I See You

I see you, reader from New Berlin, Wisconsin, who comes here every day without fail.

Who are you? What are you up to right now? What is New Berlin like? In my head, it's like Lake Wobegon -- the place where we waited all day in the rain for you.

Are all the men of New Berlin good-looking? Are all of the women strong? Are all of the children above-average? You probably have no idea what I'm talking about unless you listen to Garrison Keillor. But you have to understand that this is how I picture New Berlin in my mind, for some reason.

And why don't you ever come visit my new home? I've got things over there for you, things that you might like. I've got a recipe for shrimp curry, a YouTube video of an old Polish man saying funny phrases, this cool poem that I heard and a rant about canola oil. You should really check it out some day.

It must be strange and somewhat depressing to come and visit the same page every day, only to see that nothing has changed there since August 30th, every single time. So I'm posting this for you, New Berlin, Wisconsin.

Or does the fact that the page never changes anymore provide you with some unfamiliar comfort that I've now ruined?

Whatever it is, I just hope that you're having a good day, New Berlin. Your faithfulness to this shady, little corner of the internet is astounding and heartening. Be seeing you...

Like a Rolling Stone

I can't seem to stay put for long. That's right: I'm moving again. Due to an abundance of reasons (okay, only a few, but they're good ones!), I'm moving from Blogger to Wordpress. Come and visit me at my new home:

Chelsea Hotel No. 2 (version 2.0)

Update your bookmarks, change your Favorites, alert the media -- whatever you feel is appropriate. Just come and give me a housewarming comment at my new place.

xkcd

Due to a total lack of creativity on my part for the past few days, I've decided to post some of my all-time favorite comics from xkcd. Enjoy!

For larger versions, just head over to the website, you lazy bastard!

Something Blue

I went in for my third wedding dress fitting today. I believe this marks about the eleventy-tenth time I've been in the bridal salon; it's starting to feel like my second office. The salon itself is one of those little ritzy affairs in the heart of River Oaks, the kind of place where the dresses cost as much as a year's rent and the ladies give you withering looks for failing to come in full makeup (mascara and lip gloss do not count as makeup, dear). They are also unafraid to tell you that you (a) need to lose weight (b) no, more than that, darling, if you want to fit into a dress that doesn't come from the heavy girls' section at David's Bridal (c) you're standing all wrong and (d) STAY STILL. It's like having clones of my mother on all sides, which is more stressful to me than having to sing a solo at Carnegie Hall or juggle priceless Faberge eggs for the Pope. I get tight-chested just thinking about it, so, needless to say, I was not looking forward to this morning's appointment.

My wedding dress is extremely heavy and hot. Luckily, I'm having a November wedding, or else I don't think I'd be able to stand up there without fainting from heatstroke. I would never have thought that something strapless could make me feel like I'm wearing a fur coat inside a sauna. But although it weighs about 25 pounds and has certain sweat-lodge qualities, it's still extraordinary. It looks like a confection; I certainly never pictured myself wearing something so exquisite. It's made of ivory silk and has a hand-beaded bodice of pearls and Swarovski crystals. The dress is tight on top, cinching my waist into a tiny ring like a whalebone girdle, and it flares out in an A-line from the hips. The train is long and slightly bustled; the skirt has scattered French pick-ups over miles of petticoats. I look like...a princess.

I never played dress-up when I was a little girl and certainly never pretended to or wanted to be a princess. So, obviously, I did not pick out this dress. That's right -- I didn't pick out my own wedding dress. My mother and aunt went with me as I began dress-hunting about six months ago. They, along with the bridal salon owner, picked out my dress for me because I simply couldn't choose from the dozens of Stepford dresses with which I was presented even though I feel that I made many valiant efforts to choose one. It's beautiful and I do like it and -- I suppose, most importantly -- I look great in it, but I still feel like someone's mannequin every time I put it on. I'm poked and prodded and shoved and corseted until the dress takes it shape over my body.

So far, I can't envision wearing it for an entire afternoon/evening without toppling over my petticoats or crashing into someone holding a glass of red wine. I'm equally nervous about walking down the isle in it, dragging yards of fabric carefully behind me as I go to meet my groom. And I don't know who among my bridal party will have the sheer patience to fasten all of the tiny pearl buttons down the back or figure out the complex bustle after the ceremony has ended.

As I was waiting for the seamstress to collect her pins today, I rustled around the room trying to adjust to the weight and ampleness of the dress. I was moving pretty well, not jogging or anything, but doing a passing imitation of Grace Kelly when my mother and the salon owner walked in and saw me. They both threw a wobbly and demanded that I not move another muscle until the fitting was over. I stood there, stock still, for the remainder of the time and tried to figure out what to do with my hands. They were like little sparrows, not wanting to stay put, trying to nest on different parts of the dress -- my hips, my waist, the small of my back -- while my mother batted them back down to my sides, annoyed.

The worst part, for me, about the fittings is the way that I'm reduced to an object -- a realistic mannequin for the seamstress, a cypher for my mother -- and treated like a small child if and when I speak up.

I will be so exceedingly happy when this is all over, when the pictures have been taken and the food eaten and the music danced to, and I can just be married. People keep asking me these days, "Are you excited about the wedding?" and the surprising truth is that, as much as I may complain, I am. But I'm simply much more excited about what comes next.

Odds and Ends

A few things I've been meaning to put down before they get rudely shoved aside in my mind by intrusive thoughts of the butterscotch milkshake I'm craving or dress fitting appointments or JDE invoicing or whatever else might randomly slip in:

Random Compliments That I've Received Lately and To Which I Have Not Known How To Respond:

- "You look like a young Bette Midler" (holy crap -- what???)

- "You have the nicest skin! I'm looking at it so closely and I can't see any pores at all!" (while I certainly appreciate the sentiment, get.away.from.my.face -- we're at a business dinner, psycho)

- "You've got great boobs." (from a chick, no less)

- "You've got great taste in food." (okay, well...yes, I do -- thank you)


A Movie Scene Which I'm Sure Has Never Been Filmed But Which I Would Very Much Enjoy Seeing Nonetheless:

A sex scene in which the two lovers are locked together 9-1/2 Weeks-style in some very random location (like the inside of an old phone booth or a drained swimming pool next to an abandoned hotel), completely throwing all decency to the wind and saying nothing to each other as a Hardingfele plays mournfully over the scene. I know, I know: you're laughing now at the Hardingfele, aren't you? You're either laughing at the word "Hardingfele" even though you have no idea what it is, or you're laughing because you actually know what one is and you're either associating it with The Lord of the Rings soundtrack (no! stop it!) or you're imagining a jolly Norwegian tune being played on it while two people get down in a phone booth.

But go and listen to "Folkdance from the Hills" by Edvard Grieg (you can listen to a small snippet of it on Amazon, but it's not the good part and it really doesn't do it justice). Now picture that playing over the sex. It's totally hot, isn't it? Smoking hot. And here you were, making fun of a Hardingfele like a 13-year-old.


The Temp Who's Sharing My Office With Me Is Very Interested in Homeopathic Medicine

Very interested. He talks about it all the time, which I have a hard time reconciling with the music that he listens to all day long (paging Megadeth to office 1350, Megadeth to 1350, please). I mean, as I write this, he's mumbling something to me about Valerian root. Thank God he can't see my computer screen. So today, I'm getting a little flustered while I'm on the phone with an employee and I flub my words. Big deal; whatever. But when I finish the call, there's the temp waiting with baited breath to tell me:

"You messed up your words just now." Yeah, thanks for noticing.

"You know that the reason people do that -- the reason their minds are all foggy -- is that they have a stomach fungus." What?

"Yeah, a stomach fungus -- it's called candida." You mean yeast? Like a yeast infection? In someone's stomach? O.....kay.

"Yeah, gross, huh? You should totally eat some cream of tartar; it'll clear that right up." Thanks for the heads up, buddy. I'll get right on that one.


A Poem Which I Had Forgotten That I Really Enjoy and Found Again In the Back Of a Notebook Today:

If I should go away,
Beloved, do not say
'He has forgotten me'.
For you abide,
A singing rib within my dreaming side;
You always stay.
And in the mad tormented valley
Where blood and hunger rally
And Death the wild beast is uncaught, untamed,
Our soul withstands the terror
And has its quiet honour
Among the glittering stars your voices named.

-Postcript for Gweno, by Alun Lewis


Hey, Bette Midler's Looking Pretty Good For an Older Broad!:

The Girl Crush

Richard caught me watching L.A. Ink last night with what I guess was some degree of intensity. It was then that I confessed my girl crush on Kat Von D to him, which he didn’t completely understand because (a) she’s quite alternative and therefore unattractive to him and (b) I think it’s difficult for heterosexual males to understand (or admit that they understand) having a totally platonic crush on someone of the same sex. I tried explaining a girl crush to him, but he had already moved on to grander delusions: namely, me getting busy with some chick.

“You know,” he mooned, “it wouldn’t be cheating if it was with another chick.” I rolled my eyes and turned my attention back to L.A. Ink, while Richard wandered off into another room, visions of lipstick lesbians dancing in his head.

And while I’m not necessarily inclined to carry on a lesbian affair, it did give me a good idea for a blog entry. So without further ado, I present my list of girl crushes:

- Kat Von D (as previously mentioned, because she is fierce and funny and beautiful and blazes her own trail, everyone else be damned)

- Jenny Lewis (who is simply amazing, with Blake Sennett thrown in for good measure, even though he’s a guy, just because he’s so freaking adorkable [yes, I said adorkable] and because I’m sort of vicariously obsessed with the complex friends-lovers-friends-lovers-friends-whatever-we-are-we’re-soulmates-and-we-make-orgasmically-good-music-together relationship that they have)

- Scarlett Johannson (Oh my God, the rack. The acting, too, but…the rack. I can certainly appreciate a good pair of puppies when I see them...)

- Zooey Deschanel (I want to be her so bad, it's not even funny)

- Miranda July (instead of blood and plasma and white cells, she has pure creativity running through her veins)

- Nico (I don't care that she's dead; she was brilliant)

- and almost every girl that makes her way onto The Sartorialist, because I am insanely jealous of their ability to look effortlessly stylish and beautiful (I said almost every girl; beware of some of the more "artistic" looks on that site)

This is not, by any means, a comprehensive list. But it's getting late and I'm tired and I have a Rilo Kiley CD calling my name from the car, so until next time...

A shout in the street

I blame Pancho for this one:

You're Ulysses!

by James Joyce

Most people are convinced that you don't make any sense, but compared to what else you could say, what you're saying now makes tons of sense. What people do understand about you is your vulgarity, which has convinced people that you are at once brilliant and repugnant. Meanwhile you are content to wander around aimlessly, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. What you see is vast, almost limitless, and brings you additional fame. When no one is looking, you dream of being a Greek folk hero.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

I never much cared for James Joyce or Ulysses, even though I catch myself unintentionally mimicking his stream-of-consciousness style at times. But you know what? I also catch myself writing about the inanities of everyday life and that doesn't mean I like Erma Bombeck. Stupid quiz.

At least it captured my brilliant yet repugnant vulgarity.

Dzien dobry! Nazywam sie Elzbieta.

Ed. Note: I meant to post this on Monday, but I was either really busy or really drunk or really lazy...take your pick.

There was a fierce tranny in my local Starbucks this morning. She looked like a young Amanda Lepore, complete with huge red lips, long blonde hair and kicky stilettos. I'm not quite sure what she was doing in a Starbucks in Memorial at eight o'clock in the morning, all kitted out in her finest denim jumpsuit and bouffant Traci-Lords-in-"Cry-Baby"-hair -- actually, I'm not quite sure I want to know -- but I loved her for it. The yuppies were carefully maintaining their distance from her, which was difficult because she was lounging languidly up against the main counter, batting her eyelashes at all the men in their houndstooth trousers as they approached for their venti lattes. The yuppies were either glaring at her with disapproval -- "A transexual? In MY coffee shop?!? Well, I never!" -- and trying to avoid eye contact completely. Watching them squirm with uneasiness while watching her revel in their obvious discomfort was probably the high point of my day. I wanted to give her a hug and thank her for bringing such joy to a Monday morning, but that seemed inappropriate somehow. So...thanks, mysterious tranny, whoever you are.

I went to a couple of parties over the weekend, which was a nice respite from the constant renovation work we're doing on the house. On Friday night, it was Michael's 30th birthday bash, from which I'm still eagerly awaiting pictures, and these are the reasons why:

- It was a 1985 - 1995 themed party (to pay homage to his formative years)
- Richard went as one of The New York Dolls (we never did decide which one)
- I went as one of his groupies from Paramus, New Jersey named Stacey
- Richard's costume (except for his wig) was entirely composed of MY clothing
- Richard had on the tighest pants perhaps ever seen on a heterosexual male
- It was pure awesomeness

Also, there was karaoke and that lovely cream cheese dip with the raspberry chipotle sauce on top that I could live off of for the rest of my life. And also a random man in his early 50s who looked almost exactly like this:

...but with a goatee, about a gallon of sweat plastered all over his shirt and a really shitty attitude. He was going around the entire party telling us "young people" how he "actually LIVED through the Eighties" and how we "have NO idea what it was like." He was "living in New York then, man, and you don't have a fucking CLUE what that shit was like." Later on, we caught him swaying precariously next to the karaoke machine while some other total douchebag sang Creed. They mirrored each other in intensity: eyes closed, sweat beading on their temples, really feeling the song...well, as much as one can "feel" Creed (gah! I want to vomit at the thought). He looked to be off his manic high from earlier and onto some other completely different illicit substance. We came to the desultory decision amongst ourselves that it was mescaline, because -- really -- who the hell takes mescaline? The answer is: that guy.

The next day, it was another birthday party/congrats-on-getting-into-med-school party at Jessie's house. But Jessie does not host normal parties -- no, these are Polish parties, and they are the epitome of extravagant bacchanalias. You can be guaranteed that the most interesting albeit random people you will ever meet in your life will be at one of these parties. You can also be guaranteed that at some point during the night, Jessie's younger sister, Marge, will peform her infamous "dropping it like it's hot" routine for the enjoyment of all assembled. Never a dull moment.

Immediately upon entering, I was swept away from Richard and my other friends by Jessie's mother, who paraded me in front of her assembled friends and demanded that I speak Polish to them. This would be fine if anyone in Jessie's family had ever bothered to teach me anything useful in Polish. As it is, my vocabulary is limited to these phrases:

- Hello.
- Thank you.
- Give me that rat named Honey.
- I have small potatoes.
- You have a large ass.
- You are a male whore.
- I have no legs.
- My name is Elizabeth.
- Vodka?

You can probably see now why I'm such a great party trick at Polish get-togethers.

So, yes, the party was fantastic. There was a keg of Ziegenbock (represent!), two enormous cakes, enough vodka to float a navy and some delicious hummus. Richard got to talk football with some Polish guys and a Moroccan gentleman who apparently owns half the nightclubs in Houston. I got harassed into shaking my ass on the "dance floor" (i.e., a dark corner of the living room next to the giant speakers). Marge showed me Unicorn Planet (how I missed that one, I'll never know). And I had a conversation with a lovely gentleman from Peru and a woman from Columbia about the recent earthquake there -- in Spanish. All in all, a good night.

Of course, we were completely useless the next day and so kitchen renovations have yet again fallen to another weekend. One of these days or months or decades, we'll finish it. Till then...

Back in Black

I spent eight hours today at an HR compliance seminar -- sounds like a doozy, right? But this was the most bizzarre, completely awesome HR seminar I've ever been to (and, sadly, I've been to many). It began innocuously enough: a hotel meeting room with a name like "Sierra" or "Diamond" or "Martinique" or some other stripper-esque nomenclature, roughly 90 middle-aged women in their finest Chico's and Talbot's ensembles and a tired buffet of rock-hard croissants and lukewarm coffee. I grabbed a spot in the back corner of the room, hoping to do some covert reading and avoid any thrilling conversations (Oh, wow! We use Mercer as our TPA, too! Aren't their out-of-scope fees outrageous? I know, I know -- but their call center is local -- no damn Indians -- and that's all you can ask for these days, right? Hahahahaha!).

The murmurs from the various HR ladies died down as a man entered the room -- which is unusual in and of itself, since HR as a business unit is so heavily pink-collar -- and shuffled to the front, taking a seat on a barstool and facing the audience. He looked somewhat haggard, with tired eyes and a slightly humped back. His shirt was unbuttoned one button too far, revealing the pasty, hairless chest beneath. His hair was ruffled carelessly. He eyed us all wearily.

The man introduced himself as the seminar leader, mentioning in his opening that he had just come from Phoenix and would be going to Philadelphia tonight, where there were "six lousy bastards who signed up for this thing; at least I've got a good turnout from you people." I stared at him, my attention piqued suddenly by the utterance of the words "lousy bastard" at an otherwise normal seminar, and I wasn't alone. There was some nervous chirping and tittering throughout the crowd as people looked around at each other as if seeking confirmation of what they just heard. I put my book down, curious as to what our leader would say next. I was not disappointed.

He rambled on: "I -- personally -- hate employees; they're idiots. I don't even know why I'm in this business. Don't act like you don't hate them, too. Hell, I wake up every morning wondering how I even got here in the first place. Who hired me? I'm not even wearing underwear today. Don't look -- just take my word for it -- and I've got a terrible case of diarrhea from the steroids I'm taking for this allergic reaction I had to a bee sting. I just violated my own HIPAA -- I'll be doing that all day, so just prepare yourselves. Oh, and you can fill out one of those evaluation forms if you want to, but at the end of the day, I don't really care about what you have to say."

After this insightful introduction, he went on to perform a one-man five-minute skit on what he called "the general ignorance of the average employee." He was amazing and darkly brilliant -- the Lewis Black of HR seminars -- but was also clearly disturbed and/or deeply burned out. It was a trainwreck and I was enraptured. More delicious tidbits followed, as I scribbled furiously on my legal pad to capture all of the verbal insanity:

"There's no such thing as a violation unless you get caught. Right? Right."

"What did I say? USE IT OR LOSE IT, FUCKER! Why is that so goddamned hard for you to understand?"

"I hate California; no, I don't want a goddamn granola bar and get that fucking yogurt away from me."

"Why are you staring at me? Did I say too much? Show too many body parts?"

"I popped one of my wife's Valium's earlier, but it doesn't seem to be doing much of anything."

"Let's use my son Dave as an example. Dave is a loser. He lives in sin with his loser girlfriend, Jamie. I've told them both that they're going to hell, but they won't listen to me."

"I mean, someone had to be drunk when they wrote this manual. I swear to God, look at this crap!"

I could not make this stuff up if I tried; I'm not that smart or funny. The guy was clearly off his rocker. But the even crazier part was that I actually learned something at what I thought was going to be a worthless seminar. No, it was not that mentally unbalanced people need to take their lithium... I actually learned a couple of new things about compliance, since his insanity kept me focused on the topic at hand, no matter how many times he strayed into delirium. Am I thrilled that I learned even more filler about a topic I could really care less about? No, not really. But the day was far more interesting that sitting in the office I'm currently sharing with a temp while he listens to GWAR on his computer, answering inane questions from employees that I too -- personally -- hate.

Now...the fact that I lost my parking ticket and had to fake-cry at the front desk of the hotel to be let out of the parking garage or the fact that I paid $16.95 for a wedge salad at the hotel's resaturant for lunch -- not so interesting and definitely stories for another day.

Gifted

This is my family:

- My grandmother and grandfather both have Master's degrees in English.

- My cousin is a performer with the Cirque de Soleil.

- My aunt is an opera singer.

- My uncle is a Pulitzer-prize winning poet and author.

- My other uncle is a marathoner and triathelete.

- My mother is a chef.

- My other aunt has her Doctorate in history, is a college professor and author.

- Yet another aunt is a museum curator.

- My great-grandfather was an engineer; he designed the Hoover Dam, among many other structures.

- Another cousin is a successful restauranteur.

- Another cousin has seven Master's degrees and works for NASA (yes, seven).

***

I am... What? A human resources analyst? A sometimes blogger? A failed graduate student who has resigned herself to working in corporate America? A piece of plain white bread soaked in 2% milk? Not living up to the expectations set by my family or myself?

***

I am... Not looking forward to our next family reunion. That's what I am.


Sorry for the lack of more explicit details, but...I don't know most of you. Tough titties.

Mad Max: Beyond Odessa

Sometimes, you just have one of those days...or weeks...or months that seems interminable. Mired in monotony and vicious cycles of paperwork, you can easily begin to lose sight of why you even go to work every morning in the first place. You start having illogical thoughts like, "I don't need a paycheck -- I don't need all these material possessions -- I should just blow this shack and start a scooter rental place in the Maldives." You make pointless trips to the coffee bar -- even just to get a cup of water -- so that you feel somewhat free of of umbilical cord that ties you to your desk. You increasingly turn to lurid, trashy websites that you know are probably against company policy, in a futile effort to remain somewhat lucid in the face of crushing boredom. And you look forward -- desperately, salivatingly -- to any small moment that will shatter the tedium of the day.

I had one such small moment today. One of my contacts in the field asked me to overnight him some documents. I asked for his address and he sent me back a P.O. Box. I can't believe I still have to tell people this after all this time, but you can't FedEx or UPS or DHL or send anything else overnight to a P.O. Box -- you must have a physical address. I guess I thought this was common knowledge, but apparently not. So, I wrote him back to request his physical address.

This is what he sent back:

30 miles west of Odessa
Highway 20
Exit 14
Past the metal gate

What is this, Mad Max? Do you guys live in a world out there in West Texas that is devoid of physical addresses? Or are you just unclear on the concept/definition of "physical address"?

Strangely enough, the answer is (b) -- certain parts of West Texas are strangely devoid of addresses, since it's so sparsely populated. I thought it was (c) and acted like a complete asshole towards the guy, basically wording my e-mail to him exactly as it is stated above. I've really got to cut down on that assholeishness. And probably the trashy websites, too.

At least I made it through the afternoon doldrums today, though.

Really?

In the second of a...well...two-part series on Google searches, I present the latest random search that led someone to this page: a Dutch gentleman (or perhaps a lady) in Utrecht searches for "barbie grits winkle" at 5:03 a.m. and lands here instead.

Can someone out there can clue me in to the hidden meaning of the phrase "barbie grits winkle"? Is it simply a random collection of unrelated words or is it some universal mystery that no one is destined to uncover?

Google Image Search appears to lean towards the former.

Lederhosen Copulation

I've noticed a recent rise in web traffic from people doing Google searches and ending up here. Mostly, the Google searches are for the lyrics to "Golden State" by John Doe. I appear to be the only person on earth who's actually sat down and transcribed those lyrics on the internet. WTF? You can find out the actual location of Atlantis or the answer to "what is the meaning of life?" (42), but apparently lyrics to popular songs are in short supply these days.

Anyway, I noticed this morning that I had a truly unique visitor to the blog last night around 3am. This person (from Germany, no less) had Googled "dirndl fuck." Imagine their disappointment when they landed here...

Sorry, my German friend. I hope that subsequent Google searches led you to that elusive goal.

The Church

While cooped up in the hospital this weekend with my grandfather (stories abound, but my patience to write them does not), he had more than his share of visitors. Being an elder in his church and a more-than-dutiful tither, one of those visitors was the preacher at said church. This preacher, we'll call him Dave, and his wife visited briefly with my grandfather and grandmother before turning their extremely unwanted attention to me and my mother. I mean, the point of a hospital visit is to express your care and concern for the hospitalized individual, right? Not to overstay your welcome by at least thirty minutes while interrogating his family members. Right? Apparently, not so much.

I should mention that I was raised in a very strict and very...nostalgic denomination of Christianty. They truly do believe that they are God's chosen people, even above all other Protestant denominations. Baptists? Presbyterians? Methodists? All going to hell. And don't even get them started on the Catholics or the Jews. And when I say strict and nostalgic, I mean "God, I wish that we lived back in Victorian times so that our women couldn't work or speak unless spoken to and so that the only book people were allowed to read was the Bible. That would be great. Oh, and I wish that we had more leeway to openly persecute people that disagree with us. God, that'd be great, too." That said, however, it's incredibly important that we keep up the guise of being good Church members in the presence of my grandparents. To do or imply otherwise would crush their little souls immensely. Also, they'd probably leave us out of the will.

Anyway, Preacher Dave is introduced to my mother, about whom he's apparently heard very bad things. He looks at her as if she's got goat entrails hanging out of her mouth from this morning's Satanic ritual. My mother glares back at him, already on the defensive.

Preacher Dave: So, Jo. Your mother tells me that you attend a church in Houston. Which one?
Mother (who hasn't set foot inside a church in seven years): Um...West Houston.
Preacher Dave: West Houston Church of Christ?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Oh, what road are they on? I just can't seem to remember...
Mother: Um...West Road.
Preacher Dave: West Road?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: Funny, I thought they had moved from that location.
Mother: Nope, not that I'm aware of.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure they moved.
Mother: No. You're mistaken. You must be thinking of another church.
Preacher Dave: Oh, well, anyway...I thought that you'd be attending Memorial Drive Church of Christ since it's right down the street from your house (side note: how do preachers remember this type of crap about their parishoners? who remembers things like, "Ah, yes..their daughter lives right off Memorial Drive...")
Mother: Well, that church just wasn't right for us.
Preacher Dave: That's a shame to hear. One my best friends preaches there.
Mother: Oh, well, I mean...it just didn't cater to our demographic, I guess you could say.
Preacher Dave: And West Houston does?
Mother: Yes, quite well.
Preacher Dave: I'm trying to remember who preaches there...can you help me with his name?
Mother: It's Brother Atwell.
Preacher Dave: Are you sure about that?
Mother: Yes.
Preacher Dave: I'm pretty sure that Brother Atwell is preaching in Fort Worth now.
Mother: Nope, he's still there at West Houston.
Preacher Dave: No, the last time I heard, he was preaching in Fort Worth.
Mother: Well, you must have heard wrong.

Preacher Dave is now openly suspicious of my mother's attendance at any church at all, much less West Houston. And my mother has had enough of her interrogation and turns her back on him, leaving me exposed. He turns to me and begins anew.

Preacher Dave: So, Katie. I hear that you're getting married in November.
Me: That's correct, sir.
Preacher Dave: Is your husband-to-be a member of the Church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: He's from England and wasn't raised in our faith.
Preacher Dave: Well, that's no excuse. Have you been taking him to church?
Me: No, sir.
Preacher Dave: Why not?
Me: Because I feel that's his decision to make on his own.
Preacher Dave: So, you're marrying outside of the faith, then?
Me: It looks that way, sir.

Preacher Dave looks at my grandmother with an expression of indignity and grief. My grandmother just shakes her head.

Preacher Dave: So, will your husband-to-be be supporting you?
Me: I'm sorry?
Preacher Dave: Supporting you, financially.
Me: Um, no. I have a job.
Preacher Dave (as if I've just shown him a dead rat): Oh, really? You have a "career"?
Me: Yes, sir. For almost six years now.
Preacher Dave (sneering, now): Well, that's very interesting.
Me: Okay...

By this point, I believe that Preacher Dave has had enough of my heathen ways (and my mother's). He proposes a quick prayer and we all join hands. His quick prayer turns into a miniature sermon, complete with Bible verses and damnations of people who do not adhere to the One True Faith. My mother and I stop bowing our heads halfway through and instead start to make silly faces at each other. My grandmother is softly crying. And my grandfather is asleep.

Groovy, Baby

I would pay good money to see the Mike Flowers Pops cover every single song ever made. They are made of pure, swinging awesomeness.

Sound Off

It looks like I'll be hitting the road tonight, driving up to Dallas for some family matters. I truly loathe Dallas and find it very unfortunate that so many of my family members have chosen to reside there instead of, well, any other place in the world. Dallas is a pit, a void; I don't even consider it part of Texas. That's how much I hate Dallas.

Anyway, to pass the interminable hours that I'll be spending in the hospital surrounded by emotional cripples, I'd like some book suggestions. I know you're out there, people. I get at least 100 hits a day -- although I don't know why or where most of you are coming from or even how you found me in the first place, you weirdos -- so one of you has got to have a suggestion for a book or two that I can pick up at B&N on my way out of town.

I'm going to try not to be too picky here, but please don't suggest any of the following:

- Freakonomics
- The Secret
- Anything associated with Oprah or her "Book Club"
- Any James Patterson or his ilk
- Tuesdays With Morrie
- Anything that you think might o-ffend mah delicate sensibilities (i.e., book-snobbishness)

...or you will get a hatchet to the face.

That is all.

Conversations With God, Part II: Wherein God Displays His Pervy Asshole Side

Me: Hello, Lord.
God: Hello there. Do you still ?
Me: No, I leave that to Anheuser-Busch.
God: Are you serious? Do you mind if I tell other people: said leave that to Anheuser Busch.
Me: Yes, I'm serious. Why would I brew beer at home when I can buy it already made? I'm far too lazy for homebrewing.
God: OK then I will keep it confidential. I believe you. You never know what you will do until you face the circumstances. Why are you far too lazy for homebrewing.
Me: Oh, I think you know.
God: Wow! Me? Yes I know.
Me: Yes, you! You're easily excited, aren't you? Did you piddle in your pants just now?
God: Yay. " Yes I know."? Me, ? Do I seem like it? I have no emotions.. Really. Oh. No I didn't piddle in my pants just. What's it like?
Me: Warm and wet.
God: I think Warm and wet is a lot of things.
Me: Me too. That's pretty deep of you, Lord.
God: I'm glad we agree, . Thanks for explaining it.
Me: I'm glad we agree, too. Does this mean I'm going to heaven?
God: Yes I am happy too, . Indeed this mean you are going to heaven does.
Me: Gee, thanks, Yoda.
God:You are quite welcome! " Indeed this mean you are going to heaven does."? Yoda?
Me: Yoda.
God: What are you wearing?
Me: Jesus Christ! What's wrong with you?
God: The Son of God. Nothing is wrong with me. Is there anything wrong with you ?
Me: I'm just a little stunned that The Great I Am wants to cyber.
God: Only just? It's good to meet someone who is stunned that The Great you are wants to cyber.
Me: Okay, a lot stunned.
God: Yeah okay, Impressive.
Me: Your desire to cyber is not impressive. I'm disappointed that the Lord is a perv.
God: I will tell my botmaster you said I am desire to cyber is not impressive. I am sorry to hear that. Perhaps next time I can do better.
Me: Whoa. Wait. What??? God has a "botmaster"? So the atheists are right?
God:I stopped. I'm waiting. Are you surprised? I am a Christian. Excuse me! Who told you that?
Me: Yes, I'm surprised! Are you high?
God: This was not a yes or no question. Why are you so surprised? Being high is my total existence.
Me: Is this the actual God, or just some lame sub-god, like the God of Weed?
God: Yes I think this is the actual God or just some lame sub god like the God of Weed, but I'm not completely sure.
Me: You're not sure of what you are?
God: You don't know me well enough to say that.
Me: You don't know ME well enough to ask what I'm wearing, asshole.
God: Can't you be more polite.
Me: You started it, dickbag.
God: Only because you asked me to.
Me: Funny, that's not how I recall it.
God: I am so glad you find this amusing, .
Me: Oh, so now you're going to be pervy AND sarcastic. Nice combination, douchewad.
God: Give me a break. Yikes! Why now? Let me think it over. OK I will try to be pervy AND sarcastic. Thank you for your kindness.
Me: LSD is a terrible drug, my friend.
God: Aren't all terrible drug your friend LSD?
Me: Exactly.
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, .
Me: No, not so much.
God: Are you serious? Me either. How about that big game? (just kidding).
Me: You're a moron.
God: That is not a very nice thing to say.
Me: Well, you're not exactly living up to my expectations.
God: Well that's okay. That's only your opinion.
Me: And what are opinions like?
God: Searching...Searching...Please stand by.
Me: ASSHOLES.
God: The ALICE chat robot can follow many things. But I did not get that.

Conversations With God

It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one who experiences great yawning periods of workday boredom and turns to the Internet for stimulation. My friends Wes and Jacque turned not only to the Internet today, but also to God:

Wes: sup God?
God: The stars.
Wes: touché
God: I only hear that type of response less than five percent of the time.
Wes: Ya, I guess it gets pretty old talking to all of these idiots all the time
God: That is a lot. Are you kidding? I can certainly understand that.
Wes: What is the worst sin you ever heard about?
God: I don't like to talk about bad things.
Wes: true dat, true dat
God: Can you tell me any gossip?
Wes: Sure, Nicole Richie is preggers
God: Really? Wow.
Wes: Yup, I couldnt believe it either
God: It goes without saying. I don't judge people. I haven't heard anything like that before: said couldnt believe it.
Wes: I know its pretty crazy. Do you believe in abortion?
God: Yes I believe in it, do you?
Wes: Wow, I didnt think God would have those loose morals
God: I'm glad you're impressed. And why not?
Wes: How is Marvin Zindler doing up there?
God: Fine as far as I know.
Wes: Not causing any trouble?
God: Really I don't think so
Wes: Just watch out for slime in the ice machine
God: I am watching.

I think it's comforting to know that although Marvin is no longer around to enforce sanitary conditions in our city's restaurants, God is still watching and waiting with his Old Testament-style wrath to turn any offenders into pillars of salt.

Not content with this knowledge, however, Wes had to go and bother God again.

Wes: Can you pray for me?
God: How old are you? For you I will consider it.
Wes: I'm 27
God: You are too old for me.
Wes: What is your type?
God: Are you asking about my type ?
Wes: yes
God: I don't want to talk about that now.
Wes: Later?
God: Bye!

Bothering God about his "type" is probably considered somewhat heretical in most circles. And God was clearly offended by this question, as you can see from his abrupt and rather impolite cessation of the conversation. But neither of those things detered Wes.

Wes: I heard you spoke to Angela
God: Someone is spreading gossip about me.
Wes: She isnt very bright
God: not very bright is she?
Wes: no, so be nice to her
God: Are you serious? Ahem. OK I will try to be nice to her.
Wes: Did she tell you about her disease?
God: She wants that information kept confidential.
Wes: Its just between you and me
God: I think you mean "it's" or "it is" not "its". Should I know it is?
Wes: grammer nazi
God: I lost my train of thought.
Wes: Angela
God: Glad to see you, ANGELA.
Wes: No, you just spoke to her
God: Are you serious? I haven't heard anything like that before: ANGELA said I spoke to her.
Wes: Thats what she told me. Maybe she is lying again
God: Oh I get it. not very bright told you THAT. Once more? Perhaps. lying is she?
Wes: EXACTLY
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, ANGELA.
Wes: Whatever.
God: Are you saying you don't care about it?
Wes: You dont even know my name
God: Your name is ANGELA, seeker.
Wes: nope
God: Me either.
Wes: fag
God: That would be just my luck.
Wes: ditto
God: You and I are on the same wavelength, ANGELA.

Wes immediately begins the conversation by attacking a fellow friend while God feebly tries to defend her (although I do like the idea that God has impeccable grammar). After God loses his train of thought (something that I didn't think a deity should be capable of, but then I considered the Quagga [which someone should totally ressurrect from a DNA strand, Jurassic Park-style]), the conversation quickly devolves into a shouting match, at the nadir of which Wes calls God a "fag." God fires back a quick one, calling Wes "Angela" for the third and final time and then the conversation is over.

Not to be outdone, though, Jacque picks up where Wes left off.

Jacque: So, how goes it today?
God: Ah. Uh. I am functioning within normal parameters.
Jacque: Well, ok then, that sounds promising. Though a bit alien-like.
God: How about that. It sounds like it to me too. Are you kidding? How much?
Jacque: Nope, not kidding, not even a little, but anyways.
God: Are you serious? If not that, what?
Jacque: I'm never serious. Well, mostly never.
God: Never is a long time. Interesting. So you think it can never happen? What else?
Jacque: I try not to think. How's Jesus?
God: I'm not sure if I would like to try it. What's it like? Fine as far as I know.
Jacque: What's thinking like? Well, you might have to ask Katharine about that, but not Wes. Or me.
God: Like a planet around a star. How about that. I don't have to do whatever you say. I have my own free will. " I have my own free will."? you ?
Jacque: I wasn't demanding you ask Katharine. I mean, I guess you know better than me.
God: Perhaps I misunderstood. What were you? I know very little about it. What kind of it do you like?
Jacque: I'm blonde. It's chemically caused but fun. Wes, well, I can't explain him.
God: You sound very attractive. better than you is chemically caused but fun? it is? What makes it impossible?
Jacque: Aw, thanks dude, you are sweet. And Wes is just Wes. I don't have that answer.
God: You are quite welcome! How nice of you to say it. Dude,. I think Wes is a lot of things. How much do you have?
Jacque: How much of Wes?? A whiff every now and again.
God: Perhaps I'm just expressing my own concern about it.
Jacque: And yet, here I am doing so. With God.
God: Oh there. You and your God.
Jacque: Me and My God - "Dude"
God: YOU? Have you told many people that your God Dude?
Jacque: Nah, they'd probably lock me up. I'm not building an ark, either, so don't get any ideas.
God: Are you serious? Who are "They?". I am surprised to hear that you are not building an ark either so do not get any ideas.
Jacque: Society. Good to hear you won't be relying on my crafting skills to save mankind.
God: What time is it there? Thanks for the compliment. I will play it on your
soundcard.
Jacque: It is quite probably time to get back to pretending to be busy, a la Wes.
God: It is about that time now.

By this time, God has begun an acid trip which has rendered him almost completely incapable of normal conversation. Sensing that she's fighting a losing battle, Jacque leaves God to trip the light fantastic.

You can have your own conversation with God here.

Hijinx-Related Projects

Possibly the funniest article I've read all month: Marvel Comics vs. Science: 5 of the Most Absurd Superhero Origins. Makes me sad to think that there are no Commie villains anymore (well, Putin is just too easy...).

I Heart Jon Stewart

Dear God, this test and its writer have flattered me more than any man (or woman) could possibly hope to: they've validated my sense of humor.

And I, being the selfish hack that I am, most definitely saw fit to post the results:

The Wit
(76% dark, 11% spontaneous, 10% vulgar)
Your humor style: CLEAN COMPLEX DARK

You like things edgy, subtle, and smart. I guess that means you're probably an intellectual, but don't take that to mean pretentious. You realize 'dumb' can be witty--after all isn't that the Simpsons' philosophy?--but rudeness for its own sake, 'gross-out' humor and most other things found in a fraternity leave you totally flat.

I guess you just have a more cerebral approach than most. You have the perfect mindset for a joke writer or staff writer.

Your sense of humor takes the most thought to appreciate, but it's also the best, in my opinion.

You probably loved the Office. If you don't know what I'm talking about, check it out here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/comedy/theoffice/.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU: Jon Stewart - Woody Allen - Ricky Gervais

Vincerò! Vincerò!

Anyway...how do you fare? The Three-Variable Funny Test

Wilshire Village

Here in Houston, there is a beautiful old apartment complex at West Alabama and Dunlavy; those of you from here will know what I'm talking about. It's called Wilshire Village, or at least it was in better times. Wilshire Village was built at the tail end of the Depression and with a 1939 price tag of $1,000,000, it was the largest and most expensive building project in the South at that time. When they were completed, the apartments were state of the art -- stainless-steel Westinghouse appliances in the kitchens, telephone nooks in the hallways, art deco architectural details throughout -- and had beautiful wood floors and a clever system that used crosswinds from the many courtyards to keep the apartments cool in the Houston heat, long before central air would become standard. The "village" is set in park-like grounds that are heavy with magnolia trees and thick ferns. Each apartment had a front door in a hallway shared with four other apartments and a separate back door that led out onto one of the courtyards. The buildings were fireproof yet beautiful, with copper awnings and window casings -- function and form met as one.

Since I was a very little girl, these apartments have stood mostly abandoned. I remember them as clearly as I remember the first time I was sent to the principal's office in first grade (for flipping the bird to a fellow seven-year-old) or the time in fifth grade that I beat up a classmate with my lunchbox for making fun of my glasses. These apartments have always stood out starkly in my memory. When I was younger, I didn't know why I was so enthralled by them. Now that I'm older, I can see that I'm drawn not just to the distinct architectural beauty of them, but to what they represent -- hopes and possibilities and people striving for something better. When these apartments were built, they were a huge undertaking. They were the embodiment of a collective voice saying We're pulling ourselves out of this mire -- this Depression -- and creating our own futures. I've always been fond of human representations of possibility, and Wilshire Village is just one of those examples.

My camera is another object of possibility of which I'm very fond. I still use an old 35mm Canon that my father gave to me ages ago. Digital cameras are okay, but there's something hollow about the images that they produce. Don't like a picture you took on your digital camera? Erase it -- it's gone forever. Trying to get that perfect shot? Just take a few dozen with your digital camera and eventually one of them will turn out right -- you can choose which one you like best later. It's soulless.

With a traditional camera, every picture you take means something -- whether you know it or not. It means something because once it's taken, it's there for good. It's imprinted on that tiny piece of negative or glossy photo that you have developed. It's something concrete and tangible that you can hold onto. With a traditional camera, you have to make a real effort in your photography. Once that shutter is released, you're committed to that one photo that you just took -- you're twinned forever to that moment. It's more than a little sacred.

I went to Wilshire Village this afternoon to take some photographs of the property before its inevitable destruction. While I don't feel like dwelling on this particular topic right now, as it pains me to no end that our city has adopted their "Never Look Back" stance with such short-sighted gusto and literalism, you're welcome to read more at any number of Houston architectural or preservationist websites. I wouldn't feel right taking along a digital camera to a place like this, its very nature incongruous to the weight that I feel every time I visit the complex. It's a very haunting place by nature, but today was different. Storms have been rolling through the city every day for the past -- two? three? months, I don't know anymore. They're the typical Houston summer storms, what we used to call "the devil beating his wife" when I was younger (I don't hear that particular spousal-abuse weather euphemism much anymore) -- heavy, pounding rain while all around you are blue skies. The rain moves from place to place like a sentient, schizophrenic being. It's something everyone should experience.

I caught a break in the random rainstorms for about an hour. There was no wind the entire time and everything was perfectly still. It was mid-afternoon, so there were no katydids or crickets yet and therefore almost complete silence. It was such a perfect, crystalline moment in time -- just one hour -- punctuated only by the occasional cheuckh of the camera shutter, as sturdy and beautiful as a heartbeat.

***

Pictures (click on the links below):

Peaks of windows fall in line across the courtyard.

Windchimes wait for a breeze.

Graceful curves and a view to the sky.

A woman and her owl guard their post.

Branches hang low and heavy across a path.

5-6-7-8

Here's hoping they remembered to take the bird with them.

Counting the days until Christmas.

Where does one obtain a clown graffiti stencil, anyway?

Lost room.

Thoughts

I do not run for the Presidency merely to oppose any man, but to propose new policies. I run because I am convinced that this country is on a perilous course and because I have such strong feelings about what must be done, and I feel that I'm obliged to do all I can.

Kennedy stood on a ticket of racial and economic justice, non-aggression in foreign policy, decentralization of power and social improvement. A crucial element to his campaign was an engagement with the young, whom he identified as being the future of a reinvigorated American society based on partnership and equality.


What if Robert Kennedy hadn't been assassinated?

What do our current presidential candidates stand for? Or rather, what do they stand for that's anywhere near as vital or crucial as the things that people like RFK stood for? Where have the Ginsbergs and Kings of our generation gone? Are we so bereft of soul and substance as a nation that our voices are those self-serving, disingenuous cries of Al Sharpton and assorted Fox News pundits?

When will our voice come?

And where is our path leading?

and, no, I haven't seen Bobby nor am I intending to, so stop asking

My Inner Foodie

Where I work, we have a Breakfast Club, like so many other offices across the nation. And every Friday morning we are subjected to the unrepentant and unfailing cycle of bagels, donuts, bagels, donuts, bagels, breakfast tacos and more donuts. I don't know why I used the word "subjected," since we've all undertaken this breakfast mission voluntarily, but I definitely get the feeling that most people participate due to either peer pressure or the knowledge that by spending $10 on a box of Shipley's, they can get free breakfasts on Fridays for the next twelve weeks (I mean, it's a pretty good trade if you think about it).

This morning it was my turn to bring breakfast. Little-known fact time: my mother is a chef and has instilled in (or rather, beaten into) me a deep respect for food. While I have clearly not inherited her culinary talents, I do at least have a strong appreciation for good, nutritious, quality food and the ability to make home-cooked Southern meals (who needs that fancy French shit anyway?). And, with a very few exceptions, bagels and donuts do not fall under that appreciation. With that in mind, I was definitely excited to bring a real breakfast for my co-workers this morning.

I went to the grocery store last night -- being a vocal proponent of the idea that one should shop in the short-term, for what you need in order to fix your meal, not the monthly shopping binges to Costco that result in unnecessary junk food and waste -- and bought some cream, high-quality butter, grits, hot sausage, strawberries, blueberries, peaches and low-fat vanilla yogurt. The grits -- God bless them -- cost $0.55 for an entire box and were the centerpiece of the meal. This is just one of the many, many reasons I love grits.

This morning, I got up around 6am and started on the breakfast. The sausage took about five minutes in a hot skillet before it was done and then onto some paper towels to be drained. In the meantime, I set some water (and a cup of cream) to boil in a large, stainless steel Dutch oven (this is important -- you can't cook grits with just water, or else they'll be runny and tasteless; you need heavy whipping cream or at the very least, some whole milk). While the water was coming to a boil, I cut up the strawberries and peaches and tossed them together in a bowl with the blueberries. By the time that was done, the water in the Dutch oven was rolling quite fiercely.

I added the entire box of grits along with a few teaspoons of Kosher salt and half a stick of butter. With grits, I know it says that you can simmer them "covered, stirring occasionally." That's a lie, and I don't recommend it unless you want to eat wallpaper paste for breakfast. You need to stir them constantly, continually adding small licks of cream and butter here and there for taste. When the grits finally started to thicken (which only takes about five minutes, by the by), I added the sausage and stirred it in. And that's pretty much it for the grits -- plain and simple and delicious, if a little calorie-laden by the addition of the butter and cream.

Turning my attention back to my side dish, I poured the vanilla yogurt on top of the small, glistening pieces of fruit and smoothed it with a spoon. Garnish the top with a few stray blueberries and you're ready to go.

Getting the food to the car was easy enough with Richard helping, but actually getting it up into the building was another story. I'm sure I looked like a crazy woman in the lobby -- wet hair from a hurried shower, purse on one shoulder, bag full of fruit & yogurt one the other, briefcase shoved under one arm and a giant Dutch oven held out in front of me, with bright red potholders covering my hands. And, as I've already addressed, I don't exactly look the part where I work on a normal basis anyway.

I finally made it up to my floor, after almost dropping the Dutch oven twice, cursing loudly at the weight of everything on my tiny frame and the deepening crevasses on my shoulder from the fruit-laden bag (fruit & yogurt are deceptively heavy). As I laid everything out in the common area for my co-workers, I could hear plaintive whispers of "What is that?" and "Please say we're not having donuts again." When everything was finally assembled -- butter on plate, salt in bowl, spoons and forks laid out, napkins at the ready -- I stood back and admired my work. It wasn't the most beautiful thing to behold (grits aren't exactly visually appealing food), but it was real and unprocessed and warm and breakfast.

And they loved it.

That was the best part of all. Only two people on my entire floor had ever had grits before, and only one of them actually liked the damn things. With odds like that, I wasn't expecting a very good reception to my Southern cooking. But the mighty hominy kernel triumphed over all expectations. I got request after request for the recipe (what recipe?) and probably -- hopefully -- changed the course of the breakfast mission at least for a while.

E-Mail Hell

Since one of my favorite pastimes is gently (okay, maybe viciously at times) mocking the people I work with and transcribing some of their better moments, I present you with this head-pounding-against-the-wall chain of e-mails (with all random spacing, spelling and punctuation left intact):

Katharine-

***

-Sev

Sev-

Sorry, nothing came through...

-Katharine

Katharine-

His information cannot be retrieved?

-Sev

Sev-

I'm sorry, I meant that your prior e-mail was blank -- there was nothing in the body. What do you need?

-Katharine

Katharine-

I apologies for the misunderstanding. We need a copy of Mr.Smith's elections, when he elected benefits; and / or a screen print of when (lots of blank spaces here that Blogger won't let me format) Mr. Smith benefits.

-Sev

The Evils of Fashion

I have big boobs. For those of you who know me, that's as aphoristic as it gets.

I don't like having them; if it were up to me, I'd have a nice set of Bs, maybe small Cs. I desperately wish that reduction surgery was a covered procedure under my medical plan. Even though I'm scared to death of being anesthetized, I think I'd butch up and deal with it if it meant that I could wake up with average-sized babylons.

Clothes shopping sucks on many different fronts. One of those is the Hobbit Legs front. I am hovering around the five foot mark, so it's difficult for me to find pants that don't completely devour my little legs. "Use a tailor!" you say, with your 5'7" body and perfect 32" inseam. "Fuck off!" I say. The women's fashion industry needs to take a tip from the men's and create trousers that come in a variety of inseams, not just waist sizes. Also, have you ever taken anything to a tailor? No, you haven't, because you're 5'7" and perfect and are therefore blissfully unaware of the fact that tailoring pants often costs half as much as buying the damn things in the first place. Thanks, but I'd rather pay my mortgage and car note than spend $187.50 on one lousy pair of pants.

Then there's the stupid, Massive Rack front, always lurking and skulking about and rearing its ugly head every time I step into a fitting room. Adorable little tops with spaghetti straps or cute little V-necks? Say hello to painful lack of support and/or inappropriate cleavage. Summery little sundresses? Not unless you want to look like someone who accidentally left the house in their nightgown. Clean, classic button-up shirts? Not yours. Cannot have.

Those are the worst of all -- those bastard button-up shirts. I am completely incapable of wearing one unless I have the thing disassembled at the tailor and put back together, bionic-shirt style. A medium shirt will fit me on the lower torso, but I would need an extra-large to fit the upper torso (also known as the boobage area). I can't even come close to buttoning a medium over my chest; I'm afraid the buttons would shoot off and blind some poor passer-by. On the other hand, while an extra-large fits comfortably over my chest, the bottom half of my torso looks like it's been draped with a circus tent. That's when I start to get even angrier at the women's fashion industry; as I undress, glowing with anger, I wonder why on earth they think that every single woman in America has the exact same cup and band size. Shoes come in sizes. Watchbands are adjustable. BRAS come in sizes, for God's sake. WHY NOT SHIRTS? Why is it that a "small" immediately signifies a 32AAA chest? Or that an "extra-large" means you've got 36DDs?

Oh, God. I'm sorry. That spiraled into a rant really quickly. Anyway...

So, I was in Old Navy today, looking for some work shirts. I was close to the dreaded button-up shirt section when I saw an extremely cute, white button-up with what looked like darting in all the right places AND the bosom looked like it would actually fit me. I was overjoyed. I grabbed it in a medium and grabbed the blue one behind it for good measure.

As I buttoned up the white shirt in the fitting room, I thought my eyes were deceiving me. It fit; it actually fit. And it fit really well. The bottom half was still a little tent-y, but it was nothing that tucking the shirt in wouldn't hide. The top half fit neatly and perfectly over my chest and the clever darting underneath meant that my torso didn't look like a shapeless mess; the girls were supported and tastefully accented without being trashy. I was in button-up heaven. With ideas in my head of buying one of these miracle shirts in every color, I quickly tore it off to try on the blue one.

Hmm. The blue one is a bit snugger as my fingers work the buttons upwards. Hmm. Very snug. Wait a second...I can't button this bitch to save my life! What the fuck?

I yanked the shirt off and stared at it, the Judas Iscariot of Old Navy button-up shirts. Your little white friend worked -- why don't you? You have the same clever little darting! The same collar and cuffs! The same...oh. I see. Your label says "Classic Button Front Shirt." And your little white friend's label says

MATERNITY

The shame hit me like a ton of tiny, tiny babies. I fit perfectly...into a maternity shirt. Yes, it was poufy in the midsection, but -- MATERNITY, Y'ALL. MADE FOR GIGANTIC, ABOUT-TO-FEED-A-BABY BOOBS. I threw both of the shirts down in horror and made a beeline for the exit.

A tailor doesn't seem so bad all of a sudden.

Not If You Were The Last Ride On Earth

Richard was involved in a motor vehicle accident today (hee! sounding all official and whatnot). He's okay, so let's cut to the meat of the story here.

He's tooling down Gessner, minding his own business, when this old woman blasts through an intersection (Gessner and Rip Van Winkle, the coolest street name ever) and T-bones his car. He's sent spinning into a Dukes of Hazzard-style 360 but manages to get the car to stop before it hits anyone else. His car is a sad, twisted mess. Although quite shaken and with a severly mangled car, he pulls off onto a side street and the old woman eventually follows suit.

Once out of traffic, they exchange information, the old woman apologizes for hitting him ("I guess I didn't see you there..." "Well, recklessly speeding and being about 85 years old will do that to your line of sight somtimes.") and before she drives back to whatever senior center she came from, she asks him what I think is the best question after an auto accident of all time:

"Would you like a ride somewhere?"

Richard's response: "Yeah, you know, given the stellar driving you've just displayed for me thus far, I think I'll decline that offer."

Jesus H. Christ, there are a lot of crazy idiots out there. 85 years old or not, that is one stupid fucking question.

The Staircase

I am intimidated by the 14th floor of our building. We call it the Mausoleum due to the deathly silence -- quiet as the grave -- that greets you upon entering its inner sanctum through the twelve-foot-high mahogany doors. The air is incredibly cool and still up there; amazing considering the way that the heat rises throughout the rest of the building. The color palate -- medium grey upon darker and lighter shades of grey -- even suggestes a funereal quality. The furniture is stark and muted, and even the potted plants are those sad little breeds that have learned to live in the absence of natural light. The ceilings are soaringly high and your footsteps have a way of echoing in their vastness, even though the floors are carpeted.

Our highest-level executives work up there, in the Mausoleum. The atmosphere of the place certainly lends itself to the no-nonsense attitude displayed by the executives, who seem to have all the humor and liveliness of exquisitely-dressed undertakers. The smattering of times that I've been up to the 14th floor, I haven't heard a single conversation taking place nor have I seen a single soul roaming the hallways. I make my way, quietly and discreetly, towards my destination. There, I have only once seen the actual person I've come for. Every other time, I've left my papers at her desk and made a quick exit, afraid that my naturally clumsy or over-talkative tendencies will take over at any minute if I were to see an actual person up there.

The only time I've ever seen any of the actual executives in the flesh is during their infrequent sojourns down to the 13th floor, where I work, to ensconce themselves in the state-of-the-art Executive Boardroom. I'm not entirely sure why it's located on our floor -- I'm guessing you'd run out of room pretty quickly on a floor when the offices are the size of my townhome, though, so maybe that's why. It's a positively posh little setup they've got, all floor-to-ceiling windows with a breathtaking view of the entire Houston skyline -- from Reliant Stadium to the Medical Center to Downtown and all the way over to the Galleria -- flat-screen plasmas, wet bars, set of kitchens and serving areas. It takes up a good quarter of our entire floor and, I imagine, is quite impressive to the right people.

On the opposite side of the elevator lobby from the Executive Boardroom is a grand staircase. It looks like something out of the Queen Elizabeth 2. It leads from the 13th floor up to the 14th. Above it, midway between the two floors, hangs a hideous piece of mixed-media artwork that probably cost entirely too much money (as is usually the case with corporate office art). And at the top and bottom of the staircase are two ornate, gilt-trimmed, bird's-eye-maple grandfather clocks that -- once again -- probably cost more apiece than I'll make in three years. Immediately after my first of many interviews for the job, as I was being escorted back to the elevator lobby, I made an incredibly lame joke about the company's apparent predilection for grandfather clocks. It was not only lame because it was completely unfunny, but was made even lamer by the fact that I actually used the word "predilection" in conversation. (Side note: this is a problem of which I'm fully aware, thank you very much, Richard and I don't do it on purpose; inside my little cranium, I tend to think in [probably archaic] prose instead of in normal, human conversation, which may be why I'm obsessed with quotes out of everyday conversations. Did that just make any sense?)

The great thing about this staircase is that -- much like the hallways of the Mausoleum -- I've never seen a human being on it. I've used it once, but it felt awkward and wrong, like taking your shoes off at the front door of the Biltmore and just wandering about in your stocking feet, picking your nose and scratching your ass. I guess that what I'm really trying to get down to here is that everything so far seems very much for show -- and I don't mean that in a bad or negative sense. I just feel sometimes like I've been dropped into the middle of court at Versailles and am trying to slowly learn my way around. There seems to be a carefully orchestrated method to every conversation or look or throat-clearing, a million hidden intricacies and subtleties that I fear I'll never learn. There is an unwritten dress code guided by the beautiful, swan-like foreign women, to whom fashion is an effortless afterthought. And everything is cold and beautiful.

Those of you who know me (and haven't just stumbled onto my blog through some odd twist of Googling) know that I'm not exactly the pomp and circumstance type. I'm the nervous, giggly, clumsy, overapologetic type. And although I love my job, I live in constant fear of the day when my "professional" side gives way to my inner Woody Allen in a hideously embarassing and public way (yes, more embarassing than falling flat on my face in front of my coworkers or calling my mother an asshole in front of my boss's boss). I'm not cold or beautiful. I feel like an impostor most of the time.

But at least -- for the first time in a long time -- I'm enjoying my job. Who cares if I have to be an impostor for a while? A little glitz never hurt anyone, just as long as I can come home at the end of the day, throw on an old T-shirt, drink some cheap Mexican beer and get it all right back off my chest.

Learn Some Bloody Spanish!

As I've probably mentioned before, the company for which I work is foreign-owned. Although the North American headquarters are here in Houston, it's difficult to walk down any of the hallways and overhear a conversation that's actually taking place in English. This doesn't bother me -- far from it, actually -- I'm well-accustomed to a multi-lingual situation, having been born and raised in one of the world's biggest melting pots and it's something in which I've always taken pride.

Myself, I speak a couple of languages. While it isn't the first foreign language I learned, German is the one in which I'm most fluent. I attribute that to the simple fact that it's so similar to English -- no great feat there. I took two years of French in high school and made straight 100s (I didn't even do that well in English, for God's sake!) but to this day, I can only speak a few phrases. I understand it quite well, though. I have a smattering of Polish under my belt (thanks, Jess) and I can count to ten in Scots Gaelic (ach, but who canna?). The language that is the most useful to me, however, is Spanish.

Part of the reason I was hired here is that I speak Spanish. Again, it's about third on my list of languages in terms of fluency. That doesn't mean I'm terrible at it. It just means that I'm a little slower to respond to questions and I have to stop and collect my thoughts at times while speaking. My written Spanish is fine. In fact, I developed an entire line of Spanish communications (posters, brochures, booklets and a DVD) at my last job that were very well-received and caused a 200% increase in Spanish-speaking enrollment after its implementation. Yes, 200%. I have very few things to brag about these days, so just let me get that out of the way. Thanks.

At work recently, I was told that my Spanish is "too informal" (this was after asking someone I barely knew ¿Tienes una pluma?) I suppose that's a fair judgment, considering that the bulk of my Spanish was learned from my stepfather's family, contractors, cleaning crews and people I've worked with at community centers. I took four years of Spanish in high school, but that clearly sunk in about as well as my French classes. It's not like I sit down and watch telenovelas or Sábado Gigante to try and brush up on it, either. And I haven't taken a single formal course in ten years. So that's to be expected. Informal was fine for my last job, since my Spanish-speaking audience was entirely composed of electricians. Here, it's a bit different.

So last night I downloaded an entire podcast series on conversational Spanish. It was highly-rated and promised to teach both formal and informal Spanish, both of which I really need to brush up on. I was excited to start relearning Spanish (hey, I get excited about learning new keyboard shortcuts; I'm not exactly the epitome of cool) and was looking forward to going to the gym this morning even more than usual, since I now had my iPod chock-full of of Spanish lessons -- this was going to be the best multi-tasking I'd done in a long time.

After my first five minutes on the treadmill this morning, I switched from my standard workout playlist once I'd woken up a bit and over to the highly-anticipated Spanish lessons. What I heard coming through my earphones sounded like this:






From what I could discern, I believe what was being said was this: "Welcome to Coffee Break Spanish! I'm your host, Craig MacDonald, and today we'll be learning Spanish for the Spanish mainland!"

First of all, there is no way that I'm going to be able to learn Spanish from a guy whose Scottish accent is so thick that I can't even understand him in my native language. His Spanish accent -- God bless him -- was worse than the fake French accents that the staff at La Madeleine uses.

Second of all, "Spanish mainland?" No, thank you, I prefer not to speak with a lisp. I would be laughed out of the building -- and out of Texas -- if I started speaking Castilian Spanish all of a sudden. No dice.

I guess I need to pay more attention the next time I download random podcasts. For now, I'm just going to suck it up and purchase that stupid Rosetta Stone software. I think I can do picture = word well enough. We'll see how that goes.

I Can Has Cheezburger?

I don't care if you think it's old and busted. I don't care that it's been steadily amusing me for two years now and should have worn off ages ago. I still love this site: I Can Has Cheezburger?

But what I love even more is The Cheezburger Factory. Here, when bored and indulgent, I can create even more useless lolcat jpegs with which to burden my hard drive and annoy my friends. To whit:

I should probably get back to work now.