The movie is straight to t.v. Probably Lifetime.
Not that I still won't hold on. It's like watching Titanic...you know the ship is going down...you know someone is gonna die...yet you just can't look away. Not till the last lip has turned purple and limbs start breaking off.
Yes, my bloggy heart will go on and on!
There is also another blog that only recently popped up and is not so widely read. It's called Opinionistas Sucks.
Yes, that's right. There is a blog that is purely for picking apart another blog. I think this smells like those websites people made to tout their own friends websites. "I'm like, so in love with Jennifer and her website. This all about Jennifer." and then Jennifer would have a website that was "All about how much I totally love Kyle 4EVA. Stay Sweet! And look at his website!"
Isn't the fact that there is a blog about another blog just the beginning of the end. And since the first blog mentioned the second hasn't the beast been unleashed? Won't blog1 post about blog2 who is posting about blog1 posting about blog2 which is posting about blog1 posting about...
The mirror-on-mirror action is just too much for me to take. Surely this new development signals the demise of the blogosphere. Doesn't this mean that the blog thing is on the way out. I mean honestly. A few people will get a book deal, some might even make a movie but by the time it's really ready the trend will be gone. The books will go straight to the bargin bin with the other garbage that publishers use to fill between the last Harry Potter and the next. The movie is straight to t.v. Probably Lifetime.
Not that I still won't hold on. It's like watching Titanic...you know the ship is going down...you know someone is gonna die...yet you just can't look away. Not till the last lip has turned purple and limbs start breaking off.
Yes, my bloggy heart will go on and on!
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Panda's don't eat with chopsticks either
Me (to the chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter): Can I get a pair of chopsticks please?
Chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter: We don't have chopsticks.
Me (looking at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food logo): Seriously?
Chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter: No one knows how to use them in Maryland.
Touche
Me (now stuck with a plastic fork): I'm gonna need another fortune cookie...
Chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter: We don't have chopsticks.
Me (looking at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food logo): Seriously?
Chick at the Panda Express Gourmet Chinese Food counter: No one knows how to use them in Maryland.
Touche
Me (now stuck with a plastic fork): I'm gonna need another fortune cookie...
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Double Entendre
I often wonder at what point do you move from "young person who's head lives in the gutter" to "old person who misses blantantly obvious sexual references". Is this phenomena like the "Beautiful 24 year old"? Do you suddenly turn 40, or 50 and fail to see the phallic nature of a hotdog anymore? Is it indicative of a low sex life? Or a ultra high one?
And when will I get to the point where I can tell my boss about the meeting being held tomorrow (with a bunch of middle-aged men in suits) that is titled:
Disputes - "Double-Dipping"
without breaking up into a bunch of giggles?
And when will I get to the point where I can tell my boss about the meeting being held tomorrow (with a bunch of middle-aged men in suits) that is titled:
Disputes - "Double-Dipping"
without breaking up into a bunch of giggles?
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
The day I had Oysters Rockerfeller at Bloomingdales
I never read "A Million Little Pieces". I did think of buying it for a friend for a brief moment, but I opted to get her a good smelling candle instead. That's about where I rate the "Oprah Winfrey Suggestions". They're no better or worse than good smelling candles. A light snack, the kind of book you pick up in the store to feel it's heft and read the back cover before heading to real tomes of prose and poetry. It's a warm up to stuff you should actually read.
That being said I find myself trudging through the feeling of apathy as I drive to and from work listening to people express outrage to the DJ's over the supposed betrayal by one Mr. Frey.
Honestly if the book was as good as people say then it wouldn't matter if Mr. Frey turned out to be a girl who grew up in Sweden. In fact, if the book was any good, in my opinion, no one would remember whats-his-face's name.
That's how it is with me.
Last night we had dinner at Nordstrom's cafe. Of all the places in Nordstrom the one that still has that charm and unique elegance of Macy's or Bloomingdales in the 1940's is their cafeteria. Sure they have a piano player on the floor, but he sits in front of the women's fitness area and his other-wordliness is destroyed by the glaring orange spandex. Likewise, the lowcut, too-tight pants on the clerks never reminds me of those shop women with the nice french twists and gentle handling of fabric.
But stepping into their cafeteria doesn't take me just back in time, it takes me into my favorite short story.
I don't remember the name of it, I don't know who wrote it. I'm certain I read it in a text book, but I can't remember what grade I was in or which class it was for. I can't remember what the real underlying theme of it was, or what the name of the main character was. I don't even remember the basic exposition of the piece. But I remember the way it made me feel. I can remember the story like I remember a memory of my very own. I know what it felt like, I know what it smelled like. I can close my eyes and feel the electric buzz the character felt.
And I don't even know if the story is real or if I dreamt it. It's memory hits me like a ton of bricks everytime I step into this particular establishment, and it may not even exist.
Like anything that is so vague - it is the perfect story.
It's about a woman who doesn't have much money. She goes out for a day to get something cheap. Along the way, somehow, she comes in possession of five dollars. I have no idea how. I like to think she found it. I like to think that as all these people who were rich and busy and used to the excitement and charm of the city passed by without looking, she looked. I like to think of her alone on the sidewalk, glancing all around and just so happening to see a muddy, footprinted five dollar bill on the ground. I like the poetry in that. I have no idea if it's actually part of the story.
She has five dollars and she spends it on herself. With those five surprise dollars she goes to a department store. Or maybe she was already at the store? I can't tell, I don't know, the important part is that she goes to a cafeteria - the kind I walked into last night. Bustling, yet with a reserved kind of noise. Comfy, warm semi-private booths. Tables with inlay, or tables with cloths. Glowing dark lamps, enough to make you feel happy and sleepy. I pick my food in a line. Pasta and a coke, made fancy and special by a slice of lemon bobbing with the ice. I sit a little straighter when I'm in my booth, watching all the ladies with blue hair and expensive casual clothes. I can't help my cross my ankles daintly...the way you're supposed to, but never do. I hide my hands under the table, only using one to carefully pick through the pasta. Sitting alone, waiting for my husband to get back, I feel just like the woman from my story. Sitting alone at this table I remember what it was like to be her.
She sat alone, wearing wool and cotton that smelled of grimy city and fresh air - not perfume. She sat straighter, hide her hands, fixed the way her hat sat on her head. For five dollars she ordered soup, potatoes, pie with ice cream. Most of all she had oysters rockerfeller. I've never had oysters rockerfeller. I don't think she had either. But she savored every bite. Every sip and taste. Soft, warm, over-cooked, delicious food. One day, one lucky day, when she sat down in a place that she would never sit in and had oysters rockerfeller - and maybe - just maybe a slice of lemon in her water.
I don't know if the story is real, if some woman one day actually found five dollars and treated herself to lunch. I don't know if the story was written by a man or a woman. I'm not sure if the story was actually about the lunch, or about find the money. I'm not entirely sure it was five dollars. All I know is I remember sitting in a department store cafeteria in 1905 and having oysters and pie with ice cream. I was there, I know I was. And I can remember the way the seat felt under my wool skirt and the way my shoes dug into my ankles after walking. I can remember the people I saw and the voices I heard and the face of the man who brought me my plate.
Did an author write the story? Did he want me to feel like I had been there when he did? Did he care whether I knew it was his mother, or his sister, or a woman he made up?
Does it matter?
No. The fact that I can't remember anything but what happened to the characters is what makes this my favorite story. It's the perfect story because it wasn't a story.
It was an experience.
That being said I find myself trudging through the feeling of apathy as I drive to and from work listening to people express outrage to the DJ's over the supposed betrayal by one Mr. Frey.
Honestly if the book was as good as people say then it wouldn't matter if Mr. Frey turned out to be a girl who grew up in Sweden. In fact, if the book was any good, in my opinion, no one would remember whats-his-face's name.
That's how it is with me.
Last night we had dinner at Nordstrom's cafe. Of all the places in Nordstrom the one that still has that charm and unique elegance of Macy's or Bloomingdales in the 1940's is their cafeteria. Sure they have a piano player on the floor, but he sits in front of the women's fitness area and his other-wordliness is destroyed by the glaring orange spandex. Likewise, the lowcut, too-tight pants on the clerks never reminds me of those shop women with the nice french twists and gentle handling of fabric.
But stepping into their cafeteria doesn't take me just back in time, it takes me into my favorite short story.
I don't remember the name of it, I don't know who wrote it. I'm certain I read it in a text book, but I can't remember what grade I was in or which class it was for. I can't remember what the real underlying theme of it was, or what the name of the main character was. I don't even remember the basic exposition of the piece. But I remember the way it made me feel. I can remember the story like I remember a memory of my very own. I know what it felt like, I know what it smelled like. I can close my eyes and feel the electric buzz the character felt.
And I don't even know if the story is real or if I dreamt it. It's memory hits me like a ton of bricks everytime I step into this particular establishment, and it may not even exist.
Like anything that is so vague - it is the perfect story.
It's about a woman who doesn't have much money. She goes out for a day to get something cheap. Along the way, somehow, she comes in possession of five dollars. I have no idea how. I like to think she found it. I like to think that as all these people who were rich and busy and used to the excitement and charm of the city passed by without looking, she looked. I like to think of her alone on the sidewalk, glancing all around and just so happening to see a muddy, footprinted five dollar bill on the ground. I like the poetry in that. I have no idea if it's actually part of the story.
She has five dollars and she spends it on herself. With those five surprise dollars she goes to a department store. Or maybe she was already at the store? I can't tell, I don't know, the important part is that she goes to a cafeteria - the kind I walked into last night. Bustling, yet with a reserved kind of noise. Comfy, warm semi-private booths. Tables with inlay, or tables with cloths. Glowing dark lamps, enough to make you feel happy and sleepy. I pick my food in a line. Pasta and a coke, made fancy and special by a slice of lemon bobbing with the ice. I sit a little straighter when I'm in my booth, watching all the ladies with blue hair and expensive casual clothes. I can't help my cross my ankles daintly...the way you're supposed to, but never do. I hide my hands under the table, only using one to carefully pick through the pasta. Sitting alone, waiting for my husband to get back, I feel just like the woman from my story. Sitting alone at this table I remember what it was like to be her.
She sat alone, wearing wool and cotton that smelled of grimy city and fresh air - not perfume. She sat straighter, hide her hands, fixed the way her hat sat on her head. For five dollars she ordered soup, potatoes, pie with ice cream. Most of all she had oysters rockerfeller. I've never had oysters rockerfeller. I don't think she had either. But she savored every bite. Every sip and taste. Soft, warm, over-cooked, delicious food. One day, one lucky day, when she sat down in a place that she would never sit in and had oysters rockerfeller - and maybe - just maybe a slice of lemon in her water.
I don't know if the story is real, if some woman one day actually found five dollars and treated herself to lunch. I don't know if the story was written by a man or a woman. I'm not sure if the story was actually about the lunch, or about find the money. I'm not entirely sure it was five dollars. All I know is I remember sitting in a department store cafeteria in 1905 and having oysters and pie with ice cream. I was there, I know I was. And I can remember the way the seat felt under my wool skirt and the way my shoes dug into my ankles after walking. I can remember the people I saw and the voices I heard and the face of the man who brought me my plate.
Did an author write the story? Did he want me to feel like I had been there when he did? Did he care whether I knew it was his mother, or his sister, or a woman he made up?
Does it matter?
No. The fact that I can't remember anything but what happened to the characters is what makes this my favorite story. It's the perfect story because it wasn't a story.
It was an experience.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Taking it too far
When you work in an office where everyone is about to get fired, nerves can get a little strained.
When you work in an office where all those people have just been subject to 20 minutes of "personal time" with an HR rep...you overhear things that are not normally acceptable in mixed company.
But I never expected this overheard coming from my bosses office this afternoon:
"If you stab a pencil into your...no listen, if you stab a pencil in your thigh you...."
"IF YOU STAB A PENCIL INTO THE SKIN OF YOUR THIGH!!!!!!!"
When you work in an office where all those people have just been subject to 20 minutes of "personal time" with an HR rep...you overhear things that are not normally acceptable in mixed company.
But I never expected this overheard coming from my bosses office this afternoon:
"If you stab a pencil into your...no listen, if you stab a pencil in your thigh you...."
"IF YOU STAB A PENCIL INTO THE SKIN OF YOUR THIGH!!!!!!!"
Monday, January 09, 2006
Twenty-four
The other day I heard a review of Jaguar's T.V. commercial on NPR. (National Public Radio). Now I'm not sure why the person was reviewing a commercial, or if his job is actually to pick some form of advertising and hate on it every week, but nevertheless there it was: 7 minutes of hating on a Jaguar commercial.
This post, typically, has nothing to do with the commercial or the review.
What it does have to do with is this particular reviewers obsession with other people's obsessions with 24 year old women.
For the entire 7 minutes of Jaguar-picking this reviewer mentioned the existence of 24 year old women in the commercial maybe 20 times. He made even more references to the fact that in real life there are also 24 year old women. (In case we forgot that people live as long as 24 years and some of those people are female.)
Apparently all 24 year old women are beautiful and desirable - as a commodity - and as art.
What I can't figure out is where 24 came from. I'm sure in the commercial it's a bunch of leggy, beautiful women, all young and firm and supple with pert breasts and glowing tans. But when looking at a woman of this description why is it automatically thought that she is 24? Why can't she be 26? Or 21? Or, more probably given the model market, 16? Why is the magic number 24?
And it never changed. The woman wasn't labelled as "possibly 24" or later "around 25" she was always the beautiful, desirable 24 year old...which a man who buys a Jaguar will never get. Ever. 24 was the number, the age for all things gorgeous, all things consumable. 24 is the age to be in order to be gifted with expensive jewels and fancy cars. 24 is the age where a woman can attract a man with a simple look of the eye. 24 is sex. 24 is beauty. 24 is power.
Listening to all the merits of being a 24 year old made my 23 year old self feel woefully unprepared.
My birthday is in less that six months. In less than six months I will cross that line between gawky, self-conscious, ungraceful 23 to the primed, sexy, and confident 24. Apparently 24 is the year when I can use all these "womanly" charms that, heretofore, haven't done me a lick of good (besides mess up my equilibrium) to bait and hook my sugar daddy. In little less than half a year I will be able to get into any door, receive any gift and sleep with any tall, dark and handsome Cabana boy I want - or don't want. This is coming up! 24 is almost here...I'm almost to the point where all these hips and boobs and hormones pay off. I'm almost about to be enveloped in the leathery arms of my pretty new Jaguar...
So why don't I feel any different? Is this 24 thing gradual? Does it just happen all at once on the stroke of midnight? Poof! I'm no longer a pumpkin? Do I have to gear up for it? Should I be wearing anything special or do the fancy dresses and the matching purse come along with the new poise and je nais se quoi?
More importantly do I need to wash my hair?
What really frightens me about this whole ugly duckling thing about to take place is that it's not actually a spontaneous thing. Instead of being like year 20 to year 21 where at the stroke of midnight you were allowed to walk into bars and clubs previously barred and really belong there; year 23 to year 24 is more like April 15th.
It's a deadline. More than that...it's an exam. And one that I wasn't prepared for...shoot...I don't even have a Number 2 pencil anymore!
I must have missed a memo. I missed that day in class. I didn't know I was supposed to be so perfect so soon. I thought the milestones were finally behind me. 13, 16, 18, 21...I finished them all. I could sneak up on July 11 without any pressure. Slip quietly from 21 to 22. Coast my way through my 20's and save all my anxiety for when I turned 30 and realized I'm old, childless and my boobs sag.
I'm ready for the sagging boobs.
I'm not ready for the perky ones. Why wasn't I told that I had to do this whole "Wow she's gorgeous" thing? How am I supposed to show people I'm 24 now and not 23? Am I gonna have to walk down the stairs in a ball gown and gloves while I smile just right to make everyone gasp? Am I gonna have to go down the stairs in heels? Am I going to have to do it without falling?
If so I'm gonna need a little training. Six months is not enough time to prepare myself. I walk into things! I fall down! Sometimes I even line my eyes crooked! How am I supposed to turn 24 if my eyeliner is crooked? Will anyone notice?
Is this some dirty little secret that older women don't tell? Like when they say childbirth is the most beautiful experience in life. Yeah - like I believe that one. Is this a conspiracy to see if us youngins' are really ready for womanhood? Oh sure we have the periods, the cramps, the fluctuating emotions. We got all that now...but are we ready to have all of it in slinky gold dresses and razor thing three inch heels?
I'M NOT!!! And frankly I resent being told that I have to be.
I dunno where Mr. NPR reviewer guy got the idea that 24 is the ideal age...but consider this my official request for an extension. I refuse to be perfect until at least age 25.
And that's final!
This post, typically, has nothing to do with the commercial or the review.
What it does have to do with is this particular reviewers obsession with other people's obsessions with 24 year old women.
For the entire 7 minutes of Jaguar-picking this reviewer mentioned the existence of 24 year old women in the commercial maybe 20 times. He made even more references to the fact that in real life there are also 24 year old women. (In case we forgot that people live as long as 24 years and some of those people are female.)
Apparently all 24 year old women are beautiful and desirable - as a commodity - and as art.
What I can't figure out is where 24 came from. I'm sure in the commercial it's a bunch of leggy, beautiful women, all young and firm and supple with pert breasts and glowing tans. But when looking at a woman of this description why is it automatically thought that she is 24? Why can't she be 26? Or 21? Or, more probably given the model market, 16? Why is the magic number 24?
And it never changed. The woman wasn't labelled as "possibly 24" or later "around 25" she was always the beautiful, desirable 24 year old...which a man who buys a Jaguar will never get. Ever. 24 was the number, the age for all things gorgeous, all things consumable. 24 is the age to be in order to be gifted with expensive jewels and fancy cars. 24 is the age where a woman can attract a man with a simple look of the eye. 24 is sex. 24 is beauty. 24 is power.
Listening to all the merits of being a 24 year old made my 23 year old self feel woefully unprepared.
My birthday is in less that six months. In less than six months I will cross that line between gawky, self-conscious, ungraceful 23 to the primed, sexy, and confident 24. Apparently 24 is the year when I can use all these "womanly" charms that, heretofore, haven't done me a lick of good (besides mess up my equilibrium) to bait and hook my sugar daddy. In little less than half a year I will be able to get into any door, receive any gift and sleep with any tall, dark and handsome Cabana boy I want - or don't want. This is coming up! 24 is almost here...I'm almost to the point where all these hips and boobs and hormones pay off. I'm almost about to be enveloped in the leathery arms of my pretty new Jaguar...
So why don't I feel any different? Is this 24 thing gradual? Does it just happen all at once on the stroke of midnight? Poof! I'm no longer a pumpkin? Do I have to gear up for it? Should I be wearing anything special or do the fancy dresses and the matching purse come along with the new poise and je nais se quoi?
More importantly do I need to wash my hair?
What really frightens me about this whole ugly duckling thing about to take place is that it's not actually a spontaneous thing. Instead of being like year 20 to year 21 where at the stroke of midnight you were allowed to walk into bars and clubs previously barred and really belong there; year 23 to year 24 is more like April 15th.
It's a deadline. More than that...it's an exam. And one that I wasn't prepared for...shoot...I don't even have a Number 2 pencil anymore!
I must have missed a memo. I missed that day in class. I didn't know I was supposed to be so perfect so soon. I thought the milestones were finally behind me. 13, 16, 18, 21...I finished them all. I could sneak up on July 11 without any pressure. Slip quietly from 21 to 22. Coast my way through my 20's and save all my anxiety for when I turned 30 and realized I'm old, childless and my boobs sag.
I'm ready for the sagging boobs.
I'm not ready for the perky ones. Why wasn't I told that I had to do this whole "Wow she's gorgeous" thing? How am I supposed to show people I'm 24 now and not 23? Am I gonna have to walk down the stairs in a ball gown and gloves while I smile just right to make everyone gasp? Am I gonna have to go down the stairs in heels? Am I going to have to do it without falling?
If so I'm gonna need a little training. Six months is not enough time to prepare myself. I walk into things! I fall down! Sometimes I even line my eyes crooked! How am I supposed to turn 24 if my eyeliner is crooked? Will anyone notice?
Is this some dirty little secret that older women don't tell? Like when they say childbirth is the most beautiful experience in life. Yeah - like I believe that one. Is this a conspiracy to see if us youngins' are really ready for womanhood? Oh sure we have the periods, the cramps, the fluctuating emotions. We got all that now...but are we ready to have all of it in slinky gold dresses and razor thing three inch heels?
I'M NOT!!! And frankly I resent being told that I have to be.
I dunno where Mr. NPR reviewer guy got the idea that 24 is the ideal age...but consider this my official request for an extension. I refuse to be perfect until at least age 25.
And that's final!
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Snip, Snip, Snip
When I was 16 my mother finally allowed me to cut my hair...for the first time in my entire life. (Except that one time I set my hair on fire and they had to cut the singed part off.)
I went wild. From hair that tickled my thighs to hair that bounced above my shoulders. It was great, except I couldn't tie it up properly, and it didn't curl right anymore, and braids were impossible...
I decided I'd grow it out again to which a friend of mine shook her head and replied: "Once a cutter, always a cutter."
It's a saying that should have stuck with me. It was a warning I should have heeded.
However, despite the fact that I had been warned years ago to be wary of cutters I was off my guard.
Twelve days before Christmas our company was called to an "All Hands" meeting. As I was setting up chair after chair after chair and untangling the extended polycom (worse that Christmas lights honestly) I amused myself with the idea that everyone would in fact send their hands to the meeting. I had a picture of thousands of Things running around the conference room...grabbing coffee and hopping from the Cafeteria to the room. I imagined them shaking fingers with one another...because shaking hands would be like groping, and that's inappropriate for a meeting...all hands or not.
Suffice it to say, I was pretty giddy and giggly when we all crammed into the room, surrounding the polycom like you'd surround a warm fire and listening to the chestnut song as we waited for the big-wigs (who are ironically mostly hairless...especially the women) to say whatever they wanted to say.
What they said took me back to the year before. As a temp I was called into a department that was working on relocating. While they moved the work to a headquarters across the country, I and a few hangers on bullied away at databases and codes till Thanksgiving. The week of Thanksgiving in fact. When my boss pulled me in said she adored me and that I shouldn't bother coming back in on Monday after the holidays.
Cut.
Oh...and Happy Thanksgiving.
Now I was sitting in a room not but a floor away from the one from last year getting an rare look at the elusive "VP of Human Resources" who never emerges from her protective cave of an office telling us that once again the department is being moved somewhere else.
"Remember," she said all too cheerfully, "you're not being laid off...your being relocated...to another company..."
Cut.
The cheerful warm from a room full of people about to start holiday vacations on cruise ships, the happy go-lucky attitude from people who have just finished their Christmas shopping quickly fell away. Everyone shifted in their seats. Everyone sucked their breath in. Everyone glared.
Didn't they just tell us a few weeks ago that The Washington Post was wrong...the reorg is just a reorg...not a lay-off. Didn't they just say that we were looking good, that we shouldn't worry about the new announcements. Didn't they just tell me that they wanted me to stay for a long, long time this time? Didn't they beg me to come back and promise that I had a "home" here at **********?
No, it's the Holidays and we are once again staring in the face of unemployment, uncertainty, and a HR VP who is really one of the meanest, snarkiest, stuck-up bitches I've ever known, and that was what I thought before she fired us. Yep, once a cutter...always a cutter.
While dumbfounded silence fell over the room a voice crackled through over the whitenoise of the polycom. A deep voice of a man clearly entrenched in our more southern divisions broke through and summed it all up:
"I think I just got my ass fired."
I love that man if only for the brief moment of glee I had while I watched the HR VP rush over to the polycom and panic at all the little buttons.
"How do we silence this?" she asked the air around her.
We'd tell you, I thought, but you just fired the admins.
I went wild. From hair that tickled my thighs to hair that bounced above my shoulders. It was great, except I couldn't tie it up properly, and it didn't curl right anymore, and braids were impossible...
I decided I'd grow it out again to which a friend of mine shook her head and replied: "Once a cutter, always a cutter."
It's a saying that should have stuck with me. It was a warning I should have heeded.
However, despite the fact that I had been warned years ago to be wary of cutters I was off my guard.
Twelve days before Christmas our company was called to an "All Hands" meeting. As I was setting up chair after chair after chair and untangling the extended polycom (worse that Christmas lights honestly) I amused myself with the idea that everyone would in fact send their hands to the meeting. I had a picture of thousands of Things running around the conference room...grabbing coffee and hopping from the Cafeteria to the room. I imagined them shaking fingers with one another...because shaking hands would be like groping, and that's inappropriate for a meeting...all hands or not.
Suffice it to say, I was pretty giddy and giggly when we all crammed into the room, surrounding the polycom like you'd surround a warm fire and listening to the chestnut song as we waited for the big-wigs (who are ironically mostly hairless...especially the women) to say whatever they wanted to say.
What they said took me back to the year before. As a temp I was called into a department that was working on relocating. While they moved the work to a headquarters across the country, I and a few hangers on bullied away at databases and codes till Thanksgiving. The week of Thanksgiving in fact. When my boss pulled me in said she adored me and that I shouldn't bother coming back in on Monday after the holidays.
Cut.
Oh...and Happy Thanksgiving.
Now I was sitting in a room not but a floor away from the one from last year getting an rare look at the elusive "VP of Human Resources" who never emerges from her protective cave of an office telling us that once again the department is being moved somewhere else.
"Remember," she said all too cheerfully, "you're not being laid off...your being relocated...to another company..."
Cut.
The cheerful warm from a room full of people about to start holiday vacations on cruise ships, the happy go-lucky attitude from people who have just finished their Christmas shopping quickly fell away. Everyone shifted in their seats. Everyone sucked their breath in. Everyone glared.
Didn't they just tell us a few weeks ago that The Washington Post was wrong...the reorg is just a reorg...not a lay-off. Didn't they just say that we were looking good, that we shouldn't worry about the new announcements. Didn't they just tell me that they wanted me to stay for a long, long time this time? Didn't they beg me to come back and promise that I had a "home" here at **********?
No, it's the Holidays and we are once again staring in the face of unemployment, uncertainty, and a HR VP who is really one of the meanest, snarkiest, stuck-up bitches I've ever known, and that was what I thought before she fired us. Yep, once a cutter...always a cutter.
While dumbfounded silence fell over the room a voice crackled through over the whitenoise of the polycom. A deep voice of a man clearly entrenched in our more southern divisions broke through and summed it all up:
"I think I just got my ass fired."
I love that man if only for the brief moment of glee I had while I watched the HR VP rush over to the polycom and panic at all the little buttons.
"How do we silence this?" she asked the air around her.
We'd tell you, I thought, but you just fired the admins.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
The years to come
Sitting at a bar enjoying one too many cosmopolitans complete with sugared rims and fried banana egg rolls covered in caramel sauce (I'm sorry, what weight loss resolution was that...?) a couple with a few decades on us siddles in.
He gives up the chair for her and she orders his drink without blinking (Manhattan on the sweet side).
"Do I like that chinese beer?" she asks.
"Which?" the bartender asks back.
"That one...with the K."
"Oh, Kirin Ichiban?" (The fact this is a Japanese beer, not a Chinese beer doesn't come up, but we notice.)
"Should I get that?" the lady asks her partner.
"Whatever you want kid." He answers, snuggling in close behind her chair.
I look over at my own snuggler, currently chomping on a ridiculously large piece of cake and a glass of Guiness.
"When I'm fifty will you still call me kid?"
"Mmmm...yep."
And as I look at him I know that no matter how old we are, he will call me kid. And kitty. And hon. He'll still tease me. He'll still sit by and let me get silly drunk, crazy drunk, stupid drunk on girly drinks that are pink and come surrounded by sugar...and he'll always take me home. And just like last night, when we crawled into the car and he turned the key, he'll check to make sure my seat is warm.
And I don't think that I could think up any wish or resolution that would beat the fact that I get to spend the rest of my life with him.
I just wish I could be as much to him as he is to me.
He gives up the chair for her and she orders his drink without blinking (Manhattan on the sweet side).
"Do I like that chinese beer?" she asks.
"Which?" the bartender asks back.
"That one...with the K."
"Oh, Kirin Ichiban?" (The fact this is a Japanese beer, not a Chinese beer doesn't come up, but we notice.)
"Should I get that?" the lady asks her partner.
"Whatever you want kid." He answers, snuggling in close behind her chair.
I look over at my own snuggler, currently chomping on a ridiculously large piece of cake and a glass of Guiness.
"When I'm fifty will you still call me kid?"
"Mmmm...yep."
And as I look at him I know that no matter how old we are, he will call me kid. And kitty. And hon. He'll still tease me. He'll still sit by and let me get silly drunk, crazy drunk, stupid drunk on girly drinks that are pink and come surrounded by sugar...and he'll always take me home. And just like last night, when we crawled into the car and he turned the key, he'll check to make sure my seat is warm.
And I don't think that I could think up any wish or resolution that would beat the fact that I get to spend the rest of my life with him.
I just wish I could be as much to him as he is to me.
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