day 19 - a song from your favorite album
Picking my favorite album isn't very hard. Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, easy peasy lemon squeezy. Makes me pissed at the world, giddy because I get the joke, longing for romance, relieved at my self-sufficiency, cheated out of peace, serenely relaxed, embarrassed by my capriciousness, guilty for being selfish, impressed by my personal complexity, and giggling at the ridiculousness of everything. It spoke to me at what, sixteen? Yeah. I'm still a bit shocked every time I hear it.
I was loitering at Record Swap, listening in on those music guys talking music. Back then, in high school, I was in love with up to seventeen boys simultaneously and most of them never spoke to me, but half of them hung out at Record Swap and I would go there after work at Cock Robin or Bookzellers or wherever I worked that day and just meander and listen to them talk about music. Then I would walk over towards them with my purchase, and one of them would slip off the counter and ring me up on the register. We never made eye contact. They never showed any recognition, not here or at school, and neither did I.
My shift would end and I would decide to walk over there, thinking, Today. Today I'm going to talk to them. And I'm going to say, "Hey, I heard (some band) is playing (somewhere) on Sunday. I think I saw you at their last show at Off the Alley" or something cool like that but I never did.
So yeah, I was loitering at Record Swap and browsing when I heard them talking about me.
"Dude, does she ever buy anything?"
"Sometimes."
"Don't think I've ever seen it. It's weird."
"She usually gets like stuff like my dad likes."
"She's like always here."
"I think she works next door."
"Oh." There's a pause, and I pretend to be fascinated by the back cover of something, glowing that I am the topic of their conversation. Do they think I can hear them? Probably not. "I think she just comes here because you make her wet."
Okay, that is...the fuck? I crack my jaw a couple of times while he giggles at himself.
"Dude." Other guy drops his voice. "I hope not."
My arms tighten up and I lock my knees, just staring straight ahead at the wall, while "dude I hope not" echoes over and over and over again in my mind. I knew it. I fucking knew it. I am repulsive. I blame my mother. Now I am FURIOUS. I take a few deep breaths squeeze my fists, which is counterproductive but whatever, and decide I'm going to say something. I am going to go over there and let them know I can hear them. I'm going to give them a fucking lashing.
With a devil grip on whatever's in my hand and the resolve of carpet-stain remover, I make my way towards the register, head high. I glare at both of them. They are just...so...fucking...hot. We could have been friends, I think. We really could. I was sure they were different. I was sure that they would recognize we had a common interest in music that would last us years in conversations and banter, I was sure that one of them was about to say to the other, "but she's kind of cute, you know?" and I was sure I would get near them and they would laugh and call me over and say, "Come on, we know you heard us. We've been trying to get your attention for months" and I was sure one of them would say "but my girlfriend would kill me if I talked to another girl" and I was sure I could go over there all coy and smile at them and say, " Just this please. Doesn't-" I look down at whatever I'm holding "-Bob Dylan get you all wet?" Bob Dylan? Where did I pick this up? Shit. Come on boys. Give me something. Please. Just help me. Just a little. Please.
Please?
Nothing, they just pretend they don't see me and I pretend I don't see them and that I'm not buying anything today and I walk right out the door clutching this fucking album that I pulled from the Classics section. Stolen album.
It's much easier to be brave on behalf of others than on behalf of myself.
Looking back I don't think I could have stolen anything better. After that I started scooping up Mr. Zimmerman like candy, and I would feel small and I would cry and I would feel overwhelmed and I would laugh. Sometimes people give me shit for being a huge Bob Dylan fan. Inevitably, someone will just tell me about how much he sucks live, as if seeing an icon growl and sputter at 70 years old (a) makes them an expert on anything and (b) will convince me to reject a musical catalog spanning a full fifty years.
Not gonna lie though, all I want to do after listening to this song is stroll down a sunny street on a weekday, fantasize about guys that don't return my affections, smoke too many cigarettes and throw bottles at abandoned houses, thankful to be alive.
...
Showing posts with label in which I am awkward. Show all posts
Showing posts with label in which I am awkward. Show all posts
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Friday, April 8, 2011
unless you step out into the light
Day 14 - a song that no one would expect you to love
I guess I picked the wrong day for Luda, eh? Hello? Is this thing on?
Apparently Luda love is limited. That's so sad. I celebrate the man's entire catalog.
A song no one would expect me to love...I'm not sure. It depends on who you talk to, you know? Some people are surprised about Luda, some are surprised about Bob Dylan. Some focus on my unrelenting addiction to Foreigner, and lately KISS' Dynasty, mostly because it sounds like they goddamn wish they were Foreigner. I love Elvis when he screws up then mumblegrowls and giggles to himself, I love how Joe Strummer plays likes he's fucking the shit out of his guitar, I love it when Stevie Wonder breaks it down just at the end of a song.
So let's just delve into the sadly hopeful and sentimental.
My favorite Daniel Johnston songs are easily "Story of an Artist" and "I Live My Broken Dreams" which is predictable if you know me, and doesn't everyone who reads this regularly know me well enough, by now? But I also love, love, love the one you all know, the one he's most known for writing, and it's the one that's hardest to admit. So honestly, I should have posted this song yesterday and then just slammed you bastards with Luda today, and I would say more but I really just want to hear the song right now.
And if you've never seen The Devil and Daniel Johnston, well, go educate yourself.
...
I guess I picked the wrong day for Luda, eh? Hello? Is this thing on?
Apparently Luda love is limited. That's so sad. I celebrate the man's entire catalog.
A song no one would expect me to love...I'm not sure. It depends on who you talk to, you know? Some people are surprised about Luda, some are surprised about Bob Dylan. Some focus on my unrelenting addiction to Foreigner, and lately KISS' Dynasty, mostly because it sounds like they goddamn wish they were Foreigner. I love Elvis when he screws up then mumblegrowls and giggles to himself, I love how Joe Strummer plays likes he's fucking the shit out of his guitar, I love it when Stevie Wonder breaks it down just at the end of a song.
So let's just delve into the sadly hopeful and sentimental.
My favorite Daniel Johnston songs are easily "Story of an Artist" and "I Live My Broken Dreams" which is predictable if you know me, and doesn't everyone who reads this regularly know me well enough, by now? But I also love, love, love the one you all know, the one he's most known for writing, and it's the one that's hardest to admit. So honestly, I should have posted this song yesterday and then just slammed you bastards with Luda today, and I would say more but I really just want to hear the song right now.
And if you've never seen The Devil and Daniel Johnston, well, go educate yourself.
...
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Before this, did you really know what live was?
Day 7: a song that reminds you of a certain event
Muffy was the first friend I made in college in 1999, and she stuck, surprisingly. She was cool. She listened to Alkaline Trio and the Pixies and other bands I don't remember or give a shit about, but music was her thing. She introduced me to Modest Mouse and Promise Ring (of course, this was before everyone became a fucking sell out. Muffy was very anti-selling out. I think I learned to care about that from her as well, although I had a similar mindset towards certain filmmakers). I forced her into a more in-depth understanding of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and the Kinks (at 18, I was a musical traditionalist). She smoked a shitload of weed, dyed her hair weekly and housed everyone at Goldeneye. I think. She could have been horrible, but she was the only one with an N64. I grew up playing Sega.
So one day, some time into freshman year, we're stuffing towels under the door of her dorm room so no smoke gets in the hallway. There's about six of us in there, including some extremely cute boys that I had never met that terrified me down to my girl parts, but Muffy was friends with like, every cute boy ever so I wasn't surprised. I didn't smoke weed at all, I was just there to play Goldeneye.
"Music, Rass," Muffy yells while she packs the bowl. Dudes are talking and doing that dude laugh. I am very nervous. Everyone in the room is so cool and attractive, and they aren't freaking out about getting caught and sweating uncontrollably - we need to open a window - no, nevermind, they're open - this is like being in a movie, and I'm hanging out with the cool people, and these guys would have definitely have ignored me in high school.
My hands shake as I pop in People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm and skip to track 8, because hip hop is a genre Muffy and I have yet to cover, and she snaps to attention, because what white girls from the suburbs listen to Tribe Called Quest?
"YES." Muffy exhales. "This is the shit." She passes the bowl to a dark-haired young man with insane eyelashes and white teeth. I decide that I love him.
"What, what is this?" The skinniest boy asks.
"Old school, dude," Muffy laughs. "This shit is old school."
"Tribe Called Quest," I venture and then stop talking.
I stretch out my legs and glance around, trying to look nonchalant. What would make me look nonchalant? Shit. I start singing along. "If you feel the urge to freak, do the jitterbug."
Muffy laughs and joins me, but she only knows the last few words of every line. The guys are watching us, amused. I start to get into it. Muffy gets into it. This is the first song we played, in our one-month friendship, that we both knew and loved. We jump up and bounce around, doing the best damn Q-Tip imitation we can pull together, and we're so fucking into it, we got call and response, we got synchronized moves we so didn't plan in advance, and we're awesome.
Skinny guy speaks up again during the musical break. "Yeah, but what's the like, background? I know this."
I scoff at him. "Lou Reed. 'Walk on the Wild Side.' Duh." This is the only reason I know about Tribe: because I know about Lou Reed. I don't tell them that, though. I want them to believe I am worldly and multicultural.
"Ohhhhhhh." I hear the dark-haired guy say, "I'm so glad when people know music."
"Can I kick it? YES YOU CAN!"
"I think my older brother listens to this."
"Mine too! That has to be it. I can't believe I never realized how good this band was. Now I wanna hear that other song. The background song."
"That is a dope idea."
"What was it again?"
"That 'Wild Side' song."
"Oh yeah."
"Mr. Dinkins, would you please be my mayor?" me and Muffy shout, and giggle. I turn to the skinny guy and sing, "And all the colored girls say, 'doo doodoo. doodoo doodoodoo..."
"Oh, THAT song!" They are all really excited that I know what I'm talking about. This, by the way, was before we all officially discovered the internet and all its marvels. This was back when I just knew shit and solved people's trivia debates. I loved knowing shit and being celebrated for it.
I flop down onto Muffy's bed after the song and breathe, smiling to myself. The dark-haired boy (Matt. His name is Matt) leans over to me, and gives me the first of rare compliments I've received on my appearance. "Dude," he says, staring at my face. "You have awesome eyes." I hold my breath and just return the stare, because I'm afraid if I don't he'll forget he was talking to me and everything will fade away. "Adam!" he says, still staring. "Come check out this chick's eyes."
The skinny guy crawls over. "Whoa."
"Dude."
"Dude."
Muffy comes over and stares at me, and the other two guys who'd been interjecting randomly lean over and look. They're all squinty and high-looking. I start to laugh. I feel like an exhibit. And I know that this is my first time existing so blatantly around any drug use, because in high school I was a severe buzzkill. And I promise you, I promise that no one else in the room is nearly as effected by the events as I am.
"Whoa."
"Dude," Muffy guffaws, "your eyes are like a fucking storm right now."
"This is awesome. Muffy, I'm so glad you invited this chick over."
...
Muffy was the first friend I made in college in 1999, and she stuck, surprisingly. She was cool. She listened to Alkaline Trio and the Pixies and other bands I don't remember or give a shit about, but music was her thing. She introduced me to Modest Mouse and Promise Ring (of course, this was before everyone became a fucking sell out. Muffy was very anti-selling out. I think I learned to care about that from her as well, although I had a similar mindset towards certain filmmakers). I forced her into a more in-depth understanding of Stevie Wonder, Led Zeppelin, and the Kinks (at 18, I was a musical traditionalist). She smoked a shitload of weed, dyed her hair weekly and housed everyone at Goldeneye. I think. She could have been horrible, but she was the only one with an N64. I grew up playing Sega.
So one day, some time into freshman year, we're stuffing towels under the door of her dorm room so no smoke gets in the hallway. There's about six of us in there, including some extremely cute boys that I had never met that terrified me down to my girl parts, but Muffy was friends with like, every cute boy ever so I wasn't surprised. I didn't smoke weed at all, I was just there to play Goldeneye.
"Music, Rass," Muffy yells while she packs the bowl. Dudes are talking and doing that dude laugh. I am very nervous. Everyone in the room is so cool and attractive, and they aren't freaking out about getting caught and sweating uncontrollably - we need to open a window - no, nevermind, they're open - this is like being in a movie, and I'm hanging out with the cool people, and these guys would have definitely have ignored me in high school.
My hands shake as I pop in People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm and skip to track 8, because hip hop is a genre Muffy and I have yet to cover, and she snaps to attention, because what white girls from the suburbs listen to Tribe Called Quest?
"YES." Muffy exhales. "This is the shit." She passes the bowl to a dark-haired young man with insane eyelashes and white teeth. I decide that I love him.
"What, what is this?" The skinniest boy asks.
"Old school, dude," Muffy laughs. "This shit is old school."
"Tribe Called Quest," I venture and then stop talking.
I stretch out my legs and glance around, trying to look nonchalant. What would make me look nonchalant? Shit. I start singing along. "If you feel the urge to freak, do the jitterbug."
Muffy laughs and joins me, but she only knows the last few words of every line. The guys are watching us, amused. I start to get into it. Muffy gets into it. This is the first song we played, in our one-month friendship, that we both knew and loved. We jump up and bounce around, doing the best damn Q-Tip imitation we can pull together, and we're so fucking into it, we got call and response, we got synchronized moves we so didn't plan in advance, and we're awesome.
Skinny guy speaks up again during the musical break. "Yeah, but what's the like, background? I know this."
I scoff at him. "Lou Reed. 'Walk on the Wild Side.' Duh." This is the only reason I know about Tribe: because I know about Lou Reed. I don't tell them that, though. I want them to believe I am worldly and multicultural.
"Ohhhhhhh." I hear the dark-haired guy say, "I'm so glad when people know music."
"Can I kick it? YES YOU CAN!"
"I think my older brother listens to this."
"Mine too! That has to be it. I can't believe I never realized how good this band was. Now I wanna hear that other song. The background song."
"That is a dope idea."
"What was it again?"
"That 'Wild Side' song."
"Oh yeah."
"Mr. Dinkins, would you please be my mayor?" me and Muffy shout, and giggle. I turn to the skinny guy and sing, "And all the colored girls say, 'doo doodoo. doodoo doodoodoo..."
"Oh, THAT song!" They are all really excited that I know what I'm talking about. This, by the way, was before we all officially discovered the internet and all its marvels. This was back when I just knew shit and solved people's trivia debates. I loved knowing shit and being celebrated for it.
I flop down onto Muffy's bed after the song and breathe, smiling to myself. The dark-haired boy (Matt. His name is Matt) leans over to me, and gives me the first of rare compliments I've received on my appearance. "Dude," he says, staring at my face. "You have awesome eyes." I hold my breath and just return the stare, because I'm afraid if I don't he'll forget he was talking to me and everything will fade away. "Adam!" he says, still staring. "Come check out this chick's eyes."
The skinny guy crawls over. "Whoa."
"Dude."
"Dude."
Muffy comes over and stares at me, and the other two guys who'd been interjecting randomly lean over and look. They're all squinty and high-looking. I start to laugh. I feel like an exhibit. And I know that this is my first time existing so blatantly around any drug use, because in high school I was a severe buzzkill. And I promise you, I promise that no one else in the room is nearly as effected by the events as I am.
"Whoa."
"Dude," Muffy guffaws, "your eyes are like a fucking storm right now."
"This is awesome. Muffy, I'm so glad you invited this chick over."
...
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
The Interrupting Cow
I used to put on my mom's make-up when I was like ten, drawing a superhero eyemask or a shiny star on my forehead like the Lady Amalthea. Once I tried to make myself look like Jessica Rabbit, with the big purple eyelids and round, red lips, and the mom told me I looked silly and was brave to wear such a ridiculous mask and made me wash it off immediately, so I spread toothpaste all over my face and ran around, crying out melodramatically, "What have you done to me? I'm a unicorn. I'm a unicorn!" until someone paid attention or I sufficiently annoyed the fuck out of everyone. Or something like that.
But usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials--which was a trick I learned from my friend Karla who maturely reasoned out the beauty and health benefits of toothpaste facials all on her own after watching her big sister Margot do it (Karla was unaware that Margot did not actually use toothpaste)--usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials I got in wicked trouble for wasting shit, and then I had to wash the woodwork and pull weeds.
The first junior high sleepover I went to all these girls brought their Caboodles full of make up and gave each other makeovers, and I made myself a breathtaking black eye and dropped a line about fighting in a phalanx a la Civilization to tinkling ridicule because I was unaware that there were people in the world who did not think Civ was the most awesomest computer game ever, let alone people who did not think computer games were awesome to begin with. Fucking weirdos, right?
They made fun of me for awhile, called me a loser, reminded me that boys didn't like girls who liked computer games and never wore make up (they were basically right), and they tried to fix me. Then we watched Pretty Woman, a movie that made me nervous and uncomfortable because it was just about kissing and I didn't understand why she wanted to be with the asshole guy I didn't know why she didn't just get a real job and take care of herself, and they laughed since I obviously didn't understand love and the importance of beauty, so I hid in the bathroom and cried because I knew they were right, and I would never be as beautiful and sophisticated as the rest girls that had life figured out in sixth grade.
They never invited me over again. Told everyone at school that I was weird like a boy and that something was wrong with me because I didn't even like Pretty Woman. And so began the battle of Rassles v. The Pretty Girls, a battle that rages on to this day but only in my brain.
So I have another wedding to go to in a few weeks, and I the other day I decided that this time, for this wedding? I'm going to wear actual make up, not just mascara. Fo' reals. But I needed to practice my brushstroke. I'm initially goonish at anything that requires delicacy, but I've got pretty good muscle memory. I figured I could get this shit down after a few tries, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Feeling revolutionary, I opened up my make up case. I decided that if this worked it would change my life. Perhaps, just maybe, I should wear actual make up like, all the time. I could look like a grown up instead of a child playing make-believe. I could wear make up to work, you know? Or to bars? Of course, my friends would point it out constantly; I must be prepared to hear, "Are you wearing make up?" at least once a day for six months or so. Still. The possibilities were endless, and kind of exciting. Not super endless because, well, I only have gray, brown, and three shades of green eyeshadow (St. Patrick's Day, 2004). But still. I have to substantiate my place as a feminine consumer before I hit thirty in January. After thirty you have to call yourself a woman and women wear fucking make up, so do it, even if you think it's stupid.
Half an hour later I'd completely forgotten trying to be pretty and painted on a very convincing Frankenstein Monster Face. With scars. I am so awesome at making myself look like the Frankenstein Monster. I should go Frankenstein Monster pro.
So now you know why I haven't finished the casino story.
...
* You know, I like Pretty Woman a lot, when I'm not going all propaganda-brain. (She is valued by everyone in power for her naive, radiant beauty and her ability to subserviently follow orders! She knows about cars which adds surprising depth to her gentle, yet radiant character! Controlling man purchases her love and affection with fancy things! Fancy things make women complacent and enthusiastic love slaves!) But I do think it's fun and ridiculous.
But usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials--which was a trick I learned from my friend Karla who maturely reasoned out the beauty and health benefits of toothpaste facials all on her own after watching her big sister Margot do it (Karla was unaware that Margot did not actually use toothpaste)--usually when I gave myself toothpaste facials I got in wicked trouble for wasting shit, and then I had to wash the woodwork and pull weeds.
The first junior high sleepover I went to all these girls brought their Caboodles full of make up and gave each other makeovers, and I made myself a breathtaking black eye and dropped a line about fighting in a phalanx a la Civilization to tinkling ridicule because I was unaware that there were people in the world who did not think Civ was the most awesomest computer game ever, let alone people who did not think computer games were awesome to begin with. Fucking weirdos, right?
They made fun of me for awhile, called me a loser, reminded me that boys didn't like girls who liked computer games and never wore make up (they were basically right), and they tried to fix me. Then we watched Pretty Woman, a movie that made me nervous and uncomfortable because it was just about kissing and I didn't understand why she wanted to be with the asshole guy I didn't know why she didn't just get a real job and take care of herself, and they laughed since I obviously didn't understand love and the importance of beauty, so I hid in the bathroom and cried because I knew they were right, and I would never be as beautiful and sophisticated as the rest girls that had life figured out in sixth grade.
They never invited me over again. Told everyone at school that I was weird like a boy and that something was wrong with me because I didn't even like Pretty Woman. And so began the battle of Rassles v. The Pretty Girls, a battle that rages on to this day but only in my brain.
So I have another wedding to go to in a few weeks, and I the other day I decided that this time, for this wedding? I'm going to wear actual make up, not just mascara. Fo' reals. But I needed to practice my brushstroke. I'm initially goonish at anything that requires delicacy, but I've got pretty good muscle memory. I figured I could get this shit down after a few tries, easy peasy lemon squeezy.
Feeling revolutionary, I opened up my make up case. I decided that if this worked it would change my life. Perhaps, just maybe, I should wear actual make up like, all the time. I could look like a grown up instead of a child playing make-believe. I could wear make up to work, you know? Or to bars? Of course, my friends would point it out constantly; I must be prepared to hear, "Are you wearing make up?" at least once a day for six months or so. Still. The possibilities were endless, and kind of exciting. Not super endless because, well, I only have gray, brown, and three shades of green eyeshadow (St. Patrick's Day, 2004). But still. I have to substantiate my place as a feminine consumer before I hit thirty in January. After thirty you have to call yourself a woman and women wear fucking make up, so do it, even if you think it's stupid.
Half an hour later I'd completely forgotten trying to be pretty and painted on a very convincing Frankenstein Monster Face. With scars. I am so awesome at making myself look like the Frankenstein Monster. I should go Frankenstein Monster pro.
So now you know why I haven't finished the casino story.
...
* You know, I like Pretty Woman a lot, when I'm not going all propaganda-brain. (She is valued by everyone in power for her naive, radiant beauty and her ability to subserviently follow orders! She knows about cars which adds surprising depth to her gentle, yet radiant character! Controlling man purchases her love and affection with fancy things! Fancy things make women complacent and enthusiastic love slaves!) But I do think it's fun and ridiculous.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Self-Diagnosis Is Never A Good Idea
Who: Me and a bunch of medical people.
What: I have an appointment.
Where: The Hospital across the street that looks like it belongs on Tatooine.
When: Six-thirty in the morning. Some Monday a couple of weeks ago.
Why: It's about the whole elevated liver enzymes thing.
How: Well.
Walking across the street to the hospital, it occurs to me: I am fucking tired. I am way too tired to be awake right now, and the fact that Dr. Cow Eyes even thinks I need to be here is horseshit, and I'm sure I have cancer and two months left to live. Two months tops. And I'm going to miss Halloween. And my high school reunion. Sure, that would be hunky dory if I didn't already have a supershrewd and foolproof plan to get drunk and embarrass myself. Never did that in high school.
Inside the hospital, there's a security guard behind a desk, so I march up to him. "Excuse me, sir? Hi. Good morning. Umm, I'm supposed to go...I mean, I have a--where do you keep the radiation department?"
He smiles. "What're you in for?"
"Ultrasound," I answer, holding my abdomen, and he nods, smiling broader. "Oh, no, I'm not preggers. It's for my liver. And gall bladder. I guess I have lots of enzymes or something." And cancer. I'm sure I have cancer. From which I will surely expire.
Mr. Security Guard holds the grin and gives me directions, and I follow them extraordinarily well because I'm an expert wanderer.
There's a desk and no people, probably because it's an ungodly hour and even the hospital staff knows it's very rude to be dishing out ultrasounds instead of breakfast. I ding the little bell, and a dude darts his head out.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, good morning, I have an appointment for an ultrasound. I'm not pregnant."
"That's okay." Of course it's okay. "Did you sign in?"
"Uhhhh...no."
"You have to sign in."
"Okay." Silence. Awkward. "Is there like a clipboard--"
"No. You have to go to the front desk." He leaves. Douchebag. I retrace my steps and mosey on back over to the Mr. Security Guard on the other side of the hospital.
"Hello again. Hi. Can I sign in?"
He shakes his head, still grinning, and points me in the right direction. Ten minutes later there's business exchanged once again, where I say "ultrasound" and "not pregnant" and "elevated enzymes" and "probably cancer" about seven hundred times, and the very encouraging Front Desk Lady laughs a lot and slaps a hospital bracelet on my wrist to keep as a memento for all the good times we had. I wish, silently, that I could give her a token in return, seeing as I'm going to die, and our friendship is at a close.
The more I tell myself I'm going to die from liver cancer, the funnier it is. I nod as I pass Mr. Security Guard, who salutes my crossing, knowing our friendship will also be brief.
When I get back to the radiation department there's a crapload of people there, but I only wait for a few minutes before some dude with a clipboard calls my name. He politely introduces himself. I explain to him that I spent all weekend google imaging liver and gall bladder ultrasounds and wikipedi-ing cancer, and remind him several times that I'm fucking terrified. Dr. Technician Guy leads me into this half-lit room and makes me lie down and lift my shirt up before slopping that goopy ultrasound bullshit all over me, and it's cold as balls.
So we're looking at the screen. "I'm going to go over your gall bladder first," he explains, "and I need to you take a deep breath and hold it."
He makes me hold that shit far longer than I thought he would, over and over and over again, clicking away on images. He looks confused, but says nothing. Perhaps it's just his Ultrasound Work Face. Or I have cancer.
"So," I start talking, because when I'm nervous I talk too much, "You think you'll ever get these in color?"
"It measure sound waves," he explains, and does not elaborate.
Duh.
We do the breath holding thing a couple more times, and I'm just laying there with my hands cupping my boobs, and then I realize that I don't want him to think I'm feeling myself up because he is old and this is not a porno. Besides, if it were a porno, I wouldn't be the star, I would be the disheveled girl they show walking out of the exam room before the real star enters all sexy and ready for lovin'.
"We are going to cover your liver now," he says deeply, and slides the ultrasound detector thingy over a little.
Well, look at that. I gots me a liver. Shiny little thing. "So, Doc," I raise my eyebrows and drop my voice, "is my liver a boy or a girl?"
He doesn't respond.
"You know? Right?" I'm snorting and grinning like a jackass. "Because, you know--crap, I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist. You probably hear that all the time. You know, with like, other people. I bet--"
"I'm sorry, you must hold still." Dr. Technician Guy is not amused by cheap levity. I miss Front Desk Lady.
Glancing up at the screen, I see dark floaty shadows. That looks familiar. That looks bad.
That looks like fucking cancer.
Holy fucking shitballs, I have cancer. Dr. Technician Guy knows it, and he's saddened. That must be why he didn't laugh. I have liver cancer, and he doesn't want to laugh at my mirth and hilarity because he'll develop an emotional attachment to me and be depressed by my unfortunate death, because I'm too young and vibrant to die so soon, and I have cancer, and it's going to be like that Mandy Moore movie, and who am I going to find to marry me before I die alone?
"Ummm--"
"And that's it," he concludes, scowling slightly, wiping off the ultragoop. "Your doctor will have the results in a few days."
"But is everything--"
"Your doctor will have the results in a few days." He forces a smile.
I leave the hospital nearly out of breath, and go to work. Spend all day looking at ultrasounds of liver cancer online, reading about tumors and completely destroying my hopes for survival. I'm sure I'll be yellow within days. I write this post. I do not feel like joking, or laughing, and I cry a lot. Everyone reminds me that if it were cancer, they would have acted immediately, but I'm convinced the entire medical profession is against me, and I don't listen.
My follow up appointment with Dr. Cow Eyes was that Friday. The day I decided to take a blog break. I don't have cancer. I am healthy as fuck, and will live forever, and she actually smiles at me. Those shadows that I thought were tumors were actually images of my pancreas. I am a dumbass, you see, because Dr. Technician Guy is very thorough, and hooked it up just in case.
So then I decided to take a blog break, went home, and got really drunk.
...
What: I have an appointment.
Where: The Hospital across the street that looks like it belongs on Tatooine.
When: Six-thirty in the morning. Some Monday a couple of weeks ago.
Why: It's about the whole elevated liver enzymes thing.
How: Well.
Walking across the street to the hospital, it occurs to me: I am fucking tired. I am way too tired to be awake right now, and the fact that Dr. Cow Eyes even thinks I need to be here is horseshit, and I'm sure I have cancer and two months left to live. Two months tops. And I'm going to miss Halloween. And my high school reunion. Sure, that would be hunky dory if I didn't already have a supershrewd and foolproof plan to get drunk and embarrass myself. Never did that in high school.
Inside the hospital, there's a security guard behind a desk, so I march up to him. "Excuse me, sir? Hi. Good morning. Umm, I'm supposed to go...I mean, I have a--where do you keep the radiation department?"
He smiles. "What're you in for?"
"Ultrasound," I answer, holding my abdomen, and he nods, smiling broader. "Oh, no, I'm not preggers. It's for my liver. And gall bladder. I guess I have lots of enzymes or something." And cancer. I'm sure I have cancer. From which I will surely expire.
Mr. Security Guard holds the grin and gives me directions, and I follow them extraordinarily well because I'm an expert wanderer.
There's a desk and no people, probably because it's an ungodly hour and even the hospital staff knows it's very rude to be dishing out ultrasounds instead of breakfast. I ding the little bell, and a dude darts his head out.
"Can I help you?"
"Yeah, good morning, I have an appointment for an ultrasound. I'm not pregnant."
"That's okay." Of course it's okay. "Did you sign in?"
"Uhhhh...no."
"You have to sign in."
"Okay." Silence. Awkward. "Is there like a clipboard--"
"No. You have to go to the front desk." He leaves. Douchebag. I retrace my steps and mosey on back over to the Mr. Security Guard on the other side of the hospital.
"Hello again. Hi. Can I sign in?"
He shakes his head, still grinning, and points me in the right direction. Ten minutes later there's business exchanged once again, where I say "ultrasound" and "not pregnant" and "elevated enzymes" and "probably cancer" about seven hundred times, and the very encouraging Front Desk Lady laughs a lot and slaps a hospital bracelet on my wrist to keep as a memento for all the good times we had. I wish, silently, that I could give her a token in return, seeing as I'm going to die, and our friendship is at a close.
The more I tell myself I'm going to die from liver cancer, the funnier it is. I nod as I pass Mr. Security Guard, who salutes my crossing, knowing our friendship will also be brief.
When I get back to the radiation department there's a crapload of people there, but I only wait for a few minutes before some dude with a clipboard calls my name. He politely introduces himself. I explain to him that I spent all weekend google imaging liver and gall bladder ultrasounds and wikipedi-ing cancer, and remind him several times that I'm fucking terrified. Dr. Technician Guy leads me into this half-lit room and makes me lie down and lift my shirt up before slopping that goopy ultrasound bullshit all over me, and it's cold as balls.
So we're looking at the screen. "I'm going to go over your gall bladder first," he explains, "and I need to you take a deep breath and hold it."
He makes me hold that shit far longer than I thought he would, over and over and over again, clicking away on images. He looks confused, but says nothing. Perhaps it's just his Ultrasound Work Face. Or I have cancer.
"So," I start talking, because when I'm nervous I talk too much, "You think you'll ever get these in color?"
"It measure sound waves," he explains, and does not elaborate.
Duh.
We do the breath holding thing a couple more times, and I'm just laying there with my hands cupping my boobs, and then I realize that I don't want him to think I'm feeling myself up because he is old and this is not a porno. Besides, if it were a porno, I wouldn't be the star, I would be the disheveled girl they show walking out of the exam room before the real star enters all sexy and ready for lovin'.
"We are going to cover your liver now," he says deeply, and slides the ultrasound detector thingy over a little.
Well, look at that. I gots me a liver. Shiny little thing. "So, Doc," I raise my eyebrows and drop my voice, "is my liver a boy or a girl?"
He doesn't respond.
"You know? Right?" I'm snorting and grinning like a jackass. "Because, you know--crap, I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist. You probably hear that all the time. You know, with like, other people. I bet--"
"I'm sorry, you must hold still." Dr. Technician Guy is not amused by cheap levity. I miss Front Desk Lady.
Glancing up at the screen, I see dark floaty shadows. That looks familiar. That looks bad.
That looks like fucking cancer.
Holy fucking shitballs, I have cancer. Dr. Technician Guy knows it, and he's saddened. That must be why he didn't laugh. I have liver cancer, and he doesn't want to laugh at my mirth and hilarity because he'll develop an emotional attachment to me and be depressed by my unfortunate death, because I'm too young and vibrant to die so soon, and I have cancer, and it's going to be like that Mandy Moore movie, and who am I going to find to marry me before I die alone?
"Ummm--"
"And that's it," he concludes, scowling slightly, wiping off the ultragoop. "Your doctor will have the results in a few days."
"But is everything--"
"Your doctor will have the results in a few days." He forces a smile.
I leave the hospital nearly out of breath, and go to work. Spend all day looking at ultrasounds of liver cancer online, reading about tumors and completely destroying my hopes for survival. I'm sure I'll be yellow within days. I write this post. I do not feel like joking, or laughing, and I cry a lot. Everyone reminds me that if it were cancer, they would have acted immediately, but I'm convinced the entire medical profession is against me, and I don't listen.
My follow up appointment with Dr. Cow Eyes was that Friday. The day I decided to take a blog break. I don't have cancer. I am healthy as fuck, and will live forever, and she actually smiles at me. Those shadows that I thought were tumors were actually images of my pancreas. I am a dumbass, you see, because Dr. Technician Guy is very thorough, and hooked it up just in case.
So then I decided to take a blog break, went home, and got really drunk.
...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Stop It.
"Dude. That was totally Ginger."
"Who?"
"That guy that just walked by, it was totally Ginger."
I furrow in her general direction.
Gyna sighs, speeding up excitedly. "Little bit of facial hair, shaved head - one of those guys you talked to at Blind Robin about movies - that was totally Ginger."
"Ohhhhh, that guy. Was his head shaved? I thought he had a hat."
"No, the other guy had a hat."
"That's right, Hat Guy and Ginger."
"Dude, it's fate! We have to go talk to him! You have to go talk to him!"
"Why would I talk to him? I don't even remember half the conversation we had. I don't even remember what he looks like." She could be sending me on some fucking chase after a stranger just for the hilarity. Besides, fate is bullshit, and really, I don't remember enough about the guy to care if I talk to him again.
"He looks like the guy that just passed us." She glares at me. "You're a wuss."
"Yes I am."
And then we walked around Wicker Park Fest for awhile, which is a very vogue and trendy thing to do, particularly in the summertime. We're laughing obviously while pointing at all of those little tents with their vogue and trendy jewelry and purses (as if setting up a tent at a street festival is going to make their goods seem more boutique-ish when all that shit comes from Urban Outfitters. I know, because I can see it in the store window right there) scoping the crowd and petting people's dogs. Like we're in a fucking tampon commercial or something.
Gyna points. "Dude, I think you need a hippy dress."
"I think you're right. I've always felt, you know, secretly, like inside, that I needed more flowy dresses."
Light laughter. We're not anti-hippy, it's just...could you see me in a flowy printed dress? No, you couldn't. I would embody awkward and angry and paranoid, challenging anyone who looked at me. No, no, no, I couldn't wear anything like that. I would be unreasonably defensive, I would get in fights, I would cry and feel weak and lash at people out of fear, then sink into an unworthy state of pathos. Because that's what I do every single time I wear a dress. No. I don't do dresses.
We wandered around some more, killing time before the Smoking Popes started. Damn, I loved that band in high school. Loved them. I remember listening to "Destination Failure" in my room and feeling sorry for myself. It was awesome.
No. No it wasn't awesome. It sucked. It really, really sucked. Damn, I did not like high school at all. I didn't like high school as much as I don't like dresses.
My brain jumps, mad and flailing, rampaged.
Fucking stupid high school, full of fucking stupid assholes. Fucking stupid dances where people wear fucking stupid dresses. Why do people do that? Wear dresses? Dresses aren't about feeling good about yourself, they're about feeling better than other people. Dresses are about being judged and scrutinized and compared and criticized. Why do we need that at all? I don't need it. I don't want it.
Why do I have such a loathing revulsion towards something as simple...no, that's not right, because the social implications of something so thin and fragile as clothing are...well, there's a labyrinth of flavor there, because it's not just about comfort and function, is it?
I hate dresses because they make me hate myself. I just don't know why.
It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl. Stop it. Stop it, Ross. Snap out of it. Stop it. You're overreacting. You're being a dumbass. Seriously. You're better than this.
"You okay?" Gyna looks at me.
My arms are crossed and I'm fixed on the stage, but I'm a little dreamy and angry, and very, very sad. "I'm fine. I just...I just fucking hated high school." I did not go into my pointless, psychotic frenzy about dresses. Stop thinking about irrelevant things. Why am I so angry? Just don't be angry. Stop it. Breathe. Exhale it away.
Gyna smiles a little somberly. "Yeah...I get that. Think of it as, instead of being all hating high school, think about how happy and grateful you are to be out of there and that bullshit and now you're with people who are way cooler than high school." She grins and does a little dance to prove her coolness.
"Yeah, I know. I should. I just suck at that."
(Why is my automatic response "I know" when half the time, I don't know?)
"You wanna move up here, so I'm not standing alone?" she gestures to her side, facial expression subtext: please stop feeling sorry for yourself and have fun. Gyna is right (she's frequently right). I take a hesitant step forward, because stepping forward means accepting that I cannot change the fact that I'm still an emotional trainwreck and a crazy over-reacter person who needs to keep her silly little thoughts to her silly self.
I relax. I'm still sad. But relaxed. People are hanging out of their apartment windows, cheering wildly, singing along with the band, waving their arms like the assholes they are, and I'm in pleasant awe of the social diversity of the crowd. Crazy. I like it when bands like the Popes get bigger, after being around for fifteen years. Jesus, fifteen years.
The show ends, and immediately Gyna scans the crowd again. "There he is! Ginger! Go talk to him!"
"I'm not going to talk to him."
"You have to. You just have to. Come on!"
"No, I don't have to. I don't even remember what he looks like. Why do I have to talk to some dude I don't know?"
"Because, he was totally...whatever, look, he's right over there. And there's the other guy! The guy with the hat! But he's not wearing one right now! Come on, you sally, talk to them."
"What would I say? Oh, hello, remember me, I'm the drunk girl that forced you into a conversation about movies?" I am deeply embarrassed that I even exist right now, after being so foolishly temperamental just ten minutes earlier. I look at the ground and shake my head. "I'm not going over there."
"Come on! What the fuck? Just go over there."
"What's the point? You think we're going to like, make friends with them or something?"
"Who cares? What's the big deal?"
"I'm embarrassed. I don't want to. I was a drunken fuck, and I really don't recognize them." Which is half true. They looked familiar when I glanced over there, and I panicked.They wouldn't want to talk to me anyway. If they wanted to, they would. They probably went home and made fun of me, and talked about the ridiculous, annoying girl that talked to them at the bar that one time. Whatever. Pout about, why doncha?
"You're a wuss."
"Yes, I am."
"Sally!"
"Yup."
"You're either going to go talk to them, or you're buying a hippy dress."
"I'm not doing fucking either of them," I snap, and regret it. "Sorry. I'm just not."
Gyna is resigned. "Fine." I know she's just trying to be helpful and fun and spontaneous, but I'm not in the mood for it. As we weave through the crowd down the street, out of the festival, I can't look up. I'm afraid I'll cry. I don't know why. Like I said before: It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl.
...
"Who?"
"That guy that just walked by, it was totally Ginger."
I furrow in her general direction.
Gyna sighs, speeding up excitedly. "Little bit of facial hair, shaved head - one of those guys you talked to at Blind Robin about movies - that was totally Ginger."
"Ohhhhh, that guy. Was his head shaved? I thought he had a hat."
"No, the other guy had a hat."
"That's right, Hat Guy and Ginger."
"Dude, it's fate! We have to go talk to him! You have to go talk to him!"
"Why would I talk to him? I don't even remember half the conversation we had. I don't even remember what he looks like." She could be sending me on some fucking chase after a stranger just for the hilarity. Besides, fate is bullshit, and really, I don't remember enough about the guy to care if I talk to him again.
"He looks like the guy that just passed us." She glares at me. "You're a wuss."
"Yes I am."
And then we walked around Wicker Park Fest for awhile, which is a very vogue and trendy thing to do, particularly in the summertime. We're laughing obviously while pointing at all of those little tents with their vogue and trendy jewelry and purses (as if setting up a tent at a street festival is going to make their goods seem more boutique-ish when all that shit comes from Urban Outfitters. I know, because I can see it in the store window right there) scoping the crowd and petting people's dogs. Like we're in a fucking tampon commercial or something.
Gyna points. "Dude, I think you need a hippy dress."
"I think you're right. I've always felt, you know, secretly, like inside, that I needed more flowy dresses."
Light laughter. We're not anti-hippy, it's just...could you see me in a flowy printed dress? No, you couldn't. I would embody awkward and angry and paranoid, challenging anyone who looked at me. No, no, no, I couldn't wear anything like that. I would be unreasonably defensive, I would get in fights, I would cry and feel weak and lash at people out of fear, then sink into an unworthy state of pathos. Because that's what I do every single time I wear a dress. No. I don't do dresses.
We wandered around some more, killing time before the Smoking Popes started. Damn, I loved that band in high school. Loved them. I remember listening to "Destination Failure" in my room and feeling sorry for myself. It was awesome.
No. No it wasn't awesome. It sucked. It really, really sucked. Damn, I did not like high school at all. I didn't like high school as much as I don't like dresses.
My brain jumps, mad and flailing, rampaged.
Fucking stupid high school, full of fucking stupid assholes. Fucking stupid dances where people wear fucking stupid dresses. Why do people do that? Wear dresses? Dresses aren't about feeling good about yourself, they're about feeling better than other people. Dresses are about being judged and scrutinized and compared and criticized. Why do we need that at all? I don't need it. I don't want it.
Why do I have such a loathing revulsion towards something as simple...no, that's not right, because the social implications of something so thin and fragile as clothing are...well, there's a labyrinth of flavor there, because it's not just about comfort and function, is it?
I hate dresses because they make me hate myself. I just don't know why.
It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl. Stop it. Stop it, Ross. Snap out of it. Stop it. You're overreacting. You're being a dumbass. Seriously. You're better than this.
"You okay?" Gyna looks at me.
My arms are crossed and I'm fixed on the stage, but I'm a little dreamy and angry, and very, very sad. "I'm fine. I just...I just fucking hated high school." I did not go into my pointless, psychotic frenzy about dresses. Stop thinking about irrelevant things. Why am I so angry? Just don't be angry. Stop it. Breathe. Exhale it away.
Gyna smiles a little somberly. "Yeah...I get that. Think of it as, instead of being all hating high school, think about how happy and grateful you are to be out of there and that bullshit and now you're with people who are way cooler than high school." She grins and does a little dance to prove her coolness.
"Yeah, I know. I should. I just suck at that."
(Why is my automatic response "I know" when half the time, I don't know?)
"You wanna move up here, so I'm not standing alone?" she gestures to her side, facial expression subtext: please stop feeling sorry for yourself and have fun. Gyna is right (she's frequently right). I take a hesitant step forward, because stepping forward means accepting that I cannot change the fact that I'm still an emotional trainwreck and a crazy over-reacter person who needs to keep her silly little thoughts to her silly self.
I relax. I'm still sad. But relaxed. People are hanging out of their apartment windows, cheering wildly, singing along with the band, waving their arms like the assholes they are, and I'm in pleasant awe of the social diversity of the crowd. Crazy. I like it when bands like the Popes get bigger, after being around for fifteen years. Jesus, fifteen years.
The show ends, and immediately Gyna scans the crowd again. "There he is! Ginger! Go talk to him!"
"I'm not going to talk to him."
"You have to. You just have to. Come on!"
"No, I don't have to. I don't even remember what he looks like. Why do I have to talk to some dude I don't know?"
"Because, he was totally...whatever, look, he's right over there. And there's the other guy! The guy with the hat! But he's not wearing one right now! Come on, you sally, talk to them."
"What would I say? Oh, hello, remember me, I'm the drunk girl that forced you into a conversation about movies?" I am deeply embarrassed that I even exist right now, after being so foolishly temperamental just ten minutes earlier. I look at the ground and shake my head. "I'm not going over there."
"Come on! What the fuck? Just go over there."
"What's the point? You think we're going to like, make friends with them or something?"
"Who cares? What's the big deal?"
"I'm embarrassed. I don't want to. I was a drunken fuck, and I really don't recognize them." Which is half true. They looked familiar when I glanced over there, and I panicked.They wouldn't want to talk to me anyway. If they wanted to, they would. They probably went home and made fun of me, and talked about the ridiculous, annoying girl that talked to them at the bar that one time. Whatever. Pout about, why doncha?
"You're a wuss."
"Yes, I am."
"Sally!"
"Yup."
"You're either going to go talk to them, or you're buying a hippy dress."
"I'm not doing fucking either of them," I snap, and regret it. "Sorry. I'm just not."
Gyna is resigned. "Fine." I know she's just trying to be helpful and fun and spontaneous, but I'm not in the mood for it. As we weave through the crowd down the street, out of the festival, I can't look up. I'm afraid I'll cry. I don't know why. Like I said before: It's a fucking stupid fear, irrationally conjured up by a fucking stupid girl.
...
Thursday, May 14, 2009
The Heart Wants What It Wants
About five minutes ago I needed a candy bar. I mean needed, like my heart had two Twix-sized stab wounds and they desperately ached to be clogged back up with chocolatepeanutbuttery goodness.
So I pay a visit to Rahm, the convenience store guy in the lobby of our office building. He asks why I never get Cherry 7up anymore. I tell him he needs to get rid of that bullshit antioxidant crap that he ordered. He says he ordered it for me. I ask if I look like I need antioxidants. He says no, they delivered the wrong kind. I tell him he should get a refund, and some real goddamn Cherry 7up with as many oxidants as they can fit in the goddamn can.
It is a thrilling conversation.
So I hop back on the elevator, dreaming of the Twix I'm about to shove down my throat, when a very handsome young gentleman with an armful of paperwork runs in there with me just before the doors close.
"Thanks," he breathes, as if I held the doors open for him with my mind or something.
"Y'welcome."
He smiles and looks away quickly, leaning his body towards the elevator buttons, but he can't properly reach them.
I jump. "Oh, sorry--what floor?"
"Thirteen. Thanks."
"Welcome." I don't know any other words, apparently.
Several seconds go by before he breaks the silence. "Nice," he says, eyeing my candy bar. "A candy bar seems like an excellent idea right now." Holy hell, he's got that cool, rippled, rusted (oxidized?) twilight MCA voice. I can feel myself shifting.
"I know, right?" I nod wisely, and lock my eyes onto his. My voice drops low and smokey. "The heart wants what it wants."
He looks uncomfortable.
Shit.
Oh holy fuck and a half, am I coming onto him? Via candy bar, no less? He totally thinks...he thinks I'm disgusting. Break eye contact. Laugh.
We chuckle. Awkward. Shifting.
Simultaneous sighs.
The elevator doors ding open.
I exit the elevator, stop, and smack myself on the forehead with my candy bar.
Before the doors close.
...
So I pay a visit to Rahm, the convenience store guy in the lobby of our office building. He asks why I never get Cherry 7up anymore. I tell him he needs to get rid of that bullshit antioxidant crap that he ordered. He says he ordered it for me. I ask if I look like I need antioxidants. He says no, they delivered the wrong kind. I tell him he should get a refund, and some real goddamn Cherry 7up with as many oxidants as they can fit in the goddamn can.
It is a thrilling conversation.
So I hop back on the elevator, dreaming of the Twix I'm about to shove down my throat, when a very handsome young gentleman with an armful of paperwork runs in there with me just before the doors close.
"Thanks," he breathes, as if I held the doors open for him with my mind or something.
"Y'welcome."
He smiles and looks away quickly, leaning his body towards the elevator buttons, but he can't properly reach them.
I jump. "Oh, sorry--what floor?"
"Thirteen. Thanks."
"Welcome." I don't know any other words, apparently.
Several seconds go by before he breaks the silence. "Nice," he says, eyeing my candy bar. "A candy bar seems like an excellent idea right now." Holy hell, he's got that cool, rippled, rusted (oxidized?) twilight MCA voice. I can feel myself shifting.
"I know, right?" I nod wisely, and lock my eyes onto his. My voice drops low and smokey. "The heart wants what it wants."
He looks uncomfortable.
Shit.
Oh holy fuck and a half, am I coming onto him? Via candy bar, no less? He totally thinks...he thinks I'm disgusting. Break eye contact. Laugh.
We chuckle. Awkward. Shifting.
Simultaneous sighs.
The elevator doors ding open.
I exit the elevator, stop, and smack myself on the forehead with my candy bar.
Before the doors close.
...
Monday, May 4, 2009
Salespeople Must Hate Me.
"Welcome to AT&T! What can I do for you today?"
I feel defeated, because he's cute. I don't like it when the cute ones try to help me, because I get all rambly and defensive. Besides, I'm sunburned today, after sitting outside yesterday for five hours while my sister graduated from college. There's even a nice round white circle behind my necklace pendant thingy, and shit - he's looking at it. I grab the necklace and squeeze.
"I'm uh, just kind of...browsing. I got, um...I got an umm, oh, whatever it's called, a, ummm...upgrade. Phone upgrade. Thing? Because I'm down for one, or up for one, or whatever. You know. The whole new phone. Thing. Stop talking." Fucking seriously, I just told myself to stop talking out loud.
He smiles cleanly, friendly salesman-like. "Are you looking for a PDA, or a (couple other types of phones that mean nothing to me)?"
"I don't know. I just need a phone. Mine won't charge anymore. It's all discombobulated."
"How long have you had it?"
"I dunno, like three years or something."
"Well, we've got a great selection of (boogedy boogedy boogedy phone and I'm going to look up your account and then I'm going to show you a bunch of phones you have no interest in)."
"Sure, whatever."
He does his stuff, banging away on the keyboard. Nice jawline, all angular and ending at the ear, just like a jawline should--
"Can I have your phone number?"
"Hmmm?" I snap my head back up from it's little dreamy tilt. "For, uh...oh, okay." The computer. I close my eyes and shake my head, embarrassed, reciting my number.
"Okay," he says with a smile and a sigh, reading over my account information, and begins walking towards the phones. "So were you looking for something more like Blackberry? An iPhone? Or something else--"
I just interrupt him right away. "iPhones are pretty and all, but I can't help feeling they're pointless."
"The handy thing about them is all of the different applications you can download--"
"Yeah, um, other than Ninja Ropes and that app where you drink digital beer out of your phone, I don't really care about iPhones."
He takes me a step or two further towards the Blackberry phones, with all their extraneous buttons and little rolly mouse things. "What about something more like--"
"Yeah, I'm just going to stop you, because I really don't need all that extra fangly bizness all up in there."
"Extra...what? Okay."
"Sor," I shrug. He's showing me things I don't care about, and instantly his attractiveness wears off. "I just don't see the point. No one liked those little rolly things on laptops, either, what's the point of having them on phones?"
He chuckles, confused, "It is nicer for like, you know, checking your email--"
"Yeah I don't need the internet on there, I don't need an MP3 player, I don't need to watch movies or film things or whatever."
"Well I can pretty much tell you you're gonna find those options on nearly every phone on the market."
I glance at the line up of phones, bummed. "Balls."
He laughs again. "Well, let's say if you have all that on your phone, then you don't need your iPod anymore--" I start shaking my head as he continues, "--and you can get one of these hot little pink Croc cases--" He touches the stupid rubbery holey pink case thing, and I scoff, trying not to giggle. "--and that's not the route I should take with you."
"No, I don't have an iPod, I don't need one. And I didn't even know they made Croc phone cases," I laugh. "That's just dumb."
"Girl, what? You don't need one? You don't like music?"
"Like it just fine, I just can survive without one, so what's the point of making it essential? You know, like--"
"Okay, okay, they're nice for other things too, but I can see I can't convince you."
"Yeah, I just want a phone," guilty smile. "I want to make phone calls and text my friends. Maybe go over the monthly limit, I don't know, it's all up in the air."
"Well, we can change your plan for that."
"I don't really want to pay more, sooooo...no."
He looks up and down the wall and sighs. "You know, honestly, I think you're not going to find what you're lookin for here. You should just check the website."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. Look at the refurb phones. Like buying a used car and all that. You're taking a small chance, but you can probably get one for free, and then you're not losing money anyway."
"Just time and effort."
"Prolly worth it, for a simple phone. More environmentally friendly, anyway."
I like this guy again. "Well, thanks."
"Sure. Just doin' my job. You want to buy a car charger or anything? How about you come back after you get your new phone and check out the accessories?"
"So you get a commission anyway."
He nods and winks. "So I get a commission, exactly."
"Thanks, Terence."
"Have a good one, now."
Internet, here I come.
...
I feel defeated, because he's cute. I don't like it when the cute ones try to help me, because I get all rambly and defensive. Besides, I'm sunburned today, after sitting outside yesterday for five hours while my sister graduated from college. There's even a nice round white circle behind my necklace pendant thingy, and shit - he's looking at it. I grab the necklace and squeeze.
"I'm uh, just kind of...browsing. I got, um...I got an umm, oh, whatever it's called, a, ummm...upgrade. Phone upgrade. Thing? Because I'm down for one, or up for one, or whatever. You know. The whole new phone. Thing. Stop talking." Fucking seriously, I just told myself to stop talking out loud.
He smiles cleanly, friendly salesman-like. "Are you looking for a PDA, or a (couple other types of phones that mean nothing to me)?"
"I don't know. I just need a phone. Mine won't charge anymore. It's all discombobulated."
"How long have you had it?"
"I dunno, like three years or something."
"Well, we've got a great selection of (boogedy boogedy boogedy phone and I'm going to look up your account and then I'm going to show you a bunch of phones you have no interest in)."
"Sure, whatever."
He does his stuff, banging away on the keyboard. Nice jawline, all angular and ending at the ear, just like a jawline should--
"Can I have your phone number?"
"Hmmm?" I snap my head back up from it's little dreamy tilt. "For, uh...oh, okay." The computer. I close my eyes and shake my head, embarrassed, reciting my number.
"Okay," he says with a smile and a sigh, reading over my account information, and begins walking towards the phones. "So were you looking for something more like Blackberry? An iPhone? Or something else--"
I just interrupt him right away. "iPhones are pretty and all, but I can't help feeling they're pointless."
"The handy thing about them is all of the different applications you can download--"
"Yeah, um, other than Ninja Ropes and that app where you drink digital beer out of your phone, I don't really care about iPhones."
He takes me a step or two further towards the Blackberry phones, with all their extraneous buttons and little rolly mouse things. "What about something more like--"
"Yeah, I'm just going to stop you, because I really don't need all that extra fangly bizness all up in there."
"Extra...what? Okay."
"Sor," I shrug. He's showing me things I don't care about, and instantly his attractiveness wears off. "I just don't see the point. No one liked those little rolly things on laptops, either, what's the point of having them on phones?"
He chuckles, confused, "It is nicer for like, you know, checking your email--"
"Yeah I don't need the internet on there, I don't need an MP3 player, I don't need to watch movies or film things or whatever."
"Well I can pretty much tell you you're gonna find those options on nearly every phone on the market."
I glance at the line up of phones, bummed. "Balls."
He laughs again. "Well, let's say if you have all that on your phone, then you don't need your iPod anymore--" I start shaking my head as he continues, "--and you can get one of these hot little pink Croc cases--" He touches the stupid rubbery holey pink case thing, and I scoff, trying not to giggle. "--and that's not the route I should take with you."
"No, I don't have an iPod, I don't need one. And I didn't even know they made Croc phone cases," I laugh. "That's just dumb."
"Girl, what? You don't need one? You don't like music?"
"Like it just fine, I just can survive without one, so what's the point of making it essential? You know, like--"
"Okay, okay, they're nice for other things too, but I can see I can't convince you."
"Yeah, I just want a phone," guilty smile. "I want to make phone calls and text my friends. Maybe go over the monthly limit, I don't know, it's all up in the air."
"Well, we can change your plan for that."
"I don't really want to pay more, sooooo...no."
He looks up and down the wall and sighs. "You know, honestly, I think you're not going to find what you're lookin for here. You should just check the website."
"Really?"
"Oh, yeah. Look at the refurb phones. Like buying a used car and all that. You're taking a small chance, but you can probably get one for free, and then you're not losing money anyway."
"Just time and effort."
"Prolly worth it, for a simple phone. More environmentally friendly, anyway."
I like this guy again. "Well, thanks."
"Sure. Just doin' my job. You want to buy a car charger or anything? How about you come back after you get your new phone and check out the accessories?"
"So you get a commission anyway."
He nods and winks. "So I get a commission, exactly."
"Thanks, Terence."
"Have a good one, now."
Internet, here I come.
...
Friday, February 20, 2009
Inevitable Gibberish
"You guys are so lucky to be working for [where I work]. You have a great boss, a cause," he shakes his giant head. Light refects off of his teeth when he smiles, "You get to meet important people from all over. It's like a dream job."
I raise my eyebrows at him. "You say that again after you get one of my paychecks, and we'll talk."
"No, I'm being honest here. In fact, if Droz ever leaves, I would seriously consider vying for her position."
He smiles like an insurance salesman. Well, he is an insurance salesman, and he's been coming here every other week for two years trying to work his way onto the good side of like, all the rich guys that give us money. Right now he looks like he's about to go boating, sitting there doing the Guy Leg Cross, where one ankle carves around the opposite knee. All pseudo-authentic in his fucking pastel sweater and khakis. Who wears yellow pastel?
It's a shame that he's so good looking, even with that fat head, and he's such an obvious doucheba--
"What're you listening to?"
Shitfuckdamn and I downsize this page because son of a whore, he snuck up behind me while I was so captivated with writing about his fiberglass-osity. "It's ummm...hold on." I have to pull up the Pandora, because sometimes I can never tell what I'm listening to anymore. "The Eels. Nope, wait, wait...aaaaannnnnd now it's Barry White."
Wait, are you...don't put your hand on the back of my chair, Whiteteeth.
"You've always got sweet tunes on up here."
Sweet tunes, really? Did you just say that out loud? Jackass. I mean, sure, my friends say shit like that, but as Nautical Boy, you are not allowed to. It sounds wrong coming from a pastel sweater.
So I am confused, now. "Thanks. It's all kind of irregular."
"Do you do that thing where you've got like, a bunch of different stations and you click 'Quick Mix'?"
"No, I didn't even realize..." I look at my Pandora page. Sure enough, right there. Quick Mix. My lips pout because he knows more than me. Bastard. "I just kind of thumbs up and down as I go along."
"So what kind of feeds do you have on there?"
"Well," I feel like a bird, the way I'm cocking my head to the side. I refuse to look at him. "I guess, it started when I really wanted to hear Harry Nilsson, and then I added the Clash and Foreigner and it sort of like, spiraled from there."
"Nice. My stations are, uh, Willie Nelson, Van Halen, Beastie Boys, and uh..." he glances around, and blushes as he hushes, "and uh, Justin Timberlake." I want to make fun of him for being so white, but then I remember my own extremely ethnically diverse feeds and restrain myself, especially since MCA lives in my heart.
Yeah, and so then my spine goes a little wonky as he starts singing softly along with Barry. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a Time Life Classics Soft-Core Soul infomercial.
"Yeah, buddy."
No, you did not just say that. I turn my head, slowly, and glance at him out of the corner of my eye, which is really hard to do because I have glasses and everything goes all split-focus, so now he has two giant heads.
"Ha!" He smiles. Jesus, his teeth are whiter than fuck. He turns to walk back over to the chair. "No, I really would love to have a job like Droz. People seem to think you're prepping yourself for it, though, if she ever leaves." He sits, assuming the position of douchebaggery once again.
"Pffff, fuck no, there's now way I could do that. Droz is like, 20% modesty, 20% ambition. Logic, likability, organization, all equal parts. She is absolutely perfect for this shit. I'm like, 10% modesty, ambition, and logic, like 7% psychic, 15% misunderstood. And you know, like, 30% satire, 30% ridicule, 12% lazy and 9% stupid."
"Pyschic?"
"And misunderstood." I shrug my shoulders. "Bad joke. And I think I got too many percentage points."
"I think you're right."
"Extra credit, you know. Fuck you, standard distribution, bell curves and bullshit," I turn and look at him, eyebrows raised, "I've never been good at statistics."
He just looks wide-eyed and bewildered, and his head is slowly, ever so slowly, moving from side to side, in complete disbelief.
"So this could just be a nonsensical correlation. But I claimed stupidity to make up for it things like that in advance," I grin and nod, tap my temple and point my finger, "so I covered my tracks for the inevitable gibberish."
Now he's smiling a little, but I know he's still confused, not so much at what I'm saying, but the fact that I'm still speaking at all.
"Stop talking? Okay."
No, I'm not socially awkward. Not at all.
...
I raise my eyebrows at him. "You say that again after you get one of my paychecks, and we'll talk."
"No, I'm being honest here. In fact, if Droz ever leaves, I would seriously consider vying for her position."
He smiles like an insurance salesman. Well, he is an insurance salesman, and he's been coming here every other week for two years trying to work his way onto the good side of like, all the rich guys that give us money. Right now he looks like he's about to go boating, sitting there doing the Guy Leg Cross, where one ankle carves around the opposite knee. All pseudo-authentic in his fucking pastel sweater and khakis. Who wears yellow pastel?
It's a shame that he's so good looking, even with that fat head, and he's such an obvious doucheba--
"What're you listening to?"
Shitfuckdamn and I downsize this page because son of a whore, he snuck up behind me while I was so captivated with writing about his fiberglass-osity. "It's ummm...hold on." I have to pull up the Pandora, because sometimes I can never tell what I'm listening to anymore. "The Eels. Nope, wait, wait...aaaaannnnnd now it's Barry White."
Wait, are you...don't put your hand on the back of my chair, Whiteteeth.
"You've always got sweet tunes on up here."
Sweet tunes, really? Did you just say that out loud? Jackass. I mean, sure, my friends say shit like that, but as Nautical Boy, you are not allowed to. It sounds wrong coming from a pastel sweater.
So I am confused, now. "Thanks. It's all kind of irregular."
"Do you do that thing where you've got like, a bunch of different stations and you click 'Quick Mix'?"
"No, I didn't even realize..." I look at my Pandora page. Sure enough, right there. Quick Mix. My lips pout because he knows more than me. Bastard. "I just kind of thumbs up and down as I go along."
"So what kind of feeds do you have on there?"
"Well," I feel like a bird, the way I'm cocking my head to the side. I refuse to look at him. "I guess, it started when I really wanted to hear Harry Nilsson, and then I added the Clash and Foreigner and it sort of like, spiraled from there."
"Nice. My stations are, uh, Willie Nelson, Van Halen, Beastie Boys, and uh..." he glances around, and blushes as he hushes, "and uh, Justin Timberlake." I want to make fun of him for being so white, but then I remember my own extremely ethnically diverse feeds and restrain myself, especially since MCA lives in my heart.
Yeah, and so then my spine goes a little wonky as he starts singing softly along with Barry. I'm starting to feel like I'm in a Time Life Classics Soft-Core Soul infomercial.
"Yeah, buddy."
No, you did not just say that. I turn my head, slowly, and glance at him out of the corner of my eye, which is really hard to do because I have glasses and everything goes all split-focus, so now he has two giant heads.
"Ha!" He smiles. Jesus, his teeth are whiter than fuck. He turns to walk back over to the chair. "No, I really would love to have a job like Droz. People seem to think you're prepping yourself for it, though, if she ever leaves." He sits, assuming the position of douchebaggery once again.
"Pffff, fuck no, there's now way I could do that. Droz is like, 20% modesty, 20% ambition. Logic, likability, organization, all equal parts. She is absolutely perfect for this shit. I'm like, 10% modesty, ambition, and logic, like 7% psychic, 15% misunderstood. And you know, like, 30% satire, 30% ridicule, 12% lazy and 9% stupid."
"Pyschic?"
"And misunderstood." I shrug my shoulders. "Bad joke. And I think I got too many percentage points."
"I think you're right."
"Extra credit, you know. Fuck you, standard distribution, bell curves and bullshit," I turn and look at him, eyebrows raised, "I've never been good at statistics."
He just looks wide-eyed and bewildered, and his head is slowly, ever so slowly, moving from side to side, in complete disbelief.
"So this could just be a nonsensical correlation. But I claimed stupidity to make up for it things like that in advance," I grin and nod, tap my temple and point my finger, "so I covered my tracks for the inevitable gibberish."
Now he's smiling a little, but I know he's still confused, not so much at what I'm saying, but the fact that I'm still speaking at all.
"Stop talking? Okay."
No, I'm not socially awkward. Not at all.
...
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Why I am not cut out for the corporate world.
Today I had my first meeting. Like, the first time I single-handedly scheduled, attended, and ended a conversation with a company outside of BSF. Shook hands and everything. Two very nice guys in suits. I hope they appreciate that I showered this morning.
The large details of the meeting are really very irrelevant, personally and professionally.
Stupid Shit I Say In Professional Settings
1. "Basically, my job can be done by a well-trained golden retriever. I don't even know why you're talking to me right now."
Followed by nervous laughter. From me and them.
2. "So...you're here to make sure I work with him."
After one of the guys talked for...well...a long time about global markets and IBM mergers and document management systems and golf, complete with well-placed zingers and significant chair leaning and flashing a gold ring from his alma mater (Notre Dame), I summed up his speech. Did I really understand half of what he was saying? No. I took a very, very, far-fetched guess. It paid off, though, because he held up his hands and said, "You got me." Then laughed like a used-car salesman.
Late addition:
So, by the way, after I said that a golden retriever could do my job, I immediately thought, "Shit. I should have used that gorilla who can type. The one that knows sign language. Fuck. What the hell is that gorilla's name? Dammit. Golden retriever? Rossi, you're a stupid bitch. Golden retrievers can file things, but they can't write letters. Or order new staplers. Seriously, what is that gorilla's name? Oh, crap, that guy is still talking. Something about mergers. Shit."
The large details of the meeting are really very irrelevant, personally and professionally.
Stupid Shit I Say In Professional Settings
1. "Basically, my job can be done by a well-trained golden retriever. I don't even know why you're talking to me right now."
Followed by nervous laughter. From me and them.
2. "So...you're here to make sure I work with him."
After one of the guys talked for...well...a long time about global markets and IBM mergers and document management systems and golf, complete with well-placed zingers and significant chair leaning and flashing a gold ring from his alma mater (Notre Dame), I summed up his speech. Did I really understand half of what he was saying? No. I took a very, very, far-fetched guess. It paid off, though, because he held up his hands and said, "You got me." Then laughed like a used-car salesman.
Late addition:
So, by the way, after I said that a golden retriever could do my job, I immediately thought, "Shit. I should have used that gorilla who can type. The one that knows sign language. Fuck. What the hell is that gorilla's name? Dammit. Golden retriever? Rossi, you're a stupid bitch. Golden retrievers can file things, but they can't write letters. Or order new staplers. Seriously, what is that gorilla's name? Oh, crap, that guy is still talking. Something about mergers. Shit."
...
Friday, February 1, 2008
Forecast for today: Rassles vs. The World
Round 1: Rassles vs. Fahrenheit
Spent twenty-five minutes waiting for the bus today. Not gonna lie, it's slightly chilly outside. Wandered around on top of the Blue Line sidewalk vents for awhile, watching the heat shimmy out of them, warming up. Pocketed hands, doing a little foot jig, loose knees to avoid the cold pants syndrome (cold pants vs. flesh: cold pants always wins), face the sun: smile. Don't shiver. Be calm and the cold counts for shit. I love this. It's like my will against Fahrenheit, and I dominated.
Celsius' got nothing. Celsius is a little whiny flyweight, all, "Oh, water is freezing and it's zero degrees, waaaaah," and then Fahrenheit is all, "Stop being such a nerd, it's like thirty-two." Ah, but little does she know, Fahrenheit fights middleweight, and I'm kind of heavy.
Can't compete with Kelvin, though. Kelvin is like, the ultimate fighting heavyweight champion of the thermodynamic universe. Not gonna fuck with Absolute Zero. "Oh, you haven't heard of isotropic expansion? It's kind of a big deal."
So I psyched myself up to stay warm and beat the fuck out of Fahrenheit, no contest, I win.
Final score: Rassles: 10, Fahrenheit: -2
Round 2: Rassles vs. The Badger
I squeeze onto the third bus to pass my way and thank the driver, then two stops later he pulls over again to get some more fighters (who are losing, by the way). This woman with penciled eyebrows and a badger-fur coat (she probably fired her driver) starts snapping at the bus driver and everyone on the bus.
"You have got to be kidding me! This is ridiculous. Hello? Hello, driver? This is ridiculous, we have been waiting for half an hour and two busses have refused to pick us up. You can't operate like this. Can you guys move down? You're not the only people with places to go…"
Driver jumps in, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, I have no control over—"
"This is unacceptable, I have no room. MOVE DOWN, PEOPLE!" This continues for about twenty seconds and then the bus starts, with Badger Woman still arguing.
I can't help myself, "You know lady, don't blame the driver. He probably wishes he never picked you up."
Why doesn't she fucking sell her goddamn coat and take a taxi? I didn't have the balls to say it. Should have.
I did not shut her up, she kept on muttering. Except now it was about me and my nerve and rudeness. I got a few snickers and smiles, though, and everyone was just rolling their eyes at her and trying to ignore her.
Final Score: Rassles: 1, The Badger: 0.
Round 3: Rassles vs. Pregnancy
We have a fairly new employee at the front desk of our building. She's been there for about a month and a half, and I haven't learned her name yet, partly because she has kind of a thick accent and I don't understand about forty percent of what she's saying.
I went out to pick up lunch today, and on my way back in I had to wait for the elevator. So, small talk with front desk girl.
"So how ya doin?"
"I am good, you?"
"Not bad. Lunch time."
"Ah, I see. How is ze baby?"
I am puzzled. "Wha?"
"Ze baby, right? Is it good?"
"Um, yeah."
"That's good. Do you know what it is?"
"Mmm?"
"It is boy or girl?"
"Oh, um, I don't know."
Thank god, fucking elevator. What the hell was that conversation about? I mean, does...is she insinuating that I'm pregnant? I mean, seriously, who the hell does she think she is? Fucking assuming bitch. Lame.
I'm sitting at my desk fuming for the rest of the workday.
What the fuck, man? Seriously? Asshole move. Dick. Whatever. I'm getting no work done. I have The Dread. Can't leave the building later because I'll have to see her again and she fucking thinks I'm fucking pregnant. I mean, I know I've been putting on weight and everything due to bad food and no exercise...is she just being mean? Do I seriously look completely pregnant? Where's my reflection? Yes. I do look pregnant. Lame. Shit. When am I due? Oh, sometime next week. That bitch is right. Fuck. I have to start sucking in more. Scratch that, eat healthy. Exercise tonight. Move down a weight class. Yeah. We'll show her.
So when work is over I head back down to the lobby, and she's sitting there reading a magazine. I'm pissed. I march right up to her.
"You know, I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat. I know that I'm gaining weight and it sucks because last year I actually lost weight and now it's just coming back and I just needed you to know that."
She looks completely awestruck. I'm smirking in my head, because I won again.
"I am so sorry," she starts like, stuttering. "I did not mean you...your boss, Josh, his wife is pregnant, yes?"
Oh Fuck. "…yeah."
"I mean she is knowing if it is boy or girl? Is going good?"
"Oh. Yeah. It's fine. I uhhh…I gotta go. Um, have a good one." And I run out the revolving door.
Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid.
Final Score: Rassles: -273.16, Pregnancy: 1.
...
Forecast for tomorrow: Rassles vs. LOST.
Fuck yeah, LOST.
...
Spent twenty-five minutes waiting for the bus today. Not gonna lie, it's slightly chilly outside. Wandered around on top of the Blue Line sidewalk vents for awhile, watching the heat shimmy out of them, warming up. Pocketed hands, doing a little foot jig, loose knees to avoid the cold pants syndrome (cold pants vs. flesh: cold pants always wins), face the sun: smile. Don't shiver. Be calm and the cold counts for shit. I love this. It's like my will against Fahrenheit, and I dominated.
Celsius' got nothing. Celsius is a little whiny flyweight, all, "Oh, water is freezing and it's zero degrees, waaaaah," and then Fahrenheit is all, "Stop being such a nerd, it's like thirty-two." Ah, but little does she know, Fahrenheit fights middleweight, and I'm kind of heavy.
Can't compete with Kelvin, though. Kelvin is like, the ultimate fighting heavyweight champion of the thermodynamic universe. Not gonna fuck with Absolute Zero. "Oh, you haven't heard of isotropic expansion? It's kind of a big deal."
So I psyched myself up to stay warm and beat the fuck out of Fahrenheit, no contest, I win.
Final score: Rassles: 10, Fahrenheit: -2
Round 2: Rassles vs. The Badger
I squeeze onto the third bus to pass my way and thank the driver, then two stops later he pulls over again to get some more fighters (who are losing, by the way). This woman with penciled eyebrows and a badger-fur coat (she probably fired her driver) starts snapping at the bus driver and everyone on the bus.
"You have got to be kidding me! This is ridiculous. Hello? Hello, driver? This is ridiculous, we have been waiting for half an hour and two busses have refused to pick us up. You can't operate like this. Can you guys move down? You're not the only people with places to go…"
Driver jumps in, "I'm sorry, Ma'am, I have no control over—"
"This is unacceptable, I have no room. MOVE DOWN, PEOPLE!" This continues for about twenty seconds and then the bus starts, with Badger Woman still arguing.
I can't help myself, "You know lady, don't blame the driver. He probably wishes he never picked you up."
Why doesn't she fucking sell her goddamn coat and take a taxi? I didn't have the balls to say it. Should have.
I did not shut her up, she kept on muttering. Except now it was about me and my nerve and rudeness. I got a few snickers and smiles, though, and everyone was just rolling their eyes at her and trying to ignore her.
Final Score: Rassles: 1, The Badger: 0.
Round 3: Rassles vs. Pregnancy
We have a fairly new employee at the front desk of our building. She's been there for about a month and a half, and I haven't learned her name yet, partly because she has kind of a thick accent and I don't understand about forty percent of what she's saying.
I went out to pick up lunch today, and on my way back in I had to wait for the elevator. So, small talk with front desk girl.
"So how ya doin?"
"I am good, you?"
"Not bad. Lunch time."
"Ah, I see. How is ze baby?"
I am puzzled. "Wha?"
"Ze baby, right? Is it good?"
"Um, yeah."
"That's good. Do you know what it is?"
"Mmm?"
"It is boy or girl?"
"Oh, um, I don't know."
Thank god, fucking elevator. What the hell was that conversation about? I mean, does...is she insinuating that I'm pregnant? I mean, seriously, who the hell does she think she is? Fucking assuming bitch. Lame.
I'm sitting at my desk fuming for the rest of the workday.
What the fuck, man? Seriously? Asshole move. Dick. Whatever. I'm getting no work done. I have The Dread. Can't leave the building later because I'll have to see her again and she fucking thinks I'm fucking pregnant. I mean, I know I've been putting on weight and everything due to bad food and no exercise...is she just being mean? Do I seriously look completely pregnant? Where's my reflection? Yes. I do look pregnant. Lame. Shit. When am I due? Oh, sometime next week. That bitch is right. Fuck. I have to start sucking in more. Scratch that, eat healthy. Exercise tonight. Move down a weight class. Yeah. We'll show her.
So when work is over I head back down to the lobby, and she's sitting there reading a magazine. I'm pissed. I march right up to her.
"You know, I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat. I know that I'm gaining weight and it sucks because last year I actually lost weight and now it's just coming back and I just needed you to know that."
She looks completely awestruck. I'm smirking in my head, because I won again.
"I am so sorry," she starts like, stuttering. "I did not mean you...your boss, Josh, his wife is pregnant, yes?"
Oh Fuck. "…yeah."
"I mean she is knowing if it is boy or girl? Is going good?"
"Oh. Yeah. It's fine. I uhhh…I gotta go. Um, have a good one." And I run out the revolving door.
Stupidstupidstupidstupidstupid.
Final Score: Rassles: -273.16, Pregnancy: 1.
...
Forecast for tomorrow: Rassles vs. LOST.
Fuck yeah, LOST.
...
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I am bad at networking.
I have issues with people who wear high boots and knee-length coats. They look like midgets in non-midget clothing, or ten-year olds playing dress up.
I'm sorry. Dwarves in non-dwarf clothing.
(Since when is dwarf less offensive than midget? Midgets don't have shaggy beards and battle axes and names like Gimli. That's what dwarves are for.)
Discovered that I am not good at business-networking happy hours. We're in the process of expanding our Auxiliary Board, so we got a bunch of local yuppies to meet at an expensive "Irish Pub" on Clark to consume Miller Lite and very un-Irishy finger foods. I'm sober and still not on the level with these guys. Here are some actual verbal exchanges:
ONE.
RANDOM DUDE: So, what do you do?
ME: Kick ass at Flippy Cup.
TWO.
RANDOM DUDER: You're a fan of college basketball, huh?
ME: What? Oh, God, no. I'm just feigning interest so I don't have to talk to some of the people here.
RANDOM DUDER: ...Oh.
ME: Oh, not you. Unless you're boring. (I laugh. Awkward.) No, I'm just not good at small talk. So it probably would be good if I was into college basketball, so I wouldn't have to talk about my job or the weather or other bullshit things.
RANDOM DUDER: Why? What do you do for a living?
ME: I'm a professionalologist.
RANDOM DUDER: What's that?
ME: It's a very bad joke quote. Nevermind. It's from...ahh, fuck it. You ever see Run Ronnie Run?
RANDOM DUDER: Um, no.
ME: That's alright. Awkward. Nevermind. Subject change. I work for BSF.
RANDOM DUDER: Oh, so you're here for like work?
ME: I'm more here for the booze and Irish quesadillas.
RANDOM DUDER: (awkward) Yeah, right? I don't think the Irish made quesadillas.
ME: (in my asshole voice) Since when does a company called Franco-American make Italian food?
RANDOM DUDER: (laughing lightly and uncomfortably) Um, what?
ME: Nevermind. It's...nevermind. It's cool. I just...just...nevermind (apparently, my proclivity for conversation is limited to quotes from movies and cartoons about the grown-up children of superscientists)
RANDOM DUDER: Oh.
ME: Yeeeeaaah.
RANDOM DUDER: Well, I'm gonna get another beer.
ME: Okey dokey. I'm gonna...yeah.
THREE.
RANDOM DUDETTE: So is it a good game?
ME: I have no idea, but cable has waaaay better commercials than regular network.
RANDOM DUDETTE: I don't...know what you mean.
ME: I don't have cable.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Oh, my god, I can't live without it, why not?
ME: Can't afford it just yet.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Why not, what do you do?
ME: Watch network and cry myself to sleep at night.
RANDOM DUDETTE: (awkward laugh) No, I mean, where do you work?
ME: BSF.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Oh! That is so great! I almost went the non-profit route, too.
ME: Which route did you take?
RANDOM DUDETTE: I'm an Investment Analyst for Deloitte and Touche.
ME: Well...glad you're here now. You thinking about getting involved with the Auxiliary Board?
RANDOM DUDETTE: What's that?
ME: That's...that's what this whole happy hour party thing is for. To see if people want to get involved in the Auxiliary Board.
RANDOM DUDETTE: I thought it was for BSF.
ME: Yeah, the BSF Auxiliary Board.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Oh. So what do I have to do?
ME: Well, the board does some volunteering at schools, painting classrooms and mentoring and stuff like that, and we're also raising money for a scholarship fund. And there's a $50 annual membership fee that goes--
RANDOM DUDETTE: $50? That's kind of steep.
ME: Well, how much do you pay a month for cable?
RANDOM DUDETTE: You know, I'm going to get another beer. We'll talk later, okay?
FOUR.
OTHER PEOPLE IN A CONVERSATION: ...bar called Rossi's...
ME: (scrambling over people and throwing elbows to get to the speakers) Are you guys talking about Rossi's?
OTHER PERSON 1: No...
ME: Dude, I love that place. Let's go. Let's go and play Nudey Touch. You guys ever play Nudey Touch?
OTHER PERSON 1: Um, no...
ME: You are completely missing out.
OTHER PERSON 2: What is it?
ME: You know those touch screen bar games? Nudey Touch is photo hunt, like where you look at two pictures and find where they're different, and with naked lay-days, or you can do hunks, but babes are way easier than hunks because hunks are always in front of cars and babes usually just have like different bangs or a different colored thong or a one-eyed Great Pyrenees.
OTHER PERSON 1: You really like this game, huh?
ME: Duh. It rules.
OTHER PERSON 1: Where is this at?
ME: Rossi's. I thought I overheard you say something about Rossi's.
OTHER PERSON 2: I don't think we mentioned it.
ME: You're kidding.
OTHER PERSON 2: You're probably just hearing things. Well, I'm going to get another beer, excuse me.
OTHER PERSON 1: Yeah, me too.
ME: H'Okay.
So, the moral of the story is this: I am bad at networking, and very good at getting people to drink faster and spend more money on beer. I'm annoying even when sober.
I'm sorry. Dwarves in non-dwarf clothing.
(Since when is dwarf less offensive than midget? Midgets don't have shaggy beards and battle axes and names like Gimli. That's what dwarves are for.)
Discovered that I am not good at business-networking happy hours. We're in the process of expanding our Auxiliary Board, so we got a bunch of local yuppies to meet at an expensive "Irish Pub" on Clark to consume Miller Lite and very un-Irishy finger foods. I'm sober and still not on the level with these guys. Here are some actual verbal exchanges:
ONE.
RANDOM DUDE: So, what do you do?
ME: Kick ass at Flippy Cup.
TWO.
RANDOM DUDER: You're a fan of college basketball, huh?
ME: What? Oh, God, no. I'm just feigning interest so I don't have to talk to some of the people here.
RANDOM DUDER: ...Oh.
ME: Oh, not you. Unless you're boring. (I laugh. Awkward.) No, I'm just not good at small talk. So it probably would be good if I was into college basketball, so I wouldn't have to talk about my job or the weather or other bullshit things.
RANDOM DUDER: Why? What do you do for a living?
ME: I'm a professionalologist.
RANDOM DUDER: What's that?
ME: It's a very bad joke quote. Nevermind. It's from...ahh, fuck it. You ever see Run Ronnie Run?
RANDOM DUDER: Um, no.
ME: That's alright. Awkward. Nevermind. Subject change. I work for BSF.
RANDOM DUDER: Oh, so you're here for like work?
ME: I'm more here for the booze and Irish quesadillas.
RANDOM DUDER: (awkward) Yeah, right? I don't think the Irish made quesadillas.
ME: (in my asshole voice) Since when does a company called Franco-American make Italian food?
RANDOM DUDER: (laughing lightly and uncomfortably) Um, what?
ME: Nevermind. It's...nevermind. It's cool. I just...just...nevermind (apparently, my proclivity for conversation is limited to quotes from movies and cartoons about the grown-up children of superscientists)
RANDOM DUDER: Oh.
ME: Yeeeeaaah.
RANDOM DUDER: Well, I'm gonna get another beer.
ME: Okey dokey. I'm gonna...yeah.
THREE.
RANDOM DUDETTE: So is it a good game?
ME: I have no idea, but cable has waaaay better commercials than regular network.
RANDOM DUDETTE: I don't...know what you mean.
ME: I don't have cable.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Oh, my god, I can't live without it, why not?
ME: Can't afford it just yet.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Why not, what do you do?
ME: Watch network and cry myself to sleep at night.
RANDOM DUDETTE: (awkward laugh) No, I mean, where do you work?
ME: BSF.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Oh! That is so great! I almost went the non-profit route, too.
ME: Which route did you take?
RANDOM DUDETTE: I'm an Investment Analyst for Deloitte and Touche.
ME: Well...glad you're here now. You thinking about getting involved with the Auxiliary Board?
RANDOM DUDETTE: What's that?
ME: That's...that's what this whole happy hour party thing is for. To see if people want to get involved in the Auxiliary Board.
RANDOM DUDETTE: I thought it was for BSF.
ME: Yeah, the BSF Auxiliary Board.
RANDOM DUDETTE: Oh. So what do I have to do?
ME: Well, the board does some volunteering at schools, painting classrooms and mentoring and stuff like that, and we're also raising money for a scholarship fund. And there's a $50 annual membership fee that goes--
RANDOM DUDETTE: $50? That's kind of steep.
ME: Well, how much do you pay a month for cable?
RANDOM DUDETTE: You know, I'm going to get another beer. We'll talk later, okay?
FOUR.
OTHER PEOPLE IN A CONVERSATION: ...bar called Rossi's...
ME: (scrambling over people and throwing elbows to get to the speakers) Are you guys talking about Rossi's?
OTHER PERSON 1: No...
ME: Dude, I love that place. Let's go. Let's go and play Nudey Touch. You guys ever play Nudey Touch?
OTHER PERSON 1: Um, no...
ME: You are completely missing out.
OTHER PERSON 2: What is it?
ME: You know those touch screen bar games? Nudey Touch is photo hunt, like where you look at two pictures and find where they're different, and with naked lay-days, or you can do hunks, but babes are way easier than hunks because hunks are always in front of cars and babes usually just have like different bangs or a different colored thong or a one-eyed Great Pyrenees.
OTHER PERSON 1: You really like this game, huh?
ME: Duh. It rules.
OTHER PERSON 1: Where is this at?
ME: Rossi's. I thought I overheard you say something about Rossi's.
OTHER PERSON 2: I don't think we mentioned it.
ME: You're kidding.
OTHER PERSON 2: You're probably just hearing things. Well, I'm going to get another beer, excuse me.
OTHER PERSON 1: Yeah, me too.
ME: H'Okay.
So, the moral of the story is this: I am bad at networking, and very good at getting people to drink faster and spend more money on beer. I'm annoying even when sober.
...
Wednesday, February 1, 2006
Why I can't hit on guys: a memory.
True story:
So let's say I'm in junior high, and it's the first day of school. Let's pretend that I am biologically crazy. Hormones are so abundant you can actually see them crawling all over students. People start dating and kissing and participating in things I wouldn't even dream about trying until I was at least fifteen.
Three elementary schools have merged into Lincoln Junior High, and there are new faces everywhere. One new face is in my English class. I immediately know that he is going to be my newest crush, because he's all brown and golden with very big, clean teeth. In the past I just would meander around the Boy of My Dreams until we became friends. Which was stupid, because they all liked me, but they never liked me liked me, and in the end I was left heartbroken, never to love again.
So the Golden Boy is in my class, and I sit next to him, loving him with all my heart, more than any boy I loved previously, shamelessly soaking in his glow, because he is glowing. Glowing with my love for him.
My past loves are nothing in retrospect, all the feelings I had ever had towards any boy could not be added or multiplied or made big enough in any way to even compare to the universe-sized adulation I have towards Him. Obviously, my eleventh year of existence was going to be the first year of the rest of my life...the rest of my life with the Golden Boy.
Six and a half minutes into our relationship and we have not yet spoken, but I sit next to him as Mr. Nelson is going over the syllabus and I know we're in love, and I can feel that he knows too, because he keeps making sideways glances in my direction. I deduce that he's finally met his Eternal Soulmate, as have I. The fact that his last name comes directly before mine in the alphabet and that Mr. Nelson has the clairvoyance to seat us adjacent to one another can only be explained with one magical word: destiny.
Mr. Nelson must know that he is making romantic history. He will give a speech at our wedding, because he will be invited, given the fact that he designed such a perfect, love-cultivating seating chart for his third period English class.
I sniff because I have a cold, in real eleven-year-old life, and my fantasy continues.
We are meant to be Boyfriendgirlfriend. We will have that Title. People will ask me in the sixth grade hallway, "Are you guys, like, Boyfriendgirlfriend?" and I will answer, with gusto, "Of course we are Boyfriendgirlfriend." I'll secretly think to myself, "and we always will be."
Here is how it will happen, I imagine. He is going to turn and face me, and I am going to smile shyly. Then he'll ask to see my pen, because he will notice that I have a pen that is seven colors in one depending on which tab you press down at the top, and he'll tell me it's really cool, because most people need seven different pens if they want blue, black, red, green, orange, purple, and yellow, and yellow pens are very hard to find.
Then he'll ask me if I ever use the yellow pen for homework, and I will explain that I don't because teachers don't like yellow pen in junior high, but sometimes I use it to take notes.
Then I'll hand him the pen, and our outstretched fingertips will touch lightly, and at the exact moment of contact time will stop. We won't be able to break the touch, and a pale luminescence will form around our connected fingers like in ET except more romantically, and that luminescence will eventually spread to encircle our entire bodies. We'll stare into each others eyes, and then he'll know and I'll know that we both know that the other knows and everyone'll know that our love for one another is Infinite and True even though we are only in sixth grade and then I sneeze very loudly mid-vision.
Golden Boy turns towards me and says with no regard for decent volume, "Uggh, that was disgusting. And stop looking at me, it's weird." Quiet giggles are heard around the room.
Nearly every encounter I've had with a boy has mirrored that exact moment of my life.
...
So let's say I'm in junior high, and it's the first day of school. Let's pretend that I am biologically crazy. Hormones are so abundant you can actually see them crawling all over students. People start dating and kissing and participating in things I wouldn't even dream about trying until I was at least fifteen.
Three elementary schools have merged into Lincoln Junior High, and there are new faces everywhere. One new face is in my English class. I immediately know that he is going to be my newest crush, because he's all brown and golden with very big, clean teeth. In the past I just would meander around the Boy of My Dreams until we became friends. Which was stupid, because they all liked me, but they never liked me liked me, and in the end I was left heartbroken, never to love again.
So the Golden Boy is in my class, and I sit next to him, loving him with all my heart, more than any boy I loved previously, shamelessly soaking in his glow, because he is glowing. Glowing with my love for him.
My past loves are nothing in retrospect, all the feelings I had ever had towards any boy could not be added or multiplied or made big enough in any way to even compare to the universe-sized adulation I have towards Him. Obviously, my eleventh year of existence was going to be the first year of the rest of my life...the rest of my life with the Golden Boy.
Six and a half minutes into our relationship and we have not yet spoken, but I sit next to him as Mr. Nelson is going over the syllabus and I know we're in love, and I can feel that he knows too, because he keeps making sideways glances in my direction. I deduce that he's finally met his Eternal Soulmate, as have I. The fact that his last name comes directly before mine in the alphabet and that Mr. Nelson has the clairvoyance to seat us adjacent to one another can only be explained with one magical word: destiny.
Mr. Nelson must know that he is making romantic history. He will give a speech at our wedding, because he will be invited, given the fact that he designed such a perfect, love-cultivating seating chart for his third period English class.
I sniff because I have a cold, in real eleven-year-old life, and my fantasy continues.
We are meant to be Boyfriendgirlfriend. We will have that Title. People will ask me in the sixth grade hallway, "Are you guys, like, Boyfriendgirlfriend?" and I will answer, with gusto, "Of course we are Boyfriendgirlfriend." I'll secretly think to myself, "and we always will be."
Here is how it will happen, I imagine. He is going to turn and face me, and I am going to smile shyly. Then he'll ask to see my pen, because he will notice that I have a pen that is seven colors in one depending on which tab you press down at the top, and he'll tell me it's really cool, because most people need seven different pens if they want blue, black, red, green, orange, purple, and yellow, and yellow pens are very hard to find.
Then he'll ask me if I ever use the yellow pen for homework, and I will explain that I don't because teachers don't like yellow pen in junior high, but sometimes I use it to take notes.
Then I'll hand him the pen, and our outstretched fingertips will touch lightly, and at the exact moment of contact time will stop. We won't be able to break the touch, and a pale luminescence will form around our connected fingers like in ET except more romantically, and that luminescence will eventually spread to encircle our entire bodies. We'll stare into each others eyes, and then he'll know and I'll know that we both know that the other knows and everyone'll know that our love for one another is Infinite and True even though we are only in sixth grade and then I sneeze very loudly mid-vision.
Golden Boy turns towards me and says with no regard for decent volume, "Uggh, that was disgusting. And stop looking at me, it's weird." Quiet giggles are heard around the room.
Nearly every encounter I've had with a boy has mirrored that exact moment of my life.
...
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