Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
So yesterday I'm taking inventory at Dollar Tree: great kitchen supplies, sub-par wrapping paper, mystery paper-grab bags that still call to me like the sirens of Titan, etc., and I don't see anything I need more than I want to wait in a line with no conveyor belt, so I leave and go to a real store.
At the real store, I fall right into the dollar-goggle trap and can't shed the idea that everything for sale is a dollar. Product quality goes up; price mentality remains at Washington. Wait a second. The only thing that saved me from buying everything in sight was being so stoked to have solved the economic crisis in a mere Monday evening. I checked my Supermarket Sweep mentality and came up with this equation: more dollar-store exposure = more real-store purchases = better economy. Dollar stores on every street corner! I call it the Dollar Tree stimulus package. I'm working on the name.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
In the past six months, I've demonstrated acceptable handwriting maybe twice. One of those times was a to-do list that I've been featuring on my monitor for three weeks. All the letters on the list turned out uniform, sheep-like, and at my mercy. Not at all common. I usually get at least one to two rogue letters per sentence who feel entitled to make themselves a couple times larger than their brothers. Reproducing the neatness of the to-do list has actually become more stressful than the list ever was in the first place, but I can't throw it out because it's too pretty, and I can't live with the inferiority complex "change oil in car" plagues me with on a daily basis.
So I just want the world to know that while I respect the Moleskin, I use an iPhone app for my to-do lists now. And I hope we can all just accept one another for it.
*I also reserve the right to keep any small, Hemingway-endorsed notepads with me at any time to make my purse the hip-sexy storage I want it to seem.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Text: Bob Mulquin sips a beer while looking at his tornado-damaged shed recently in rural Franklin. Mr. Mulquin was hanging out in the shed with his cat, Tank, March 12 when the tornado hit. When one of the windows blew out, "Me and him (Tank) decided we were in trouble." He said he was picked up and thrown over the lawn mower, then thrown back across the room.
He grabbed onto a bench, but the shed had moved off its foundation and was pushing the bench. Then, "I got whacked with an aerosol can. Don't ever leave aerosol cans in front of a window. They were humming. I never knew an aerosol can could hit you that hard." Mr. Mulquin was knocked out and woke up with Tank tucked under his arm and his wife yelling out the door to see if he was OK.
"I woke up and smoked a cigarette," he said. One of the shed's walls had buckled, and the door rested on his truck's bumper. An adjacent silo was blown away. Mr. Mulquin was worried that he was going to lose his beloved shed—which is at least 67 years old—when he moved the truck, but it survived. "It was cool," he said, "but I don't wanna do it again."
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
… I refuse.
Today, under section 5.191 for those of you following along (ok, ok I love the “work Bible” references! But I hate myself for loving it if that counts for anything.), I came across this quote that they actually were hilarious enough to include in their official, peer-reviewed guidance on "Beginning a Sentence with a Conjunction." It comes from Charles Allen Lloyd, “Next to the groundless notion that it is incorrect to end an English sentence with a preposition, perhaps the most wide-spread of the many false beliefs about the use of our language is the equally groundless notion that it is incorrect to begin one with ‘but’ or ‘and.’ As in the case of the superstition about the prepositional ending, no textbook supports it, but apparently about half of our teachers of English go out of their way to handicap their pupils by inculcating it. One cannot help wondering whether those who teach such a monstrous doctrine ever read any English themselves.”
Well ok then.
I just love the keywords, “groundless notion,” “handicap,” and “monstrous” because, Charles, you are berating me and not only do I deserve it, but I want your approval now more than ever. Take notes teacher roommates. The abuse cycle is the only way to educate.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
So when Jane shared with me that she wished people would stop wishing away the season we're in to hop on the autumn bus, I was completely on board. (Watch as I brand this opinion with a "we" and make you love me forever.) I think my true identity might even agree with that. If she exists. So when I saw a "back to school sale" sign this week, well we were just sick about it. (There it is.)
Don't get me wrong, office supplies really do it for me. But it's August 5. And that's just cruel. It reminded me of how much I hate this commercial. The kids' dark circles under their eyes, the heartless Uncle Joey-like father my nightmares inform me is going to be my husband some day, the fact that Staples and I share a birthyear, and then the abuse of office supply packaging when he just dumps single pencils into the cart. Stop it! I hate to do this to you, but misery loves company:
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
- I got the nausea, pain medication, and strict liquid diet that made my sister's well-maintained high school eating disorder look like an Asian hot dog eating contest.
- An ex-lover of mine dropped off a TV, a Netflix account, and one more denial to my offer for marriage. But are you sure you're sure? Either way my entertainment was set, and the amount of Jell-O I planned to put away would have turned Bill Cosby's urine lime-flavored.
So I'm trying to clear the air publicly to fight off whatever pounding I feel beneath my gums right now. It could be a blood clot. But I think it's the sting of pride.
I blame no one for this but myself,* and I swear on every pudding cup in my fridge I will have more sympathy for the next wisdom tooth patient who shares their "horror story," just as long as I wake up in the morning the champion Jane thought I was on Thursday.
*Except for the "dental hygienist" soliciting her advice at a party I prematurely attended night of my surgery. No, Popsicles aren't fine, and you're bad at your job. I respect you, but I also blame you a little.
Monday, June 28, 2010
A few weeks ago, I was one of the best communicators I knew. It wasn’t because I had finally realized how to have a fluid conversation that wasn’t in the written form quite yet, and my word it certainly wasn’t because I had mastered the wink by any means, but it was because I finally had some answers to the “what’s new with you?” question.
I’ve had problems with this question for quite some time. It reminds me of Mrs. Ash’s “journal time” in the fourth grade, where our prompt was to write a letter to our teacher telling her about our week, and being as creative as we’d like. My first prompt consisted of a story about me starring me and began with truth but somehow ended in my brutal death. Some kids got a whole page written back to them from Mrs. Ash. I got a giant red question mark. I learned at an early age that to respond to this “tell me about your week/life/what is new with you” confrontation, we must not lie (I’d never), we must not be too self-indulgent (Maggie who?), and we can get close, but we must not die at the end (dead giveaway). (There is also the off-chance that some people are just filling silence with stock questions, and teachers just want a quiet hour in the middle of the day, but the optimist in me refuses both.)
A couple of weeks ago, my current-events storm for this question was the most perfect:
-I had been robbed. (“Well our house was broken into and all my property and sense of security was stolen, but let’s not talk about me, I want to hear about you.”)
-I saw two moose on a hike. (Always a crowd pleaser.)
-I had some of the best homeless attention of my life. (“I didn’t know angels could walk.” Oh bearded man (or woman), you shouldn’t have.)
But lately, the most I have to come up with is that Jane made some great waffles yesterday morning and shared, and I’m getting my bottom wisdom teeth out next Thursday. But everyone always crams advice down my throat with this last one, and I’ve already been through the process once. I know how to cope. A season of Heroes and Vicodine.
So here’s to hoping something goes terribly wrong with my wisdom teeth operation (yes, operation) and I finally have something to say to people again that isn’t old news, me news, or false news because if I’m going to cut anything, it’s going to be the truth. And it’s going to be obvious. You’ve been warned.
Friday, June 25, 2010
I’ve recently come across this Web site that allows the user to enter text or a URL/blog into its search bar, and it will generate this word cloud of most used words in that site. I figured my blog cloud would be filled with words like, grocery store, homeless people, twins, and probably I. Instead, the biggest, most used words were Christmas, Maggie (when do I use the third person? Gross.), ago (why?), Jane (but not Kristine?), comments, receptionist, and chocolate. Nightmare! I was right on the self-centered thing, but dead wrong on everything else.
I don’t even know myself.
And Kristine, I love you. Kristine. Kristine. Kristine. That should do it.
Speaking of word clouds, some days I worry that I'll never find a man who loves me this much:
But now I know exactly how to design that Old Man Winter tattoo I've been dreaming about.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Yesterday, sometime between 9 a.m., and 4 p.m. (or as I see it: Sometime between oatmeal o’clcok and pre-dinner grapefruit o’clock), our house was broken into. Viotlated. Robbed. Smashed. Wrecked. BLED ON. Panty raided.
My roommates’ laptop, laptop, and camera were stolen, and my laptop and tv had been taken. My underwear was strewn all across my floor, and at first I was flattered. But then after some heavy detective reasoning, and after finding an ugly earring on my floor, I deduced that the little pilferer in my room had been a tiny female. And then I just felt judged.
But then I felt flattered again when I heard Kristine describe my untouched and unscathed bike as being worth $2,000. I didn’t correct her. It is a beautiful bike…
My only fear from this experience is that I have become so critical of our thieves for being so sloppy (an earring?? Blood on my bed?? Come on, O.J.!) that I’ve given far too much thought on how to do it right. And no good can come of that.
But just for the record, I’d at least have a trademark. And that trademark would be stealing all the pencils in the house. And all those pencils would be kept in an unlocked safe in my house to confuse future burglars. And none of this would be disclosed on a public blog.
Friday, May 21, 2010
It's been about four months since my last fender-bender, so this quarter's run-in was due and came this morning around 9:00 a.m. I told my brother Gentzy about the wreck as soon as I got in to work. Without missing a beat he said, "Consistency is good. Predictability is comforting."
After slamming into the back of the Honda on State Street (100 percent my fault), three things shot out of my purse:
1. Lip gloss
3. My cell phone
Great. Now I'm 16. I didn't even know that stuff was in there. (Lie.)
After hiding my teen-bop contraband, I cautiously got out of the car, waiting for the verbal spanking of a lifetime. I saw the driver turn around in his seat and check on a little person in the back.
Great. Now I'm a baby-killer.
The man got out of his car, waring a jean shirt, classic Levi's, hair down to his waist and a giant, "don't worry be happy" smile. This angel, brought to me on a cloud of denim and patchouli, not only assured me several times that no harm had been done, but patiently waited for me to find my policy number while his gorgeous, biracial (great. Now I'm racist) three-year-old bounced in and out of the car, no car seat to be seen.
We exchanged information, and as I drove away, I saw him raise an arm out of the corner of my eye.
Great. The middle finger.
Nope. A giant, nice-to-meet you wave. And then he floated away. Back to God.
As for his policy number? Well Gentzy and I have our suspicions of it actually being the date of the Apocalypse, slipped to me as a warning. But you'll have to wait for 2012: The Squeakual to find out for sure.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Because I bill my time at work, and each hour is accounted for, I’ve begun to look at my life a little bit differently. At work, my job (and thus worth) is broken into percentages of projects. Which is great for the time sheet. But abusive to my social life.
I didn’t really realize I was doing this until yesterday at work when I dropped one of my almonds into my heater at work. Before my life was ruled by pie charts, I would have said “see ya almond” and maybe thrown another one in there just to keep it company. But because I remembered I had ten almonds, and because that almond was now 10% of my bag, which is a considerable slice on the pie chart, I had to retrieve and devour it and probably lose 50% of my friends if she saw.
In a completely unrelated note, I’m 100% positive re-reading Harry Potter is once again making me a better person. I’ll leave you with this nugget of brilliance from J.K. Rowling:
“There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them." —pg 179
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
But in the podcast on the Pazzi family (sucker for a mafia tale), they used the word nepotism, which I actually hadn't learned in history class. Or any class. So I looked it up. Nepotism: favoritism shown or patronage granted to relatives. I think I should have known that. Thanks, Illinois educational system**.
When I got home that night, my friend Brandon was over and I asked him why he's never taken a job with his cousin. He said because that would be nepotism. Of course it would be.
Oh word Gods, you are just hysterical sometimes.
Nepotism: Pay it forward.
* I give this term three years before no one actually knows what it means anymore and it becomes a wild card. This is me doing my part.
**49/50. Thanks, Mississippi.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Running. I've always had a thing for abusive relationships.
Homeless people. Unfortunately not in the 'I want to help them' kind of way, but in a, 'I like when they tell me I'm pretty' kind of way. Although either result in me handing out cash so I feel that my intent here is irrelevant.
My heater under my desk at work. Sometimes I turn it on full blast and put it on my lap like a puppy.
Twins. Call me a sucker for symmetry. (Important note: not a fetish thing...it's not!).
Good grammar. Ahhhh syntax.
Fine cheeses. as a footnote to this entry, I also enjoy both giving and receiving compliments on at the checkout on cheese selection. If a customer is going to pay over 10 dollars for something the size of a small toy car, it should be congratulated. Unless of course that "something" comes in a zip lock bag, and the "chekcout" is on a street corner**. Cocaine never calls for celebration. This message brought ot you by your older, judgmental sister, Maggie.
And last but not least, well-harnessed efficiency. Now there's an art.
*A six minute YouTube video is a prison sentence.
**Verifying that cocaine is actually bought and sold in zip lock bags and on street corners would have required at least a couple of awkward phone conversations at best, so we're just going to have to take what I'm pretty sure about marijuana, and marry it with clips I might have seen on movies.