A Request For People

This post has been sitting in my drafts since August.  I keep on thinking I should post it and deciding against it, playing the game of semantics and signifiers against myself, using new examples, new ideas, trying to keep shit relevant and connected like new sets of Legos.

But in the end, if I keep on putting this off it will no longer be relevant. I used to just post whatever I was thinking every day regardless of relevance or writing, and for some reason lately I want to censor myself - I think it's because this blog is now connected to other places where I write.

Whatever. 

So sometimes I get drunk and rant about TOMs shoes.

This has been going on for a few years now.

Years of working in a non-profit coupled by a life-altering conversation with Priestess Miriam of the Voodoo Spirit Temple of New Orleans (who inadvertently introduced me to the perils of poverty tourism while I was knee-deep in poverty fucking tourism) have given me a different view of what it really means to give back.

I wish that all forms of altruism were created equal.

When I use "we" and "our" in this post I am speaking on behalf of the following people:  middle or upper class citizens of first world mainly English-speaking countries.  

My opinions, actions and interpretations are governed by my background.  To assume otherwise is irresponsible. I grew up as a very, very average middle class American.  As a person in a first world country with access to public education and the fucking internet, good intentions must be preceded by research.  They must.  It is irresponsible to think otherwise.

It is irresponsible, as a middle or upper class citizen of a first world country with altruistic tendencies, to throw ourselves willy-nilly into philanthropy.  It is irresponsible to assume that a cause is worthy just because it has a name.

...

A request for donors:  seriously guys, "breast cancer awareness" is not a cause, it is a conversation.  It's not even a fucking thing.  Yes, cancer is bad.  No one likes cancer - well, according to Rule 34, someone does - but no one questions the badness of it.  The world knows that cancer and Nazis are bad. Also, mildly related: Jessica is good at things.

Fight cancer by donating to research and relief. Check out the Breast Cancer Research Foundation or the National Breast Cancer Foundation is better.  The Avon Foundation is...whatever.  The Avon Foundation is not a charity.  Do they support a good cause?  Yes, and they give millions to it. But they make billions.

Personally, I try to separate philanthropy from both consumerism and income, which tricky.  Since I work for a non-profit it could stand to reason that I don't feel the need to donate money to a cause I support, but that's not how my head works.  Would I chose to buy products from an organization because they supported a good cause?  Possibly.  Only after research.  But I would never file that under "charitable giving," just like being employed by a charity is also not "charitable giving."

...

...and then there are TOMs.  Seriously?  People purchase their TOMs with no knowledge of how or where the shoes were made, no knowledge of where the donated pair is going or why...but also?

1. Some people hear "Africa" and "South America" and minds automatically jump to underprivileged children who are dirty, uneducated, and fucking shoeless. 

2. TOMs perpetuates the idea that whole continents, double the size of North America, in their entirety, NEED our help.  The very vocabulary that we use is ridiculous.

3.  WE perpetuate slum stereotypes about entire fucking continents full of millions of people from thousands of cultures because we are goddamn self-centered idiots.

4.  Those shoes are stupid-looking.  If I see someone wearing them, I will avoid that person. If that someone is a friend, I will spend the rest of the day wondering about my friend and their life choices and why they are being an ignorant trend-machine. Sors.


One of the things that I believe is that support should be localized and empowering.  That doesn't mean we shouldn't give money to "Africa" (I am so fucking sick of hearing about USAmericans generalizing fucking "Africa").  Operating from a stance where we assume we know how to help people from an entirely different background than our own with an entirely different agenda is, again, irrefuckingsponsible. Teaching a man to fish is only productive if that man lives near goddamn water.

The crazy thing is, shoes and other textiles are something that people can make themselves with simple tools and materials that most people in the world will actually have access to, and by just throwing shoes at "poor kids in Africa" we are taking away their community market.

If you must help "Africa," first stop with ignorant generalizations, and then consider Riders for Health.

...

A request for people making charitable contributions:

Please do not earmark your gift for something and then change your mind seven months later and assign it to something else.  Chances are your gift has been spent, and you are forcing an organization to pull funds we wanted to put into different programs, and now those programs cannot go forward.

In fact, don't earmark that gift at all.  The greatest way to help is to let the professionals decide where it should go.  Unless you are employed by the organization to which you are donating, you are not one of the professionals.

 ...

A request for volunteers:

It is rad that you want to make a difference.  You are a nice person.  Congrats! But please consider the ramifications of your volunteering. 
 
For example, let's say you want to help out at an inner-city school.  The school would love it if you could help clean the deep dark corners since their janitorial staff is limited.  But, well?  You were really hoping you could volunteer with kids, you know?  You really want something that will directly help the kids.  Couldn't you just read to a classroom or something?  Help a science class for a day?

That's YOU not willing to give the help that is needed.  You are not volunteering if you dictate the terms.  You are demanding we give you a cool story to tell your friends.  Fucking tourist. 

Not only that, but you aren't helping.  You're just as a disruption, taking learning time away from the kids and the teachers.  Remember what it was like when you were in school?  One person shows up to talk to your class and nothing gets done for the rest of the day. 

...

I have so many more things to say, but that will make this post go on too long...whatever, I'm posting this for me anyway, just so I can have it on record for myself. I feel like once I post something on here it's a weight off my shoulders and I don't have to obsess over it anymore.


Your actions affect people.  My actions affect people, and I'm trying to learn how to be more wary of it, but it's an ongoing process.  Omniscience is like really hard, so we don't need to be aware of everything, and mistakes are okay.  Hell, I drive my car short distances every day.  But please remember the reasons behind charity.

...

What Happens In the Oreo Lounge...Happens Every Day.

(Scene: An office. Friday afternoon. Three twenty-something girls are chatting in the "break room," but none of them call it that. About two years ago one of these ladies (that means me, a-holes) changed the room's Caller ID to "The Oreo Lounge," no one else in the office knew how to work the phones to change it back. She considers this a personal victory. Back then, there were fuckloads of Oreos, like, all the time. Which is weird, because back then she was thinner. She is now considering an all-Oreo diet. She remembers how well the Oreos softened when she dipped them in her coffee (The Oreo Lounge was always out of milk). Those were some delicious fucking Oreos. Perhaps a trip to CVS is in order. Oooo--and white cheddar Cheez-Its. Those need to happen.)


Nat: I just like, you know, being spontaneous. Like Howie is way more down to earth about stuff, but I'm like hey, you know, let's go out to dinner, let's see a movie, let's do something! But all he wants to do is watch baseball.

C-Bird: Same thing with Eric, but instead of just like, going out, we've got team conflict.

Rassles: Why'zat?

C-Bird: (she rolls her eyes) He's a Cubs fan. (the co-workers nod in understanding. Nat sucks in a breath)

Rassles: (taking a sip of her coffee) I like him.

C-Bird: You would.

Rassles: You guys are so brave. You're like a sixties bi-racial couple. Will your children be raised to be snobs or racists?

Nat: What's that? Cubs or Sox?

(Rassles nods, gravely)

C-Bird: I can't even think about that right now.

Nat: I think she'll teach her kids to be more open-minded about which team they choose. Things aren't always in Cubs or Sox. Sometimes you gotta hit that-uh-Bear middle ground.

(The three girls laugh a little, and do that thing where they simultaneously sigh out "yeah," and then they politely laugh again.)

C-Bird: Still, getting him to go out with my friends is like herding cats.

Rassles: I love that phrase. But I like to substitute "cats" with "hamsters." I support alliteration.

C-Bird: (completely ignoring her) It's like we're settling into this routine.

Nat: Yeah. Come home, work out, eat dinner, watch TV, sleep.

C-Bird: Lather, rinse, repeat. Everything gets so boring. Let's shake it up a little, you know?

(A man sticks his head into the Oreo Lounge)

Thomacz: Ladies! I've just been off the phone with Action Man. He has given us permission to leave work around two this afternoon, provided the mail has arrived.

C-Bird: Thanks!

Rassles: Thank you, sir.

Nat: I knew it.

Thomasz: You ladies are very welcome. (he pops back out to go spread the news to other co-workers)

Rassles: Yeah buddy. (she turns to her co-workers) We should totally celebrate and grab a drink or something. An off-work-early drink of awesomeness.

C-Bird: Yeah, I prolly should just get home. I told Eric that I thought we were getting off early, and we were gonna grab an early dinner.

Nat: Yeah, I can't either. I gotta work out.

Rassles: You work out every night.

Nat: Well, if you've got a schedule you stick to it.


So much for fucking spontaneity.

...

Like A Dream I'm Flowin' Without No Stoppin'

Yesterday morning I woke up with the Mighty Mighty fucking Bosstones in my head, which is obnoxious because I have never, ever, ever in my life enjoyed their music because it all sounds like blaring Kraft singles and growly, chain-smoking hamsters. That's the impression that I get.

But for thirty five seconds I had this lyrical couplet skittering through my brain--I'm not a coward, I've just never been tested, I'd like to think that if I was I would pass--and for thirty-five seconds I found them lyrical geniuses. Genii. Every single time I think of the plural of geniuses, I wish it were genii. Is this the appropriate spelling? Confer and report.

Then I showered singing Tom Jones (because you gotta sing Tom Jones in the shower, people. I been really feelin' Tom Jones, lately, because his voice is as bright and bombastic as the fucking sun). Went through my usual morning routine of creaking across the hallway in my towel seven hundred times to retrieve forgotten bathroom items, got dressed, made my hair look a little bit pretty, missed the bus, drove halfway to work, missed another bus, sweated through the hot wind, pulled my hair up because it didn't look pretty no more, got on the next bus, became absorbed in my book, missed my bus stop, walked two blocks back to work, entered the office half an hour late and all the morning sweat froze directly to my trembling body because it is fucking freezing in my office.

Someday I will live in a world where this every morning scenario will result in a meet-cute between me and my future not-husband (marriage is a gimmicky trick), who will hopefully have the rich, virile purl of either (a) Tom Jones or (b) MCA.

So was sitting at my desk, imagining myself traipsing around the heat-sensitive Predator-vision forest with lumberjack gangsta MCA (this is a go-to personal fantasy - if you try to knock me you'll get mocked), when it started storming outside and everyone in the office freaked out.

My phone rang. I answered. "So what'cha want?"

Co-worker Amy hyperventilated into her end of the reciever, "It is like thunder and lightning out there."

"Whoa. Superscary."

"It is. You need to come back here and see this."

"Gimme a few."

"Okay." She hangs up.

Phone rings again.

"Dude, are you looking out the window right now?" Co-worker Natalie rushed out before I can even come up with a interesting greeting.

"What window? I have no window."

"It is like thunder and lightning."

"Thunder and lightning, huh?"

"Yeah, it's like Thunder! Lightning!"

"The way you love me is frightening. Shit, what song is that?"

"What song?"

"You know. It's like thunder (thundah!) lightning (lightning!)...the way you love me is frightening!"

"I have no idea."

"Yes you do. Like a million people sing it. Goddammit."

"Whatever, just come look out the window."

"Fine." We hang up. The phone rings again, and I just pick it up and sing, "It's like thunder (boom!) lightning (crash!)."

"How'd you know from all the way over there?" my boss asked, laughing.

"This storm is all the rage."

"Yes it is. I need you in here in five seconds, JJO's got a question about the Floyds' Patron gift."

"Yessir." I hung up the phone and booked over to the corner office, watching the dark wind through the windows on the way, trying to remember that fucking song on the way, recalling details about the Floyds on the way.

Action Man has JJO on speaker, who's saying, "We need to get the Advisory Board to approve of that funding, knock on wood."

AND THEN I FREAKED THE HELL OUT.

...

Explanatory Links:

"The Impression That I Get" by Mighty Mighty Bosstones (check out the microphone that guy is rockin - it looks like he's singing into a giant fucking Smith & Wesson)

"Knock on Wood" by Eddie Floyd

...

LATER EDIT: Just so you know, we have thunder and lightning. We have it in spades. But this was thunder and lightning with limited rain and a cloudless, yellow sky and 40 mph winds - where lightning spidered across the sky - the entire sky - and thunder lasted for twenty seconds at a time. This was some near tornado weather shit.

...

Rock My Adidas, Never Rock Fila

"Rossi! Donation from Sieman, huh?" My boss, The Action Man, calls from down the hall. (Is there a word for like, powering up so you can properly snap into action? I might have to invent one. Actually, I think it's ackshinackshinackshinackshinackshin.)

I snicker. "Khkhkhkhkh - semen." (Okay, so khkhkhkhkh is my weak attempt at properly spelling out a snicker. In live oration, I am a professional Snickerer, and one never mistakes my snickering for anything, but on the internet it just looks like the call of Cthulhu. Also, I am twelve.)

Sure enough, Action Man steams around the corner like fucking turbine and points at me with a ferocious grin. "Rossi! Are you kickin' the new K-knowledge?"

I stop my snickering to gasp as he chugs past. "Sir! Did you just drop the science like Galileo dropped the orange?"

He turns at the door and winks. "I believe I just did."

"I can't believe you're all up in the Beastie Boys."

"Saw 'em in '88!" he yells from outside, and as the elevator dings onto our floor I can hear hammering out, "Right up to your face and diss you..."

My boss is excellent.

...

Turtle Legs and Saag

"Okay. So the plan is: finish work one hour after everyone else. Purchase jeans. Purchase toilet paper."

"Oh, I hate jean shopping."

"I fucking agree."

"It's like you're wearing someone else's pants-"

"Super lame."

"-and you have to take your shoes off, but it's cold outside even though you're inside and you feel like you should be cold, so you just buy them without trying them on and bring them home and they never fit right."

"I have to try things on. At the store. I can't buy clothes online or anything. Never works. One time I got the same sweater, same size, two different colors. One was substantially bigger than the other."

"It's like--"

"It's like I was being punished for my audacity in expecting two mass produced articles of clothing to be remotely identical."

"Yeah." Co-worker Natalie laughs uncomfortably. She always laughs uncomfortably. Sometimes I think she laughs out of obligation rather than enjoyment. I appreciate the effort, but it makes me sad. Sometimes I would just rather have people not laugh. I am annoying.

"I should learn. Never assume. You assume, and then everyone's an ass. You, me. Making into asses. Being made into. Asses. All of us. Never assume, because...oh, shut up, me."

"You should just go to Old Navy," Natalie says after a few minutes of work. "It's the easiest. It's like dead there, everything is on sale. I got a pair of jeans for like nineteen dollars. It was awesome."

I glance over at her desk, nodding at her slim, long legs. "You don't have turtle legs."

Real laugh this time. "Whe-wha-psssh. Neither do you."

"Don't humor me. Seriously. It's impossible for me to find jeans. Other pants are fine, I can alter them myself, but denim is harder."

"What? You're like the same height as me."

"I will bet you nine hundred dollars my legs are like four inches shorter than yours."

"Okay, well, why don't you just get the petite ones?"

"They never have them. Fucking Old Navy."

"Well, they might have the shorter ones. Can't hurt to try."

"yeah, but then I've got to worry about the waist. Am I a Flirt? Or a Diva? Neither, assholes, fuck you, give me a pair of jeans."

"I like the Dreamer."

"I am super dreamy."

"With your dreamy turtle legs."

"But I know they won't be there, and then I'll be mad. And you know what? I'm not gonna just wear khakis and other bullshit pants instead. Nuh uh. If I can't wear jeans, I'm going all out. I WILL BUST OUT THE SKIRTS. I ain't a'feared."

"Won't you need to buy skirts first?"

"Fucking whatever."

"You'll probably spend the same amount of time looking for skirts as you would jeans."

"Definitely."

"And then you'll have to buy shoes other than hiking boots and Chuck Taylors."

"I need new boots anyway." I really do. I've had these bastards since 2001, back when I worked at the zoo, and they keep my feet warm and dry and they're a goddamn eyesore. Everyone hates them, especially all those stupid bitches soaking in their Uggs, the ones who suffer for fashion and viciously judge my rational winter footwear. Of course, most likely no one notices my boots, and I'm the one irrationally judging. "You know what," I add after a pause, "I've had enough of your bojangled logic business. Let me have my fury."

"You could just ask for jeans for your birthday."

"Yeah fucking right. Like my family could ever get it right."

"Well you never know until you try."

"But they don't know what I like, and I don't like what they like. We can't even agree on restaurants. They're always all, 'you pick a restaurant, it's your birthday!' and then I get pulled aside by my dad, and he's all 'try to pick some place where your mother and sisters can find food, will ya?' So in the end, I'm not picking my own dinner, I'm trying to make everyone happy, and we just eat Italian again. Horseshit."

"And Italian family goes out for Italian food? Why don't you just make it yourselves?"

"Because the mom cooks, and she's Irish. At least my dad is willing to try to pretend he'll eat new things, but he goes in there with expectations. Like I took him to Indian Harvest, and he was convinced he would hate it because he doesn't like curry. Didn't matter how much I told him that not all Indian food had curry, he was fucking resilient. And then he didn't understand the menu and got all huffy, and I said I'd order for him because I know what he likes, but that just made him more upset and he ordered fucking chicken curry and then was mad when he didn't like it. So I made him eat my saag, and he was all, 'oh, that's not bad.' Fucking duh, Daddio."

"So will he now go out for Indian food?"

"After serious coaxing, he can be convinced. Still. It drives me fucking nuts. It's like, I know what I'm talking about, dad. Trust me."

The day goes on. Work ends. I leave. I buy jeans and toilet paper as planned. I return to work this morning.

"Look at you! You found jeans!"

"You know it." I model them. Do a little jig, because modeling things is embarrassing. "I completely dig them."

"And where did you find them?"

I look down, scrunch my nose. "Old Navy."

"So they had the petite ones?"

I scrunch again. "No. These are regular."

"And they fit your turtle legs just fine."

I sigh. "Yep."

I am becoming my father.

...

Sure, Nutella Tastes Good, But It Ain't No Peanut Butter.

Riding in the elevator down to the lobby, it occurs to me that I should have brought my wallet so I could get a bag of Cool Ranch after picking up the applications, and get two birds stoned at once. I'll just have to get it later.

With a tone the doors shift open, and I wince as my boots click on the granite floor. I feel like a villain. How does one hush the click of their boots? Glue cotton balls to the sole, soften things up a little. Like a metaphor or something. What does the sound of your shoes suggest about the tenderness of your soul?

What should my shoes sound like? A louder thud with a legato hum, one step slurs into the other with a sort of, I don't know...letter B. Each sounds like a "buh," loud and stretched, but squashy all the same. Maybe not squashy. Butternutty? Is that what my soul sounds like?

I love pushing through this revolving door, because each revelation is like saving the earth.

Rain. Rain should always be like wandering into the middle of a cool, invisible surprise party. One where I am the guest of honor. We're having a good time, getting into a little mischief, and we've gotten over the awkward small talk and have yet to enter blinding, drunken turbulence. From this moment on, I will try to live life like that.

Also:

Dear Me,

Stop eating Reese's pumpkins, fatty. Live life like that. Without all the peanut butter.

Love, Me

Will Reese's ever develop Nutella cupcakes? That could be delicious. But then I would have to eat two at once (one to cancel the other) because Nutella just makes me wish I had peanut butter.

"Hello, ladies," I say to the two smiling, elderly principals waiting for me in their car on the street. They hand me packages of school grant applications, and I thank them for beating the deadline, and they ask if I have an umbrella. I explain that I have bad luck with umbrellas, because sometimes I get drunk and give them to homeless people sleeping in boarded doorways. We say goodbye. As they shift back into the busy traffic I offer a wave, when a random angry-looking woman stalks up to me.

"This is the FUCKING BUS LANE," she shouts angrily, and flicks off the nice old ladies in the car before trying to stare me down.

I point at her and laugh, and keep on chuckling over my shoulder as I click back into the office building through the rain.

Today is a good day.

...

The Grand Illusion: Sure, I Work Here, and I Can Pass For Your Kind, But I Will Never Be One of You.

Sarah wasn't actually asking me this question. She just happened to be standing in front of my desk while she was asking co-worker Caroline. I'm not surprised that she didn't ask me. We don't really get along.

It's not so much that we don't get along, I guess. I like them a lot, they're all very enjoyable people despite the fact that they'd never heard of Kurt Vonnegut (which is like saying you've never heard of goddamn Mickey Mouse). But we aren't friends outside of work, even though we're all roughly the same age. And this is why:

"So guess who's playing at School of Rock this year?" Sarah tags Caroline.

"Who?"

I watch them, interested.

"You're never going to believe it."

I raise my eyebrows and totally interrupt. "What's School of Rock?"

"It's that fundraiser SM High School has at the House of Blues every year. Wait, didn't you go last year?"

"Nah, prolly not." We here at Save the Underprivileged Students of Chicago have so many fundraisers to hit up it's hard keeping them lined up all nice and pretty. But I'm sure I didn't go, because the price of beers at House of Blues exceeds $5, and that's $4 too much for a shithole venue like the House of Blues.

Besides, like I said, the coworkers and I don't see eye to eye. (As an aside, I'm trying to think up some clever Title for "my co-workers", but the only thing I could come up with is "The CoWoks" which sounds regrettably similar to "The Ewoks," and I don't want to give the impression that the CoWoks are comparable to big fat two-legged shitzus with crude spears and treehouses, mostly because these CoWoks are far more intelligent than I am. Plus that name sucks. Suggestions welcome.)

"Okay, whatever. Well, last year it was the Lovin' Spoonful, and it was horrible."

I want to argue with her just to be contrary, and show my unswerving support for "Do You Believe In Magic?" but then I remember that I don't really like that song very much, and just nod in understanding.

"But this year? Guess who's playing?"

Caroline jumps in. "Journey!"

"Styx."

"GET RIGHT OUTTA TOWN." I am in awe.

"You know who they are, right?" Sarah asks, excited. "They're the band that plays that one song, you know, Come Sail Away."

My awe swells to straining proportions as the CoWoks struggle to sing the chorus. Sarah is very proud of herself for this name drop, beaming like a beauty queen.

"Djyeah," I stutter breathily, which is actually a superfancy, highly applicable combination of the abbreviation for "Didja really just insinuate that my ridiculously hefty familiarity with rock and roll history was too base to recognize the crazy famous band to which you refer?" and "yeah." And then I started laughing hysterically.

"Isn't it insane?" she adds. "How did they get them to play?"

"Well, Styx is from the South Side."

"Are they really?"

"Yeah, and I think one of them went to seminary. I wonder if they went to SMHS?" That would certainly be logical, since SMHS is a Catholic school, and the only people that hit up seminary are those crazy Catholics.

"Wait, what else do they sing?" Caroline asks.

"Duh, like, Grand Illusion. And Lady. And Lorelai. And Renegade."

They look at me blankly, so I urge them with a flawless singing rendition of, "Oh mama I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the laaaawwww..." recognition shines on their faces, but only slightly, so I skip ahead a couple lines, "Hangman's coming down from the gallows and I don't have very loooongg...WAAAHHHHH!" (CLOSED-EYED AIR PUNCH). "The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me. A renegade who had it made, muh-nah-nuhnuh-nuh-nuh..." (whatever, you can't expect me to know all of the lyrics).

"Buh-duh-duuuhhhhduh maa-aaan," Caroline chimes, skipping to the last line of the chorus.

"Exactly."

"You have way too much free time on your hands."

"Not really."

"Why do you know all of this?"

"Because while you guys were studying in college, I was memorizing liner notes and lyrics to dumbass rock songs. Hence the C+ average. And one D. Which was horseshit, because that bitch professor was totally gunning for me."

They both scoff, smiling, and Sarah shakes her head. "You're so weird."

There's a pause, and I retort brilliantly, "Whatever, I think you guys're weird."

...

Stress.

I've accidentally found a pressure point beneath my jaw, and it makes me slightly lightheaded and a little eye-crossy.

Chances are it is the opposite of a good idea to sit here at my desk applying a little pressure, but as an untrained/novice acupuncturist/martial artist/pressure-pointerist I feel it is my duty to determine just how much crush I can flood into this little guy.

I'm going to jam two fingers in there in just a New York minute, just because--

My boss just walked by. I told him I was taking my blood pressure. Yessir, I am feeling hunky dory. Would you like a Jolly Rancher?

Get right outta town -- watermelon is my favorite, too.

Finger-pistols with sound effects? Sir, you are the High Plains Drifter of the non-profit world. You go paint the town red. Ahhhhhh! Yah got me, stranger.

Tarnation, you done got this imaginary shot fixed in my neck. Feeling slightly woozy. No, no...I'll be fine.

I just...I just need to keep pressure on it.

...

Business.

Here at our office, that being the office of Saving The Deserving Children Of The World One Day At A Time Because We Are Noble And Heroic And Our Employment Is Not At All Sarcastically Contingent To The Fact That We Are Otherwise Unemployable But Nobly and Heroically So, which is our non-profit's official name--you can google the fuck out of it--we are all about the not-wearing-of-jeans.

If the decision were mine, I would wear jeans daily, but currently we have daily business attire and no casual Friday. Also, drinking on the job is frowned upon. Horseshit.

Today, though, all of our Directors were all, "suck it, bitches, I'm totally not coming in today" so we, the Lesser Heroes, were all, "suck it, Directors, we are wearing the fuck out of our jeans today" and then we totally did just that.

The thing about wearing jeans, though, is that my other pants, as business as they are (if business were an adjective, because I use it in fancy archetypal phrases like, "That's business, right there"), are really at about the same physical comfort level as my other pants.

So I'm pretty sure that the relaxed feeling floating around the office is unrelated to material and contact and fibers, and it's totally just because we associate jeans with couches and Cool Ranch Doritos and lax softness and laughing with friends. And we're just as productive.

Well, I'm writing a blog, but fucking whatever. I get shit done.

I like it better this way.

...

I Ruin My Life, Or: Why Writing Is Like Sausage

I realized today, about five minutes ago, that I am absolutely terrified of trying to find a new job, and I do not want to do this forever, and I'm slowly ruining my own life with fear.

Not that I'm looking for a job, because I'm not. I have no plans of quitting. But seriously, after working here, what step up do I take?

I mean, my mom got me this internship here two and half years ago, and then I was promoted...but still. The four years preceding this job were full of interviews and denials, hundreds (thousands?) of resumes detailing dog grooming and zookeeping and bartending and whatever. Cracking into the Suit World is fucking hard when you have no marketable skills, no goals, and you barely graduated college.

They really advertise my insignificance around here when I'm not invited to things where the Important People all hang out with each other and talk about investing and financial stuff. I'm a fucking office manager. Children could do my job. Really really small ones. With sticky hands and speech impediments.

I know I can't do businessy things because I'm not cut out for this. Where do I go to make things and build things? Is there a job for that? Thing-doing? The only tangible goal I have in my life is to someday make enough money to live in a place with a yard so I can have a dog.

I'm trying to have a more ambitious mindset, I'm trying to learn the game, but I'm not a kiss-ass, I'm not a go-getter, I'm not very sharp, and I really have no self-confidence at anything other than telling stories and drinking, and I learned all of this about myself, really and truly, and understood it, about five minutes ago.

I miss waiting tables. I liked being the promising fuck-up instead of the disappointing success.

Man, I am such a fucking baby right now.

Shit. And I'm crying at my desk. I don't do this. No one's in the office right now, though. Every single other person is at an important meeting.

So at least they can't see me.

How did I get here? Happy childhood, no trauma, no abuse, very clean. Everything about me was/is average. Okay grades, good family. Good friends. At least I think they're good friends, and by that I mean the best friends like ever. Is that what it is? Is it because my friends are better than everyone elses, so to balance out that overwhelming Awesome, everything else must be mundane?

No great love or relationship, as always. I have an okay job which I do well enough. Chicago is an okay place to live (it is a fantastic place to live and a horrible place to live - so, you know, concept of balance). I'm not superhot but I sure ain't superugly. I support myself, but don't save. I get along with people well enough, unless I decide they're a douchebag.

I am the opposite of extraordinary. Is that why I turned to writing - so I can take all of the banal, the useless, the boring, and grind it out until I think it's linked together and delicious, like sausage?

How could I expect to write anything with a plot when my life lacks one?

So obviously, I need to go and start some shit. I don't know what, but I've been yammering about epicness lately, and then nothing epic really happened, so that means if some epic shit's going to go down, then it's up to me, right? Right.

Okay. I feel better now.

...

We Are Humoring You.

I do not work for the Salvation Army. This place isn't fucking Amvets. Both worthy organizations, however both have very very little to do with mine.

So why, Mr. Dicknose, do you think you can just dump all of your shit on our doorstep? Now I have to haul all of your baby bottles and clothing up to my office, take an inventory, and then find somewhere for it to go. It's not my job to the be the fucking middle man, and you're telling all of your friends about us? We are doing you a favor, jagoff.

People with too much money piss me off. Oh, I'll just give you this old breast pump and these cracked dishes, so you can disperse it amongst needy elementary schools.

No, Dicknose, that's not how it works. We're humoring you, my boss and I, because you have an important daddy, and pretending we're flattered and grateful for this broken alarm clock, for these six artificial decorative pears, for used underwear and a furniture painting kit. Your generosity with the inner-city children is tremendous. I know that our schools will be able to put this horseshit to good, creative use.

That, or I'm just going to haul it over to Salvation Army myself, and save you the trip. Hopefully someday you will give us something useful. For example? Art supplies. Pencils, notebooks. Computer equipment.

And then there's Mr. Silver Spoon Scholarship Man, who feels like the reception we have for his scholars isn't classy enough, so could we throw a benefit at this expensive dinner restaurant? This will cost our organization four thousand dollars.

They're fourth graders, sir. I know you want them to have the experience of eating at some fancy establishment, but none of them are going to care about asparagus pasta with butter garlic sauce and whitefish vomit with capers. They want cheese fucking pizza, maybe sausage. They want to eat their swirly ice cream in tiny paper cups with flat wooden double-sided spoons. We do not have unlimited funds, here.

Okay, sir. Whatever you say.

I hate that my boss is a pushover.

...

Shadows in the Land of Rassles.

It's over. I have nothing left to believe in.

My boss, who I affectionately refer to as "Action Man" in my head and to his face, but only with a salute, because he runs everywhere and only speaks in exclamation-pointed His-Girl-Friday-Fast-Talk, See? is forcing me to do all of these horrible things that I don't feel comfortable doing.

From: Action Man
Sent: Monday, April 13, 20094:35 PM
To: Rassles
Subject: RE: BSF on Facebook!


Rossi, you on Facebook yet? Get on that, Missy!

Come see me when you have a few minutes. Website questions - what does this word mean?

I almost forgot! Go Cubbies! Have a cold one for me! But after work! Facebook!

- Action Man

Seriously, sir? Why you gotta be a raging bitch?

No, I am not going to be your friend.

...

Later addition, 6:45 PM: I signed up for Facebook and then immediately deleted my account. It feels wrong. In my soul. It just feels wrong.

...

When You Stress to Impress

"I'll tell you what's so great about it," I looked at her, "it's that desperation is the hardest emotion to convey without falling into self-indulgence and pity."

"So," a co-worker is laughing at me, "you like it because it's desperate."

"Well, partly, yeah. But no," I'm furrowed now. "It's just good."

"You read weird things, though," she turns another book over in her hands. "So there's no like, superheroes in it, right? You're not trying to trick me?"

Sigh. "No. That book," I gesture towards my book that she's holding, "is like, mid-eighteenth century Brit lit. Like it's written by Jane Austin's like, favorite author equivalent of...I don't know. Some clever female feminist author that's popular right now but I've never heard of. I don't know. That book is nothing like Watchmen. It's just fun."

"I can't ever tell with you. You've got that one book that looks like a comic book, but it's not. You know, it's like, pink..."

"Three Musketeers."

"See? You read weird things."

"What the fuck? How is the Three Musketeers weird? It's classic."

"Don't you have anything, like, normal?"

"Dude, you asked if you can borrow a book from me--"

"But you know," she flips through the pages of The Adventures of Arabella. "I was thinking like, what was that one? You were talking about it a while ago and then one of my guy friends told me about it the other day, and I was like, 'Yeah, I've totally heard of that.' The one about the haunted house, and it's like the book is haunted too. Can I borrow that one?"

"House of Leaves? You think Three Musketeers is weird and you want to borrow House of fucking Leaves?"

"I don't know, my guy friend said that it was good," she smiles all sheepish and shrugs backwards, blushing.

"Fine, I'll get for you, but...dude: you thought Kurt Vonnegut was weird. I don't know if you're going to like that book."

"But it sounds interesting! And...scary. I like, like...you know, scary books sometimes."

"Good. That's awesome. I mean, it's fascinating and all, the story elements and how they're woven together, but, I mean, I didn't even get half of it..." she's looking me straight in the eyes and cannot hear a word I'm saying. Or at least, she temporarily walled up her ears. She's a very smart girl, really, way smarter than I am. Most people are. Then again, I kind of live in a different world than everyone else, because I've got this raging awesome ability to eclipse over the immaterial, which is anything that doesn't relate directly to me (Jennifer Lopez has children? How did I just learn this?).

And then I remembered what it's like when you're trying to impress some guy with your knowledge and opinions ("Oh, I looove Henry Miller" and "I always listen to NPR" and "Through a Glass Darkly is totally in my Netflix queue as we speak, I want to see it soooo bad, Bergman is amazing" - are you fucking kidding me? Bergman is. a. fuck., and I know that War of the Roses is next), and I feel like a total douchebagess (you know--like a shepherdess but a douchebag) because I am guilty of lame-o-ness and then I judge everyone else for doing the same thing.

"Yeah, of course, sorry. I'll bring it tomorrow. But I'm warning you, it's a stressful book."

...

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.

...

How About Instead of Staring at My Crotch You Just Tell Me That My Fly Is Open?

Hot damn I am classy today.

...

Agent Provocateur

The Top Five Honchos of the office are at some lame retreat today where they like, talk about the future of the organization and do trust falls and stuff, so the rest of us were like, "Wooooooo, partay."

Or you know, me and my neighboring co-worker, the Smooth Criminal, were like, "That bottle of wine has been sitting there since Christmas, and we are totally going to drink it."

However, we have no wine opener, so I spent five minutes trying to shove the cork into the bottle with my thumb. And then there was this popping sound, and then there was Chianti all over my computer screen. And the wall. And the ceiling. And like, every single piece of paper on my desk.

So then there was rummaging through cabinets for proper cleaning products, and do you know how hard it is getting red wine off of the wall?

I totally wore a pink shirt today, though, so yeah. One disaster, fucking thwarted.

And then everyone else, you know, those silly girls that had never heard of Kurt Vonnegut were all, "Oh, you're so bad, I can't believe you're drinking at work. I refuse to partake in such uncouth behavior" fucking blah blah blah. I'm like, "Seriously? Have some wine."

Apparently, the good-and-evil-shoulders of my coworkers are far, um...gooder than mine.

Whatever. Wusses.

...

All Clear.

I am completely incapable of writing letters at work today. I'm supposed to be drafting this entirely new acknowledgement letter for donors, and my boss wants me to use a specific quote that I just cannot logically justify, and I'm getting very frustrated, and thinking stupid ass thoughts, so I'm drafting one letter on here to clear out my head of all the fucking asinine things I can't put in an official document to our constituents.

There is a saying based off of an old Greek proverb that says, "The true meaning of life is to plant trees under whose shade one does not expect to sit." In classrooms across the city, your generosity is providing shade to countless deserving students.

Shade that protects them from the unruly rays of the vicious sun, from our deteriorating ozone layer, preventing otherwise inevitable skin cancer. Your donation of $XXX is like SPF 137, saving children from a killer burn and multiple malignant moles (plus one for alliteration).

And those Greeks know all about the sun, hence the proverb, because it's always turned on over there. Undoubtedly they further pushed their solar agenda through Ovid and Homer, the Grecian Lucas and Spielberg, who continually illustrated that if you get too close to the sun, Zeus will fucking kill you (see Phaethon, Icarus).

But this is Chicago, not Philadelphia, so it's been gloomy for days. There's no point of pushing kids into the shade.

And Superman draws strength from the sun, and that one Roman emperor guy wrote that whole like, love-porn sonnet about the gentle caress of sunlight, and its licks of inspiration and warmth. Like I said, fucking Superman. The sun makes shit grow, man.

Keeping children in the shade is like the metaphorical equivalent of shrouding them in ignorance, encouraging them to stay indoors and shelter themselves from the frustrations of the world. That is not our goal, here at this organization. We're about growth, and educating future leaders.

So let me use a different quote, goddammit.

God, my writing lately is just fucking awful. Okay, go away now, I got all that out. Back to work.

...

Parents Are Fucktards

Out of all of the people I'm forced to speak to throughout the day, parents are by far and away the fucking worst.

Parents are the most demanding, unappreciative, disagreeable, deluded individuals on the planet. In every other aspect of their lives they could be acute, inspiring individuals with superhero powers and lives full of WIN, where they save hundreds of Dalmatian puppies from rich old ladies scouting for coats and stuff.

But as parents, you are all fucktards.

Your children are perfect, and you call to tell me so and demand money. Because she made the honor role once, and this other time she scored a goal in Park District soccer, and he babysits his neighbors for free, and he made a styrofoam solar system mobile that was more creative than all the other styrofoam solar system mobiles in class.

Eventually, during this swindling cataloging of the fascinating mediocrity of your child, I cut you off so you shut the hell up, because I'm sure your son is a wonderful child, but you're asking for a financial assistance at a school we don't support. We only give money to Chicago inner-city schools.

Oh, you knew that.

So you read our website. Good for you…but your son does not want to go to an inner-city school since you live in the suburbs.

That’s fine. I’ll sit here and snicker while you contemplate the weight of your words. You gotta lotta nerve, calling an organization that specializes in giving money to low-funded schools within Chicago's city limits and demanding we cut checks and dish out money to your individual family, while you are aware of our single requirement for assistance (attend one of our schools) and refuse to meet it.

But your son is the steadfast exception to every rule and gospel. I get it.

Then I apologize for being so short with you, because I know you truly believe you are Almighty, but I have this exact same conversation multiple times a day from parents in similar situations and mindsets. You are not unique. You are just like every other parent.

Good luck. That's the best I can give you

...

They Are The Future

When I sauntered into work this morning, our building was kind enough to provide a breakfast buffet for its inhabitants. Free cinnamon roll = hell yeah breakfast.

So melty cinnamon roll in hand, I sit down at my desk all ready to spend a day working myself into a gooey, sticky mess and catching up on all the work I missed yesterday, because we had some bullshit Christmas party for all of our high rolling donors. Not thirty seconds later, the boss decides decides to call me from his office.

"Ross! Guess what you get to do this afternoon at three!"

"I can hardly contain my curiosity."

"You know how [a bunch of other people I work with] are with carolers at the train station right now?"

"Yeah, of course."

"You get to lead the afternooners! Isn't that exciting?"

"Oh, man, are you kidding me?"

Then one of my coworkers walks by, smirking. "Yeah, we didn't want to tell you because we were afraid you'd call in sick."

"Goddammit."

The boss chirps over the intercom of my phone, with the laugh of a seriously unbalanced inmate, "You're welcome!" He only speaks in exclamation points.

So at three I bundle up and head over to a street corner in the loop to meet up with a bunch of overexcited students from two of our schools, who immediately demand hot chocolate and start singing "Jingle Bells" while they shook little fucking hand bells and played a cackling, ill-pitched rendition of "Silent Night" on their recorders.

Just because I raise money for schools does not mean I want to hear children singing. I loathe the sound of a large group of singing children. Love kids. They are the future. Just please stop singing in large groups. Your voices slice deeper than the wind chill.

Eventually, one of my coworkers got the brilliant idea that we should shuffle the kids over to the ABC studio so they could get on the five o'clock news. Guess who got to introduce them on television, naming their schools and pretending to smile and care deeply about the children of Chicago, with a snotty red face and layers of protection against the ten degree weather?

Oh, if you guessed me, then you get a fucking star.

...

Cold Pants Syndrome

From now on, I'm defining the temperature outside by how much it sucks wearing pants.

Because almost as much as I hate peeling off a pair of sweaty jeans in dead heat August (like the outter layer of an onion, where you just have to cut the damn thing right off) there might just be more misery building up when cold pants graze bare legs.

(Originally, I had this plan to plot certain points across the plane of a Cartesian coordinate system, like so:

where (x,y) at the origin is equal to (not at all sucky, 68 degrees) but it was too complicated to try to look up relevant results and don't feel like being quasi-trigonometrical anymore.)

Cold pants are never a continuous torture; they usually sneak up on you after you've remained stationary in the freeze for a bit. Maybe you're crossing a street and waiting for a long traffic light. Maybe you're stealing a secret cigarette in an alley behind your office building which you never do unless you really fucking hate the color printer.

(Gaahhh, maybe I should wear a bib when I eat my lunch so I don't drop ramen noodles down my fucking cleavage. I look like a jackass, sitting here digging around. Slippery little dbags.)

(I am a parenthetical mastermind today)

But either way, you stand there, looking around and watching everyone walk waddle in their winter gear, all puffy and wrapped (man I love winter: everyone looks like a big fat present), and you slowly and slightly tilt until your pants aren't touching your legs, frozen a quarter of an inch away from your skin. It's fun, because it's like, "Ha, I'm naked under these pants." And you are, I mean, everyone is naked under their pants, but sometimes just thinking naked makes you giggle because you're very immature for your age.

So eventually it's time to walk again, and as you lift your leg to take that first step your froze-ass pants slice up your leg and you mouth a silent, fuck. Because now you're even colder than before, and you've got the icey pants to prove it.

Mongo would say I need long johns. We've discussed this, briefly via blog, and I say they're weak. But if long johns prevent cold pants syndrome, well, then why the hell not? Is it worth being a wuss all day just to thwart the menace of cold pants for a fraction of a minute?

This is obviously a decision best made while staring into the bleak, empty pockets of my wallet.

Cold pants win.

...