I learned some really good life skills in high school. There are the obvious things I use in my day-to-day life, like logarithms and how to sew pajamas pants. But, no one explained to me what a 'handle' was or how much gas one car could realistically consume in a four week period.
College was a similar experience, I quickly caught onto alcohol-related definitions, how to bat my eyelashes and what the best midnight snacks were...are.
However, seemingly small lessons seem to have been passed over, and as it happens there are various things I have recently encountered that make me stop and think, "wait, who was supposed to teach me that and when?"
Recently I explained to a male how there is an obvious buffer built into the suggested oil change time line, made specifically for women like myself. First off, I am very busy and driving aaaaallll the way to the dealership where they will give me a loaner car to avoid me wasting an hour waiting around seems like a hassle. Secondly, when did an oil change become a monetary priority in my life? I like spending money on things like shoes and wine, not an oil change. Seriously, could anything be less sexy? However, as it happens, on the practicality scale these two points of rationale are irrelevant when speaking to someone who is obnoxiously auto-literate.
J: Didn't your Dad teach you anything about taking care of your car?
Me: Yeah, he did.
::pause::
J: Well?!
Me: He TAUGHT me his phone number.
...yah, I said it.
So, on Tuesday after avoiding the tire pressure light that had been on in my beautiful Lucy (don't act like you haven't named your car, too) for a week plus, I grudgingly accepted that J was not going to actively help me out and pulled over at a gas station. Air pressure, how hard can you be?
At the risk of sounding like a total idiot, I will tell you this, hard. There are so many rules when you have a car with a dent-free (knock on wood) finish. For instance, I am pretty sure dragging the air hose across the hood is a definite no-no. Which means I had to position it around and under the front bumper, while also unscrewing the tire cap, checking the beginning pressure, inserting the nozzle, learning that the hose pressure gauge is unreliable, fumbling for my own pressure gauge (thanks, Dad!), rechecking, pulling my shirt down/pants up to ensure no passer-by confused me for a plumber, realizing I put too much air in, panicking, realizing I could let some air out and checking it again with my own gauge.
Tire one, check.
At this point, you might think "ok, so she went to the next tire." If only. No, no, because I was convinced it was just the one tire, I got in the car, turned on the engine and DAMMIT THE LIGHT WAS STILL ON.
Repeat.
After the second time of the light not going off, I finally thought it best to check all tires.
Then my three minutes ran up, and I couldn't reach the last tire without dragging the hose all over my mostly unblemished paint. More quarters, followed by pulling my car forward.
Absolute mess. I am sure the guys at the tire center got a real chuckle from my absent-mindedness. They will never know I grew up with Tim the Toolman Taylor and a garage full of wrenches, engine lifts and...stuff.
Four tires, two dollars and one Americano later I was back in the car driving away from the Hellish place that will inevitably cause nightmares. I made sure all the PSI or PPS or whatever matched what they were supposed to match. And, guess what. THE LIGHT WAS STILL ON.
Turns out, you have to drive for a few minutes before the freshly filled tires register. Err...at least I think that's what happened because now the light is off.
Growing up, women are told to marry rich. I know I can make money, so I say, women marry a man with a wrench.
In other news, I have recently started editing a blog for the above mentioned J, even though he refused to fill my tires with air. He will be documenting his snowboarding adventures, skill progression and terrain coverage. Check him out here.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
Philadelphia :: A City of Moops
2010 has been a year of travel for me. I spend a minimum of one weekend out of town, if not two. The past four days, I have been in Philadelphia – a city responsible for many things I am found of, including but not limited to the show It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia…ok so that’s the only immediate thing that comes to mind.
Everyone is so friendly in Philly, except for – ironically – the girl at Starbucks who wouldn’t change my $20 bill. Really? Next time, I’m paying with a $50 and you better get some small bills because I want ones. I didn’t fly all the way from Seattle to go to Starbucks and have you be rude to me. I’m telling Howard.
To start, we rented a car – because 1) it’s paid for by my company and B) rental cars provide for endless hours of comical relief. This time around we got a Nissan Versa which is similar to a matchbox car but with less power. It’s the same size as a Hybrid, has the same horrible pickup and sounds exactly the same. Yet, it is not a Hybrid. In theory, it’s a waste of a car. Per my usual, I declined the insurance because I am “economical,” sure let’s call it that, and overly confident I won’t get into an accident.
For the record, additional insurance is probably statistically a good idea. I thought I was aggressive driver. Enough so that I could handle Philly and Jersey – combo pack! – without peeing myself. False. Driving a matchbox that whirs when accelerating on the on-ramp, while also checking my blind spot to make sure I don’t get run over like Mario Kart creates all sorts of panic within.
While chugging my Americano (appetite suppressor + mood accelerator = bliss) and stopped at a light, the Queen o’ Sportscenter and I were exchanging our typical useless conversation. Really, nothing we every say is funny except to us, but we banter continually. The light turned green, and whaddaya know, I hit a pothole hence spilling my venti all down my front.
Me: DO SOMETHING?
QoSC: What do you want me to do?
Coffee drips down my jacket
Me: SOMETHING
Still driving because it’s an on-ramp, and I can’t stop.
So she grabs the wheel. Obviously, of all the things I am holding the wheel is the most convenient. Not the coffee that I’m holding in the hand closest to her. Hell, she could have wiped the coffee of my boob (freebie!) and I wouldn’t have cared. Meanwhile, a crazed Phillies fan with a car that had real horsepower – probably a Ford – came up fast on my left.
QoSC: OMG look out!
Me: DO SOMETHING!
To be honest I was so concerned that my favorite jacket was absorbing my Sbucks to think of a different phrase. Clearly, verbalizing myself wasn’t going well and I was secretly hoping she would read my mind. Jedi.
QoSC: I CAN’T BREAK FOR YOU!
Me: OMG TAKE MY COFFEE!
QoSC: Oh.
(Also, did you know after you pass through a toll, there are no lanes? NO LANES. It’s one big fishbowl of cars with either NJ or PA plates, again with actual horsepower, racing for the exit. For a girl that cries, I am not sure how I made it out without tears.)
In addition to the driving escapades, we also decided it best to create a word – just in case people didn’t already think we had twinsies-terrets. They do now. We spent so much time saying “MOOP” that I am guessing they thought we were saying “poop.” (Philly isn’t the cleanest place.)
Moop = Man on Stoop. We made it our personal goal to find as many stoop-sitters as possible while driving from South Philly to City Center. Mostly because movies tell us that people sit on stoops on the East Coast.
As we are college graduates (four years, in a row), we had to go out at least one night in Philly. And being advocates (read: cliché tourists) of It’s Always Sunny we of course went to Mac’s – a pub owned by Rob McHellerny and his wife, Sweet Dee. It was here that I made the strongest $10 investment of my life. For $15, we had the opportunity to purchase a Philly foam hat, and get a free beer! with said purchase.
Me: Hmmm $15. For a beer? That’s pricey.
Him: But you get this hat! Plus you’d spend AT LEAST $7 on a beer.
::contemplation::
Q o’ SC: I’m never going to wear that again.
Me: BUT IT’S AWESOME.
I was never a strong negotiator. I show emotion too quickly. Dangit.
Him: Ok, ok. What’s your name?
Me: Tami. With an I.
Him: Ok, Tami, how about I give you two for $20 with 2 free beers.
Q o’ SC: Um…uhhh…
His ‘friend’: That’s such a good deal. We’re not even making a profit on that.
::blink.blink:: Friend leaves.
Him: Ok, ok. While he’s gone, how about I do two for $20 and 4 free beers.
Me: SOLD.
Q o’ SC: Basically, we are paying $10 for two beers and getting a free hat?
Me: GIve me your purse.
Needless to say we ended up with said fantastic hats. See photo below. They are shaped like bells, with giant cracks, and say "RING IT."
Later, after refusing to wear hers all night, the Q o’ SC gave hers to a homeless man who proceeded to try and bum a smoke. At least he got a new pillow.
PS: yes, that does say ‘Crack Head.’ Glasses not included.
Everyone is so friendly in Philly, except for – ironically – the girl at Starbucks who wouldn’t change my $20 bill. Really? Next time, I’m paying with a $50 and you better get some small bills because I want ones. I didn’t fly all the way from Seattle to go to Starbucks and have you be rude to me. I’m telling Howard.
To start, we rented a car – because 1) it’s paid for by my company and B) rental cars provide for endless hours of comical relief. This time around we got a Nissan Versa which is similar to a matchbox car but with less power. It’s the same size as a Hybrid, has the same horrible pickup and sounds exactly the same. Yet, it is not a Hybrid. In theory, it’s a waste of a car. Per my usual, I declined the insurance because I am “economical,” sure let’s call it that, and overly confident I won’t get into an accident.
For the record, additional insurance is probably statistically a good idea. I thought I was aggressive driver. Enough so that I could handle Philly and Jersey – combo pack! – without peeing myself. False. Driving a matchbox that whirs when accelerating on the on-ramp, while also checking my blind spot to make sure I don’t get run over like Mario Kart creates all sorts of panic within.
While chugging my Americano (appetite suppressor + mood accelerator = bliss) and stopped at a light, the Queen o’ Sportscenter and I were exchanging our typical useless conversation. Really, nothing we every say is funny except to us, but we banter continually. The light turned green, and whaddaya know, I hit a pothole hence spilling my venti all down my front.
Me: DO SOMETHING?
QoSC: What do you want me to do?
Coffee drips down my jacket
Me: SOMETHING
Still driving because it’s an on-ramp, and I can’t stop.
So she grabs the wheel. Obviously, of all the things I am holding the wheel is the most convenient. Not the coffee that I’m holding in the hand closest to her. Hell, she could have wiped the coffee of my boob (freebie!) and I wouldn’t have cared. Meanwhile, a crazed Phillies fan with a car that had real horsepower – probably a Ford – came up fast on my left.
QoSC: OMG look out!
Me: DO SOMETHING!
To be honest I was so concerned that my favorite jacket was absorbing my Sbucks to think of a different phrase. Clearly, verbalizing myself wasn’t going well and I was secretly hoping she would read my mind. Jedi.
QoSC: I CAN’T BREAK FOR YOU!
Me: OMG TAKE MY COFFEE!
QoSC: Oh.
(Also, did you know after you pass through a toll, there are no lanes? NO LANES. It’s one big fishbowl of cars with either NJ or PA plates, again with actual horsepower, racing for the exit. For a girl that cries, I am not sure how I made it out without tears.)
In addition to the driving escapades, we also decided it best to create a word – just in case people didn’t already think we had twinsies-terrets. They do now. We spent so much time saying “MOOP” that I am guessing they thought we were saying “poop.” (Philly isn’t the cleanest place.)
Moop = Man on Stoop. We made it our personal goal to find as many stoop-sitters as possible while driving from South Philly to City Center. Mostly because movies tell us that people sit on stoops on the East Coast.
As we are college graduates (four years, in a row), we had to go out at least one night in Philly. And being advocates (read: cliché tourists) of It’s Always Sunny we of course went to Mac’s – a pub owned by Rob McHellerny and his wife, Sweet Dee. It was here that I made the strongest $10 investment of my life. For $15, we had the opportunity to purchase a Philly foam hat, and get a free beer! with said purchase.
Me: Hmmm $15. For a beer? That’s pricey.
Him: But you get this hat! Plus you’d spend AT LEAST $7 on a beer.
::contemplation::
Q o’ SC: I’m never going to wear that again.
Me: BUT IT’S AWESOME.
I was never a strong negotiator. I show emotion too quickly. Dangit.
Him: Ok, ok. What’s your name?
Me: Tami. With an I.
Him: Ok, Tami, how about I give you two for $20 with 2 free beers.
Q o’ SC: Um…uhhh…
His ‘friend’: That’s such a good deal. We’re not even making a profit on that.
::blink.blink:: Friend leaves.
Him: Ok, ok. While he’s gone, how about I do two for $20 and 4 free beers.
Me: SOLD.
Q o’ SC: Basically, we are paying $10 for two beers and getting a free hat?
Me: GIve me your purse.
Needless to say we ended up with said fantastic hats. See photo below. They are shaped like bells, with giant cracks, and say "RING IT."
Later, after refusing to wear hers all night, the Q o’ SC gave hers to a homeless man who proceeded to try and bum a smoke. At least he got a new pillow.
PS: yes, that does say ‘Crack Head.’ Glasses not included.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Sitting Room Only?
Currently I am 10,000+ feet in the air, elbows at my sides – replicating a pushup position, but while sitting. Am I doing bicep curls? No. The gentleman in front of me so kindly reclined his seat so far back I could probably cut his hair. Or shave it. (If only I could travel with a razor.) It seems Delta really went all out for the ‘commuters’ traveling cross-country. Though I rarely complain about airlines, ask anyone I know (who you might also know, if you know me. If you don’t know me, it’s best you keep questions about me to yourself.) and they’ll tell you Southwest is my airline of choice. No seat assignments, comfortable spacing, and best yet — affordability. However, this time around we opted for Delta. A major provider for mass air transit, well established and the cheapest.
I feel as if I am riding on a Greyhound Bus complete with shotty drop down TVs but with less stench. Which is debatable as my sinuses are completely dried out from being awake at 3:30am.
Update: the stewardess just walked the entire aisle harping “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.” As a curvy woman myself, I understand sometimes hips don’t lie, however in this instance Ms. Size Two was indicating that elbows should move so she didn’t RAM them with her drink cart. In addition to massive seating space, we also sprung for the wide aisles, eh Delta? I’m glad you gave the 8 people in first class free elbow pads, because you can’t already lay across the aisle up there or anything. Let’s be extra safe with the people that paid a smidge (read: what I cant afford) extra. If I would have known I was hindering the ability to move and risking a broken funny bone, I probably would have upgraded. Lucky for me I am in the coveted middle seat, so the worst that can happen is an elbow to the boob as my fellow travel buddy attempts to dodge a drink cart assault.
Don’t try to blame Boeing on this one. You pay for what you get.
Continuing on, the man, I’ll call him Stewart, since that’s what his hat says, seems to be paired with he woman on his right. Fantastic. Do you think you could sprawl her way a little bit champ? I would like to respond to some work emails; however space-infringement has broken my pervious writers’ block. Stewart has given up on sleeping and is doing...nothing. Unless he is planning on popping out a child anytime soon, I don’t think it’s necessary for him to take up 1.5x the amount of space given to him. The good news is it looks as if he plans on ordering some food, which means he will likely spew crumbs up and over his seat. Sounds impossible, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
This vendetta is beginning to feel personal, no? If I could retaliate by kicking his seat and put stickers on his back without him noticing, only for him to go walking the streets of Philly with “I am inconsiderate” plastered against what I can only imagine is the back of a t-shirt that says “Nascar” on the front, I would. Unfortunately, I can’t move my legs, and I forgot my “Suck It” stickers at home.
I always forget something when I travel.
In other news, the gentleman to my left is very friendly, and my travel-companion, known in prior entries as The Queen of Sportscenter isn’t obsessively explaining the important of Fantasy Football to me. Yet. Since it seems her eyesight is worse than that of a legally blind person, it is safe to say friendly-man and the 6 rows behind me all know that Stewart has a light case of dandruff now.
Sorry bud. What can I say? It’s karma.
I feel as if I am riding on a Greyhound Bus complete with shotty drop down TVs but with less stench. Which is debatable as my sinuses are completely dried out from being awake at 3:30am.
Update: the stewardess just walked the entire aisle harping “excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.” As a curvy woman myself, I understand sometimes hips don’t lie, however in this instance Ms. Size Two was indicating that elbows should move so she didn’t RAM them with her drink cart. In addition to massive seating space, we also sprung for the wide aisles, eh Delta? I’m glad you gave the 8 people in first class free elbow pads, because you can’t already lay across the aisle up there or anything. Let’s be extra safe with the people that paid a smidge (read: what I cant afford) extra. If I would have known I was hindering the ability to move and risking a broken funny bone, I probably would have upgraded. Lucky for me I am in the coveted middle seat, so the worst that can happen is an elbow to the boob as my fellow travel buddy attempts to dodge a drink cart assault.
Don’t try to blame Boeing on this one. You pay for what you get.
Continuing on, the man, I’ll call him Stewart, since that’s what his hat says, seems to be paired with he woman on his right. Fantastic. Do you think you could sprawl her way a little bit champ? I would like to respond to some work emails; however space-infringement has broken my pervious writers’ block. Stewart has given up on sleeping and is doing...nothing. Unless he is planning on popping out a child anytime soon, I don’t think it’s necessary for him to take up 1.5x the amount of space given to him. The good news is it looks as if he plans on ordering some food, which means he will likely spew crumbs up and over his seat. Sounds impossible, but I wouldn’t put it past him.
This vendetta is beginning to feel personal, no? If I could retaliate by kicking his seat and put stickers on his back without him noticing, only for him to go walking the streets of Philly with “I am inconsiderate” plastered against what I can only imagine is the back of a t-shirt that says “Nascar” on the front, I would. Unfortunately, I can’t move my legs, and I forgot my “Suck It” stickers at home.
I always forget something when I travel.
In other news, the gentleman to my left is very friendly, and my travel-companion, known in prior entries as The Queen of Sportscenter isn’t obsessively explaining the important of Fantasy Football to me. Yet. Since it seems her eyesight is worse than that of a legally blind person, it is safe to say friendly-man and the 6 rows behind me all know that Stewart has a light case of dandruff now.
Sorry bud. What can I say? It’s karma.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Can I get sanity as a bonus? Please?
Everyone has his or her quarks. Small annoyances that rub other people the wrong way. The good news is, you don’t have to spend extended periods of time with people that annoy you constantly. Usually.
Unless you work with them. Mere feet away. Your sanity resting upon their ability to make as little noise as possible. Similar to “The Quiet Game,” however adults usually comprehend when this is suggested it really means “Please, shut the f#$@ up.”
“Gee, this feels personal? Is someone irritable?”
Everyday, stalkers. Everyday.
For years I was a nanny. Through high school, college and even after I graduated and refused to accept my fate in the working world. (Read: I couldn’t get a job immediately.) However, once The Man offered me a 9-5 with a reasonable salary I put down the diapers and Goldfish (so good!), and traded up for a wireless mouse and sticky notes.
Or, so I thought.
Little did I know that even with a wireless mouse and stack-o-stickies that I had simply graduated into the world of adult-nannying.
What’s that? You aren’t familiar with this unless it includes Depends and memory loss? Let me help you then. Has your mom ever called you and said “how do I resize a photo?” Or maybe your Dad has questioned, “How do I check my bank balance online?” This is more like adult-babysitting because these wonderful people listened to you babble on for years about things that weren’t that important. For example: your high school crush(es), what kind of car you would one day purchase, and endless hours of “Mom...mom…mom…mom…” Their current sanity is unexplainable. You were probably a pain in the butt, though 75% of parents would never tell you that.
Some of you nanny your bosses. Organizing their calendars: they claim their busy / you claim they’re lazy. Taking their messages: too busy to answer the phone / you are not. Minion.
My boss does not inflict daily annoyances. Rather he provides me the necessary tools for me to get my ish done as efficiently as possible – minus my sanity. After 18-months of sharing an office space I can tell you that I am as close to going postal as a new mother. My hair is too thin as it is to get any thinner, but my shoulders contain the stress of a woman far my senior. Why you ask? Because, dear stalkers, I nanny a 42-year old with full cranial function.
And it makes me wish I had padded walls.
I never understood why my mother was sensitive to silence. Now I do. There is a never-ending amount of noise reverberating from her desk. Whether she’s talking to herself, me or her dog – she rarely sits in silence longer than five minutes. Her questions are generally rhetorical – hence pointless interruption. Her statements are generally righteous – making me want to contradict them for sheer distain of yet ANOTHER interruption. The all-time favorite that takes my cake (which sucks, because I love cake), her ability to yell through a wall to ask my co-workers questions.
And no, she is not Super Woman. The walls stand strong, and her voice certainly bounces off of them. We have: an intercom system, iChat, e-mail and legs. All of which provide silent, or quieter, question-asking options.
Her: IS THERE A BARCODE ON THE SAMPLE PACKS??
::silence::
Her: HEY KYLE?
Me: You could look at a sample pack. ::holds up package::
Her: Ha. You’re such a smart ass.
Or, maybe I am just a logical being that is capable of independence.
Remember that dog I mentioned earlier? The one she talks to? At a geriatric 14+ the dog refuses to sleep where it's supposed to, not smell bad, breath quietly or obey anything she tells it to do. Ever. Unless it gets a treat. Gee, who trained who? Also, it has an ear infection, so she responsibly cleans out said disobedient, arthritically stubborn dogs ears at the office. Then blames the smell on that. Ew, people. EW.
As an avid supporter of all things Excel, our company president prefers Excel sheets to, well, anything else. This may come as a shock to all of you, but I am not an Excel tutor. My company pays me to get my work done in a somewhat, almost timely manner (Facebook break!) not explain how to match the square peg with a square hole.
Here is a list of questions I have been asked in the past 48-hours:
Do you like Cold Play?
What happens if I delete a cell?
Can you come here? (Note: I can see her screen, which is big enough for Helen Keller to read, from where I sit.)
Can I ask you a question?
Why isn’t this pasting with I click paste?
Do you have a hair roller thingy?
Responds to own question: Probably not.
What do you think of my.....(trails off not to finish sentence. AT ALL.)
Don't you love this color?
When are you getting K-Cups?
How do I copy a formula?
How do I copy a cell?
How do I set my mouse with a double-click?
Does B seem crabby?
How late are you staying?
Do we have rechargeable batteries? Yes. We do?
Can I call Kyle?
…I don’t know, can you?
To make it even better, our intern (he’s 30, I like to make fun of him) has caught wind of her need to be right ALL THE TIME and has started inter-office debates with her just to get her going. He’s kidding / she’s serious. If it weren’t so funny, it’d be annoying.
Scratch that: it’s annoying.
Unless you work with them. Mere feet away. Your sanity resting upon their ability to make as little noise as possible. Similar to “The Quiet Game,” however adults usually comprehend when this is suggested it really means “Please, shut the f#$@ up.”
“Gee, this feels personal? Is someone irritable?”
Everyday, stalkers. Everyday.
For years I was a nanny. Through high school, college and even after I graduated and refused to accept my fate in the working world. (Read: I couldn’t get a job immediately.) However, once The Man offered me a 9-5 with a reasonable salary I put down the diapers and Goldfish (so good!), and traded up for a wireless mouse and sticky notes.
Or, so I thought.
Little did I know that even with a wireless mouse and stack-o-stickies that I had simply graduated into the world of adult-nannying.
What’s that? You aren’t familiar with this unless it includes Depends and memory loss? Let me help you then. Has your mom ever called you and said “how do I resize a photo?” Or maybe your Dad has questioned, “How do I check my bank balance online?” This is more like adult-babysitting because these wonderful people listened to you babble on for years about things that weren’t that important. For example: your high school crush(es), what kind of car you would one day purchase, and endless hours of “Mom...mom…mom…mom…” Their current sanity is unexplainable. You were probably a pain in the butt, though 75% of parents would never tell you that.
Some of you nanny your bosses. Organizing their calendars: they claim their busy / you claim they’re lazy. Taking their messages: too busy to answer the phone / you are not. Minion.
My boss does not inflict daily annoyances. Rather he provides me the necessary tools for me to get my ish done as efficiently as possible – minus my sanity. After 18-months of sharing an office space I can tell you that I am as close to going postal as a new mother. My hair is too thin as it is to get any thinner, but my shoulders contain the stress of a woman far my senior. Why you ask? Because, dear stalkers, I nanny a 42-year old with full cranial function.
And it makes me wish I had padded walls.
I never understood why my mother was sensitive to silence. Now I do. There is a never-ending amount of noise reverberating from her desk. Whether she’s talking to herself, me or her dog – she rarely sits in silence longer than five minutes. Her questions are generally rhetorical – hence pointless interruption. Her statements are generally righteous – making me want to contradict them for sheer distain of yet ANOTHER interruption. The all-time favorite that takes my cake (which sucks, because I love cake), her ability to yell through a wall to ask my co-workers questions.
And no, she is not Super Woman. The walls stand strong, and her voice certainly bounces off of them. We have: an intercom system, iChat, e-mail and legs. All of which provide silent, or quieter, question-asking options.
Her: IS THERE A BARCODE ON THE SAMPLE PACKS??
::silence::
Her: HEY KYLE?
Me: You could look at a sample pack. ::holds up package::
Her: Ha. You’re such a smart ass.
Or, maybe I am just a logical being that is capable of independence.
Remember that dog I mentioned earlier? The one she talks to? At a geriatric 14+ the dog refuses to sleep where it's supposed to, not smell bad, breath quietly or obey anything she tells it to do. Ever. Unless it gets a treat. Gee, who trained who? Also, it has an ear infection, so she responsibly cleans out said disobedient, arthritically stubborn dogs ears at the office. Then blames the smell on that. Ew, people. EW.
As an avid supporter of all things Excel, our company president prefers Excel sheets to, well, anything else. This may come as a shock to all of you, but I am not an Excel tutor. My company pays me to get my work done in a somewhat, almost timely manner (Facebook break!) not explain how to match the square peg with a square hole.
Here is a list of questions I have been asked in the past 48-hours:
Do you like Cold Play?
What happens if I delete a cell?
Can you come here? (Note: I can see her screen, which is big enough for Helen Keller to read, from where I sit.)
Can I ask you a question?
Why isn’t this pasting with I click paste?
Do you have a hair roller thingy?
Responds to own question: Probably not.
What do you think of my.....(trails off not to finish sentence. AT ALL.)
Don't you love this color?
When are you getting K-Cups?
How do I copy a formula?
How do I copy a cell?
How do I set my mouse with a double-click?
Does B seem crabby?
How late are you staying?
Do we have rechargeable batteries? Yes. We do?
Can I call Kyle?
…I don’t know, can you?
To make it even better, our intern (he’s 30, I like to make fun of him) has caught wind of her need to be right ALL THE TIME and has started inter-office debates with her just to get her going. He’s kidding / she’s serious. If it weren’t so funny, it’d be annoying.
Scratch that: it’s annoying.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
A Daily Dose of my Momma
Today, while ensuring I get the most out of my college degree by sitting/laying/sprawling on the couch watching a Law and Order: SVU marathon I was exposed to a fantastic website. It's like Hungry, Hungry Hippos for shopping addicts. Imagaine getting a Blue Light special without having to beat off Captain Mullet and Ms. Snaggle Tooth. Click and buy. Almost-instant (5-7 days) gratification of knowing that you beat 5k other people to purchasing something at 66% off. Suckers.
This website could be a terrible addiction. Crack for gear junkies: Steepandcheap.com.
Today's blog isn't about the amazingness that is Steep and Cheap -- rather it is to document a simple conversation I had with my Mom.
Me: I have to tell you, J sent me a link to this website that had a North Face puffy vest in pearl white with a HUGE fur-rimmed hood. And I ALMOST got one for you too. J was pressuring me to buy it, and I kept saying, "I need to get one for my Mom, too!!" But then remembered you have a
white puffy vest.
Mom: Not one with a fur-rimmed hood though.
Typical.
Serves me right. This a written post-it to remind me to always buy an extra for Mom. Except that generally, she looks cuter than I do. I need every Steep and Cheap leg up I can get on her. ;)
This website could be a terrible addiction. Crack for gear junkies: Steepandcheap.com.
Today's blog isn't about the amazingness that is Steep and Cheap -- rather it is to document a simple conversation I had with my Mom.
Me: I have to tell you, J sent me a link to this website that had a North Face puffy vest in pearl white with a HUGE fur-rimmed hood. And I ALMOST got one for you too. J was pressuring me to buy it, and I kept saying, "I need to get one for my Mom, too!!" But then remembered you have a
white puffy vest.
Mom: Not one with a fur-rimmed hood though.
Typical.
Serves me right. This a written post-it to remind me to always buy an extra for Mom. Except that generally, she looks cuter than I do. I need every Steep and Cheap leg up I can get on her. ;)
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Hit the Showers!
Recently, I have attempted to convince myself that I enjoy going to the gym with daily “The Gym is Fun” mantras. In the summer, it’s much more difficult to justify the cost when the sun is out begging for me to play in it’s rays. But with a winter trip to Hawaii approaching (not quickly enough btw) now seemed like the best time to get my ish together. Rather than the week before, which has proven to be less effective in the past. Who knew?
As I am not masochistic, I dislike trying to kick my own ass while pumping lots and lots of iron and doing millions of crunches. Rather, doing few reps/crunches before, again, trying to pin my athletic laziness on asthma. Therefore, I prefer going to classes and forcing someone else to drill-sergeant my ass to soreness. Then, before the pain really sets in, I shower before work.
Our showers are nothing short of being luxurious. With doors that click, high water pressure, water temperature adjustable to the degree and even a little pedestal to rest your foot when shaving. Oh, and the shower cream? It’s right there, too. The razors are by the sink though, so you have to grab those on your way in…
(Yes, I do go to a cushy gym. Idolize me later, peasants.)
Here’s where is gets interesting.
My gym consists of women mainly above the age of forty. There is an age, I’m not sure what it is but I promise it’s not 25, when it’s ok to be a nudist in the gym locker room. Because, really? Who cares? It’s all women anyways, right? At my current age I would like to continue thinking that my body will never succumb to gravity, the effects of child birth or what I will call ‘maturity.’ Sure, call me modest, but they provide robes for a reason, right? To be used. ::hint hint::
Last week, after chugging half of my complimentary coffee to jump-start my brain, I headed toward the shower IN MY ROBE. (I also wear shower sandals…more of you should take a lesson from freshman year of college and do it too. Fungus exists people.) As I approached, I was taken aback, immediately began repeating ‘look away, look away’ in my head and tried to get to my stall without tripping, slipping or walking into ANOTHER naked person.
Remember before when I mentioned the shower pedestal installed specifically for shaving purposes? Apparently, some people don’t find this to be an effective tool, preferring to step OUT of their CONCEALED shower and INTO all places out in the open. And since it’s not high enough, said people also like to rest their foot on the TOP of a stool facing outward. Toward the walkway. Where everyone else gets a nice little peek into the private world of being a female.
Males, you may be thinking “Dude, that’s sweet!” or “Whatever. I bet what happens below deck for us is worse.”
Nay. On both accounts.
The likelihood that you are shaving your legs spread eagle for all to see is very, very low. In the event that old men are free-ballin' (sorry, Mom/Aunts) you only have to keep your eyes above the waist, which is no feat for a gender that usually stares chest level anyways.
As I am not masochistic, I dislike trying to kick my own ass while pumping lots and lots of iron and doing millions of crunches. Rather, doing few reps/crunches before, again, trying to pin my athletic laziness on asthma. Therefore, I prefer going to classes and forcing someone else to drill-sergeant my ass to soreness. Then, before the pain really sets in, I shower before work.
Our showers are nothing short of being luxurious. With doors that click, high water pressure, water temperature adjustable to the degree and even a little pedestal to rest your foot when shaving. Oh, and the shower cream? It’s right there, too. The razors are by the sink though, so you have to grab those on your way in…
(Yes, I do go to a cushy gym. Idolize me later, peasants.)
Here’s where is gets interesting.
My gym consists of women mainly above the age of forty. There is an age, I’m not sure what it is but I promise it’s not 25, when it’s ok to be a nudist in the gym locker room. Because, really? Who cares? It’s all women anyways, right? At my current age I would like to continue thinking that my body will never succumb to gravity, the effects of child birth or what I will call ‘maturity.’ Sure, call me modest, but they provide robes for a reason, right? To be used. ::hint hint::
Last week, after chugging half of my complimentary coffee to jump-start my brain, I headed toward the shower IN MY ROBE. (I also wear shower sandals…more of you should take a lesson from freshman year of college and do it too. Fungus exists people.) As I approached, I was taken aback, immediately began repeating ‘look away, look away’ in my head and tried to get to my stall without tripping, slipping or walking into ANOTHER naked person.
Remember before when I mentioned the shower pedestal installed specifically for shaving purposes? Apparently, some people don’t find this to be an effective tool, preferring to step OUT of their CONCEALED shower and INTO all places out in the open. And since it’s not high enough, said people also like to rest their foot on the TOP of a stool facing outward. Toward the walkway. Where everyone else gets a nice little peek into the private world of being a female.
Males, you may be thinking “Dude, that’s sweet!” or “Whatever. I bet what happens below deck for us is worse.”
Nay. On both accounts.
The likelihood that you are shaving your legs spread eagle for all to see is very, very low. In the event that old men are free-ballin' (sorry, Mom/Aunts) you only have to keep your eyes above the waist, which is no feat for a gender that usually stares chest level anyways.
Monday, August 9, 2010
A wench walks into a bar...
Spokane: a city of so many nicknames (i.e. Spokanistan. Spocompton), none of which infer it could be anything but a ghetto sand trap that is possibly poverty stricken. Rather, it’s actually a nice place to visit (or attend college) – hot and sunny in the summer, snowy and sunny in the winter. And for a girl that enjoys sunglasses 24/7, the prevalence of sun is quite drawing for me.
That’s not to say that some sketchy things have not happened to me in the many years I lived, and have visited, Spokane – because they have. It’s possible some of these events were self-induced…but I refuse to accept the notion that I may have “asked” for any of the following. Truthfully, I am always cognizant of my actions and sometimes it can be beneficial. I’ll explain.
As a junior in college, I was the youngest of my roommates. The last to turn 21, and for those of you that know me, being left out really isn’t my “thing.” I prefer being included, invited and in the know. Everyone knows at 21 house parties become irrelevant whereas the Bar (really, any bar) is much more appealing. I mean, come on, that’s where all the guys are, right?
*BTW, this is not a new concept for me. I’ll tell you later about my interest in participating in activities that boys generally populate.
Recently 21, and in possession of a fake ID she no longer needed, my roommate passed hers onto me. At that time, Thursday was the new Friday (it still is, FYI) and my friends were frequenting the biggest dive bar within walking distance. An American-Chinese joint that offered karaoke and killer drink specials. At the time, Andrew was their main bouncer – sporting dark brown hair with a mullet that screamed I’m all business until I turn around. The photo in my newly acquired ID looked something like me, back in my “goth” days when I liked black eyeliner. At least, that’s what I told people when they gave me a quizzical look. What’s a girl to do when her ID’s legality could be questioned? Flirt. And flirt I did. Andrew took an immediate liking to me, and if you subtract the time they tracked me down and requested I leave, as I could not produce an ID that someone else hadn’t used moments before, he stopped carding me after my second visit. This did limit my libations to the one locale; however you make due with what you have right? Better than a house party with the freshman, right? Scoff. However, this meant endless minutes of flirting with Andrew before I could join my friends on the dance floor -- then what felt like endless minutes of ridicule for shamelessly flirting with the bouncer.
Side note: What I wouldn’t give for a house party right now. As it happens, once you enter the world of the working-[wo]man people start to care about their dwellings enough to limit the beer-spilling, mess-causing keggers that produce the best dance EVER.
Fast-forward to this past year when passing through Spo after a weekend of skiing, J and I were invited to a house party. SCORE! ::queue dance party remix:: After a successful night of house-partying it up – we called a cab. I quickly curled up, closed my eyes and drifted off while J proceeded to have the following conversation with our almost English speaking cab driver.
Cab drive: So, what do you do over there for work?
J explains his job..putting me into a deeper sleep.
Cab drive: Whatthewenchdo?
J: The who? What?
Cab driver: Whatthewenchdo? The WENCH. What does SHE do?
I imagine that passing out on someone’s shoulder at 1am gives him the right to refer to me as a wench; however while assigning me that nickname why even bother asking about my profession? Urban Dictionary defines a wench as:
“A voluptuous female pirate type woman, usually with a firey attitude, and usually seen around taverns and bars, seaside fishing towns, and wherever pirates roam.”
OR
“Historically a non-derogatory word for a woman who was not a lady. Thus a waitress in times of yore was a "serving wench." more modernly synonymous with bitch or slut but slightly less offensive.”
I will give him voluptuous and firey – otherwise it seems he peg-legged me as a slutty waitress.
Which, looking back at my waitressing days, is debatable.
That’s not to say that some sketchy things have not happened to me in the many years I lived, and have visited, Spokane – because they have. It’s possible some of these events were self-induced…but I refuse to accept the notion that I may have “asked” for any of the following. Truthfully, I am always cognizant of my actions and sometimes it can be beneficial. I’ll explain.
As a junior in college, I was the youngest of my roommates. The last to turn 21, and for those of you that know me, being left out really isn’t my “thing.” I prefer being included, invited and in the know. Everyone knows at 21 house parties become irrelevant whereas the Bar (really, any bar) is much more appealing. I mean, come on, that’s where all the guys are, right?
*BTW, this is not a new concept for me. I’ll tell you later about my interest in participating in activities that boys generally populate.
Recently 21, and in possession of a fake ID she no longer needed, my roommate passed hers onto me. At that time, Thursday was the new Friday (it still is, FYI) and my friends were frequenting the biggest dive bar within walking distance. An American-Chinese joint that offered karaoke and killer drink specials. At the time, Andrew was their main bouncer – sporting dark brown hair with a mullet that screamed I’m all business until I turn around. The photo in my newly acquired ID looked something like me, back in my “goth” days when I liked black eyeliner. At least, that’s what I told people when they gave me a quizzical look. What’s a girl to do when her ID’s legality could be questioned? Flirt. And flirt I did. Andrew took an immediate liking to me, and if you subtract the time they tracked me down and requested I leave, as I could not produce an ID that someone else hadn’t used moments before, he stopped carding me after my second visit. This did limit my libations to the one locale; however you make due with what you have right? Better than a house party with the freshman, right? Scoff. However, this meant endless minutes of flirting with Andrew before I could join my friends on the dance floor -- then what felt like endless minutes of ridicule for shamelessly flirting with the bouncer.
Side note: What I wouldn’t give for a house party right now. As it happens, once you enter the world of the working-[wo]man people start to care about their dwellings enough to limit the beer-spilling, mess-causing keggers that produce the best dance EVER.
Fast-forward to this past year when passing through Spo after a weekend of skiing, J and I were invited to a house party. SCORE! ::queue dance party remix:: After a successful night of house-partying it up – we called a cab. I quickly curled up, closed my eyes and drifted off while J proceeded to have the following conversation with our almost English speaking cab driver.
Cab drive: So, what do you do over there for work?
J explains his job..putting me into a deeper sleep.
Cab drive: Whatthewenchdo?
J: The who? What?
Cab driver: Whatthewenchdo? The WENCH. What does SHE do?
I imagine that passing out on someone’s shoulder at 1am gives him the right to refer to me as a wench; however while assigning me that nickname why even bother asking about my profession? Urban Dictionary defines a wench as:
“A voluptuous female pirate type woman, usually with a firey attitude, and usually seen around taverns and bars, seaside fishing towns, and wherever pirates roam.”
OR
“Historically a non-derogatory word for a woman who was not a lady. Thus a waitress in times of yore was a "serving wench." more modernly synonymous with bitch or slut but slightly less offensive.”
I will give him voluptuous and firey – otherwise it seems he peg-legged me as a slutty waitress.
Which, looking back at my waitressing days, is debatable.
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