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Semester’s over, let the partying begin

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Blergh, how did so many days pass by? How? I ask this of you.

The good news: I finished that paper and also, did pretty well during the presentation. We had ten minutes to present, which meant that the early people took upwards of 45 minutes (I am not making that up) for their own presentations, and then when I got up there, only half of the class had gone and there was only fifteen minutes left. So I micro-machined that bitch, skipped over almost everything I had prepared and did a very high level presentation and made people laugh (sometimes, it was even on purpose) and breezed through my seven pages of single-spaced notes in exactly seven minutes, complete with time to answer two questions/clarifications, both of which, I explained, were covered in my notes, but I had skipped over them for the sake of the remaining presenters (insert glare at 45 Minute Presenter here). Also, I had brought them gigantic overly-frosted cupcakes and found psychedelic frosted cookies in the shapes of butterflies, which I called slake moths in homage to one of the books we read in class. Yes, this is rampant bribery, but really, the final class needs to have some level of celebration. And when pressed, I explained that my personal utopia involved gigantic cupcakes. Despite my speed presentation, the final class lasted almost five hours and was, really, sort of unbelievable. As it turned out, I grossly overestimated the level at which the other papers were written. I had so many references that my works cited page was an embarrassing three pages long, while some of the others basically did book reports. I don’t know what to make of that, but hopefully I don’t sound completely like an idiot and don’t bomb too abysmally.

Before class, I met with Glimmer Train Girl, who is like a breath of fresh air. I found out that if I had kept the other lit class, the non-Science Fiction class, I would have been able to make faces with her when people said something ridiculous. In my class, they were fixated on Deridas, in hers, it was all Foucalt. Apparently, this fish out of water thing in these lit classes is something that relates more to the Creative Writing program folks than it is me personally. Either way, I signed up for three different classes next semester, on the principle that I will drop two of them, but she’s in the one that looks most interesting, so I’ll probably end up there. We have a pack. Also, we both almost got caught snarking about one of our fellow creative writers, and now we are bound by the shared guilt. We still don’t know if he heard us. Awkward.

She’s also inspired me to submit more. We talked about submissions and I admitted that I am weirdly adverse to submitting and only submitted to one thing last year. “One thing that… got published, right?That you were invited to read in NYC?” Um, well, if you put it that way, yeah, I’m really stupid. I have made a commitment to submit at least two things this summer. Two things! Baby steps.

In other news, there are apparently massive layoffs coming at my employer. Layoffs in the areas of IT. Which is where I work. Can I survive these riffings? Do I even want to? Wait until next week fiscal quarter and we’ll all find out!

What else happened was that I went to Chicago. And a bunch of other people went to Chicago. And it was good. It involved a lot of different airports and hotels, but somehow a bunch of great people were in the same city for 42 glorious hours (and in some cases, an accidental 22 on top of that) and it was pretty awesome.

And mostly, I did nothing all weekend. Ok, I ate a really good hamburger and I bought some shoes that are so pretty I want to lick them. And I sang and danced with this one and had coffee with this one and sweated and petted this one and laughed with this one and made llama faces with this one and shopped at the hootchie store with this one and rolled eyes across a table with this one and watched this one scale a tree in two seconds flat (and uh, by “a tree” I, er, uh mean “Eben”) and didn’t get nearly enough time talking with this one and barely even saw this one and also declared yet again my eternal and everlasting love to this one and made this one commit a petty crime to prove that he really loved me. So yeah, it was a pretty good weekend, even though I lived entirely on vodka and forgot to bring bras that matched even a single bit of my wardrobe. That’s what I get for not making the spreadsheet.

Yes, that will teach me.

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A short critical dissertation on the prevalence of happy fairy candy

Monday, May 7, 2007

I have lost some weight. Not a lot of weight, certainly not bucket loads of weight like my friend Anne, who writes the incredible Body of Work diary that’s part of the new Elastic Waist thingy (which, by the way, is where I’m updating three times a day Monday through Friday like clockwork, although sometimes the posts aren’t signed Weetabix, sometimes they are all “we think bacon is yummy” and “we aren’t kidding” and “we are very pretty too, aren’t we” and “yes, yes we certainly are”) but just a little bit of weight. A teaspoon, perhaps. Not enough that my post-Operation Hottie jeans are comfy or even possible, but enough that my trousers are suddenly too long, enough that I have to wear heels every damn day or I toddle around work tripping on the hems of my pants. Apparently the first place I lose weight is the bottoms of my feet, which is just like my body, forsaking all boobs and foot bottoms for tackling the ass arena.

I haven’t been exercising and I still don’t drink enough water, so I think what’s happening is this weird insulin resistance/PCOS diet nutrition plan that I started last year might be doing its thing. I guess it follows, because my whole principle behind Operation Hottie was to do the things that I wasn’t doing before, and this time, I’m not doing the things I was doing that made me fat, meaning that I am no longer ordering a truck of bread to be delivered to the house and then unhinging my jaw and swallowing the entire truck, then spitting out the driver and the steering wheel like watermelon seeds. Mmmm…. watermelon.

This hasn’t really changed my life very much, other than I have to think more about protein and roughage and no longer can make entire meals out of Special K and milk, as it doesn’t have enough protein and feel vaguely guilty on Sunday mornings when I have four of Esteban’s incredibly wonderful melt in your mouth pancakes that he makes with lemon juice, cinnamon and fairy dust, because I know that combined with the Wisconsin maple syrup, there’s no WAY that four pieces of bacon is going to be enough protein and even though I’m full to my gullet, I have this guilt that I need to go suck out a wheel of brie in order to offset all of those carbs. And while I don’t specifically need to be eating what is essentially a diabetic’s restrictions, when I play the balance game correctly or I just don’t eat refined sugar, I don’t crave it. Which means that the Monday after pancake day a LOT of fun.

And if that’s not a reason to eat healthy, a diabetic lady in my office was apparently in denial about her condition and blissfully fed her sugar addiction and is now in a wheelchair because they had to lop off her foot (does anyone else wonder what they do with those body parts? I do). And I am not even kidding when I tell you that I just now returned from the lunchroom where I saw her loading up on distinctly non-diabetic fare. When she saw me grab my lunch of fresh fruit and a cottage cheese kicker, she exclaimed “Don’t they look so gooood?!”, which was punctuated by the spackle splat of the spray whipped cream spurting all over her high octane fruit pie. If I were a spiteful sort, I would make a comment about how ten years ago, this same woman told me “No offense, but I just don’t like fat people” and when pressed, she said “Because they’re jealous of me for being skinny.” In the words of my text-crazy cousin Malnourished, WTFEver.

And lest you think that I’m angelic, I will tell you that I ate no fewer than ten Oreos yesterday afternoon. Must maintain fat girl cred.

This week is the last of my OH MY GOD weeks, wherein I run around freaking out and slightly urpy from a stress tummy. I have now completed all twenty thousand pages of science fiction and literary theory and my eyeballs, they threaten to disintegrate and fall out of my head. I didn’t need my reading glasses for work before, but I sure as hell need them now. Thank you, literature credit requirement! Now, I have only to write a paper to be presented on Wednesday and then handed in sometime after that.

Which would be great, except this twenty page paper? Yeah, I’ve never written a twenty page paper. I’ve written some papers, some very interesting papers, but no PhD level conferencey type papers. In fact, with those papers, there’s the sneaking suspicion that maybe the professor was just trying to be nice.

Every writer feels like they are just two steps away from being found out as the talentless hacks they feel themselves to be. And perhaps related to that, I have always felt a bit like I was a poser in graduate school, as though I only got through via some very impressive lighting effects and smoke machines, and it’s times like this that those feelings well up and threaten to consume my brain. I mean, creative writing programs are easy. You just write pretty words. They don’t even have to make sense. But this? Creating arguments and dissertations and turning the literary world on its ear? Look, a shiny rock. Pretty.

The past weekend, I spent logging into and out of electronic databases, compiling research, fretting over my paper proposal with the margins in which my professor could barely contain his disdain. I have no arguments. I keep wanting to turn everything into a gender issue, even when really, it isn’t. I don’t know science fiction. I have no opinions about genre theory. I just want to cite a bunch of beautifully written work, compile a really impressive Works Cited page and then lean back in my chair and put my hands behind my head and sigh after a job well done.

I shouldn’t be freaking out about this so much. I try to remind myself of that, but at the same time, the voice in my head, the little Type A personality voice that strives for perfection and feeds my inner control freak, that voice pulls up my very beautiful GPA and reminds me that one false step, even a freaking A minus, is going to drag that bastard down into the mud. Giving myself permission to fail, to learn by stumbling around, it is very difficult. Even writing about it, I am so frozen that I just revert to robot-speak when talking about it. Hard. Head hurt. Ow. So the next few days will be spent throwing myself upon the spear of this gigantically huge paper, and then presenting it in class whereby hopefully they do smell weakness and descend upon me like rabid dogs. And then? Then it will be time to relax. And take a breath. And spend several weeks waiting for the graded shoe to drop. At least I no longer have to powergorge on a bunch of science fiction any more and can read something fruity. I predict a trip to the newsstand to buy every tabloid available. I really wonder what Bat Boy is up to these days.

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Another checkmark in the yuppie column

Saturday, May 5, 2007

I just got back from Milwaukee, where I bought a car from Chris Daughtry(!) and a Russian named Igor and I am not making that up, either, his name was Igor. I kept giggling, every time he said anything, every time he got paged over the loud speaker “Igor to the Parts Department!” because they needed some body parts, you see. Ok, no one’s with me there.

The buying of the car took forever, and was fraught with drama leading up to it but it is too lengthy and boring to go into it other than to mention that I’m glad that it’s over and that the actual event of car buying was pretty uneventful. And in the end, I have a new car. And my old car. We’re not sure what we’re going to do with it yet, but I’d like to turn it into a Rose Bowl Parade float of some kind and then drive it slowly through the neighborhoods of Green Bay, throwing candy out of the sunroof and blasting Jane’s Addiction in an attempt to blow out the rest of the speakers, because man, wouldn’t that be kind of cool? Yeah, we’ll probably sell it or something.

I took a picture of Igor and he got all happy and made sure to straighten his hair first. Igor was so awesome that I even forgave him for listing Esteban’s name first on the forms. Igor gets a pass when it comes to fighting the patriarchy, mostly because in Russia, you just take what you can get. Esteban was cracking up, however, while we were signing, because he knew how much I was seething and how much I was trying to hide the fact that it was pissing me off and judge whether I should make them redo everything at the cost of waiting even longer than we already had. Esteban thinks the patriarchy is funny as shit.

I took a picture of our sales guy, Chris Daughtry(!) too, although he didn’t straighten his hair. He was too cool for that shit and also, he didn’t have any. I almost asked him to make rock and roll hand signs, but at that point, a storm was coming from the north and it was late and I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Had he been a local Daughtry(!), I might have done just that.

Because I live to provide you schadenfreude, I will tell you now that I had driven the car exactly 6 miles before the heavens opened up and it hailed all over my new car. You’re welcome.

The above was written earlier in the week but Diaryland was broken when I tried to post it, so you get it now (“sometimes, things happen”). If I had written anything about the leading action, about how many different cars I looked at and how many times Esteban argued that my deal breakers (heated leather seats, sunroof, radio controls on the steering wheel) were the stupidest reasons on the planet not to buy a particular car and how many times I said “Screw it! I will just keep driving the Chrysler until it falls apart around me just so that I don’t have to deal with this anymore!” (which is exactly what happened last fall when we tried looking at cars) then this is where the payoff line would be. But, you know, “Nissan Murano” just doesn’t sound exciting enough to be anyone’s payoff. This is why I didn’t bother with the leading action. Right there.

It’s a nice car thingy. Technically, it’s a crossover, meaning not a car and not an SUV, not a Maxima and not a Pathfinder, not a girl and not yet a woman. When I told Mopie, she exclaimed “Oh, that’s the bubble butt car!” Great.

Jake has been struggling with determining the appropriate theme song. The Chrysler’s theme song had been Celine Dion’s “I Drove All Night” and also maybe the Republican national committee anthem. (“We’re better than yooouuuu! The poor should get screeewwwwwed!”) He has suggested NIN’s new song, the song about pushing the button, since the Murano doesn’t use a key, you just push and turn a button thing. I think the song should be something about gluttony, because dear god, any car that makes the CHRYSLER look like it conserved gas? On paper, they have the same gas mileage but in practice, there’s no way. Of course, the second I bought the car, the price for a gallon of gas crested the $3 mark. Although apparently there is some kind of “new engine” wear in time that makes it fuel-inefficient? Blah blah mechanical stuff. I came really close to buying a hybrid this time (the Lexus RX400h has only been out a year… I’m very nervous about first model years and Esteban has an unreasonable prejudice against Lexus drivers) and I can already tell that our next one will be a granola cruncher.
And wow, even I find this insanely boring so the end.

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The agony of the beautiful life

Friday, April 27, 2007

I have been on prednisone for five days. Yes, the pneumonia, she looms once again, but this time, I think we nipped it in the bud. Or in the balls. There was some nipping. I seem to have found a magic antibiotic this time, one that does not make me throw up and one that will tackle both a sinus infection and its respiratory cousin, which makes me hopeful. In four weeks, I really hope that I will not learn that I have yet again thinned the herd of germs in some kind of Darwinist germ experiment and become Patient #001 of a new mega superstrain. I hope they name it the Weetabix Pandemic.

In other news, because I am stupid, we realized last night at a really inconvenient moment that oh yeah, birth control pills do not like antibiotics. Oh, whoops, stupid married people. Luckily we both remember some tricks from high school. However, the very next day, Esteban and I went out for dinner and I ordered raw oysters, as I am wont to do, (as I love them very much, and even though Esteban isn’t all that impressed with the oyster place, he tolerates it once a month or so). The stupid part is coming up, by the way, don’t think I forgot. Midway through my dozen meaty briny Hillborroughs, I suddenly got one oyster that tasted hot. Nay, sulfuric. I was going to spit it out, but the napkin was cloth and I didn’t want to make a scene, so I swallowed it. Because that’s what good girls do apparently. And fat girls? I don’t know, the “spit out” reaction just doesn’t seem to be engaged. And then I realized that I’m probably going to die of something very horrible that you get from eating bad raw oysters. On the drive home, Esteban suggested that maybe I should try to throw up, except that no, I don’t throw up. I never ever just “throw up”, as though it were some casual thing like brushing one’s hair or paying a bill. If I throw up? I probably need to see a doctor.

I did try, however. Hell, teenage girls do it every day, why not me this once? It didn’t work and I gave up before I burst all the blood vessels in my face. That’s the other thing that happens with me. I end up looking leprous for days, like I’ve been punched in the face for two weeks later, and my face finally calmed down after last week’s ordeal*, so I didn’t want to push it.

Then I went to Dr. Google and searched for “sulfur” and “oyster”. I learned that you should not eat oysters that smell like sulfur. Oh, ok. I guess I just won’t do that again. Probably because I’ll be dead, but whatever. Also, and here’s why I hate myself: if you are on antibiotics, you have a compromised immune system in this case, because you killed off the bugs in your gut that would fight the toxins. So it’s a lock. Death is coming soon. Pray for me.

You know what you do when you’ve got a gigantic science fiction book to read and another gigantic bunch of critical theory to finish and a paper to write by Monday and a bunch of freelance to do and it’s 10:17 on a Saturday night? Yeah, that’s what I do too.

I have mentioned before that I have a rosacea, which is a skin condition that makes you look like a gigantic red pustule instead of a pretty pretty princess. The whole thing sucks, because really, my natural tone is that of copy paper so any bit of redness shows up like the Japanese flag on my cheeks. Also, while I’ve done a fairly good job of keeping it at bay in the six or so years since I was diagnosed, it has slowly slid into the third stage, what I think of as “larval”. I had some of the telltale “orange peel skin” thickening of the worst areas, the dreaded pustules were starting to pop up, and I was starting to get spider veins on my cheeks and nose. It is a very glamorous condition and I can tell that you are very jealous.

The only fix to this is… well, death (by OYSTER!). But you can sort of stop it by avoiding warm food, extreme temperatures (hello, I live in Wisconsin, which has at least 120 degree temperature shifts through the course of a year), wine (like that’s going to happen), spices, heat, exercise, and probably shopping and sex and anything else that I really enjoy doing with my life. The other option involved lasers.

So bring on the mofo lasers.

I’ve been under the laser before. I got my upper lip zapped a few years ago. It hurt like a bitch, quite honestly, and I was glad when three treatments mostly did the trick. However, this treatment would be targeting a deeper layer of the skin and also, would cover my entire fucking face, so unlike the upper lip trick, which was over in 90 seconds, I wouldn’t be able to hold my breath until this was over.

Luckily, my guy, the laser guy, he deals with wusses all the time and offered some numbing stuff. Just the same, I was fine until the moment I had the metal eye protectors on (by which I mean that I was completely blind) and then through sense memory, my body immediately went spazzoid and I was jumping and shallow breathing and everything. Which is just goofy, because I know that it really doesn’t hurt all that much. It’s hot and sort of ouchy, but no big. The subconscious mind, however, was having none of that logic shit.

I asked him to tell me when he was about to start, so he did, but then nothing happened. He said that he would be starting with my chin. I felt him place the laser guiding cage on my face and then move it up and down a few times. After the third pass, I realized that he was zapping me, but the sensation had just made its way slowly into my brain. Weird. I could feel where the laser was, and could acknowledge that it wasn’t exactly pleasant, but other than that, it was fine. The only parts that really hurt were my upper lip and oddly enough, the tip of my nose, which felt like he was sticking me with a red hot needle. I suspect that he didn’t put enough topical anesthetic there, but he said that there were more nerve endings there than any area on the face, so whatever.

I left the office looking like a second-degree burn victim, which sucked. On the way home, I had to shut the sunroof, because I had to shield my face from UV for a day. By the time I got home, I felt like I had sunburn, so I took an Advil and held an ice pack to my face for awhile. My face swelled up quite a bit, but nothing horrible and I didn’t even think about taking another Advil before I went to bed.

However, when I woke up the next morning, I was surprised that I couldn’t actually see the time on the alarm clock. It was like my eyes couldn’t open all the way. I made a blurry walk to the bathroom and when I got to the mirror, I almost said “I am not an animal!” My face was a Strawberry Moon Pie and my eyes were mostly swollen shut, completely with giant pillows of fluid beneath each like a bulldog or something. Great. I took a shower and then sat on the couch with cold eye compresses for half an hour.
Progress, but nothing great. I just settled with the idea of O.Henry rigging my vanity against me and got dressed to go to work. After I had been upright for a few hours, the swelling under my eyes had decreased by about half and if I kept my reading glasses on while at work, it wasn’t very noticeable. I avoided looking in a mirror all day because I didn’t want to see the poochy eye bags nor the weird furrowing that was going on with the swelling, as though I had fallen asleep against a cold Panini press. My cheeks looked like some kind of Zen garden.

It took four days for the swelling to subside but now I am much less moon-faced and amazingly enough, also much less red. While the spider veins are still there, they are smaller and I’d have to say that 50% of the redness is gone on my cheeks. My nose and chin still have problems, but wow! Go science! This just might be worth it.

I have another treatment in four weeks. Two days before a wedding. I may have to find a bag for my head that coordinates with my wedding ensemble.

People have no appreciation for how hard it is to be this cool.

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Ketchup

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

Here’s what has happened since the last time I blurted out my brain pictures onto this white space: my project from hell continues to remove pieces of my soul and chomp on it, and I’ve had about four million pages of science fiction to read, and also have decided now that my science fiction professor hates me. Also, my project from last year? The one whose unceremonious political assassination almost took me with it? The one that made me cry for an entire solo drive home from Shermer, Illinois, out of sheer frustration and disenfranchisement. That project?

So here is the thing: I am a vindictive pissy person sometimes and as you can tell from the opening paragraph, am still really fucking bitter about the whole ordeal. I mean, last year’s project should never have been tanked. It’s like telling someone who is dying of an infection that they could be cured with antibiotic and a $5 co pay and, well, let’s just see if it gets worse, ok? You might get better on your own, after all. You never fucking know.

Had I seen a movie character make this move, I would have groaned and called it predictable, but I was multi-tasking and talking on a phone call about the specs for my 2007 project, when I got the e-mail indicating that our patient from the 2006 project had just hit a Code Blue but been brought back from the dead. While words were actually coming out of my mouth about this big fucker of a 2007 project that affects something like 800 different people (normally my go to number for exaggerating is 800 something but in this case, it actually is in the 800 ballpark) I am dashing off a pissy snit to the SVP and the political assassin for the last project saying “See? See? I fucking told you this would happen. Nice!”

Less than eight hours later, I had the money and the sign off to fund the 2006 project.

I would gloat, but I’m too busy fucking myself over repeatedly.

The bonus here is that, man, do the ten and twelve hour days go quickly. I am making charts and talking to people left and right, designing scopes and talking about things being “scalable” which honestly, I don’t even know if I’m using that word correctly but it really sounds good and when I say it, everyone pinches their eyebrows and does the slow nod of consideration.

In other news, I’m pretty sure that there are more layoffs coming and if I were willing to bet, I’d say we’re going to hear about them in the next couple of weeks. The signs are there and the way of the Google is strong with this one.

God, I just made a Star Wars joke. This stupid scifi course is going to sap all of my cool.

Also, I’ve been keeping something from you. Not really on purpose, but rather because things haven’t been official yet. But now they are, so I can give you a peek at the staging area. Of course, if you’re a BFD reader, you already knew this. Catch my updates there three posts a day, Monday through Friday. Right now only some of the posts are signed “Weetabix” but if you know me at all, you’ll be able to tell, and the other writers (one of whom is the unbelievably talented Anne from Hello I Am Fat) are awesome. I kind of keep expecting someone to tap me on the shoulder and say “What the hell are you doing in here? Also, you say ‘fuck’ too much.” Which is totally true.

Next time on Weetabix’s diary, the amazing true adventures of her medical procedure that involves lasers and perhaps robots and if she is a very good girl, one doctor Gregory House, MfuckingD.

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Suit up!

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

I get a bunch of shopping spam at my work e-mail account for reasons I really don’t understand (gee… maybe all the online shopping I do on my state-mandated breaks) and most of it just gets deleted because the space in my work account is even more precious than the space in my closet, but at the same time, I sort of love it, because I can have my brain wrapped around some kind of critical analysis of a major issue, with some client screaming into my head about how I have just personally well and truly fucked them (I beg your pardon?) and then suddenly, my e-mail notice will pop up and it will be Bergdorf Goodman begging me to understand the important of accessorizing. CLUTCHES! they wail. What about the Clutches?!

It’s all about perspective.

Work has been crazy as of late. And by crazy, I mean holy shit you have to be fucking kidding me insane. I had to do a presentation to a bunch of senior management on Monday, and instead of traveling, I did it via phone at my desk, so that I could stare at my little plastic dinosaurs and tiny punk rockers and if things started getting scary, I had the option of discretely throwing up into my waste basket. It started a little shaky, with me saying “Uh” and “Um” and “Mother fucker!” but then I hit my stride and managed to not sound completely like an idiot. It helped that I wasn’t looking at the faces to go along with org chart boxes, quite honestly, and could stare at a vintage picture of Paris that I have on my wall and pretend that I was all bad ass and apparently it went well, as I haven’t been fired. Yet.

I’ve mentioned before that I always get a bit of a crush on my professors, but man, this guy? So smart! So witty! And just when you think that you can shake off the all the smart boy in glasses talking about words headiness, then he mentions that he watches Buffy! Or he wears Doc Martens to class, which when paired with a blazer with the suede patches on the elbows, apparently makes a geeky English grad student ovulate. And he’s got sort of an edge to him, like he makes fun of you in just a little flirty way and oh my it’s hard, internet, so very hard to avoid a wee bit of a crush.

Good thing I’m married. Otherwise, next week, I’d go to class wearing a shirt that said “I put out for big words”.

Yesterday, at The Grind (which is the little espresso bar inside the library) I saw a guy who looked exactly like Jim from The Office. EXACTLY. He was even as tall as John Krasinski.

Clearly, that shirt idea might be nice to have anyway. Just for such occasions.

I think I’ve mentioned this before, but if you are not watching the sitcom “How I Met Your Mother” on CBS, you’re totally missing out. Ok, so the very name makes you want to barf. It’s not the best name in the world, and the framing device is sort of stupid. But it’s got some great writing and is a true ensemble cast, and while I was utterly and hopelessly devoted to Friends, I think the writing and timing on “HIMYM” might be better. Instead of Central Perk, our new cast has the bar. Instead of a three on three male/female ratio, we’ve got a much more appropriate three guys on two girls (which are much more realistic to friend groupings, I think) and instead of sort of lamely cool secondary characters like Gunther and Janice, there is Korean Elvis and Rajeet the limo driver. Instead of overplayed “How YOU doin’?” there’s “Haaaaaave you met my friend Ted?”. And Neil Patrick Harris has well and fully erased Doogie Howser from my memory, because his Barney Stinson might just be one of my favorite characters on television right now, right up there with Dwight Schrute and Gregory House. Granted, not every episode is a winner (the recent episode involving a couple fighting was probably the worst one I’ve seen) but trust me, the episode called “Slap Bet”? Might just be the best thing to have ever happened to pop culture. Slap bet commissioners! A penis joke that was delivered so perfectly and with such spot on timing that I almost passed out, laughing so hard. And if that wasn’t enough, that episode gave us this gem:

The Season 1 DVD is out and should be available on Netflix and Season 2 should be out soon. And you can also catch up on the episodes for free on the weird CBS Innertube thing. The episode there currently, titled “Atlantic City” is a primer for the enigma that is Barney Stinson. But seriously, “Slap Bet”. It belongs in a vault, because it’s gold, baby, gold!

Ok, end of public service announcement. Synchronize your Tivos.

Last weekend was a weekend for finding things, as I found my camera charger, lost since the Saturday of the Minicon, and I found my driver’s license (lost since the Wednesday after the Minicon), and also I made the mistake of going shopping and finding a million perfect things that I absolutely had to have or suffer unbelievable anguish knowing that I had left the perfect score sitting on the shelves of TJ Freaking Maxx. So I ended up with new everything for the bed (new sheets, a new duvet, more sheets and a replacement for our mattress pad that is shredded on Esteban’s side…. proof that the man tosses and turns in his sleep at the Olympic level), some clothes, a purse, a Harajuku make up bag (because it was too cute to refuse), some Godiva stash for Esteban’s Easter basket, and a bunch of Body Butter. I also made the mistake of walking into Bath and Body Works, which is a bit like a frat party for housewives, lots of smelly things that are all on sale. The zeitgeist at Bath and Body Works always involves some gigantic sale and a million little aproned salesgirls ready to ask if you need anything or hand you a basket or tell you that if you buy 43 tubes of lotion, you get 38 free! It’s this artificial sense of urgency that bugs me and yet, at the same time, it’s the exact kind of logic that tends to suck me in. I am somewhat immune to the allure of Bath and Body Works, mostly because if I am going to spend $20 on lotion, I want it to actually be quality lotion, not the crap that is full of water and alcohol and makes your skin dryer than when you initially use it. And the B&BW stuff is just cheap drugstore crap with a lot of scent and packaging. I used to be a sucker for the White Barn Candle Company side of the store, but I no longer have candles in the house due to fear of my house burning down and the fact that they trigger an asthma attack.

But the silly little plug in things that shoot smells out the tops? Yeah, I’m hooked on those things, despite the fact that it is the stupidest waste of electricity in the world and it makes no sense at all that I demanded a HEPA-filter from the space shuttle in our new furnace but then send some kind of mystery chemical out into our home because it smells sort of like green tea and cucumbers. It doesn’t matter. I like them. I’m really a fan of the ones that smell like someone’s concept of ocean, but I also like the crazy ones, like the things that smell like hyacinth or four leaf clover, whatever the hell that is. And their eucalyptus and spearmint scent? LOVE IT. So when I found out that they were all six bucks a pop, I was doomed from the very start. Doomed!

So now I am poor. But the house smells very mossy so I guess it’s ok.

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Notes from a corporate assassin

Monday, April 2, 2007

For the last week, I’ve been dunked headfirst into project land at work. Days spent in planning meetings, and having the uncomfortable position of needing to actually pay attention to said meetings, because I was like, in charge or some crazy shit. Which is just crazy, because these people are all sort of rock stars and I’m kind of a lowly little squab in the company. No, I don’t know what I’m talking about either. Poultry? No idea. Ignore me, as my brain has been liquefied by dry erase marker fumes.

So, we were spending two days completing, to culminate in a big scary presentation at the end of the second day, except the people to whom I was supposed to be presenting? Couldn’t be there at the end of the day. So one of them (my boss’s boss) came at lunch and the other one, whom I did not directly report into but whose presence was more important, didn’t come at all. Which meant that I had to present to senior management from flip charts and say “Oh yeah, and this stuff? Pretend that we did that already! We’re just zany like that! Please don’t fire me! Ha ha!” all the while knowing that I’d have to represent the shit and works again to the other guy. And the best part is that some of the flip charts were being created as I was racing to create even a semblance of a PowerPoint deck, so I had to talk to people with scary titles off of bullet points that when read aloud, sounded like they were written by Yoda, and yet act as though I understood what they said, all while the audience was eating their selections from our build your own sandwich bar. I’d show a great chart or process map and ask for questions, and the response would be the sound of a dozen people chewing.

So basically I was really boring dinner theatre.

But on a side note, I dashed into a store to pick up an emergency t-shirt (I swung by the dry cleaners on my way out of town to pick up my power plaid dress but sacre bleu it was not there) while my teamlings were browsing next door. Grabbed said t-shirt (would pair with a cashmere sweater and a scarf, as I always travel with mix and match accessories) and while I was in line, I spotted a very cute suit.

I didn’t want to step out of line and lose my place just on the gamble that there would be both a suit coat and a pair of pants in my size (with the illusive Tall suffix that is de riguer for even the slightest heel), so I checked out, then zeroed in on the rack, and found both a jacket and an appropriate pair of pants. I didn’t even try them on, because the teamlings would be searching for me in the bowels of Nordstrom Rack next door, and it would be easier to return the rejects to the store than face another dismal failure with a suit jacket in public.

I have a horrid time finding suits because of my rack. They just aren’t tailored to accommodate girls with overwhelming accoutrement. When I put them on, they look great until I button up to my ribcage and then… blork. So I can either buy a size or two up and have the shoulder seams hanging halfway down my arm (which is impossible to fix via tailor… I’ve tried. The answer is “You cannot easily move a hole”) or wear something that is bursting out at the tits, which is a GREAT impression in the boardroom, let me tell you.

But! Surprise of ever, back at the hotel, the jacket fit like a dream. The sleeves were a little long, but that’s the simplest hem to fix, and the pants were perfection.

Sometimes you just have to take these little shopping karma boons when they come, or risk cursing future shopping trips with nothing fitting and nothing being right and having money to spend but nothing fitting the bill. I fully believe that by taking the offering from the shopping gods and appreciating it, during my shopping adventure with Poppy, I was granted with not one, not two, but three pairs of incredible shoes that fit my giantess feet perfectly. And also found a Calvin Klein t-shirt in my size, which almost never happens. Scratch that, it has never happened, mostly because I didn’t enjoy shopping when I was a fetus.

So that was the business trip. 10 hours of talking straight and then going out to dinner and gorging oneself on the company’s dime, which meant that I had oysters and albacore sushi and didn’t feel even a little bit guilty for splurging to fill my gullet, because per diem, baby, per fucking diem.

Clearly I am a corporate miracle, barely contained within my clothes.

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Guest entry from Esteban

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Esteban thinks that he’s not a writer, but he sent me a link to an entry on his own blog and I beg to differ. Out of courtesy, we don’t read each other’s blogs unless the other specifically sends a link, and out of the same courtesy, I’m not going to give you a link to his blog, but I did ask his permission to reprint it here and he agreed. So here it is.


Every couple of weeks, I spend an hour or two on the phone with my best friend Markus. He has left our frozen wasteland and moved to Atlanta, so it’s nice to be able to talk to him from time to time. Many times, even in cold weather, I will conduct this call in my garage, so that I might indulge in my filthy smoking habit.

Yesterday was no exception. We had record high temperatures and I was enjoying a cigarette and a fine Spaten Optimator while sitting in the doorway of my garage. I noticed that there were two cars at the house kitty-corner from mine. I tend to watch our neighbor’s houses and note their habits. It isn’t out of some particular busy-body impulse, it’s because I feel it’s important that we all watch out for each other. Perhaps that is old-fashioned or relentlessly Midwestern, but there it is.

The particular house in question is owned by a very old and small woman, whose name I have never gotten. She is taciturn and very much keeps to herself. I keep a particular eye on her, due to her age and the fact that she lives alone. Two adults are escorting her into the house, with one of them holding a plastic bag. I recognize one of them as her eldest son, a man in his fifties in his own right. By the way she was holding the other man’s arm, I worried that perhaps she had been ill. I largely pushed it out of my mind, her son and other relatives where there.

Several hours later I was busy putting dishes into the dishwasher when my wife Weetabix called out to me from her office, telling me that there seemed to be some police out on the street. I had heard sirens earlier, but thought nothing of them, as we live near a street where the local FD regularly travels from their station a scant mile away. Putting down various implements of food destruction, I stepped out into the front yard.

A fire truck and an ambulance are situated in front of the old woman’s house. I can see various firemen and paramedics milling around in and out of the house. Standing on the corner of my property is our local gossip/busy-body Holly, and Biff and his wife, who live some four houses up from me. Biff is an interesting cat, long hair, long mustache, sandals and a penchant for drinking Crown Royal. He’s our own local Jimmy Buffet, without the music. My overall impression is that Biff would have been much better off in California in the ’60s than in Green Bay Wisconsin now. I know Biff fairly well, he tends bar at a local joint where I used to play darts.

I walked over and asked what was going on. Apparently the old woman was having a problem. Holly told me that one of our other neighbors (who, I didn’t hear) had seen her outside raking earlier. We had been having unseasonably warm weather, with temperatures rising up to 80 degrees. 100 year records for temperature were broken yesterday.

The old woman was extremely particular about the exterior appearance of her house. In the summer, she would use her expensive Ariens mulching lawn mower to meticulously cut her yard. Sometimes this was as often as every two days, to maintain the neatly groomed look she was going for. When she did this, she would place a chair near her garage in the shade so she could take breaks. The lawn is small, but at her age it required several rest stops to finish for her. I had offered to cut the lawn for her for free several times but had been firmly rebuffed. My lawn was no where as neat as hers, and clearly I wasn’t up to the task.

She would also edge her side walk by hand, with a small hand spade and some clippers. She used a stool and would move up the sidewalk, inch by painful inch. I own a gas-powered edger and I offered to edge for her several times. Again, I was politely but firmly rebuffed. I always felt bad watching her edge on her little stool. Her hands were gnarled with arthritis and it would often take all day for her to complete the task. In the fall she would rake her yard, often three times a day. Not one single stray leaf was allowed on her immaculate little yard, although the trees and wind conspired against her more often than not. Offers of help for this task were also politely declined.

She was seen raking today in a sweatshirt, taking the occasional break to her chair. At one point, the anonymous neighbor noticed that she was not just sitting in the chair, but she was slumped down in it. They checked on her and found her unconscious. Help in the form of an ambulance and her children were summoned. The scene I witnessed earlier from my garage was her children returning her home from a two hour stay in the emergency room.

We stood on the corner of my yard and watched the activity in the old woman’s house. There was no running about, no real sense of urgency. To me, as I remarked to Holly and Biff, was either a good sign or a very bad one. Soon, the brought her out on a stretcher and put her into the waiting ambulance. Several minutes later, the ambulance departed, lights on, but no sirens. Biff and his wife depart, for them the show is over.

Holly and I stand and chat for a moment when we see the eldest son begin walking to his truck, which was parked up the street. I ran over to him, with Holly in tow, and asked if there was anything we could do to help. His response was “Pray”. He told us that she was dehydrated and had passed out in the bathroom. He was sure they would keep her in the hospital this time. I felt guilty, and told him I had offered her help several times to no avail. He grimaced and said “I’m her oldest son, and she won’t take help from me. I’m not surprised.” Holly and I then said our goodbyes to him and returned to my front yard. After chatting for a few minutes, Holly returned across the street to her house as well.

Later that night I was again sitting in the doorway of my garage, enjoying another beer and a smoke. I looked over at the old woman’s house and was overcome with a strange feeling of sadness. For the last 10 years, we have lived near this woman. She has been alone, her husband died years ago. I have watched her and her house, her scrupulously neat yard. I have approached her to help her, sometimes just to chat. She was always very polite, but I got the sense that she wasn’t comfortable with the contact.

I don’t know that the old woman will be back. It is very possible that she will be. At her age you never can really know. Holly had related to me that the old woman was lonely and missed her husband, whose passing had to have been at least a decade earlier. Holly is good at ferreting out the scoop on anyone in the neighborhood.

I know in my heart that things change. I know that people, good people end up alone sometimes and that they get old and die. For the old woman, she has been biding her time. Her children are grown, as are her children’s children. Her husband has passed away. Yet, the selfish side of me always wants that old woman to be there, raking her leaves, mowing the lawn, and edging the sidewalk.

Yes, he calls me Weetabix on his blog. I think because once he called me “the wife” and I was like “The fuck???” so he had to think of something else.

He is such a better person than I am. I totally don’t know what he sees in me.

Must be the sex.

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Hired corporate assassin

Friday, March 16, 2007

In the past three days, I’ve either been fulfilled with a healthy vengeance against all of the assholes in my life or this whole work project is instilling within me my own personal set of brass balls, because I have been the epitome of a boardroom bitch, except instead of wearing YSL, I’m usually in flat fronts and something purchased for $4 at Old Navy.

Just yesterday, there were not one but two episodes, one with each of my workplace female nemesis and man, in both situations, I was able to analyze their offensive tactics in my mind and take them down piece by piece with logical arguments and fact-based examples. I really do think they might have replaced me with a pod person last spring at that unbelievably exhausting corporate training in Shermer before I embarked on the first project, because my god, I totally don’t even recognize myself anymore. Before, the best phrase in my arsenal was “Um,… ok?” and now, suddenly, I’m visualizing plans of attack and racking up scary management speak while couching everything with words like “opportunity” and “metrics” and “buy-in”.

I’m a little afraid, quite honestly. Maybe I’m the corporate equivalent of River Tam. Maybe you should watch your throat, because I will cut you, man, I swear to god, I will cut you.

I think I’ve just had it with supposed alpha females picking fights with me. I don’t know if they sniff a usurper or what the deal is, and it probably irritates the shit out of them that I refuse to take their bait anymore and instead just shut them down as quickly as I can because man, I don’t have time to engage in this drama. Esteban suspects that this project has just given me confidence to use what I have always kept hidden for fear of being impolite. Which is true, because I do hold within my brain a secret fear that Miss Manners is going to rush in at any moment and thwap my knuckles with a book of etiquette.

After the second coup, which was much more public and awesome and earned a “Holy Fucking Shit You Rule” IM from a coworker in NY, I just sat back and shook my head. Seriously, I should have ended the meeting with “Thank you all! You’ve been great! Good night and tip your waitstaff!” Hopefully it wasn’t a peak and I’ll still have some of that unleashed ass kicking for next week, when I have a two day meeting in Shermer and have to fix the entire world from top to bottom all based upon the brilliance of myself and my team of expensive brainy people. I am somewhat terrified by this in-chargedness, as so far the only benefit has been getting to plan the catering menus for each day. Luckily, I have a night of shopping with Poppy to be the delicious creamy filling between those two days of hell, so I’m cautiously looking forward to it all. Plus, we’re having rice krispie bars one day for a snack. Because whenever possible, I try to use my powers for good.

I think my mother-in-law might have hit her least favorite time of the year. During summer, she has the pool and her garden and outdoor projects. Then fall comes, and she has more outdoor projects and pre-winter projects and Christmas projects. Then after the new year, there is the taking down to Christmas and then preparations for their yearly vacation to wherever and then the plotting to cater the minicon and now? Now she has nothing. It’s too cold to do anything outside. There’s nothing coming up. She can’t sit still. She then must invent things for herself to do. Hence the e-mail I received yesterday.

Hi!
We are going to have a St.Patrick’s Day feast!!! Weet, could you please take your allergy pill before you come. I’ve tried to keep down the butterfat but it’ll basically be in lots of Irish food. Here’s the menu.

Irish cocktails will be served before dinner. (Irish Kiss, Nutty Irishman Shooter and/or a Dublin Handshake)
Blue Cheese, Bacon and Zucchini Soup
Bibb, Bacon and Apple Salad with Camembert Dressing
Corned Beef and Cabbage
Champ (Irish mashed potatoes)
Bannocks (Irish oat cakes)
Apple and Bramble Cake with Bushmill’s Custard or Irish Chocolate cake I haven’t made up my mind on which one yet, they both sound so good.
Godiva Irish Coffee

Saturday night at 5:30 is dinner. Please come for cocktails at 4 or 4:30.
Please be very hungry for my Irish Feast!!!!
Love you,
Mom and Dad

She’s making everything from scratch. She has a list. She called me and grilled me about whether I knew what Irish Soda Bread is (answer: yes) and whether it should have raisins in it or not (answer: yes) and if I knew what Dubliner was (answer: a delicious cheese) and where I thought she could get bleu cheese from Cork (answer: not in Green Fucking Bay). She also called with a caveat that her corned beef with cabbage might not be the way my mother makes it, to which I replied “You mean, by making reservations?” because my mother has never made corned beef in my lifetime. It requires far too much patience and also, maternal instinct.

I tend to think that the universe or fate or karma or whatever abhors a vaccuum and will always seek to even things out. Physics supports this, so it’s not even all that wacky of a theory. And I think after the death of my great grandmother, my parental allotment was grievously short and so I ended up with a huge helping of Ward and June. And whenever I think that they are just being nice to me because I am married to their son, she’ll mention to me that my name was listed in three different places on the copy of Barrelhouse. Three places! And then she beams and I just shake my head and think, wow, the universe deserves a big thank you.

For the record, I’m not a fan of corned beef nor cabbage, but you’d better believe I’m going to take my allergy pill and enjoy every bite.

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EZ Listening

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

I don’t know if I mentioned this, but I’ve finally gotten over the pneumonia. It took two months, three courses of antibiotics, three doctor’s visits, a trip to the urgent care clinic on a Friday night (which is SO damned fun, you have no idea), a breathing treatment, some Prednisone, and more codeine than you can shake a stick at, but I think it’s officially done.I was still coughing a bit during the Minicon weekend, but this week, now that I’ve caught up with the sleep deficit? I am golden. It is so awesome, you have no idea. When you’re just sort of slogging around for so long you forget what it feels like to not feel like shit.

And I can tell I’m feeling better, as I was looking at the bathroom floor this morning, thinking “Man, I am so sick of waiting to deal with rebuilding the subfloor. Maybe I should just do something in the interim myself? It couldn’t be that hard to lay linoleum, right? Wow, I totally should re-caulk the tub this weekend.”

Hello crazy! I’ve missed you!

I’ve been thinking a lot about assholes the last few days. No, not the things that everyone has, from which by-products are passed. No, the people who are jerks, who are so self-involved that they don’t even consider how they come across to the rest of the world.

I worry a lot about being an asshole too much. It’s probably one of my biggest concerns. Which is not a request for a bunch of comments stroking my ego and assuring me that I am not an asshole, because whatever, I am sometimes. Everyone is. It’s sort of inevitable, because no one can be a saint 100% of the time. My goal is just to keep the ratio in the 90s and then make quick amends the rest of the time. I doubt I even make this mark. I certainly engage in snipey petty bullshit, although I try not to, or try to keep my venting contained to safe harbors (see the previous entry), but sometimes it slips out at inappropriate times and is hurtful and then I try to make up for it, because really, that’s all you can do. If you’re an asshole, your punishment is to essentially grovel and hope to be forgiven. And also learn from the experience. Mostly, I try not to inconvenience other people because of my own laziness or ineptitude because that is one of the truest marks of an asshole and the usually the mark of everything that truly annoys me boils down to exactly that. Being irresponsible with your pets? Throwing your cigarette butts out the window? Taking unfair advantage of your friends’ generosity? Insulting someone just to try to build up yourself? It all boils down to putting your own needs before the inconvenience or detriment of others.

And in my rush to not be an asshole, it has occurred to me recently that I have been allowing other people to be an asshole to me. There’s a weird social convention, there. People will ask permission to do something assy, as though by receiving permission first, it excuses them from poor behavior. “Hey, I’m going to have to stomp on your foot. Is that all right?” “Oh, I might need to borrow your house for three months… you don’t mind being homeless for a little while, do you?” “Oh, man, I think I’m about to screw you into the earth. My bad. Want some lube?” “Hey, do you mind holding still while I shit down your throat?”

And because I am always trying not to be an asshole myself, I always say “Oh, no problem! Feel free. Whatever I can do for you.”

Why do I do that? Because it means that I’ve absolved them from guilt. It’s my own damned fault, then, isn’t it?

So that’s my current plan for mental paradigm shifting. You want to be an asshole? Fine, but you’re not getting the green light from me.

It’s totally spring here in Wisconsin. It’s so weird. Ten days ago, I was standing in snow up to my knees and they were predicting a low of 3 degrees. Yesterday, it was 63 and I was driving around with my sunroof open, singing out loud to Blink 182.

Over the weekend, Esteban said something that I’ve been waiting to hear for 17 years. “Did you know that Green Bay has an alternative radio station now?”

I was rendered speechless and quivering for a full minute. Alternative radio station! Alternative! Radio! Oh my god! No more Nickelback! No more annoying pop traif! No more having to indure a top 40 radio station that is still playing songs from 10 years ago! Alternative! Joy! Pure unadulterated joy!

You have no idea how much I miss my little college radio station, the station that introduced me to Peter Murphy, to the Dead Milkmen. The station with the dj who had Broadcasting 101 class with me and would play The Descendants “Wendy” whenever he wanted me to call him during his shift. Oh WWSP, how I miss you. And when I drive to Milwaukee, I listen to my iPod until the precise moment in which 102.1, Milwaukee’s alternative station, comes in loud and clear. I know exactly when I’m in range, right after the glacial drumlins, as I pass Acuity’s headquarters with the ginormous American flag, that means that it’s time for spontaneous Postal Service, random Offspring and its inexplicable love of that “Insane in the Membrane” song. And when I go to Shermer, I know that when I start to lose that station when passing the Kenosha Harley Davidson store, I can switch over to Chicago’s 101.1, where clearly, my lack of smoking dope precludes any appreciation for Sublime, but other than that, I love them because they introduced me to Blue October before anyone else had even heard of them. And they played Stars once, right before Lollapalooza. Oh joy of joy.

So yeah, new radio station. However, I’ve been listening during my morning commutes and they still seem to be finding their way. While there has been a few Smashing Pumpkins and Violent Femmes songs, I’ve also heard a lot of U2 and Dave Matthews Band, which I don’t really think of as alternative. Really, it’s just less poppy Top 40. They don’t really have a website yet, otherwise I’d write in and request some Death Cab or Imogen Heap or something. Maybe that’s not alternative though. Maybe alternative is just the label that aging hipsters like to bandy about so that they don’t feel guilty about getting old.

My, my. People in glass houses.

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