29.6.05
28.6.05
Personal Ads you'll never see
Hi, I'm (insert name here). I'm an average-looking, bland and otherwise nondescript, overweight white woman with too much education and too little real-life experience. I have no realistic goals and prefer to remain mired in the anonymity of middle-class, suburban America. I am a whiny, manipulative and overneedy b*tch who will suck you emotionally dry for the remainder of your days and never again let you have a life outside of our relationship. Let's talk; call me real soon so I can start nagging, mother hen-ing, and caretaking you. I dream of a future where you and I can lose our self-concepts in the throes of our mutually dysfunctional ideologies and relationship!
---
Greetings. I'm (insert name here). From looking at my picture, you might assume that I am an achievable woman. Think again. The sad truth is that I am far too fabulous for you, geek boy. I am actually not even available - I am just here to torture you, and to show you what you could have had if you hadn't been too busy wacking off to Star Trek in your parents basement. Hah Hah!
---
OK boys, let's get down to what is important here:
I'm (insert name here). I'm in my 30s and want to have a baby girl. Right - now. I am otherwise completely happy doing my own thing, but do feel compelled to bring about a child into the world the old-fashioned way.
That's where you come in. My goals require you to:
a) have a set of fully-functioning man equipment (Limpy need not apply)
b) have a steady, reliable source of income on which you can comfortably support me, yourself, and our love child
c) own a home in an urban area
d) be ready to marry me at my bidding and love me unconditionally for who I am for the remainder of our days
e) have no particular longing for me to produce a baby boy, because I will not do it
If you meet the above requirements, are at least 30 years old, 5 feet-10 inches, and don't look like a troll or require significant electrolysis to go to the beach, please email me. Include 2 months of paystubs, your current mortgage statement and pictures of man equipment, teeth and back. Glasses and nerdy computer savvy a plus.
---
Greetings. I'm (insert name here). From looking at my picture, you might assume that I am an achievable woman. Think again. The sad truth is that I am far too fabulous for you, geek boy. I am actually not even available - I am just here to torture you, and to show you what you could have had if you hadn't been too busy wacking off to Star Trek in your parents basement. Hah Hah!
---
OK boys, let's get down to what is important here:
I'm (insert name here). I'm in my 30s and want to have a baby girl. Right - now. I am otherwise completely happy doing my own thing, but do feel compelled to bring about a child into the world the old-fashioned way.
That's where you come in. My goals require you to:
a) have a set of fully-functioning man equipment (Limpy need not apply)
b) have a steady, reliable source of income on which you can comfortably support me, yourself, and our love child
c) own a home in an urban area
d) be ready to marry me at my bidding and love me unconditionally for who I am for the remainder of our days
e) have no particular longing for me to produce a baby boy, because I will not do it
If you meet the above requirements, are at least 30 years old, 5 feet-10 inches, and don't look like a troll or require significant electrolysis to go to the beach, please email me. Include 2 months of paystubs, your current mortgage statement and pictures of man equipment, teeth and back. Glasses and nerdy computer savvy a plus.
Tallulah
I have decided that should the gods let it come to pass that I one day get a female bassett hound pup, I shall name her Tallulah.
So let it be written, so let it be done.
So let it be written, so let it be done.
23.6.05
Primal Scream Time
I am posting this afternoon in hopes (fingers crossed!) that I can alleviate some of my writer's block.
Here's what's buggin' me:
1) There's a loud talker in my office. You know, the blabbermouth who conducts a 40-minute conversation about Star Wars in her cube at the top of her lungs while the rest of us try very hard to write and ignore her. And we (OK, I) fail miserably. While she continues on telling the same oh-so-funny jokes that she's told for the last two weeks.
By the way, she has crazy deadlines like all of us. So, why is she the only one in the department flapping her gums while the rest of us have our heads buried in Microsoft Word and our Rock and Roll antiseptic of choice spinning on portable music players?
2) I have U2's Discotheque in my head. And it won't go away. While I love U2 with all of my heart, and can't wait for their concert in September, I cannot say Discotheque is my very favorite. That, and I only know one word in the song -- Discotheque. So I keep singing.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. over and over until my neurotic self-medicating is rudely interrupted by the loud talker. And the whole cycle repeats.
3) It's 90 degrees outside. In 2 hours, I'll be sitting in a pool. Every time I think about that, it's even harder to concentrate on writing about accessing the Daily Performance Report and how to read it... (WAKE UP! I KNOW, I KNOW.... IT'S REALLY BORING!)
4) I haven't been to the cabin yet this year. I am going next weekend, but I somehow feel like I have neglected my duty as both a member of the Green family, my loyalty to our little strip of heaven near Spooner, and my responsibility as a mother to make every single weekend chock-full of scrapbook-worthy goodness.
5) Every time Dis..co..theque goes through my head, I start thinking about the song Mr. Zdrazil sang in 10th grade Lit class:
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
(Trust me, it's a lot more powerful when you hear your tall, tortoise-shell glasses English Teacher/One-Act-Play-Director/Closest thing to a hero you'll have in a town of 1200 sing it a capella in the middle of 5th hour.)
Then I get all distracted when my mind wanders to my High School career, and this is a black hole that only plunges me further into the writer's block I'm trying with all my might to avoid facing.
Here's what's buggin' me:
1) There's a loud talker in my office. You know, the blabbermouth who conducts a 40-minute conversation about Star Wars in her cube at the top of her lungs while the rest of us try very hard to write and ignore her. And we (OK, I) fail miserably. While she continues on telling the same oh-so-funny jokes that she's told for the last two weeks.
By the way, she has crazy deadlines like all of us. So, why is she the only one in the department flapping her gums while the rest of us have our heads buried in Microsoft Word and our Rock and Roll antiseptic of choice spinning on portable music players?
2) I have U2's Discotheque in my head. And it won't go away. While I love U2 with all of my heart, and can't wait for their concert in September, I cannot say Discotheque is my very favorite. That, and I only know one word in the song -- Discotheque. So I keep singing.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. uh, uh, uh... Dis..co..theque.. over and over until my neurotic self-medicating is rudely interrupted by the loud talker. And the whole cycle repeats.
3) It's 90 degrees outside. In 2 hours, I'll be sitting in a pool. Every time I think about that, it's even harder to concentrate on writing about accessing the Daily Performance Report and how to read it... (WAKE UP! I KNOW, I KNOW.... IT'S REALLY BORING!)
4) I haven't been to the cabin yet this year. I am going next weekend, but I somehow feel like I have neglected my duty as both a member of the Green family, my loyalty to our little strip of heaven near Spooner, and my responsibility as a mother to make every single weekend chock-full of scrapbook-worthy goodness.
5) Every time Dis..co..theque goes through my head, I start thinking about the song Mr. Zdrazil sang in 10th grade Lit class:
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
Let's all go to the bibliotheque
(Trust me, it's a lot more powerful when you hear your tall, tortoise-shell glasses English Teacher/One-Act-Play-Director/Closest thing to a hero you'll have in a town of 1200 sing it a capella in the middle of 5th hour.)
Then I get all distracted when my mind wanders to my High School career, and this is a black hole that only plunges me further into the writer's block I'm trying with all my might to avoid facing.
20.6.05
I know it takes a village, but come on!
From this week's News of the Weird
Julie Atkins, 38, of Derby, England, featured in a May BBC TV documentary on childbirth because her three daughters gave birth last year at, respectively, ages 12, 14 and 16, told the Sunday Mercury newspaper: "I don't care what people say about me. I blame the schools. Sex education for young girls should be better."
15.6.05
Down with Big South!
Three (more) reasons I'm not a big fan of the south:
(1) Big Tobacco. OK, we've all seen the commericals. And yes, I chain-smoked in high school (until my boyfriend threatened to dump me unless I stopped... thanks, John.)
However, I have been hacking up unpleasantness all week because I spent 2 hours in a smoky bar in St. Paul. No more smoke for me, man. Tobacco is way too gross.
(2) Big Cotton. Is this a real problem? It is for quilters who wish to purchase calicos as less than 9.99 a yard. Come on -- it's cotton!
I vote for cheap cotton. Cheap quilting materials, actually. Help a poor girl out by letting me have some inexpensive crafting tools and supplies!
(3) Big Sugar. Sugar has been real, real mean. She's a catty b1tch who'll stab you in the back(side) as soon as you don't pay close attention. She's manipulative -- so sweet, so harmless... and then she goes in and ruins your love life, your self-esteem, your blood pressure.
Then, there's the whole Wal-Mart phenom... and, I mean, I don't really like the south all that much anyhow, what with all the heat and bugs and mold and such...
But that's another blog entry.
Down with Big South!
(1) Big Tobacco. OK, we've all seen the commericals. And yes, I chain-smoked in high school (until my boyfriend threatened to dump me unless I stopped... thanks, John.)
However, I have been hacking up unpleasantness all week because I spent 2 hours in a smoky bar in St. Paul. No more smoke for me, man. Tobacco is way too gross.
(2) Big Cotton. Is this a real problem? It is for quilters who wish to purchase calicos as less than 9.99 a yard. Come on -- it's cotton!
I vote for cheap cotton. Cheap quilting materials, actually. Help a poor girl out by letting me have some inexpensive crafting tools and supplies!
(3) Big Sugar. Sugar has been real, real mean. She's a catty b1tch who'll stab you in the back(side) as soon as you don't pay close attention. She's manipulative -- so sweet, so harmless... and then she goes in and ruins your love life, your self-esteem, your blood pressure.
Then, there's the whole Wal-Mart phenom... and, I mean, I don't really like the south all that much anyhow, what with all the heat and bugs and mold and such...
But that's another blog entry.
Down with Big South!
14.6.05
10.6.05
So, I've been a parent for 2 years now, and...
Anyone who tells you that having children isn't the greatest sacrifice you'll ever choose to make hasn't actually been with children for more than 2 days.
However, even though I've had to completely redefine myself since motherhood, I would never change my decision.
Having a child (or children) is the most rude interruption you'll never regret having.
However, even though I've had to completely redefine myself since motherhood, I would never change my decision.
Having a child (or children) is the most rude interruption you'll never regret having.
7.6.05
the root of my punkadelic soul
(poem courtesy of Di)
S - Sensational
A - Alive
R - Reader
A - Artsy
H - Heroic
E - Eloquent
L - Laughing
I - Intelligent
Z - Zanny
A - And then some
B - Beautiful inside and out
T - Truthful
H - Helpful
G - Gorgeous
R - Rita Hayworth's Friend :)
E - Easy on the Eyes
E - Easterner at Heart
N - Nice
H - Hot Mama
A - A Good and True Friend
G - Green-Conscious
G - Green Party Supporter
E - Earth Friendly
R - Really, Really Cool
T - Truly OutSTANDing
Y - You are Loved!
6.6.05
Another dream-nugget from the archives of my imagination
so, Diana and I are driving in my Gina Ehlers (a friend from high school who I haven't talked to in probably 5 years...) 1990-ish Cadillac. It's lemon yellow exterior and maroon crushed velvet interior, and I have extensive small-town high school memories about it, if you'd like to ask sometime.
We're driving through downtown Chicago, and Diana whips out an open bottle of Chianti (and I'm talking the dirt-cheap, jug of Italian table wine. The one with the wicker glued to the bottom.) And starts chugging. Diana's behind the wheel, and I freak out.
S: "What the hell are you doing? You can't have an open bottle in the car!"
D: "Who are you - my mother?"
and we go on like that for a bit. Meanwhile, Diana is trying very hard to empty the bottle of Chianti between expletives, and neither of us notice that we're a) heading out of downtown due south and into a rather seedy neighborhood b) are being followed by a pretty white-and-black vehicle adorned with lights, not yet turned on.
After trying to reason with Diana, I decide that only brute physical force will ensure our safety. So I jump on her and wrestle her (while driving, mind you) for the now-empty bottle of Chianti. After some gentle persuasion (which includes biting Diana's feet), she relents and in the force of taking the bottle of Chianti from her, I lose it out the window of the car.
Thankfully for us, the empty jug-and-wicker projectile flies out of my hand in incredible slow motion, and as I scream, "Nooooooooooooooooooo!" it smashes headlong into the cop car behind us. Which is suddenly glaringly apparent.
Now, I say thankfully because of course, the cherries flash on, the sirens whoo--oooes us to a stop, and Diana and I are all like, "shh. Calm down now. We don't want the cops to think we're drunk or anything."
Christ. The whole backseat of Gina's cadillac smells like a dirty old Italian man.
So, the two cops walk up to the windows (one on each side). And they couldn't possibly be police officers, because I'm watching them, and they are grinning and chuckling and something doesn't seem right.
I'm thinking:
1) these guys are way too hot to be eating donuts all night long
2) why are their pants so tight?
3) is that cops chest glistening?
So, Diana is asked to step out of the car. Me too. They make her do the sobriety walk (which she fails miserably). She fails her breathalyzer (as you and I both would after downing a jug of chianti.)
And then, Cop A by her door says, miss, I'm going to have to issue you a citation.
D: "Dammit! What for?"
Cop A: "For being too sexy." (Grins laviciously.)
Cob B: (to me) "You too, sweetheart."
And then the alarm goes off.
We're driving through downtown Chicago, and Diana whips out an open bottle of Chianti (and I'm talking the dirt-cheap, jug of Italian table wine. The one with the wicker glued to the bottom.) And starts chugging. Diana's behind the wheel, and I freak out.
S: "What the hell are you doing? You can't have an open bottle in the car!"
D: "Who are you - my mother?"
and we go on like that for a bit. Meanwhile, Diana is trying very hard to empty the bottle of Chianti between expletives, and neither of us notice that we're a) heading out of downtown due south and into a rather seedy neighborhood b) are being followed by a pretty white-and-black vehicle adorned with lights, not yet turned on.
After trying to reason with Diana, I decide that only brute physical force will ensure our safety. So I jump on her and wrestle her (while driving, mind you) for the now-empty bottle of Chianti. After some gentle persuasion (which includes biting Diana's feet), she relents and in the force of taking the bottle of Chianti from her, I lose it out the window of the car.
Thankfully for us, the empty jug-and-wicker projectile flies out of my hand in incredible slow motion, and as I scream, "Nooooooooooooooooooo!" it smashes headlong into the cop car behind us. Which is suddenly glaringly apparent.
Now, I say thankfully because of course, the cherries flash on, the sirens whoo--oooes us to a stop, and Diana and I are all like, "shh. Calm down now. We don't want the cops to think we're drunk or anything."
Christ. The whole backseat of Gina's cadillac smells like a dirty old Italian man.
So, the two cops walk up to the windows (one on each side). And they couldn't possibly be police officers, because I'm watching them, and they are grinning and chuckling and something doesn't seem right.
I'm thinking:
1) these guys are way too hot to be eating donuts all night long
2) why are their pants so tight?
3) is that cops chest glistening?
So, Diana is asked to step out of the car. Me too. They make her do the sobriety walk (which she fails miserably). She fails her breathalyzer (as you and I both would after downing a jug of chianti.)
And then, Cop A by her door says, miss, I'm going to have to issue you a citation.
D: "Dammit! What for?"
Cop A: "For being too sexy." (Grins laviciously.)
Cob B: (to me) "You too, sweetheart."
And then the alarm goes off.
2.6.05
Super-Sugar Feedback Puffs
Delicious!
Goes Down Easy!
Now, with super-fluffy marshmallow compliments!
Eat these and have absolutely zero potential for growth and enrichment!
Yah, so today, I've been thinking a little bit (OK, a lot bit) about giving and receiving feedback. Especially at work. The last couple of weeks, the MBTI (Myers-Briggs for those of you who haven't spent the last 8 years studying psychology) has reared it's ugly little pinhead here at work. We all took the MBTI and are now aware of our team's personality differences, styles, blah blah blah. Group hug, right?
Dead wrong. Now we're all labeling each other, walking on eggshells, and tiptoeing around our own thoughts and feelings. Gross. Growing up in a tumultous family full of conflict (and a bunch of hodge-podge alcoholic genes that make for a no-holds-barred, get it out on the table ruckus every time there was a disagreement), I'm not one for Minnesota nice (funny, I'm even a native.) If I don't like something, if I think that something should be fixed, different, scrapped, or exalted, you're going to know about it. I know, I know -- sometimes that gets me into trouble. But its trouble worth having, because at least everyone knows where they stand at all times, and there's no guessing as to what I'm thinking/feeling/processing.
Well, in that vein, I'm a stranger in a strange land at work. Some of my team, while having many great qualities, is very, well, Hotdish. We don't talk about stuff. We don't acknowledge when people's feelings are hurt, when there's a mistake, when we need to just vent. Bad team. Bad team!
Instead, we feed each other Super-Sugar Feedback Puffs. Say something nice, make yourself look and sound stupid, self-depricate, and above all, play nice. No bruised egos here (you know, except the ones seething under the smile.)
Well, you know what? I'm not sorry about my feelings. I won't write an apology for my thoughts, and I don't think that I should have to tone down my own brain. I'm not rude, I'm not mean. I just say what I think. And sometimes that's really not an easy pill for my fellow Midwestern-ers to swallow (by the way, this is reason #086594 I belong on the East Coast.)
To quote a great songwriter:
... I'm sorry for my views,
I must have been confused
but did you know that really
I'm sorry for you ...
(nellie mckay)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
