Today after work I went to the supermarket in my work clothes, black peacoat, trendy scarf and leather gloves. I bought 7 SmartOnes frozen dinners, 2 yogurts, and a bag of oranges. As I was rifling through my tasteful purse (that was super-cheap) to pay for my wares, I came to the realization that I have become a walking, breathing stereotype of the quintessential single, slightly pathetic, 20-something female. I could have walked straight off some tired scriptwriter's set directly into my own little masquerade of a life.
Interesting, huh?
March 07, 2006
March 06, 2006
9 to 5... or rather, 10:30 to 7ish..
I have discovered bliss. If I could work from home in my pjs and glasses, my cat asleep next to me on the computer in my sunroom every day, I would be the happiest little employee on the planet.
Of course, to do this today I had to call in sick.
Cut me some slack - it's the first day of spring break, there are no students desperately clamoring for my assistance, the office closes early, and no one really cares except me. I have a 15 page midterm paper due next week and absolutely no time to sit down and do some serious research, so I elected to take today and make some progress. The fun thing is, with everything in the world networked and password-ed, I can basically do everything else I'd be doing at work from home as well. I can check the email and the fax machine, my calendar, and even commuicated with my fellow coworkers via Instant Message (except, of course, my boss - the person who tells me what to do. Oh, and the people at work I can't stand, who don't have my Instant Messanger ID). The only thing I'm leaving out here is answering the phones - the one part of my job I loathe with a passion. So really, it's 80% of the work and 0% of the aggrevation.
Maybe Carrie Bradshaw was onto something, tapping away at her keyboard in her trendy little uptown apartment all on her own. I always thought working at home would be lonely and isolated... but I think I may have been mistaken...
Of course, to do this today I had to call in sick.
Cut me some slack - it's the first day of spring break, there are no students desperately clamoring for my assistance, the office closes early, and no one really cares except me. I have a 15 page midterm paper due next week and absolutely no time to sit down and do some serious research, so I elected to take today and make some progress. The fun thing is, with everything in the world networked and password-ed, I can basically do everything else I'd be doing at work from home as well. I can check the email and the fax machine, my calendar, and even commuicated with my fellow coworkers via Instant Message (except, of course, my boss - the person who tells me what to do. Oh, and the people at work I can't stand, who don't have my Instant Messanger ID). The only thing I'm leaving out here is answering the phones - the one part of my job I loathe with a passion. So really, it's 80% of the work and 0% of the aggrevation.
Maybe Carrie Bradshaw was onto something, tapping away at her keyboard in her trendy little uptown apartment all on her own. I always thought working at home would be lonely and isolated... but I think I may have been mistaken...
March 01, 2006
Go Ahead and Kick That Puppy!
Quick addendum to my post the other day about Dunkin Donuts guy -
Why does Barry the Bartender* feel inclined to continue calling me? I gave him my number over a year ago in a fit of lonlines and moment of pure weakness. I have only returned one of his calls since December of '04 (because, appropriately enough, he happens to attend my institution a few nights a week and was confused about his bill) and have only picked up when he called once - because I was driving and didn't see the number on the screen. You would think good ol' Barry would have gotten the message by now. The message being, "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE". I feel bad because he's a nice enough guy, but part of what turns me off so badly is his sheer patheticness. It just goes to show that men really, really want and love to be treated like crap. The meaner you are, the more they adore you.
*his name isn't really Barry, but I feel bad disclosing the poor guy's identity. Wouldn't want you guys to point and laugh the next time you see him or anything.
Why does Barry the Bartender* feel inclined to continue calling me? I gave him my number over a year ago in a fit of lonlines and moment of pure weakness. I have only returned one of his calls since December of '04 (because, appropriately enough, he happens to attend my institution a few nights a week and was confused about his bill) and have only picked up when he called once - because I was driving and didn't see the number on the screen. You would think good ol' Barry would have gotten the message by now. The message being, "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE". I feel bad because he's a nice enough guy, but part of what turns me off so badly is his sheer patheticness. It just goes to show that men really, really want and love to be treated like crap. The meaner you are, the more they adore you.
*his name isn't really Barry, but I feel bad disclosing the poor guy's identity. Wouldn't want you guys to point and laugh the next time you see him or anything.
February 28, 2006
Land of Losers
Yesterday morning the Dunking Donuts drive-thru guy hit on me. Fabulous. Time to switch my special-morning-treat routine... the coffee at Muddy Cup is better anyway.
I now get to add to my trophy case the title of Queen of the Totally Inappropriate Suitors in addition to my reigning title, Queen of the Nerds (ask my high school friends about that one).
I now get to add to my trophy case the title of Queen of the Totally Inappropriate Suitors in addition to my reigning title, Queen of the Nerds (ask my high school friends about that one).
February 27, 2006
QOTD 2/27/06
Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views
beyond the comprehension of the weak; and that it is
doing God's service when it is violating all his laws.
--John Adams, 2nd US president
A woman is handicapped by her sex, and handicaps society,
either by slavishly copying the pattern of man's advance
in the professions, or by refusing to compete with man at
all.
--Betty Friedan, Feminist, author
beyond the comprehension of the weak; and that it is
doing God's service when it is violating all his laws.
--John Adams, 2nd US president
A woman is handicapped by her sex, and handicaps society,
either by slavishly copying the pattern of man's advance
in the professions, or by refusing to compete with man at
all.
--Betty Friedan, Feminist, author
February 24, 2006
February 21, 2006
Better Than Chocolate
Quite often I believe that the perfect cup of French Vanilla coffee is better than sex (from what I remember). And chocolate. No contest.
February 19, 2006
Bubble Girl
Here's my little tidbit for the day -
It's been mentioned recently that I have personal space issues. I guess I never realized that I may have a little bit more of an issue with others invading my "bubble" than most of my fellow Americans, but it's been made clear that I do. Let me make my personal space issues clear and irrefutable right here, right now:
[I am pointedly referencing this to the creepy grad students at work who lean over my desk, one or two specific coworkers from the past and present, disgusting drunk men at bars, the creepy ice patrol guy who totally ended my wonderful re-enactment of my childhood ice skating adventures yesterday, and every shmuck who's ever tried to grab my ass/boob/arm/leg while waitressing... to name a few.]
You are not allowed in my bubble without an explicit invitation. That's it. That's the rule, period. There are no exceptions to this rule. You've either been invited in or you haven't. It's like a vampire entering a mortal's house. If it is unclear as to whether or not you've been invited - maybe it's murky, maybe you're reading signals that you don't recognize, whatever - then you have not been invited in. End of story.
I also have the right to rescind said invitation whenever and however I feel like it. I'm sorry if this seems cruel and unusual to you, but it's just the way it is. You'll have to find someone else to grope if you find my rule so grievously offensive.
So there it is. I hope this helps all of you navigate the waters of your relationship with me (whether real or imaginary) with safety and enjoyment.
It's been mentioned recently that I have personal space issues. I guess I never realized that I may have a little bit more of an issue with others invading my "bubble" than most of my fellow Americans, but it's been made clear that I do. Let me make my personal space issues clear and irrefutable right here, right now:
[I am pointedly referencing this to the creepy grad students at work who lean over my desk, one or two specific coworkers from the past and present, disgusting drunk men at bars, the creepy ice patrol guy who totally ended my wonderful re-enactment of my childhood ice skating adventures yesterday, and every shmuck who's ever tried to grab my ass/boob/arm/leg while waitressing... to name a few.]
You are not allowed in my bubble without an explicit invitation. That's it. That's the rule, period. There are no exceptions to this rule. You've either been invited in or you haven't. It's like a vampire entering a mortal's house. If it is unclear as to whether or not you've been invited - maybe it's murky, maybe you're reading signals that you don't recognize, whatever - then you have not been invited in. End of story.
I also have the right to rescind said invitation whenever and however I feel like it. I'm sorry if this seems cruel and unusual to you, but it's just the way it is. You'll have to find someone else to grope if you find my rule so grievously offensive.
So there it is. I hope this helps all of you navigate the waters of your relationship with me (whether real or imaginary) with safety and enjoyment.
February 17, 2006
Top 10 List of Things That Make Me Want To Quit My Job
In no particular order:
1. Don't ask me if I'm the bursar's office. If I were, in my greeting I would say, "this is the bursar's office" not "this is the student solution center".
2. Don't call to argue with me about your late fee and how you 'plan' to pay your bill. Your bill was due 2 months ago - you DESERVE a late fee.
3. Loud coworkers who say stupid, ignorant things on a regular basis.
4. Snotty, bratty 20 year old undergraduates
5. Snotty, bratty 45 year old graduate students
6. Parents who intterupt and ask me if I'm a work-study student while I am patiently explaining to them how federal student aid regulations work.
7. People who ask "how are you" on the phone. They don't REALLY care, and never wait for a response. Don't bother, just ask your damn question so we can end this conversation.
8. Parents/students who calll and give me a first and last name, expecting me to instantaneously remember her/him out of the 3,500 people who attend the college.
9. Anyone who calls and says, "hi, who is this?" That REALLY pisses me off. Who the fuck are YOU, and what do you want? You're calling me, buddy.
10. Self-involved, bloated college professors who expect me to fill out ALL of their paperwork for them because they're too busy to do 'menial' tasks like inputting the correct grades for their students.
1. Don't ask me if I'm the bursar's office. If I were, in my greeting I would say, "this is the bursar's office" not "this is the student solution center".
2. Don't call to argue with me about your late fee and how you 'plan' to pay your bill. Your bill was due 2 months ago - you DESERVE a late fee.
3. Loud coworkers who say stupid, ignorant things on a regular basis.
4. Snotty, bratty 20 year old undergraduates
5. Snotty, bratty 45 year old graduate students
6. Parents who intterupt and ask me if I'm a work-study student while I am patiently explaining to them how federal student aid regulations work.
7. People who ask "how are you" on the phone. They don't REALLY care, and never wait for a response. Don't bother, just ask your damn question so we can end this conversation.
8. Parents/students who calll and give me a first and last name, expecting me to instantaneously remember her/him out of the 3,500 people who attend the college.
9. Anyone who calls and says, "hi, who is this?" That REALLY pisses me off. Who the fuck are YOU, and what do you want? You're calling me, buddy.
10. Self-involved, bloated college professors who expect me to fill out ALL of their paperwork for them because they're too busy to do 'menial' tasks like inputting the correct grades for their students.
February 16, 2006
Taking Over One Plush Toy At A Time
To steal a phrase from this guy (whom I found hysterical in college, but now that he's sold out totally sucks ass, so don't ask why I just linked him), here's something I was "ruminating" on today...
I get emails from Victoria's Secret on a relatively regular basis. This is because I frequently purchase underwear from them online. If there's one thing that's easy to shop for via the internet, it's panties. Let's face it - the more you have, the less frequent your trips to the washing machine become. They're a pretty universal garment... I mean, a large is a large is a large. And you always need more. I'm not really worried about how they're going to look ON - if the rhinestone phrase "Rockstar" looks cute in the picture, it'll probably look about the same plastered across my ass. And (usually) I'm wearing pants anyway.
[Full disclosure: I do not own ANY garment with the word "Rockstar" emblazoned across it - rhinestone or otherwise].
Anyway, Victoria's Secret likes to send me email fliers about their latest promotions. This week's promotion states, "Free PINK mini dog with any PINK purchase." And it shows a picture of the 'mini dog'. The 'mini dog' is a pink and white polka-dot stuffed dog... wearing a t-shirt. It's not even soft and fuzzy - it's made out of some burlap-like material. So, basically, what they're telling me is that if I buy a $35 bra, I get a stuffed dog that's about the size of a nerf football, for free. That's great. It's fan-fucking-tastic. What the fuck am I going to do with a stuffed dog? For real. What part of my life is this useless piece of crap going to enhance, and how does this particular promotion inspire me to part with my hard-earned money? I'm buying your stupid underwear anyway. You know what would be a better promotion? I buy the bra, you DON'T send me the dog, and instead donate the $1 it cost to produce the damn thing to a battered women's shelter. I know this is America - land of the free, home of the telemarketer (wait, I'm sorry - we outsourced them all and fired the Americans) - but don't we have ENOUGH USELESS CRAP? Does the marketing company for Victoria's Secret really think that this is the way to increase sales?
[Full disclosure #2: I actually was given a stuffed dog with purchase once before. I gave it to my cat as a chew toy.]
I get emails from Victoria's Secret on a relatively regular basis. This is because I frequently purchase underwear from them online. If there's one thing that's easy to shop for via the internet, it's panties. Let's face it - the more you have, the less frequent your trips to the washing machine become. They're a pretty universal garment... I mean, a large is a large is a large. And you always need more. I'm not really worried about how they're going to look ON - if the rhinestone phrase "Rockstar" looks cute in the picture, it'll probably look about the same plastered across my ass. And (usually) I'm wearing pants anyway.
[Full disclosure: I do not own ANY garment with the word "Rockstar" emblazoned across it - rhinestone or otherwise].
Anyway, Victoria's Secret likes to send me email fliers about their latest promotions. This week's promotion states, "Free PINK mini dog with any PINK purchase." And it shows a picture of the 'mini dog'. The 'mini dog' is a pink and white polka-dot stuffed dog... wearing a t-shirt. It's not even soft and fuzzy - it's made out of some burlap-like material. So, basically, what they're telling me is that if I buy a $35 bra, I get a stuffed dog that's about the size of a nerf football, for free. That's great. It's fan-fucking-tastic. What the fuck am I going to do with a stuffed dog? For real. What part of my life is this useless piece of crap going to enhance, and how does this particular promotion inspire me to part with my hard-earned money? I'm buying your stupid underwear anyway. You know what would be a better promotion? I buy the bra, you DON'T send me the dog, and instead donate the $1 it cost to produce the damn thing to a battered women's shelter. I know this is America - land of the free, home of the telemarketer (wait, I'm sorry - we outsourced them all and fired the Americans) - but don't we have ENOUGH USELESS CRAP? Does the marketing company for Victoria's Secret really think that this is the way to increase sales?
[Full disclosure #2: I actually was given a stuffed dog with purchase once before. I gave it to my cat as a chew toy.]
January 29, 2006
January 26, 2006
January 23, 2006
January 22, 2006
Cyberspace
One thing I've learned during my relatively short time as a blogger [an unread blogger, which on occaision, I'm rather happy about]...
There are an awful lot of angry, illiterate creeps out there in cyberspace! They get really good at lurking in random comments screens, posting poorly-composed obscenities and unillicited opinions on blogs from everywhere. It's fascinating to me that everyone has an opinion about everything. It's even more fascinating that the random blog commentators are so convinced that they are right. A third notable factor is that the nastiest ones (and most grammatically incorrect) are usually American.
This revelation brings to mind a song lyric, and I will now take a moment to quote the legendary Salt N' Peppa...
"Opinions are like assholes and everybody's got one."
There are an awful lot of angry, illiterate creeps out there in cyberspace! They get really good at lurking in random comments screens, posting poorly-composed obscenities and unillicited opinions on blogs from everywhere. It's fascinating to me that everyone has an opinion about everything. It's even more fascinating that the random blog commentators are so convinced that they are right. A third notable factor is that the nastiest ones (and most grammatically incorrect) are usually American.
This revelation brings to mind a song lyric, and I will now take a moment to quote the legendary Salt N' Peppa...
"Opinions are like assholes and everybody's got one."
January 21, 2006
Mile 1
When I was in grade school, twice a year it was understood that the Gods of Gym required us to Run The Mile. I hated The Mile. Everyone I knew hated The Mile. [Remember, Becky=Nerd. Nerd=Nerdy Friends. The rule here is that nerds suck at sports.] The only people who didn't were the guys and girls on the track/x-country teams, who would show off by crossing the finish line in 6 and a half minutes, then ask if they could run it again. I hated them, too. To me, it seemed like the longest distance in the world. Throughout my adolescence, I rode horses, swam competitively, and took dance classes. None of these athletic endeavors required running, and I found The Mile not only painful, but horrifically embarassing as well. I don't believe I ever finished in anything less than 13 minutes in the 6 or so years I was forced to run it. The end of the run would find me with my head between my legs, ears hurting, lungs hurting, with a stitch in my side that made me want to cry. I didn't WANT to be the last person without a thyroid problem across the finish, it just happened that way.
There was one strange interaction, however, quickly forgotten at the time, that has somehow stayed with me ever since. My memory is a little fuzzy as to whether this happened in middle school or high school, or even what point in the torture it occurred, but I remember the conversation as clear as day. One of the gym coaches - the cross-country coach - approached me and asked me if I'd ever considered being on the team. She told me I had great form for a runner, and that I should really consider it. Knowing full well the extent of my land-speed record (and assuming that she didn't), I tried not to laugh and told her I'd think about it, shook my head, and jogged (I use the term loosely) away. Afterward, I told my other 13-minute friends the story, we had a good laugh, and life went on.
Cut to 10 (or maybe more) years later. I think about this conversation every single time I run through my neighborhood, pounding the pavement and huffing away for a half mile, one, two, and sometimes three. I think about it every time I start to get tired during my run, and every time I feel a surge of energy to go a few more steps. I think about it when my knee starts to cramp, when I know I'll be home icing my injury for the next week. I remember it every time I start to plan for the 9-mile Boilermaker in July.
I don't think I ever had another conversation with that particular gym coach. She didn't know me, I didn't know her, and we were destined to remain strangers. Yet she saw something in me that it took me over 10 years to figure out about myself. It's poignant to think that there are complete strangers out there who can see things about you that you never even knew existed. That sometimes the mirror we hold up to ourselves is so very cloudy in comparison to the window we keep clean for others.
My miles aren't a whole lot faster than they were back then, but I run every single step of every one. I don't get stiches in my side, and that first mile always goes too fast. I love it even when it hurts, and I feel nothing but pride in something that once caused me only shame. I'll never be a true athlete, but that stranger turned out to be completely right; I have the form for running.
There was one strange interaction, however, quickly forgotten at the time, that has somehow stayed with me ever since. My memory is a little fuzzy as to whether this happened in middle school or high school, or even what point in the torture it occurred, but I remember the conversation as clear as day. One of the gym coaches - the cross-country coach - approached me and asked me if I'd ever considered being on the team. She told me I had great form for a runner, and that I should really consider it. Knowing full well the extent of my land-speed record (and assuming that she didn't), I tried not to laugh and told her I'd think about it, shook my head, and jogged (I use the term loosely) away. Afterward, I told my other 13-minute friends the story, we had a good laugh, and life went on.
Cut to 10 (or maybe more) years later. I think about this conversation every single time I run through my neighborhood, pounding the pavement and huffing away for a half mile, one, two, and sometimes three. I think about it every time I start to get tired during my run, and every time I feel a surge of energy to go a few more steps. I think about it when my knee starts to cramp, when I know I'll be home icing my injury for the next week. I remember it every time I start to plan for the 9-mile Boilermaker in July.
I don't think I ever had another conversation with that particular gym coach. She didn't know me, I didn't know her, and we were destined to remain strangers. Yet she saw something in me that it took me over 10 years to figure out about myself. It's poignant to think that there are complete strangers out there who can see things about you that you never even knew existed. That sometimes the mirror we hold up to ourselves is so very cloudy in comparison to the window we keep clean for others.
My miles aren't a whole lot faster than they were back then, but I run every single step of every one. I don't get stiches in my side, and that first mile always goes too fast. I love it even when it hurts, and I feel nothing but pride in something that once caused me only shame. I'll never be a true athlete, but that stranger turned out to be completely right; I have the form for running.
January 12, 2006
Have Another
Felicity gets drunk and rambles on Ben's voicemail about how she doesn't "need" him. Great moment. Too bad she's full of shit...
Just Shoot the Damn Thing
So far, everything about turning 25 has completely and utterly sucked. Except the food. The food's been okay.
January 06, 2006
Caseyism
"Handing out fliers is tangible. It's like saying, 'here, you throw this out'."
~My Best Friend
~My Best Friend
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