Fill in the Blank: Sarah is______ (psst..."awesome")
Apparently, I haven't been blogging enough. Well, people, do you remember how many times I've touted my own virtues? Have I not made it clear yet how very, very busy and important I am? How incredibly awesome I remain? Do you think that I just have hours and hours in my day to entertain you? I mean, I have things to do, namely, being awesome and not a little amazing. I also have laundry. And a dog. Seriously, the world can't really handle all my awesomeness, let alone myself. I have to schedule and prioritize. I don't have all hours in the day to not only remind my co-workers and friends how great I am, let alone you people who have nothing better to do than to read my drivel. I am...
...bored with myself. I'll stop now.
So today Lisa and I decided to brave the still unshoveled sidewalks and head over to Cafe Brioso for lunch (it was delicious...thanks for asking). On our way back we were (naturally) hit on by a stranger, who thought it was appropriate to start a conversation with us on the corner of High and Long, regardless of the fact that we were trying very hard to pretend to ignore him. After the light changed, we continued on our way, leaving him with our two extremely fake laughs and "please don't ever speak to us again" smiles.
We walked the next block talking ethics (yes, for real) and came up to High and Spring, and noticed that our little lighted "WALK" had been replaced with a flashing red "DON'T WALK", which we all know means, "CONTINUE WALKING, BUT A LITTLE FASTER NOW, WITH A RANDOM SKIP HERE AND THERE LIKE YOU HAVE TOURETTES". We were right at the opposite side when we heard traffic start up, and then the sound of feet pounding the pavement. I turned just in time to see our "friend" running pell-mell to beat the rush, and then, instead of braving the pile of hardened slush and grit like the rest of us normal people do, he decided it'd be a great idea to jump the arctic heap. He landed on the other side smack into the middle of a puddle...which I was standing next to.
You know, I was kind of considering dating his forty-year-old ass, but he ruined it then. He also ruined my pants, which I enjoyed almost as much as the time I had explosive diarrhea and profuse vomiting SIMULTANEOUSLY.
Okay. Off to do more of the awesome.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Will Work for Food. Or Shoes.
Somebody give me a job. Preferably something where I don't actually have to work very hard and I get to look pretty. Actually, if someone could arrange it so that I can keep up the public speaking and generally continue being the center of attention, I'd really appreciate it.
Let me tell you how much I HATE looking for a job. It's not that I don't like interviewing (I actually love it...it's a good way for me to utilize my buckets full of charm and charisma that I was so blessed with at birth. Oh yeah, and I'm soooo likeable.) But I HATE tailoring my resume for every job, I hate tweaking my cover letters, I hate searching for names of people and researching companies...because dammit, I like to do things RIGHT, and doing things RIGHT requires extra time and effort, whether that's in job hunting or cleaning or being awesome. Mostly in being awesome.
So yeah, I'm doing a bit of networking here to my tens of fans...gimme a job. I don't have any particular skills, really, except that--in all humility--I'm really, really good at speaking in front of people. I also make a mean pot of coffee. I enjoy wearing mildly slutty office attire as well.
Somebody give me a job. Preferably something where I don't actually have to work very hard and I get to look pretty. Actually, if someone could arrange it so that I can keep up the public speaking and generally continue being the center of attention, I'd really appreciate it.
Let me tell you how much I HATE looking for a job. It's not that I don't like interviewing (I actually love it...it's a good way for me to utilize my buckets full of charm and charisma that I was so blessed with at birth. Oh yeah, and I'm soooo likeable.) But I HATE tailoring my resume for every job, I hate tweaking my cover letters, I hate searching for names of people and researching companies...because dammit, I like to do things RIGHT, and doing things RIGHT requires extra time and effort, whether that's in job hunting or cleaning or being awesome. Mostly in being awesome.
So yeah, I'm doing a bit of networking here to my tens of fans...gimme a job. I don't have any particular skills, really, except that--in all humility--I'm really, really good at speaking in front of people. I also make a mean pot of coffee. I enjoy wearing mildly slutty office attire as well.
Monday, January 22, 2007
WARNING: THIS POST MAY CONTAIN ONE OR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING--
1. SWEARING
2. INAPPROPRIATENESS
3. TMI
4. KITTENS
CONTINUE READING AT YOUR OWN RISK.
I'm not sure what it is with "loud talkers" that they think that everything in life must be uttered at an ear-shattering decibel. One of my patients at the orthodontist office was a loud talker AND had Aspbergers, so when he said, "This radio station's for pussies!", it sort of reverberated throughout the open clinic. Nice. Some people's voices just carry more than others, I guess. In college, we always labeled them "Loud Guy". "Oh, So-and-so, he's 'Loud Guy'."
My pharmacist is a "Loud Guy".
I know he's a Loud Guy because I'm one of those really awesome people that gets to see my pharmacist WAY more than the average person, due to the fact that my tonsils are hard-core partiers with sundry bacteria and whatnot. They're the Lindsay Lohan of my body. About every six weeks, they hold a kegger with every germ in the neighborhood. (It's nice to know that they're not bigoted in any way. Jesus would be proud of how accepting they are, really.) Yes, so my overly-friendly tonsils cause me to drag my ass into CVS quite regularly, and my pharmacist just peers at me over the top of his glasses and fills my prescription. This is after he asks, for the seventeenth time, "HAVE YOU HAD A PRESCRIPTION WITH US BEFORE?"
To which I'd like to reply, just as loudly, "YES, DUMB ASS. YOU SEE ME ALL THE TIME. AND WHY ARE YOU PEERING? QUIT PEERING. THIS MAKES ME DOUBT YOUR ABILITY TO COUNT PILLS. ESPECIALLY YOUR ABILITY TO COUNT THE RIGHT PILLS." (What I really say, though, is, "Yes".)
"OKAY," he'll say, "IT'LL BE FIFTEEN MINUTES." At which point, I'll tool around CVS looking at magazines and buying make-up I don't need while I wait.
So then, about a month ago, I began having some, uh, "issues"...you know, down there. And not my throat or esophagus "down there", but down there down there. I thought I could ignore it, thinking maybe I'd switched to a soap that down there didn't like, but it never really cleared up, and last week, I found myself at the doctor's, you know, the down there doctor (hence the italics), and it turns out that my good girl is just a drama queen and doesn't like change, and "here's a 'scrip that'll clear that up in no time." And by "clear up", I don't mean anything disgusting. I was just using the phrase as a way to describe...never mind.
ANYWAY, I go to visit my favorite loud-talking pharmacist. I hand him my prescription, and then watch as he walks aimlessly 'round and 'round a shelving unit full of creams and salves (Hmmm...I wonder what "Anal Gesic" is for...) looking for my needed medicine. After five minutes on this circuit, during which time I was sure if he peered less I would have been checked out by now, he tells me, "WE DON'T HAVE THAT IN STOCK."
"Oh," I reply. "Can I get it at another CVS?"
"YEAH. THE ONE IN GAHANNA SHOULD HAVE IT."
"Alright," I sigh, thinking of driving through four o'clock traffic to the neighboring suburb. "Could you maybe call and check to be sure they have it before I drive there?"
"SURE." He got on the horn.
I'm not sure what I was thinking. Maybe I thought he wouldn't be quite so loud on the phone, or maybe I thought he'd just give them the name of the medicine I needed. Maybe I thought...I don't know what I thought, but I still didn't expect:
"HELLO, THIS IS SO-AND-SO FROM STELZER ROAD. (pause). DO YOU HAVE SUCH-AND-SUCH VAGINAL CREAM?"
Oh dear God.
I actually laughed out loud. I wasn't even embarrassed because it was so darn funny that now not only did everyone in the store know what medicine I needed, they knew roughly why. I mean, if you say something like, "DO YOU HAVE AMOXICILLIN?" that's a hard one to place. You may have any number of things wrong with you. But yell "VAGINAL CREAM" and there's something very obviously goin' on with your no-no. Nobody uses vaginal cream for their face. Or for the flu. Or for a sinus infection. Yep...no mistaking that one. The only way it could have been worse is if I was a guy and my friendly pharmacist asked for "VIAGRA", because that word erases any question you might have about why that person needs that particular drug.
Ah, well, hmm. And now YOU all know what medicine I needed. This is far worse than Loud Guy. I am now "TMI Girl". Great. Well! I think that's enough over-exposure for you all today...
At least I wasn't rambling about coffee...
1. SWEARING
2. INAPPROPRIATENESS
3. TMI
4. KITTENS
CONTINUE READING AT YOUR OWN RISK.
I'm not sure what it is with "loud talkers" that they think that everything in life must be uttered at an ear-shattering decibel. One of my patients at the orthodontist office was a loud talker AND had Aspbergers, so when he said, "This radio station's for pussies!", it sort of reverberated throughout the open clinic. Nice. Some people's voices just carry more than others, I guess. In college, we always labeled them "Loud Guy". "Oh, So-and-so, he's 'Loud Guy'."
My pharmacist is a "Loud Guy".
I know he's a Loud Guy because I'm one of those really awesome people that gets to see my pharmacist WAY more than the average person, due to the fact that my tonsils are hard-core partiers with sundry bacteria and whatnot. They're the Lindsay Lohan of my body. About every six weeks, they hold a kegger with every germ in the neighborhood. (It's nice to know that they're not bigoted in any way. Jesus would be proud of how accepting they are, really.) Yes, so my overly-friendly tonsils cause me to drag my ass into CVS quite regularly, and my pharmacist just peers at me over the top of his glasses and fills my prescription. This is after he asks, for the seventeenth time, "HAVE YOU HAD A PRESCRIPTION WITH US BEFORE?"
To which I'd like to reply, just as loudly, "YES, DUMB ASS. YOU SEE ME ALL THE TIME. AND WHY ARE YOU PEERING? QUIT PEERING. THIS MAKES ME DOUBT YOUR ABILITY TO COUNT PILLS. ESPECIALLY YOUR ABILITY TO COUNT THE RIGHT PILLS." (What I really say, though, is, "Yes".)
"OKAY," he'll say, "IT'LL BE FIFTEEN MINUTES." At which point, I'll tool around CVS looking at magazines and buying make-up I don't need while I wait.
So then, about a month ago, I began having some, uh, "issues"...you know, down there. And not my throat or esophagus "down there", but down there down there. I thought I could ignore it, thinking maybe I'd switched to a soap that down there didn't like, but it never really cleared up, and last week, I found myself at the doctor's, you know, the down there doctor (hence the italics), and it turns out that my good girl is just a drama queen and doesn't like change, and "here's a 'scrip that'll clear that up in no time." And by "clear up", I don't mean anything disgusting. I was just using the phrase as a way to describe...never mind.
ANYWAY, I go to visit my favorite loud-talking pharmacist. I hand him my prescription, and then watch as he walks aimlessly 'round and 'round a shelving unit full of creams and salves (Hmmm...I wonder what "Anal Gesic" is for...) looking for my needed medicine. After five minutes on this circuit, during which time I was sure if he peered less I would have been checked out by now, he tells me, "WE DON'T HAVE THAT IN STOCK."
"Oh," I reply. "Can I get it at another CVS?"
"YEAH. THE ONE IN GAHANNA SHOULD HAVE IT."
"Alright," I sigh, thinking of driving through four o'clock traffic to the neighboring suburb. "Could you maybe call and check to be sure they have it before I drive there?"
"SURE." He got on the horn.
I'm not sure what I was thinking. Maybe I thought he wouldn't be quite so loud on the phone, or maybe I thought he'd just give them the name of the medicine I needed. Maybe I thought...I don't know what I thought, but I still didn't expect:
"HELLO, THIS IS SO-AND-SO FROM STELZER ROAD. (pause). DO YOU HAVE SUCH-AND-SUCH VAGINAL CREAM?"
Oh dear God.
I actually laughed out loud. I wasn't even embarrassed because it was so darn funny that now not only did everyone in the store know what medicine I needed, they knew roughly why. I mean, if you say something like, "DO YOU HAVE AMOXICILLIN?" that's a hard one to place. You may have any number of things wrong with you. But yell "VAGINAL CREAM" and there's something very obviously goin' on with your no-no. Nobody uses vaginal cream for their face. Or for the flu. Or for a sinus infection. Yep...no mistaking that one. The only way it could have been worse is if I was a guy and my friendly pharmacist asked for "VIAGRA", because that word erases any question you might have about why that person needs that particular drug.
Ah, well, hmm. And now YOU all know what medicine I needed. This is far worse than Loud Guy. I am now "TMI Girl". Great. Well! I think that's enough over-exposure for you all today...
At least I wasn't rambling about coffee...
Friday, January 19, 2007
If someone could please figure out a way to get coffee through an IV drip, it would be much appreciated. Appreciation will be shown through me NOT BEING SUCH A LAME ASS.
Today, at Large Multi-National Corporation, my boss came up to me to tell me that I did a recent project completely wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. We looked together at the project I had e-mailed him and I sat there, dumbfounded, wondering why it looked so funny. So, he asked me to re-do the whole thing, and the whole time, I'm thinking, "I KNOW I did that right! I did exactly what he asked!" He sent me an exact example of what he wanted to see, and I kept looking at that and the project I sent him, and still remained clueless.
A good ten minutes later, through my sleepy stupor, I realized that I had just sent him the wrong attachment. THE COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY WRONG ATTACHMENT.
I think there is something wrong with my brain. And with my body. I can't even somewhat function without coffee in the morning. I read a nutrition book recently that told me that coffee, for my body type, is a like a street drug. Whatever. Just because I can't live without it, and just because I'm a nicer and better person with it (and a really horrible one without) and just because it only works for fifteen minutes and then I crash, causing me to need four and five cups a day at least...whatever. Doctors don't know anything.
Ugh, this has turned into one of those, "All about me boring blogs that goes on and on about inane things at work and in my life that you could care less about". I sincerely apologize.
I'll drink some more coffee and try again later.
Today, at Large Multi-National Corporation, my boss came up to me to tell me that I did a recent project completely wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. We looked together at the project I had e-mailed him and I sat there, dumbfounded, wondering why it looked so funny. So, he asked me to re-do the whole thing, and the whole time, I'm thinking, "I KNOW I did that right! I did exactly what he asked!" He sent me an exact example of what he wanted to see, and I kept looking at that and the project I sent him, and still remained clueless.
A good ten minutes later, through my sleepy stupor, I realized that I had just sent him the wrong attachment. THE COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY WRONG ATTACHMENT.
I think there is something wrong with my brain. And with my body. I can't even somewhat function without coffee in the morning. I read a nutrition book recently that told me that coffee, for my body type, is a like a street drug. Whatever. Just because I can't live without it, and just because I'm a nicer and better person with it (and a really horrible one without) and just because it only works for fifteen minutes and then I crash, causing me to need four and five cups a day at least...whatever. Doctors don't know anything.
Ugh, this has turned into one of those, "All about me boring blogs that goes on and on about inane things at work and in my life that you could care less about". I sincerely apologize.
I'll drink some more coffee and try again later.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
Congratulations, fellow bloggers. We are officially completely self-absorbed.
In other news, Lisa and I just got back from the most boring lunch ever...with each other. Rather than give you a play by play (which I'm sure you can't wait to hear since I've already dubbed it "the most boring lunch ever"), I'm going to write a short one-act chronicling our experience.
Loose Change: a One Act Play Inspired by Actual Events
By: Sarah
(The stage is set stage center with a small table for two. Stage left is a mock conveyor belt scattered with used trays. Everything, including table, chairs and any props are painted a dull gray to represent the mind-numbing aura of a large Multi-National Corporation. Even though they are alone, both actors should pretend they are surrounded by other tables and chairs, as well as throngs of people in this "cafeteria" setting. Sarah, an extremely attractive woman in her late twenties, enters upstage left carrying a tray of food, and looks around to find a place to sit. She spies the table and seats herself and begins eating. Lisa, another attractive woman in her mid-twenties, enters several seconds later also from stage left and looks around as if trying to find someone. Sarah waves her hand, and Lisa joins her at the table and also begins to eat.)
Lisa: You got a salad?
Sarah: Yeah!
Lisa: (snidely) Why? Are you trying to be healthy?
Sarah: (cheerily) No. I actually just really wanted one!
Lisa: Oh. I didn't.
(silence ensues for a full five minutes as Sarah and Lisa eat and "observe" their surroundings. Actually, Lisa does no such thing, but focuses on her food like it's the last supper.)
Sarah: (seeing Lisa's clean plate) Whoah. Someone was hungry.
Lisa: Yeah.
(pause)
Sarah: (indicating salad) I love spinach!
Lisa: Me too! But I don't like it cooked. It gets all mushy.
Sarah: Well, I like it in things. Like pasta.
Lisa: Maybe that's why I don't like brownies.
Sarah: (disbelieving) You don't like brownies?
Lisa: I don't like the texture.
Sarah: Oh. You're weird.
(another five minutes of silence)
Lisa: When do you want to leave today?
Sarah: I dunno. Whenever.
Lisa: I need to take a nap before the big game.
Sarah: Yeah. I need to re-shower.
Lisa: Me too.
(silence)
Lisa: This is awful.
Sarah: I know.
Lisa: It's like a bad blind date.
Sarah: (changing subject) Everybody's wearing red for the game.
Lisa: Cuuute.
(silence)
Sarah: I'd rather be working than sitting here like this.
Lisa: (incredulous) But you'd rather have your teeth pulled out than do actual work.
Sarah: (blandly) I'd rather be working than sitting here like this.
Lisa: (laughs) Let's go.
(silence as the pair gather up their trays and head for the exit stage left. They set down their trays on conveyor belt and continue walking for the exit)
Sarah: (thoughtfully) I don't like nickels.
Lisa: I don't think anything lower than a quarter should exist. It's ridiculous.
Sarah: Ooooh, but I love dimes! They're little!
Lisa: Me too!
(Both women look at each other for a second, then burst into laughter at the new low their conversation has sunk to.)
Sarah: I'll see you after work. (exits upstage left)
Lisa: Yeah. Bye. (exits downstage left)
(Lights down.)
In other news, Lisa and I just got back from the most boring lunch ever...with each other. Rather than give you a play by play (which I'm sure you can't wait to hear since I've already dubbed it "the most boring lunch ever"), I'm going to write a short one-act chronicling our experience.
Loose Change: a One Act Play Inspired by Actual Events
By: Sarah
(The stage is set stage center with a small table for two. Stage left is a mock conveyor belt scattered with used trays. Everything, including table, chairs and any props are painted a dull gray to represent the mind-numbing aura of a large Multi-National Corporation. Even though they are alone, both actors should pretend they are surrounded by other tables and chairs, as well as throngs of people in this "cafeteria" setting. Sarah, an extremely attractive woman in her late twenties, enters upstage left carrying a tray of food, and looks around to find a place to sit. She spies the table and seats herself and begins eating. Lisa, another attractive woman in her mid-twenties, enters several seconds later also from stage left and looks around as if trying to find someone. Sarah waves her hand, and Lisa joins her at the table and also begins to eat.)
Lisa: You got a salad?
Sarah: Yeah!
Lisa: (snidely) Why? Are you trying to be healthy?
Sarah: (cheerily) No. I actually just really wanted one!
Lisa: Oh. I didn't.
(silence ensues for a full five minutes as Sarah and Lisa eat and "observe" their surroundings. Actually, Lisa does no such thing, but focuses on her food like it's the last supper.)
Sarah: (seeing Lisa's clean plate) Whoah. Someone was hungry.
Lisa: Yeah.
(pause)
Sarah: (indicating salad) I love spinach!
Lisa: Me too! But I don't like it cooked. It gets all mushy.
Sarah: Well, I like it in things. Like pasta.
Lisa: Maybe that's why I don't like brownies.
Sarah: (disbelieving) You don't like brownies?
Lisa: I don't like the texture.
Sarah: Oh. You're weird.
(another five minutes of silence)
Lisa: When do you want to leave today?
Sarah: I dunno. Whenever.
Lisa: I need to take a nap before the big game.
Sarah: Yeah. I need to re-shower.
Lisa: Me too.
(silence)
Lisa: This is awful.
Sarah: I know.
Lisa: It's like a bad blind date.
Sarah: (changing subject) Everybody's wearing red for the game.
Lisa: Cuuute.
(silence)
Sarah: I'd rather be working than sitting here like this.
Lisa: (incredulous) But you'd rather have your teeth pulled out than do actual work.
Sarah: (blandly) I'd rather be working than sitting here like this.
Lisa: (laughs) Let's go.
(silence as the pair gather up their trays and head for the exit stage left. They set down their trays on conveyor belt and continue walking for the exit)
Sarah: (thoughtfully) I don't like nickels.
Lisa: I don't think anything lower than a quarter should exist. It's ridiculous.
Sarah: Ooooh, but I love dimes! They're little!
Lisa: Me too!
(Both women look at each other for a second, then burst into laughter at the new low their conversation has sunk to.)
Sarah: I'll see you after work. (exits upstage left)
Lisa: Yeah. Bye. (exits downstage left)
(Lights down.)
Friday, January 05, 2007
Perverts and Parapalegics...
...can often be the same thing.
WARNING: THIS POST WILL PROBABLY BROACH ON "UN-PC" SEVERAL TIMES. CONTINUE READING AT YOUR OWN RISK OF BEING HORRIBLY OFFENDED.
So, the other day I had to go into Large Grocery Store Chain to get a money order (I just never re-ordered any checks. I am lazy and ridiculous. I'll admit it.). I go to get in line at customer service, and just ahead of me is an older man in a wheelchair who is accompanied his mother (I assume). She turns from the main line and joins the line for cigarettes (uhh, not a good idea, lady. Your son is carrying a rather large oxygen tank), so I ask the son politely if he's waiting in line.
"Excuse me. (smile) Are you waiting?"
"Nah, buh ah way ehmean way wi you."
I paused, then kind of giggled, because OBVIOUSLY he had said, "No, but I'll wait if it means I can wait with you."
*****OH MY GOSH. That was horrible. I just phonetically wrote out the speech of a disabled person. I can feel the flames now. Okay, from here on out, I'll just write what he said, and you can IMAGINE with me that it was all very hard to understand. Moving on...******
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
I turn around to wait, but I quickly figured out he wasn't kidding about waiting with me as he began inching his chair closer to me.
"I like your red hair," he said. "It's beautiful."
"Thank you," I replied, blushing a little.
"I love red hair," he continued. "Is it natural?"
I laughed. "Actually, no."
"I still really like it. It's really nice," he said again, as he continued to move himself closer to me. By now, the closeness was definitely in my 18 inches of personal space, so I scooched forward in line a little more and pretended to be engrossed in the sign that lists the plethora of shitty in-store services.
"You know what I don't like?" (inch, inch)
"Whoah, Pal!" I say somewhat jokingly, "You said I could get in line in front of you! Are you trying to cut me off?" (BIG, somewhat fake smile)
"You know what I don't like?" he said again.
This time I pretended like he said something witty, and I smiled and nodded. I KNOW, I KNOW...very insulting and awful, and I did it anyway. But apparently, it wasn't enough of a deterrent, and--
"You know what I don't like?"
I sighed, "What don't you like?"
This was a mistake. My response incited him to again invade my personal space, and now I was getting really uncomfortable. I looked around for his mom, but she was gone. I looked and saw there was one more person in line in front of me, and I desperately wondered how I was going to politely extract myself from this situation. I scooched forward some more, trying to avoid not only my "friend", but also grazing the guy's ass in front of me. This was no easy task.
"I don't like people."
I cracked a smile...okay, this might be interesting. "You don't like people?" I repeated, smirking and raising an eyebrow.
"I don't like people's pubic hair."
Oh God.
He kept going. "I don't like people's pubic hair that doesn't match the hair on their head. I just wanted to know if you matched."
You know that rushing sound you get in your ears when you have NO FREAKING CLUE what to do in a certain situation? I got that. And suddenly, I forgot all the reprimands that I got as a kid from my mom "not to stare", and I forgot about being politically correct, and I saw this guy for what he was: a person. A person without a chair or a disability or a tank or a mom that has to help him in a grocery store, and I didn't feel sorry for him, and I didn't make excuses for his behavior. I simply pointed my finger in his face and said, "And now you've crossed the line."
Fortunately, the Fates smiled on me, and the timing for my turn immediately followed my reprimand. I hurried to the counter like a fat girl to cake (sorry, not ALL fat girls like cake. That was a horrible overgeneralization). He was still in the area when I left and tried to say goodbye to me, but I just walked out fuming.
For a second, I felt guilty for yelling at a person in a wheelchair, and then I felt dumb for feeling guilty. I don't care who you are, whether you've got one eye, or an extra toe, or were disfigured in freak curling iron accident. Rich or poor, diseased or healthy, that was a damn rude thing to say to a stranger. And I'm not standing idly by anymore and letting people push me around (see also: my night at the gas station with the drunk Mexicans). Do not get into my personal space. Do not casually comment on my pubic hair. Don't bring me crappy food in a restaurant and expect me to pay for it. I'll be nice if you're nice, and I'll continue being nice if you're somewhat annoying. If the situation calls for feisty Sarah to come out, however, come out she will.
An ih won be prehey.
...can often be the same thing.
WARNING: THIS POST WILL PROBABLY BROACH ON "UN-PC" SEVERAL TIMES. CONTINUE READING AT YOUR OWN RISK OF BEING HORRIBLY OFFENDED.
So, the other day I had to go into Large Grocery Store Chain to get a money order (I just never re-ordered any checks. I am lazy and ridiculous. I'll admit it.). I go to get in line at customer service, and just ahead of me is an older man in a wheelchair who is accompanied his mother (I assume). She turns from the main line and joins the line for cigarettes (uhh, not a good idea, lady. Your son is carrying a rather large oxygen tank), so I ask the son politely if he's waiting in line.
"Excuse me. (smile) Are you waiting?"
"Nah, buh ah way ehmean way wi you."
I paused, then kind of giggled, because OBVIOUSLY he had said, "No, but I'll wait if it means I can wait with you."
*****OH MY GOSH. That was horrible. I just phonetically wrote out the speech of a disabled person. I can feel the flames now. Okay, from here on out, I'll just write what he said, and you can IMAGINE with me that it was all very hard to understand. Moving on...******
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
I turn around to wait, but I quickly figured out he wasn't kidding about waiting with me as he began inching his chair closer to me.
"I like your red hair," he said. "It's beautiful."
"Thank you," I replied, blushing a little.
"I love red hair," he continued. "Is it natural?"
I laughed. "Actually, no."
"I still really like it. It's really nice," he said again, as he continued to move himself closer to me. By now, the closeness was definitely in my 18 inches of personal space, so I scooched forward in line a little more and pretended to be engrossed in the sign that lists the plethora of shitty in-store services.
"You know what I don't like?" (inch, inch)
"Whoah, Pal!" I say somewhat jokingly, "You said I could get in line in front of you! Are you trying to cut me off?" (BIG, somewhat fake smile)
"You know what I don't like?" he said again.
This time I pretended like he said something witty, and I smiled and nodded. I KNOW, I KNOW...very insulting and awful, and I did it anyway. But apparently, it wasn't enough of a deterrent, and--
"You know what I don't like?"
I sighed, "What don't you like?"
This was a mistake. My response incited him to again invade my personal space, and now I was getting really uncomfortable. I looked around for his mom, but she was gone. I looked and saw there was one more person in line in front of me, and I desperately wondered how I was going to politely extract myself from this situation. I scooched forward some more, trying to avoid not only my "friend", but also grazing the guy's ass in front of me. This was no easy task.
"I don't like people."
I cracked a smile...okay, this might be interesting. "You don't like people?" I repeated, smirking and raising an eyebrow.
"I don't like people's pubic hair."
Oh God.
He kept going. "I don't like people's pubic hair that doesn't match the hair on their head. I just wanted to know if you matched."
You know that rushing sound you get in your ears when you have NO FREAKING CLUE what to do in a certain situation? I got that. And suddenly, I forgot all the reprimands that I got as a kid from my mom "not to stare", and I forgot about being politically correct, and I saw this guy for what he was: a person. A person without a chair or a disability or a tank or a mom that has to help him in a grocery store, and I didn't feel sorry for him, and I didn't make excuses for his behavior. I simply pointed my finger in his face and said, "And now you've crossed the line."
Fortunately, the Fates smiled on me, and the timing for my turn immediately followed my reprimand. I hurried to the counter like a fat girl to cake (sorry, not ALL fat girls like cake. That was a horrible overgeneralization). He was still in the area when I left and tried to say goodbye to me, but I just walked out fuming.
For a second, I felt guilty for yelling at a person in a wheelchair, and then I felt dumb for feeling guilty. I don't care who you are, whether you've got one eye, or an extra toe, or were disfigured in freak curling iron accident. Rich or poor, diseased or healthy, that was a damn rude thing to say to a stranger. And I'm not standing idly by anymore and letting people push me around (see also: my night at the gas station with the drunk Mexicans). Do not get into my personal space. Do not casually comment on my pubic hair. Don't bring me crappy food in a restaurant and expect me to pay for it. I'll be nice if you're nice, and I'll continue being nice if you're somewhat annoying. If the situation calls for feisty Sarah to come out, however, come out she will.
An ih won be prehey.
I just got this in my inbox...what I thought was one of those generic forwards, but what turns out to be one of the greatest things to ever happen to me:
THIS IS A TOAST.... 2 US...
FOR THE MEN WHO HAVE US,
THE LOSERS WHO HAD US,
AND THE LUCKY PEOPLE WHO WILL MEET US!!
You have been hit. You have been considered One of the 10 prettiest
ladies on my friends list.
Once you have been hit, you have to hit 10 pretty ladies. If you get hit again you know you're really pretty. If you break the chain you'll have ugliness for 10 years. So hit 10 pretty ladies on your friends list and let them know they are pretty.
I re-sent it to myself ten times...this is the best morning EVER.
THIS IS A TOAST.... 2 US...
FOR THE MEN WHO HAVE US,
THE LOSERS WHO HAD US,
AND THE LUCKY PEOPLE WHO WILL MEET US!!
You have been hit. You have been considered One of the 10 prettiest
ladies on my friends list.
Once you have been hit, you have to hit 10 pretty ladies. If you get hit again you know you're really pretty. If you break the chain you'll have ugliness for 10 years. So hit 10 pretty ladies on your friends list and let them know they are pretty.
I re-sent it to myself ten times...this is the best morning EVER.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Happy New Year, bitches.
Let's do a little re-cap of my year. This is probably only interesting to me, but keep reading anyway.
January: I was cold.
February: Discovered Cinnamon Dolce Lattes at Starbucks. Sold soul to Devil to pay for them.
March: Came in like a lion. Left like a lion. I drank a lot of beer and coffee and didn't eat.
April: Moved into a new place, began eating again.
May: Played a hooker on stage.
June: Fell in love with my complex's pool. Tried to marry it, found this was illegal in all fifty states.
July: Began rehearsals for Pippin. Invited skin cancer into life by continuing sordid affair with pool.
August: Played over-zealous, over-sexed step-mother on stage. Wore cool flapper dress, not so cool hat.
September: My birthday. Forced everyone around me to celebrate it for the whole month by acting like total brat.
October: Halloween. Dressed like White Trash.
November: Played hyper-active Elf in murder/mystery dinner theatre. Ate inordinate amounts of green bean casserole.
December: Cursed live tree in living room for leaving needles ALL OVER APARTMENT, drove car on rock, ate Christmas cookie size of head.
And now that you've read that, here are my New Year's Resolutions:
1. Continue being the awesome.
2. Have better year than last year.
3. Train dog to bring me cell phone, remote control, beer and assorted snacks.
4. Never consciously diet. Ever.
5. Find Sugar Daddy. Have him pay all bills. Dump his ass immediately after. Use line, "It's not you, it's me."
6. Did I say yet, "continue being the awesome"?
Okay, no, I never actually make NYR's. I never do them. Ever. I feel as though everyone else around me should change anyway. There's no need for me to lose ten pounds if everyone else gains 20.
Wow. I'm doing so well already. And it's only three days in...
Let's do a little re-cap of my year. This is probably only interesting to me, but keep reading anyway.
January: I was cold.
February: Discovered Cinnamon Dolce Lattes at Starbucks. Sold soul to Devil to pay for them.
March: Came in like a lion. Left like a lion. I drank a lot of beer and coffee and didn't eat.
April: Moved into a new place, began eating again.
May: Played a hooker on stage.
June: Fell in love with my complex's pool. Tried to marry it, found this was illegal in all fifty states.
July: Began rehearsals for Pippin. Invited skin cancer into life by continuing sordid affair with pool.
August: Played over-zealous, over-sexed step-mother on stage. Wore cool flapper dress, not so cool hat.
September: My birthday. Forced everyone around me to celebrate it for the whole month by acting like total brat.
October: Halloween. Dressed like White Trash.
November: Played hyper-active Elf in murder/mystery dinner theatre. Ate inordinate amounts of green bean casserole.
December: Cursed live tree in living room for leaving needles ALL OVER APARTMENT, drove car on rock, ate Christmas cookie size of head.
And now that you've read that, here are my New Year's Resolutions:
1. Continue being the awesome.
2. Have better year than last year.
3. Train dog to bring me cell phone, remote control, beer and assorted snacks.
4. Never consciously diet. Ever.
5. Find Sugar Daddy. Have him pay all bills. Dump his ass immediately after. Use line, "It's not you, it's me."
6. Did I say yet, "continue being the awesome"?
Okay, no, I never actually make NYR's. I never do them. Ever. I feel as though everyone else around me should change anyway. There's no need for me to lose ten pounds if everyone else gains 20.
Wow. I'm doing so well already. And it's only three days in...
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
There's nothing like ringing in Christmas by downing an entire bottle of wine FROM THE BOTTLE. That's right. Classy, no-glass-drinking straight from the source. Well, I suppose it's not the actual source, though I think it would be really, really fun to drink wine straight from the barrel. Very oak-y tasting.
Yes, so that is how I spent my Christmas Eve. This is after I drove my car ONTO A ROCK. You may well be wondering how I managed to find the one actual boulder in my apartment complex and drive my car onto it, so that the car was completely stuck and two-wheels-off-the-ground immobile. Allow me to explain:
I am an idiot.
See, it went down like this...I was cleaning out my car (I say "car", but we all know it's really a toaster on wheels) at the dumpsters and then I was going to drive back to my apartment to put my stuff away (because, again, I'm an idiot and went shopping on freaking Christmas Eve). The car is cleaned, I'm turning the car around, and since I'm a multi-tasker, I figured I could check my cell phone AND rearrange my packages at the same time.
Not so much.
I heard a big "ca-chunk", and suddenly my car/toaster is rising in the air and making a horrible scraping noise. (The scraping noise was actually a good thing, I suppose, as it reassured me that I hadn't run over one of the many annoying small children that cavort around the complex...which would, honestly, be no big loss to ME, but I hear parents don't like to have their children maimed or killed at Christmas.) At first, I thought that maybe I could possibly back the car OFF the rock. Again, "not so much". Turns out if you have a large rock under your car, and not all the wheels are on the ground, you can't go anywhere. (I know, I know...CRAZY!) So, I just start laughing, because really, what can I do at this point? It's Christmas Eve, I'm broke, I've just grounded my vehicle on a large rock, I have no possible means of getting said car off of said rock myself, and no way to pay for maybe possibly having ripped a huge gaping hole in my car's no-no place.
Fortunately for me, my car comes equipped with a 24-hour roadside assistance number. (WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD)
Poor Guy That Has to Work Christmas Eve for Idiots Like Me: "Hello, Honda Roadside Assistance. How can I help you?"
Idiot: "Well...I guess you could say I need some roadside assistance."
"What seems to be the problem?"
"Huh, well, it appears I've driven my fucking car onto a fucking rock on fucking Christmas Eve."
"(Disbelieving pause) Uhhhh..."
"(Manaical laughter)"
"Well, ma'am, it sounds like you need a tow truck, here's the number of the place we use."
"I cannot fucking believe I just did this. Can you believe I did this?"
"Ma'am...no."
"Well, thanks anyway. I will call this number right away (more maniacal laughter)."
"(Click)"
While I waited for the tow, I walked back to my apartment with my packages, making sure to lock the door of my car (what an idiot...seriously, no one could possibly steal it). I dropped off my packages, and immediately began cleaning like a fiend, Windexing everything in sight, because this is what Virgos do when they're stressed. I'm laughing, sweating and shaking all at once and saying over and over, "I can't believe I just fucking drove my fucking car onto a fucking rock."
The tow truck guy was great, but did not believe that I was sober when I "parked" my car. Fortunately for me, my car's privates are all intact, and she's driving okay.
I still feel like an idiot, though. And I still want to drink wine straight from the barrel. Merry Christmas to me.
Yes, so that is how I spent my Christmas Eve. This is after I drove my car ONTO A ROCK. You may well be wondering how I managed to find the one actual boulder in my apartment complex and drive my car onto it, so that the car was completely stuck and two-wheels-off-the-ground immobile. Allow me to explain:
I am an idiot.
See, it went down like this...I was cleaning out my car (I say "car", but we all know it's really a toaster on wheels) at the dumpsters and then I was going to drive back to my apartment to put my stuff away (because, again, I'm an idiot and went shopping on freaking Christmas Eve). The car is cleaned, I'm turning the car around, and since I'm a multi-tasker, I figured I could check my cell phone AND rearrange my packages at the same time.
Not so much.
I heard a big "ca-chunk", and suddenly my car/toaster is rising in the air and making a horrible scraping noise. (The scraping noise was actually a good thing, I suppose, as it reassured me that I hadn't run over one of the many annoying small children that cavort around the complex...which would, honestly, be no big loss to ME, but I hear parents don't like to have their children maimed or killed at Christmas.) At first, I thought that maybe I could possibly back the car OFF the rock. Again, "not so much". Turns out if you have a large rock under your car, and not all the wheels are on the ground, you can't go anywhere. (I know, I know...CRAZY!) So, I just start laughing, because really, what can I do at this point? It's Christmas Eve, I'm broke, I've just grounded my vehicle on a large rock, I have no possible means of getting said car off of said rock myself, and no way to pay for maybe possibly having ripped a huge gaping hole in my car's no-no place.
Fortunately for me, my car comes equipped with a 24-hour roadside assistance number. (WARNING: STRONG LANGUAGE AHEAD)
Poor Guy That Has to Work Christmas Eve for Idiots Like Me: "Hello, Honda Roadside Assistance. How can I help you?"
Idiot: "Well...I guess you could say I need some roadside assistance."
"What seems to be the problem?"
"Huh, well, it appears I've driven my fucking car onto a fucking rock on fucking Christmas Eve."
"(Disbelieving pause) Uhhhh..."
"(Manaical laughter)"
"Well, ma'am, it sounds like you need a tow truck, here's the number of the place we use."
"I cannot fucking believe I just did this. Can you believe I did this?"
"Ma'am...no."
"Well, thanks anyway. I will call this number right away (more maniacal laughter)."
"(Click)"
While I waited for the tow, I walked back to my apartment with my packages, making sure to lock the door of my car (what an idiot...seriously, no one could possibly steal it). I dropped off my packages, and immediately began cleaning like a fiend, Windexing everything in sight, because this is what Virgos do when they're stressed. I'm laughing, sweating and shaking all at once and saying over and over, "I can't believe I just fucking drove my fucking car onto a fucking rock."
The tow truck guy was great, but did not believe that I was sober when I "parked" my car. Fortunately for me, my car's privates are all intact, and she's driving okay.
I still feel like an idiot, though. And I still want to drink wine straight from the barrel. Merry Christmas to me.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
I chatted with Phil the other day about his trip to Honduras to visit the AIDS orphanage he works for called Montana de Luz. He sent out some really beautiful, moving photos of his time there. This one in particular really moved me and Lisa and I told him so. The following is a rendition of the chat we had online (with some heavy editing...Phil can't spell, and I write in sentence fragments). I wanted to leave it as close to the original conversation as possible, because Phil's words were very organic and moving.(Phil:) “There is a really funny picture of Jose* I should send you.”
(Me:) “Who's Jose?”
“He's the one in the AMAZING picture with Molly where she is giving him his ARVs in bed.”
“Oh yeah. That pic turned out great!”
“Doug took that…it’s a real crazy story…”
“Do tell.”
“That day Doug and I were walking from "down below" which is the village in the valley where MDL is located. (MDL is up on a mountain right outside the village.) So we're hiking up the hill to get back to the project, and about three hundred yards away is a group of kids, which we assume to be from the village, Nuevo Espanranza (or something like that). Anyway…one of the kids breaks off, and at about seventy yards away, I spot it as Jose, and he starts in on a dead fat kid sprint…”
“Haha!”
“…the whole time yelling ‘Amigo Felipe!’ He runs straight up and jumps into my arms.”
“I love fat kid sprints.”
“So, naturally, I just about think that is the best thing ever to happen to me, when Doug says ‘Just wait, Dude,’ and proceeds to show me this slide show of photos of when Jose came to the project in March, malnourished, 104.5 fever, chicken pox, and a worm had laid eggs in his neck.”
(Me:) “Who's Jose?”
“He's the one in the AMAZING picture with Molly where she is giving him his ARVs in bed.”
“Oh yeah. That pic turned out great!”
“Doug took that…it’s a real crazy story…”
“Do tell.”
“That day Doug and I were walking from "down below" which is the village in the valley where MDL is located. (MDL is up on a mountain right outside the village.) So we're hiking up the hill to get back to the project, and about three hundred yards away is a group of kids, which we assume to be from the village, Nuevo Espanranza (or something like that). Anyway…one of the kids breaks off, and at about seventy yards away, I spot it as Jose, and he starts in on a dead fat kid sprint…”
“Haha!”
“…the whole time yelling ‘Amigo Felipe!’ He runs straight up and jumps into my arms.”
“I love fat kid sprints.”
“So, naturally, I just about think that is the best thing ever to happen to me, when Doug says ‘Just wait, Dude,’ and proceeds to show me this slide show of photos of when Jose came to the project in March, malnourished, 104.5 fever, chicken pox, and a worm had laid eggs in his neck.”
“Seriously? Gross! That's nuts…”
“When it got to its worst, they were pretty sure he wasn't going to make it through the night. That night, Molly (Doug’s wife) crawled into bed with Jose while he cried through the night."
“Wow.”
“He made it through to the morning, the fever broke, and she began to administer the drugs. Doug snapped a photo.”
“Wow...that's when the photo was taken?”
“Fuckin’ a.”
“That's amazing.”
“So then he proceeds to show me the pictures of where Jose came from, where they had him before Doug and Molly picked him up. (Oh, I also forgot to list HIV/AIDS on his list of infirmities when he arrived.) As Doug showed me the pictures I pretty much lost control, and wept like a baby for about half an hour just thinking about the kid who had ran the seventy yard fat kid sprint to have me carry his fat little ass up a mountain….”
“When it got to its worst, they were pretty sure he wasn't going to make it through the night. That night, Molly (Doug’s wife) crawled into bed with Jose while he cried through the night."
“Wow.”
“He made it through to the morning, the fever broke, and she began to administer the drugs. Doug snapped a photo.”
“Wow...that's when the photo was taken?”
“Fuckin’ a.”
“That's amazing.”
“So then he proceeds to show me the pictures of where Jose came from, where they had him before Doug and Molly picked him up. (Oh, I also forgot to list HIV/AIDS on his list of infirmities when he arrived.) As Doug showed me the pictures I pretty much lost control, and wept like a baby for about half an hour just thinking about the kid who had ran the seventy yard fat kid sprint to have me carry his fat little ass up a mountain….”
I don't normally write "serious" posts, but these kids and this project really moves me. There's all kinds of stupid shit going on in our world right now, and regardless of politics or religious beliefs, all I can think of is a little quote from Bono: "This is a war we can all agree on." Please check out their website, and consider maybe sending a few extra bucks their way this holiday season...or whenever, really, you cheapskates.
Here's the aforementioned "really funny picture":
*Name changed to protect child's privacy.
Monday, December 18, 2006
The Doctor is IN...
I'm not sure when I got to be such a guru, and I don't mean to toot my own (French) horn, but I'm pretty great with advice. I may even start charging for it. Of course, my charges will be flexible based on what you have to give. Dolly Parton's father gave the doctor who birthed her a sack of cornmeal. So, you, for instance, could give me your Ipod for the gems I dish out. "My Ipod?!!?" you may shout indignantly. "How is an Ipod at all comparable to a sack of cornmeal?"
Funny you should ask! I had to do some serious calculationing (yes, "calculationing") here, such as factoring in inflation, as well as comparing the relative value of each said item to the particular individual giving it. Now, Dolly was born about sixty years ago into a poor family, so a sack of cornmeal was a pretty big deal, seeing as though it was necessary for living. You, however, probably have an adequate amount of food, but are clearly attached to your Ipod, and if you're like me, you cannot live at work without it (my job is more than mind-numbing). I'm just trying to get you where it hurts without you necessarily having to sacrifice actual money.
Though I do accept all major credit cards.
My advice is so darn good, I've begun receiving actual visceral, emotional responses to it, like tears, smiles of glee or one enthusiastic reaction I like to call "throwing things" (I'm pretty sure people aren't intentionally aiming for my head.) I was able to elicit the first of these last week when speaking to a class of high school Seniors on neuro-linguistic programming. I always close my lectures with a bit on dating, because really, that's all these kids care about right now. (Body language in the workplace? Who cares. Body language in the backseat of your car? Go on.)
So, I was telling the girls to always believe a guy's body language over what he actually says, because we know that men are 1.) dirty liars* and 2.) don't like to be yelled at by girls, so they often will be ambiguous with their language so they don't actually have to say, "I just don't like you." So what happens is these girls hang on to dead end crushes or relationships because of a few misleading phrases ("I'm not ready for a relationship right now", "I'm just busy", etc.), and they "waste the pretty", meaning, they waste time on guys who don't like them, when they could be with somebody who adores them. I then tell the girls that "he's just not that into you" and advise that they move on.
I deliver this to these females and one cute little blonde raises her hand. She looks at me and with tears in her eyes says, "You've seriously just ruined my life." She writes down the name of the book I recommended to the class, then looks at me again, "I really just want to go to the bathroom and cry my eyes out."
I'm glad I could help.
Geez, I'm a jerk. I probably shouldn't have taken her Ipod from her after that.
*I really don't believe that guys are dirty liars...this just usually gets a laugh in class.
I'm not sure when I got to be such a guru, and I don't mean to toot my own (French) horn, but I'm pretty great with advice. I may even start charging for it. Of course, my charges will be flexible based on what you have to give. Dolly Parton's father gave the doctor who birthed her a sack of cornmeal. So, you, for instance, could give me your Ipod for the gems I dish out. "My Ipod?!!?" you may shout indignantly. "How is an Ipod at all comparable to a sack of cornmeal?"
Funny you should ask! I had to do some serious calculationing (yes, "calculationing") here, such as factoring in inflation, as well as comparing the relative value of each said item to the particular individual giving it. Now, Dolly was born about sixty years ago into a poor family, so a sack of cornmeal was a pretty big deal, seeing as though it was necessary for living. You, however, probably have an adequate amount of food, but are clearly attached to your Ipod, and if you're like me, you cannot live at work without it (my job is more than mind-numbing). I'm just trying to get you where it hurts without you necessarily having to sacrifice actual money.
Though I do accept all major credit cards.
My advice is so darn good, I've begun receiving actual visceral, emotional responses to it, like tears, smiles of glee or one enthusiastic reaction I like to call "throwing things" (I'm pretty sure people aren't intentionally aiming for my head.) I was able to elicit the first of these last week when speaking to a class of high school Seniors on neuro-linguistic programming. I always close my lectures with a bit on dating, because really, that's all these kids care about right now. (Body language in the workplace? Who cares. Body language in the backseat of your car? Go on.)
So, I was telling the girls to always believe a guy's body language over what he actually says, because we know that men are 1.) dirty liars* and 2.) don't like to be yelled at by girls, so they often will be ambiguous with their language so they don't actually have to say, "I just don't like you." So what happens is these girls hang on to dead end crushes or relationships because of a few misleading phrases ("I'm not ready for a relationship right now", "I'm just busy", etc.), and they "waste the pretty", meaning, they waste time on guys who don't like them, when they could be with somebody who adores them. I then tell the girls that "he's just not that into you" and advise that they move on.
I deliver this to these females and one cute little blonde raises her hand. She looks at me and with tears in her eyes says, "You've seriously just ruined my life." She writes down the name of the book I recommended to the class, then looks at me again, "I really just want to go to the bathroom and cry my eyes out."
I'm glad I could help.
Geez, I'm a jerk. I probably shouldn't have taken her Ipod from her after that.
*I really don't believe that guys are dirty liars...this just usually gets a laugh in class.
Friday, December 15, 2006
So, I need some help from you people. I have a contact for a webzine, and we're in talks for me to do some contributions. I've given her some ideas that she likes, but I'm always trying to think of a new angle on SOMETHING, and maybe you all know of something that I've either written about that you've enjoyed, or maybe I've given you my unique perspective on a topic (probably;)), or maybe you can think of a way I could lend the "Sarah" voice to happenings here in Columbus.
The 'zine is going to be mostly read by people in Chicago, and it's an attempt to comment on life and people without being overly "snarky". Most articles should be fresh and funny, but not critical, if possible. Any ideas would be helpful and much appreciated!! Thanks!
The 'zine is going to be mostly read by people in Chicago, and it's an attempt to comment on life and people without being overly "snarky". Most articles should be fresh and funny, but not critical, if possible. Any ideas would be helpful and much appreciated!! Thanks!
Monday, December 11, 2006
Monday, December 04, 2006
Actual conversation with my sister today:
Me: I need to know what you guys want for Christmas. I'm going shopping after work today.
Heather: Well, Todd needs gift cards. You know what I like. Kate wants boots. I don't know what Ben wants. I haven't asked him. (laughs)
Me: (laughs, too, because Ben is--as yet--unborn) Well, does he want clothes?
Heather: He doesn't really need clothes. The only thing we don't have that he actually needs is a bouncy seat.
Me: Oh, like one of those baby catapults? (refers to great flinging capacities of said seat)
Heather: Yeah! Exactly!
Me: Do you want one of those fancy shmancy vibrating ones? (grins)
Heather: Well, those get more expensive. I just need something that'll hold him.
Me: Isn't that what grocery bags are for?
Heather: (Horrified laughter) You are never babysitting my kids! Ever!
Me: (laughing hysterically now) But grocery bags have handles!! They're great! Very convenient.
Heather: (Weightily, and with great conviction) You're sick.
Actual conversation with Lisa, describing above incident:
Lisa: (Horrifed laughter) You are sick!
Me: "Paper or plastic?"
Lisa: (Practically) Well, they do have handles.
Me: I know!
Lisa: Easy to give them a bath in.
Me: Yeah! Just add water and shake!
Lisa: (Seriously) We're going to hell.
Me: (Plunging gamely ahead) And, you can store the baby and the bag under the sink!
Lisa: (To no one in particular) And she keeps going. This is awful.
Me: I need to know what you guys want for Christmas. I'm going shopping after work today.
Heather: Well, Todd needs gift cards. You know what I like. Kate wants boots. I don't know what Ben wants. I haven't asked him. (laughs)
Me: (laughs, too, because Ben is--as yet--unborn) Well, does he want clothes?
Heather: He doesn't really need clothes. The only thing we don't have that he actually needs is a bouncy seat.
Me: Oh, like one of those baby catapults? (refers to great flinging capacities of said seat)
Heather: Yeah! Exactly!
Me: Do you want one of those fancy shmancy vibrating ones? (grins)
Heather: Well, those get more expensive. I just need something that'll hold him.
Me: Isn't that what grocery bags are for?
Heather: (Horrified laughter) You are never babysitting my kids! Ever!
Me: (laughing hysterically now) But grocery bags have handles!! They're great! Very convenient.
Heather: (Weightily, and with great conviction) You're sick.
Actual conversation with Lisa, describing above incident:
Lisa: (Horrifed laughter) You are sick!
Me: "Paper or plastic?"
Lisa: (Practically) Well, they do have handles.
Me: I know!
Lisa: Easy to give them a bath in.
Me: Yeah! Just add water and shake!
Lisa: (Seriously) We're going to hell.
Me: (Plunging gamely ahead) And, you can store the baby and the bag under the sink!
Lisa: (To no one in particular) And she keeps going. This is awful.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
There's nothing like lying wide awake and staring at the ceiling to inspire blog posts.
Of course, in my case, I still have nothing beneficial to say.
I've been sick for the last couple of days and am now on an anti-biotic that's main attraction is making it sound like my stomach is at war with itself. Bombs, heavy artillery, you name it, it's happening in there. Seriously. I'm not hungry, but my stomach is rolling and growling like I am, and I can't sleep with all that noise.
However, here's one more totally inane, boring thing for you to read...my prescription was FREE. That's right, Giant Eagle's just giving the stuff away...apparently, Wal-mart is good for something, in that their total destruction of American society has at least driven the cost of Erythromicin down at my local grocery. Never mind that countless children are doing slave labor so that Bobby Jo from the holler can have living room drapes for five dollars less than other places, or that the scariest people you'll ever meet come out of the woodwork for a night out on the town at the area Wally World (two things: 1. NEVER go to Wal-mart around the first of the month and 2. NEVER go to a Wal-mart in the mountains. You think it's scary on the west side of Columbus...you ain't seen nothin' till you've seen the mountain people come out of hiding for supplies. Yikes)...at least I get heavy narcotics cheaper than normal, and hey, if it effects my bottom line, well then, all is right in the world.
And in other, slightly more exciting news, my new show has opened.
Of course, in my case, I still have nothing beneficial to say.
I've been sick for the last couple of days and am now on an anti-biotic that's main attraction is making it sound like my stomach is at war with itself. Bombs, heavy artillery, you name it, it's happening in there. Seriously. I'm not hungry, but my stomach is rolling and growling like I am, and I can't sleep with all that noise.
However, here's one more totally inane, boring thing for you to read...my prescription was FREE. That's right, Giant Eagle's just giving the stuff away...apparently, Wal-mart is good for something, in that their total destruction of American society has at least driven the cost of Erythromicin down at my local grocery. Never mind that countless children are doing slave labor so that Bobby Jo from the holler can have living room drapes for five dollars less than other places, or that the scariest people you'll ever meet come out of the woodwork for a night out on the town at the area Wally World (two things: 1. NEVER go to Wal-mart around the first of the month and 2. NEVER go to a Wal-mart in the mountains. You think it's scary on the west side of Columbus...you ain't seen nothin' till you've seen the mountain people come out of hiding for supplies. Yikes)...at least I get heavy narcotics cheaper than normal, and hey, if it effects my bottom line, well then, all is right in the world.
And in other, slightly more exciting news, my new show has opened.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Apparently I was a little harsh in my last blog. One commenter (show yourself, Anonymous, SHOW YOURSELF) told me I needed to "ease up". Let me say at the outset (my sister will chuckle at that last little phrase:)) that I was not intending to be negative or nasty or any of those things...I was merely observing, and if I happened to be surrounded by crappy people, is that really my fault?
However, since I'm an easily accomodating blogger, I am yet again at Panera, and I will attempt a much more positive spin on my observations.
There are two ladies seated at the table next to me. One is black and one is white. Hooray!
There are a couple of blue-collar looking men at the table in front of me. One is smiling and has a big American flag on his hat. He probably supports George Bush and likes to beat his wife, but today he is happy, and at Panera refreshing himself and his plaid shirt with bread. For that, I am grateful.
There is a lady seated with her back to me. This makes me happy, because I'm pretty sure in real life, we wouldn't get along. However, her highlights look nice.
There is an old man sitting in a chair by the fire. He looks deep in thought, but content. A small smile plays around the corner of his lips and he reminds me briefly of Christmas wrapped in Valentines Day wrapped in your fifth birthday where your parents hired a REAL PONY for your party.
There's a lady seated at a booth a few tables over. She observes her laptop intently, like a small mouse checking out a piece of cheese (the cheese, which oddly enough, has been placed on a piece of wood which boasts a spring and a lovely metal bar). Now she is smiling. Mice don't smile. (SNAP!)
Was that better? ;)
However, since I'm an easily accomodating blogger, I am yet again at Panera, and I will attempt a much more positive spin on my observations.
There are two ladies seated at the table next to me. One is black and one is white. Hooray!
There are a couple of blue-collar looking men at the table in front of me. One is smiling and has a big American flag on his hat. He probably supports George Bush and likes to beat his wife, but today he is happy, and at Panera refreshing himself and his plaid shirt with bread. For that, I am grateful.
There is a lady seated with her back to me. This makes me happy, because I'm pretty sure in real life, we wouldn't get along. However, her highlights look nice.
There is an old man sitting in a chair by the fire. He looks deep in thought, but content. A small smile plays around the corner of his lips and he reminds me briefly of Christmas wrapped in Valentines Day wrapped in your fifth birthday where your parents hired a REAL PONY for your party.
There's a lady seated at a booth a few tables over. She observes her laptop intently, like a small mouse checking out a piece of cheese (the cheese, which oddly enough, has been placed on a piece of wood which boasts a spring and a lovely metal bar). Now she is smiling. Mice don't smile. (SNAP!)
Was that better? ;)
Monday, October 30, 2006
I've found this little "nook" at Panera. Single table situated right next to a cool wall sconce and tucked away in a corner so that I almost feel as if I'm NOT in a ridiculously overpriced, mediocre coffee, fatty soup national chain. I should be learning my lines, but it's a beautiful day outside...prime weather for people watching at Easton.
Two rather large women at a table outside (yes, it's THAT nice...and in October, no less) scarf down refined carbs and sport bad roots. One can only assume this is not their first meal of the day, as they chew and talk--often all at once--about kids and men and deals at Wal-mart. Four businessmen in crisp white shirts and boring ties sit at the table directly in front of me and discuss cars, football and finances, and block the aisleway (and consequently, my path to more coffee) with their over-stuffed briefcases, which are filled with expense reports and the drivel that steals time from their families and slowly squanders pieces of their souls (but hey, at least they can afford the baguettes).
A harried looking girl works the bagel counter and she runs like crazy trying to please everyone all the time, and one can only assume from the fine lines on her young forehead that work isn't the only place she does this; she has the tired look under her eyes that says she's in an endless loop of granting other people's wishes but never her own.
There's a young mother with a small boy and an oversized stroller, and she is met by a short black man who she greets as "Mr. Hill" and hugs awkwardly (parallel arms that hit him just under the armpits, so that he is forced to keep his arms parallel, too, but held higher, so that they wrap around her shoulders, because if he went any higher, he'd have her in some sort of weird sleeper hold.) The boy steals a sucker from his diaper bag and offers it to Mr. Hill, who flashes beautiful white teeth and says, "No, thank you." and gives the boy a pat on the head, the kind of pat you'd give your least favorite cat (the one you took in because it just kept hanging around, and in a brief moment of feline altruistic insanity decided to keep so your other cat could have "company".) Perhaps Mr. Hill and the mom are sleeping together, and this is their idea of a date, but because the kid is there, they have to continue pretending Mr. Hill is some sort of formal business associate, though it's obvious from the mom's "mom-jeans", mis-shapen t-shirt and ratty tennis shoes, she hasn't seen the inside of Corporate since the birth of Lollipop Boy ("Is 'Gwasshoppa' fwavored").
An older couple occupies yet another outside table, and they look like they're already dressed for next Saturday's big game against Illinois. They're so typical "Ohio" that I can only smile and shake my head...you know, that cross of upper middle class suburbanite (I'm guessing Gahanna), but born and bred from the good farm genes that made this state great. Hefty, solid, Midwest stock, but in really expensive OSU gear. The kind of people that drink Bud Light by the case, but paid over $300,000 for a small, cookie-cutter MI home in a pretentious neighborhood. I'm pretty sure she also dresses the stone goose on her porch to coincide with the holidays.
My coffee is cold now and needs to be warmed, but there's a rather large suitcase in the aisle, as apparently one of the businessmen is from out of town (big meeting about marketing soccer stadiums?). And--apparently--he's from someplace where it's socially acceptable to occupy my bee-line to a legally addictive stimulant with his Samsonite.
And now, time to learn lines.
Two rather large women at a table outside (yes, it's THAT nice...and in October, no less) scarf down refined carbs and sport bad roots. One can only assume this is not their first meal of the day, as they chew and talk--often all at once--about kids and men and deals at Wal-mart. Four businessmen in crisp white shirts and boring ties sit at the table directly in front of me and discuss cars, football and finances, and block the aisleway (and consequently, my path to more coffee) with their over-stuffed briefcases, which are filled with expense reports and the drivel that steals time from their families and slowly squanders pieces of their souls (but hey, at least they can afford the baguettes).
A harried looking girl works the bagel counter and she runs like crazy trying to please everyone all the time, and one can only assume from the fine lines on her young forehead that work isn't the only place she does this; she has the tired look under her eyes that says she's in an endless loop of granting other people's wishes but never her own.
There's a young mother with a small boy and an oversized stroller, and she is met by a short black man who she greets as "Mr. Hill" and hugs awkwardly (parallel arms that hit him just under the armpits, so that he is forced to keep his arms parallel, too, but held higher, so that they wrap around her shoulders, because if he went any higher, he'd have her in some sort of weird sleeper hold.) The boy steals a sucker from his diaper bag and offers it to Mr. Hill, who flashes beautiful white teeth and says, "No, thank you." and gives the boy a pat on the head, the kind of pat you'd give your least favorite cat (the one you took in because it just kept hanging around, and in a brief moment of feline altruistic insanity decided to keep so your other cat could have "company".) Perhaps Mr. Hill and the mom are sleeping together, and this is their idea of a date, but because the kid is there, they have to continue pretending Mr. Hill is some sort of formal business associate, though it's obvious from the mom's "mom-jeans", mis-shapen t-shirt and ratty tennis shoes, she hasn't seen the inside of Corporate since the birth of Lollipop Boy ("Is 'Gwasshoppa' fwavored").
An older couple occupies yet another outside table, and they look like they're already dressed for next Saturday's big game against Illinois. They're so typical "Ohio" that I can only smile and shake my head...you know, that cross of upper middle class suburbanite (I'm guessing Gahanna), but born and bred from the good farm genes that made this state great. Hefty, solid, Midwest stock, but in really expensive OSU gear. The kind of people that drink Bud Light by the case, but paid over $300,000 for a small, cookie-cutter MI home in a pretentious neighborhood. I'm pretty sure she also dresses the stone goose on her porch to coincide with the holidays.
My coffee is cold now and needs to be warmed, but there's a rather large suitcase in the aisle, as apparently one of the businessmen is from out of town (big meeting about marketing soccer stadiums?). And--apparently--he's from someplace where it's socially acceptable to occupy my bee-line to a legally addictive stimulant with his Samsonite.
And now, time to learn lines.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
1. Wow. Tonight I was rendered speechless, and for those of you who know me...well, this is no easy task. Suffice it to say, it was a good speechless. And there was a lot of blushing on my part, as well.
2. My roommate has meningitis. Yikes. Send up a prayer, cross your fingers--whatever you do to get a leg up in life--that I won't get this disease as well. I mean, the boy is SICK. I seriously think he may have been awake, oh, maybe eight hours or so in the last five days. He also had to have a spinal tap, TWICE, and did the throwing up thing too. Sarah does not like to throw up. She would not like to have meningitis. Work on this, people.
3. So the new dog isn't working out so well. I'm not really sure what to do about this. I feel like I've tried everything I can think of, but nothing's changing like it did with The Pipp. So does anyone out there want a dog? She's very, very, needy, but also incredibly sweet and cuddly. I think she needs a crazy, busy family so she gets a ton of attention and stimulation, preferably with a mom that stays home a lot (she's probably only in her crate like maybe four hours a day, but this still seems like too much for her) and a fenced in backyard to run around in (terrible on a leash). I'll be looking up shelters/humane societies tomorrow, but if anyone is interested let me know (she's all black, about 30 pounds, clumsy as all hell, but a good dog overall.)
4. Bedtime.
2. My roommate has meningitis. Yikes. Send up a prayer, cross your fingers--whatever you do to get a leg up in life--that I won't get this disease as well. I mean, the boy is SICK. I seriously think he may have been awake, oh, maybe eight hours or so in the last five days. He also had to have a spinal tap, TWICE, and did the throwing up thing too. Sarah does not like to throw up. She would not like to have meningitis. Work on this, people.
3. So the new dog isn't working out so well. I'm not really sure what to do about this. I feel like I've tried everything I can think of, but nothing's changing like it did with The Pipp. So does anyone out there want a dog? She's very, very, needy, but also incredibly sweet and cuddly. I think she needs a crazy, busy family so she gets a ton of attention and stimulation, preferably with a mom that stays home a lot (she's probably only in her crate like maybe four hours a day, but this still seems like too much for her) and a fenced in backyard to run around in (terrible on a leash). I'll be looking up shelters/humane societies tomorrow, but if anyone is interested let me know (she's all black, about 30 pounds, clumsy as all hell, but a good dog overall.)
4. Bedtime.
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