;)

I think winkers are sexy, confident, and collected. And being winked at is just about as good as getting proposed to... and almost as intimate. (I've never experienced this first had but I frequent Temple Square in Salt Lake City on my lunch break and thus have become very familiar with the process.) Oh... you're winking at me? You chose me out of this room full of humans to make such a personal connection with and to share a secret and a joke? I DO.

So as an ultimate goal to up my sex appeal I've been trying to transform myself into a winker lately. The cool thing I've learned about being a winker is that they are no respecter of persons. You can practice anywhere on anything... which can't be said about most intimate interactions. So I took this gig to work.

Except it was here that I learned trying to transform into a winker overnight is like trying to transform yourself into a habitual swearer overnight. You just end up mixing your words around and looking like an idiot. Son of a damn! Or you do this:

My married, sweet co-worker mentioned that he was overly warm in our office, and asked if I shared his discomfort. I didn't and told him... but then I felt bad for making him feel like the overweight "always warmer than the average worker" guy, so I tried to compensate by telling him that maybe it was because he was wearing pants, and I was wearing a skirt.

"Ya know, good ventilation."

I guess some part of me thought this was a good time to practice my wink (which by the way was still really slow and mechanical), when really what I should have been considering were the implications of my up-my-skirt reference alone was grounds for at least some form of sexual harassment fines. The wink could do nothing but lead to either some kind of soft lay-off or a restraining order.

So it may actually be the winking that is a result of the sexy, calm, and collectedness, instead of the other way around. But maybe now I can start winning friends and influencing people with my new habitual swearing I'm thinking about picking up.

Put the Chocolate Down and No One Gets Hurt!

My biggest fear when I took my job as a receptionist... okay legal assistant... ok I'm a lawyer... was that I would turn into one of those awful front-desk ladies with two divorces and a chocolate fetish... and just in case the boss needed help with gift ideas for secretary's day... she reminds him with clever stickers bordering the form letters calendar at the office:

"Chocoholic!"
"If it ain't chocolate, it ain't breakfast!"
"Chocolate: Here today... gone today"
Or, my favorite,
"Forget love! I'd rather fall in chocolate!" Well guess what. That's exactly what's going to happen. Because of that sticker.

Well I ran into an interesting situation last week. We had a large basket full of chocolate poker chips as a part of a promotional for the firm. The chocolate was about as tempting to me as chili in July but other people didn't seem to mind and the goodies went FAST. Although to break the ice when co-workers come up for more chocolate, they'll inevitably make a chocolate joke about the diminishing pile... to which I always find myself playing along, "I know, it's like they're CALLING to me!" "... oh is it choc. o'clock again already?" "I'll be with you in a second... I just have to take this chocolate." They LOVE it.

So in a couple of days I had inadvertently become the self-proclaimed choco-crazed receptionist I hate, short of only a few stickers and probably a couple of bra sizes. But I still hadn't eaten any chocolate. I realized then that I've been resenting the wrong person this whole time. It's not the crazy lady in the office who loves chocolate... she doesn't even LIKE chocolate; it's the crazy PEOPLE in the office who LOVE a chocolate joke. It probably started with a basket of candy after a trade show, and ended with a new sticker for the 'receptionist' at every holiday because "she LOVES chocolate," and I'm sure THAT all began with a poor receptionist at some sticker making factory whose boss thinks she, and every other society-created, chocoholic receptionist nation-wide only need an hourly wage and some cocoa reinforcement to keep her a happy and productive worker... or better yet... human being.

Trick-or-Swag

The law firm I work for has been out of town at a business expo/trade show for the last few days. While there, I realized something horrifying about myself. On a horror scale it was a little more horrifying than when I found out (about a couple of months ago) that college degrees don't automatically qualify every American for an income of at least $40,000 a year; and a little less horrifying than the time I came home on break and realized that my brother's and my tooth brushes were the same color. The horror that has come to my attention is that I have not progressed in maturity or personality since pre-pubescence trick-or-treating and here's why.

The similarities between trick-or-treating and trade show swag grabbing are unparalleled. It starts with the child (me) visiting the home (booth next door), with the one sole purpose of scoring free anything.

"what do you do?"
"I'm a receptionist"
"Oh great, hey we have really good credit programs for low-income households"
"Thanks, can I have a tiny Snickers?"
"Sure, here's my card"

But as we know getting free things like Snickers doesn't satisfy that bug inside of all of us to get free stuff, it just wakes it up. So I move on, and get a little more swag savy the longer I'm there.

"Who are you with?"
"I'm a legal assistant with an IP firm, these stress releivers are free right? Thanks, see you around."

Business card: averted. Eye contact: avoided.

The next thing I know I'm an "IP Attorney" hula hooping my self-respect away in a contest in the middle of an aisle with professional businessmen trying to make their way around my over-zealous swivels. All for a tacky wind chime branded with "Corporate Alliance: Because Business is about Relationships."

So, just when I think I have grown up and reached adulthood, life takes me to a business expo to show me that I'm no better than an awkward stage nine-year-old on Halloween. Except I tell more lies.

Was This a Good Idea?

I recently spent a few days at home for a friend’s wedding. Other than providing me with an over-abundance of confidence that is sure to backfire on me in the next 24 hours, home imparted an insight into my childish behavior masked by the adult utilities of a better vocabulary and my Mac. Let me explain.

My sister and I were sitting on her couch when we needed something so commissioned my equi-motivated five-year-old nephew to run up and get it for us (why else do people have children?). He wanted to go get it about as bad as we did, until we made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We used every child’s kryptonite by challenging his self-proclaimed speed. “Owen, show Maggie how fast you are, she doesn’t believe it. We’ll time you.” What a sucker. Or so I thought, until I realized I’ve been falling for the exact same thing the past few months.

The first night I got home my grandpa was in the hospital because of a broken hip, but due to psychosis and morphine, he was incoherent and had to be watched 24/7 so he didn’t yank out his catheter, or other vital/painful tubes. Now I’m not one to jump at a chance to serve a man who isn’t capable of praising/recognizing my god-like charity. And I’m definitely not one to eagerly be on my grandpa’s catheter duty. Until I heard this, “Maggie, this could make a great blog.”

“That’s true,” I thought, “There are probably at least three, maybe four people who would want to read about that,” and by 3 a.m. I was fighting just to get out of there without seeing my grandpa naked.

This isn’t the only time this has happened either. My brother called me the other day with a proposal: “I served a mission with this guy. He’s 30, he’s a total tool, womanizer, douche bag, etc. I want you to go out with him though. I think it could be a really good blog.” Still waiting for that call.

Give a ride to my dad’s life-long charity-case former prisoner? Absolutely.

So not only is my ego more inflamed than a five-year-old’s whose speed has been questioned, but has turned me to the three most demeaning and inappropriate professions in America: Prostitution, cab driver, and CNA. And the worst of these is CNA.

Not a Walker, Not Yet a Shirtless Jogger

Living near a park, I have come to find that there are two types of female runners in the world. Those who wear clothing when they run, and those who wear their sports bras. I won't ever be one of the just-bra girls, but who knows, maybe they are the ones confident enough to tell bosses to give them raises or men to marry them. Maybe I'm missing out. But I think I'll take my chances.

The other day I saw a girl running in a sports bra, but she didn't have a great body. It wasn't terrible, but it was pale and nonathletic, and my first response when I saw her was concern! It took me a while to figure out she was running for recreation, and then I realized something else about these shirtless joggers: there is a flawless math equation for determining the attractiveness of a woman by using the amount of time it takes an onlooker to realize that the girl is running by choice, and not out of danger.

It goes something a little like this: seconds it takes for recognition to set in + number of running indicator accessories (i.e. iPod, running shoes, numbered marathon tag, etc.)= attractiveness of lady.

So this pale girl I saw yesterday probably took me about 2 seconds to realize she wasn't in danger. She had on running shoes and an iPod, so she was probably a 4 on this average-girl scale of averageness. The scale starts somewhere at a 1, which isn't terrible but ends somewhere around 10, which does of course get a reaction somewhat close to "Someone call the police! This girl has just been raped, has barely escaped with her bra, and is running for her life!" And it's this response that has kept me from ever picking up this drafty habit. Until then, I'll keep envying zeros, offering rides to fives and up and in the mean time jog with my shirt on.

Blockbusted

Recently I've found a little help draining my debit card (or as I like to call it: my gift card to the world--makes it not so embarrassing when it declines at the register). My two spending comrades ended up being Blockbuster and a scam artist from Craigslist. I guess I had somehow tried to rent a movie on Blockbuster.com and ended up becoming a member for six months (at 20 dollars a month) without realizing it. And on Craigslist, I was trying to get a job and signed up for a "free" credit report per request of my "future employer," to make sure I was honest (oh an ironic artist), Well the Craigslist scam ended up taking about 20 dollars a month from my debit card for about 2 months without me realizing it.

I started to think about both these crooks and realized that Blockbuster was far more maddening than the con artist (I mean he is an artist). They both stole the same cash from me, but Blockbuster didn't even need to be creative about it. And maybe with the Craigslist guy, I helped someone go to college. Then I realized that there are a lot of "deeds" that are condemned just because society has deemed them to be, but there are far worse things out there. Like blockbuster. Or my inability to be anorexic. Let me explain.

Recently anorexia has become a societal worry among stars, teenagers, etc. And the poor crowd is getting such a bad rep. Well the only thing that distinguishes me from an anorexic is sheer will power. Every day I wake up with the promise to myself of a full-fledged eating disorder. About the time I shower I'm already making excuses to my friends and their inevitable worries about my emaciation. About the time I head down to the kitchen is when I let myself down. This if far more abusive than any star/teenager ever thought about being.

It's like these corporate guys who are embezzling funds from their corporation. What? A million dollars over 4 years? Put him in tights and he's Robin Hood... put him in a business suit and he's in jail. All I'm saying is maybe we should give a little more credit to those who are actually working for their crime--unlike Blockbuster. Because the last time I checked, conning, embezzling, and starving ALL take time, dedication, and conviction and those are all things that I for one, applaud.

Go For the Bronze

Last year when I ran a marathon (ok half... ok I still haven't gotten over those glory days) I was listening to the post-marathon conversations at the park where we finished. One guy had been asked his time, but had to admit to this crowd of runners that he started passing out around mile 20 and had to be shuttled back to the park. Yes, he had run 7 miles farther than I had. Yes he had a bigger goal than I had... but he still seemed less accomplished.

This lesson has been echoed in my current job:...{text deleted... only available for a limited time... call it the early bird special}... I started to realize: success isn't measured by what you've achieved really... it's more about how low you've set your standards.

I've tried to apply this new life maxim to my dating life and have thus been spending more and more time at the West-end Wal-Mart... a little farther away but worth the low prices and high self-esteem. Let me explain. This particular Wal-Mart caters to those with fewer limbs, teeth, and coherent English phrases than most. In other words: I'm the West-End Walt-Mart goddess. I walk in with a full set of teeth and I'm getting stares and words of affection in all different languages. One guy told me I had nice shoes... to which I had to reply, "Thanks, you have a really nice tube in your neck," but didn't because I think leaving a compliment with nothing but a smile always leaves 'em wanting a little more.

So with these low expectations and even lower dreams, I know I'll be the most confident, athletic, successful girl of my (uncommonly low) dreams. And if you don't believe me, maybe you'll believe three very wise black men. Or two very stupid white girls who taught me that going for the gold gets you nothing but broken knee caps or a warrent for your arrest.