Chelsea Hotel No. 2

Eat This

2008-04-09T16:51:00.002-05:00

As I write this, I am just further confirming to myself that Wordpress is, indeed, the shit. Ah...

Anyway, just felt the need to say that I'm no longer blogging as routinely to Chelsea Hotel No. 2 as often as I would like, between work and that other site I run. What other site?, you may ask.

This one: she eats.

So, point your browsers in that direction if you like food, are easily amused and find that I don't post enough to Chelsea Hotel for your liking.

I See You

2007-10-24T15:56:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-30T21:36:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-29T16:56:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-25T15:34:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-23T13:30:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-22T16:09:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-22T12:56:00.000-05:00

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.

2007-08-22T11:17:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-21T20:53:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-17T11:24:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-16T23:19:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-08-13T22:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-08T09:29:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-07T10:14:00.001-05:00

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

2007-08-06T21:23:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-03T14:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-08-01T17:52:00.001-05:00

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

2007-08-01T16:46:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-31T11:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-30T08:17:00.001-05:00

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

2007-07-29T21:29:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-28T18:54:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-27T15:55:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-27T13:50:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-24T13:58:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-20T16:47:00.000-05:00

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

2007-07-19T21:40:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-07-18T09:12:00.000-05:00

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?

2007-07-17T13:54:00.000-05:00

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.

We Have Another WINNAR!

2007-07-13T12:21:00.000-05:00

My parents are in New York right now on a shopping excursion. This spells trouble in ways too legion to enumerate here. Let's just get to the quote of the week:

Me: What did you do this morning?
Ralph (my dad): Oh, your mother dragged me to some store...
Me: What was it called?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: ...what?
Ralph: Herpes.
Me: There's a store called Herpes? And you went to it?
Mother (shouting in the background): HERMES, DUMBASS.
Ralph: Oh, "her-meees."
Me: I think you mean "er-mez."
Ralph: Whatever. You're both assholes.

Well, pronunciation issues aside, he's got a point. Also, do you see now where I get this from?

What Your Friendly HR Department Really Thinks Of You

2007-07-11T18:53:00.000-05:00

During the course of a five-and-a-half-hour budget review meeting today:

Actuary: You've got a really large ongoing claim out in California.
HR Director: Oh, really? How much?
Actuary: At least $200,000 over stop loss.
HR Director: What's the diagnosis?
Actuary: I'm not sure.
HR Analyst: Let's see...right here it says "lymphoma."
HR Director: That's bad, right?
HR Analyst: Yeah...that's pretty bad.
HR Director: Well, hopefully they'll die soon.
Actuary: Tell me about it.

Later on:

Actuary: ...and you've still got 352 retirees on the capped plan.
HR Director: How many fewer is that from last year?
Actuary: Looks like about 30 less.
HR Director: These people really need to start dying off.

Trust me, people. It's all true.

Dr. Spock Would Not Approve, My Overly-Tanned Friend

2007-07-10T09:09:00.000-05:00

This morning at Starbucks, I had the great fortune of being in line behind a lovely specimen of the local breed of housewife:

Memorial Barbie

This yuppie Barbie comes with your choice of Rolls Royce convertible or Hummer H2. Included are her own Starbucks cup, credit card and country club membership. Also available for this set are Shallow Ken and Private School Skipper. You won’t be able to afford any of them.

However, today she actually had Private School Skipper and Private School Ken Jr. with her. Skipper and Ken Jr. were about three and four years old. They were your typical tow-headed, Gap Kids-outfitted, squrimy younglings -- nothing particularly good or bad about them, except that they were insistently tugging the bottom of Barbie's yoga pants and whining about coffee. So, really, nothing that special. I figured they were whining because they either wanted a sip of their mother's coffee (I used to try and sneak sips of my mom's coffee when I was little...why, I don't know) or they were bored and wanted to move on to the next destination.

Then, Barbie blew my mind.

She approached the counter and in her high-pitched, giggly little girl voice, she ordered a venti-something-extremely-convoluted for herself and two tall milks, steamed, with a shot of espresso and caramel in each one. For her three-year-old and four-year-old. Espresso. With sugary caramel, just for good measure, cause she's a good mom like that.

The barista behind the counter stared at Barbie, wax pencil hovering blankly over a tall paper cup. The woman giggled again and said, "I know it's a little out of the ordinary, but y'all have made it for me before." Still no movement from the barista. Barbie continued, "You know, I just can't get through a morning when we don't all have our coffee, right? This morning they were just screaming for it! They've got to have their coffee!" Her face was a bright, blank grin. She clearly felt that she was doing the right thing here, indulging her precious children and their every whim, never mind the fact that she was stunting their growth, teaching them that whining gets you whatever you want and getting their tiny bodies hooked on copius amounts of caffeine and sugar before they could even pronounce the word "addiction." Finally, after a few awkward seconds, the barista processed Barbie's order and rang her up in utter silence, glaring at her the entire time.

I like to think that she's been hitting up the 2,300 or so Starbucks we have in a roughly five-mile radius, pulling this crap every morning at a different one and then moving on to another one the next day. She's probably thinking to herself, Wow, the service is so slow and rude at this Starbucks; I think I'll try another one tomorrow. It must be nice to be so clueless.

Politickin'

2007-07-09T13:48:00.000-05:00

Well...obviously.

1) Libertarian Party 84% (absou-freaking-lutely)
2) Constitution Party 68%
3) Reform Party 58%
4) Republican Party 47%
5) Green Party 37%
6) Democratic Party 26%
7) Natural Law Party 26%

Although I have to say I'm really quite troubled at how "Constitution Party" slipped in there. Just because I favor decreased taxes I'm all of a sudden a raving lunatic who fervently hates gays, black people, women and just about everything else that's not white, male and attends Bob Jones University? Heh...BJU. Anyway, I'm curious as how one could be both Libertarian and Constitutional; they more or less stand in stark opposition to one another: yeah, probably not gonna happen.

Your turn: ready, set, GO.

Breakfast of Champions

2007-07-06T18:41:00.000-05:00

I got to have a super-fun conversation today at work (but, really, what else is new?). I was on the phone, perhaps talking a bit too loudly, when my boss's boss walked past my office. All she heard was this:

Me: Are you going to the doctor or not, asshole?

She peeked her head in the door slightly and, fumbling around to hang up the phone with some semblance of dignity, I quickly ended my phone call.

Big Boss: Katharine, did I just hear you call an employee an "asshole"?
Me: No! Oh, God, no. Of course not!
Big Boss: Then who were you calling an "asshole"?
Me: ...my mother.

*awkward silence*

Big Boss: That's really nice, Katharine.

So, you see, there's a reason I created an entire tag called "ways I embarass myself." The frequency with which I need to use it is just shameful, though.

I'm Not Planning On Going Solo

2007-07-05T11:51:00.001-05:00

Rolling Stone recently released its list of 20 Most Annoying Songs, which I've included for your reading pleasure below. I really couldn't find any fault at all with the list, so...spot on, Rolling Stone. You still know your shit...sometimes.

Some of them make me want to cringe and/or vomit after reading only the first syllable. I mean, I saw "Mac--" and that was enough for me. I was instantly transported back to 1997, a terribly awkward and annoying time in and of itself, and to the memory of doing the Macarena at my 16th birthday party, all flailing limbs and Elaine Bennett dance moves. Why? Why???

Basically anything by Nickelback belongs on this list, I think you'll agree. For the love of all things holy, I can't understand why this band is so popular. The lead singer looks like the bastard offspring of Sammy Hagar and a quarterhorse. Not exactly cream-inducing. And the music itself...ugh. Words literally fail me. I can't describe how awful and mass-produced and insulting it is without my head caving in. Let's move on.

There was a brief moment in time where I actually liked James Blunt. My friend Julia burned me a James Blunt CD long before he hit the airwaves here and as I drove away from her house with it playing in the car, I thought, This guy isn't bad! Not exactly a strong sentiment, but I certainly didn't hate him. And then commerical radio ruined him like they do everything else. Aside from overplaying that goddamn song to death, they also exposed the sad fact that James was a one-trick pony with as much depth as a petri dish.

The only song I was sad to see didn't make the list is the putrescence that is Pachelbel's Canon in D. I would rather drive rusty nails under my fingernails than listen to that shit at one more wedding, gala, Christmas party, or anywhere else that lame string quartets with limited gig books hired by idiots who have no real appreciation for classical music exist. Back when I was still gigging (and that, folks, is officially a loooooong time ago), I always made it a point to tell the people hiring us that Canon in D was not in our repertoire and -- so sad! so sorry! -- we simply didn't know it well enough to play it from memory. I had also ripped all of the copies of the sheet music out of our gig books for good measure. I fucking hate that song with all of my being.

So, without further ado, the list:

1. Black Eyed Peas, My Humps
2. Los Del Rio, Macarena
3. Baha Men, Who Let The Dogs Out
4. Celine Dion, My Heart Will Go On
5. Nickelback, Photograph
6. Lou Bega, Mambo No. 5
7. James Blunt, You're Beautiful
8. Spice Girls, Wannabe
9. Sisqo, The Thong Song
10. Cher, Believe
11. Aqua, Barbie Girl
12. Chumbawumba, Tub Thumper
13. Rednex, Cotton-Eyed Joe
14. Eiffel 65, Blue
15. Crash Test Dummies, Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm
16. Meatloaf, I Would Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That)
17. 'NSYNC, Bye, Bye, Bye
18. Ricky Martin, Livin' La Vida Loca
19. Semisonic, Closing Time
20. Wham!, Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go

WINNAR

2007-07-04T12:07:00.000-05:00

Quote of the night:

Billy: I don't get what's so bad about ninjas.
Kristin: Have you ever fought a ninja?!?

kär-tŏg'ra-fē

2007-07-02T17:08:00.000-05:00

Today at work, one of my co-workers asked me to make a quick map for her. Geekily excited to use my map-making skills (my ninja skills aren't in demand much these days), I whipped one up by hand and presented it to her. Impressed, she exclaimed to our other co-workers, "Look how professional this is! This looks fantastic!"

Inordinately proud of my mad mapping skills, I responded, "Well, I wasn't always in HR. My degree is in cartography."

Blank stares all around. Some coughing. And then eventual disbursement of all parties.

You know what, people? It doesn't matter that you don't know what cartography* is, they're called context clues. Employ them. They are your friend.

*It totally matters that you don't know what cartography is. Are we that far removed from a time before Mapquest that you can't fathom what a real map looks like or that there is an entire discipline devoted to creating them? Or are you just stupid? Really, I want to know.

In the Golden State

2007-07-01T10:03:00.001-05:00

To briefly explain my profile song back at the ranch, I love John Doe. Not the crap TV show with Dominic Purcell, but the singer / songwriter.

Back in the 80s, he was with the band X -- a pseudo punk / folk outfit whose lead singer was married to Viggo Mortensen -- but since then he's been all over the board, character-acting in random films here and there (trust me, you'll recognize him) and reinventing his sound over and over.

His latest incarnation is a neo-Western poet, still in love with the Old West and its promises and mysteries, but with a sound that strangely resembles Joni Mitchell and a younger Bob Dylan. It's intoxicating. NPR recently did a story on John Doe, which you can listen to here. And for your further listening pleasure, here's an acoustic version of "Golden State," which I prefer to the studio version on my page:

I love the simple, soaring harmonies and the equally simple but moving lyrics:

You are the hole in my head
I am the pain in your neck
You are the lump in my throat
I am the aching in your heart
We are tangled, we are stolen
We are living with things that are hidden

You are something in my eye
And I am the shiver down your spine
And you are the lick of my lips
I am on the tip of your tongue
We are tangled, we are stolen
We are buried up to our necks in sand

We are luck, we are fate
We are the feeling you get in the Golden State
We are love, we are hate
We are the feeling I get when you walk away
Walk away

You are the dream in my nightmare
I am that falling sensation
You are my needles and pins
I am your hangover morning
We are tangled, we are stolen
We are living with things that are hidden

We are luck, we are fate
We are the feeling you get in the Golden State
We are love, we are hate
We are the feeling I get when you walk away
Walk away, walk away

You are the hole in my head
You are the pain in my neck
You are the lump in my throat
I am the aching in your heart

Good stuff.

The Kind of Leave Where You Never Come Back

2007-06-29T13:45:00.000-05:00

This amused me.

Good Day, Katharine!

Can you provide the last day of work for Mr. _____ _____ (xxx-xx-xxxx)?

Also, Prudential needs to confirm the type of Leave for Mr. _____ (i.e. personal or medical). Let me know if you have any questions.

Thanks

Charles

Charles-

Mr. _____'s last day at work was 09/26/06. Also, he is dead, not on leave. Please inform Prudential of this fact.

Thank you!

-Katharine

I can't decide if I should have been more professional in my response or not. Yes, I could have used the word "deceased" or the term "has passed away." But I really think they should just be grateful that I didn't say "he bought the farm, dumbass - you should know, since you're looking at the exact same data in the same system as I am."

An Apache Helicopter

2007-06-28T20:51:00.000-05:00

As I believe I've mentioned elsewhere, Richard is extremely quotable. These aren't your run-of-the-mill quotes, though. These are less Yeats and more Yogi Berra. Here are a few gems I've been saving up over the past few weeks:

Richard has been staring out of the window, dreamily, for a good, solid five minutes.
Me: Whatcha thinking about over there?
Richard (after a long pause): If I could fly anything, it'd be a helicopter.
Me: Oh.
Richard (about thirty seconds later): An Apache helicopter.

We're driving in my car; Richard is, as usual, complaining about my music.
Richard: What is that shite?
Me: It's Rent.
Richard: It's gay. Turn it off.
Me: Fine. What do you want to listen to instead?
Richard (completely serious, but in a high-pitched, excited voice): Phantom!

Richard is holding an umbrella, looking quite consternated.
Richard: How does this thing work?
Me: Huh?
Richard (even more annoyed now): I said, how does this thing work?!
Me: ...Did you just ask me how an umbrella works? Seriously?
Richard: Yes. Are you going to show me or not?

I'm sitting at my desk, at work. My phone rings.
Richard: Hey! What's up?
Me: Not much.
Richard: Where are you?
Me: I'm at work. Where you called me.
Richard: Oh. Right. Sorry.

The next day...
Richard: Hey! What's up?
Me: Not much.
Richard: Where are you?
Me: I'm at work. Where you called me. Just like yesterday.
Richard: Oh. Right. Sorry.

I love this man.

Yes, you.

Colorful

2007-06-19T14:43:00.000-05:00

I'm not quite sure what this means: "Wow, you look really colorful today..."

I don't know if that's a compliment or not. I mean, would you take that as a compliment? Maybe if I was aiming for "colorful," then I wouldn't even be thinking about this. But somehow "colorful" is resonating in my mind as an adjective that someone came up with because they couldn't think of anything else to say.

Or maybe I should just stop wearing this outfit to work:

I forgot to shave that day, okay?

Hair Misadventures

2007-06-17T20:52:00.000-05:00

While poking around tonight on YouTube, I found this amazing video of two of the great modern masters, Yo Yo Ma (the cellist) and El Gran Ástor, Ástor Piazzolla (the bandoneon player). If this doesn't move you, then you're made of stone:

I think most people have heard of Yo Yo Ma, but Ástor Piazzolla is still largely unappreciated in this country. He basically reinvinted tango music by taking it from the nightclubs and cabarets of Argentina and elevating it to a legitimate art form by fusing it with modern jazz and classical music. So go and give El Gran Ástor a try sometime. If you like him, you'll probably like his protege, too: Dino Salduzzi. My newest CD is also Dino's newest, Ojos Negros, which also -- coincidentally -- happens to be a recording of duets between a bandoneon player and a cellist. Very, very good stuff.

In other news, after an unfortunate hair-dye incident yesterday, I am now a brunette. I made the sad mistake of attempting to dye my hair (I was tired of the dirty blonde look) and, out of an overinflated sense of my own styling/coloring techniques, I decided to do it myself. First mistake. I went for a "strawberry blonde" shade -- at least, according to the Clairol "Coloure Experte" box. That's the last time I buy hair dye whose own packaging can't even spell the world color. Second mistake. Needless to say, the color didn't quite turn out as expected. Instead of "strawberry blonde," I got this:

Only more frightening. I waited a full 24 hours and shampooed it furiously, praying that the color would tone itself down, but to no avail. Instead, I ended up doing the walk of shame into my local Visible Changes today where I was the butt of many jokes in the coloring department. I was even an example to some trainees of how not to "do red." No shit? Yeah, I think everyone got that memo already.

So, three hours in the salon, a headful of bleach paste (yes, bleach paste) and $250 later, I am now a brunette. It's obviously not my natural color but the stylist said that putting anything else on over the bleach would damage my hair too much. Then, of course, she loaded me down with hideously overpriced salon shampoos and conditioners and hair masques and I bought them with my head hung, simply grateful that anyone was able to correct my Pennywise 'do and ashamed of my own hubris.

The brunette is growing on me, though, and Richard is strangely attracted to it. I always knew he had a thing for brunettes... Maybe I've had enough of being a blonde for a while. At the very least, now I can start conquering that other physical attribute that causes people to immediately assume that I'm a blithering moron:

They're not mine, sickos.

BBQ?

2007-06-14T15:43:00.000-05:00

This is a great website, but...man:

...and I thought I was an asshole. Can you imagine receiving this from someone on the street? Or, more likely, from somebody in an Urban Outfitters who's trying way too hard to fit into the whole emo scene but in whom you can still see the glimmers of an angry, disenfranchised nerd?

At least these cards don't take themselves so seriously:

Seriously? I want these for Christmas / my birthday / a wedding gift / Arbor Day. I would hand these out like candy.

Engrish

2007-06-13T09:23:00.000-05:00

As a person who is somewhat (okay, very) anal-retentive about the proper usage of the English language, its grammar, its punctuation and its spelling, working for a foreign-owned company whose global corporate office sends out hilariously-translated memos and other errata amuses me to no end. Today, I received this gem:

This message is to confirm you that your service request Folder Access Form was registered the: 6/13/2007 9:21:03 AM with the ticket number 2590777
Our commitment is to solve it no longer then the: 6/14/2007 12:48:00 PM

And yesterday it was this:

Policies

Additionally, here are the effective policies pertaining to your request:
I. It is required to completely fill out the form (throughout Lotus Notes or the Intranet), all the fields are mandatory, if there is any omission, the request will not proceed.
II. The full path must be indicated since only access to the final folder will be given.
III. The Business Process of each area, is the responsible for validating that the information owner has authorized the requestor to access the folders or network directories mentioned.
IV. A copy of the request must be sent to the Business Process of your area. Nevertheless, the request does not guarantee the service execution.
V. Once the Business Process has given the approval, the Global Service Center proceeds to execute the service and notifies the user that requested it.
VI. If the request has been declined by the Business Process, the user will be notified and the service will not proceed.
VII. The person to whom the access is provided, is subject to the Information Security policies effective in _______.
VIII. Supervisor or Area Manager approval required.

We appreciate the time you took to read this message and we invite you to extend it to whom you may consider necessary.

Granted, the language isn't quite insane enough for this site, but it's just stilted enough to make me giggle at random points during the day. I seem to be the only person doing this, which leads me to believe that either (a), everyone else here has gotten used to it or (b) no one really cares. I'm leaning strongly towards (b) right now.

Nine Times?

2007-06-12T16:51:00.000-05:00

Because there's not enough douchbaggery in the real world:

10 Great Big Movie Douchebags

He's just leading you down the primrose path...

Geography

2007-06-12T10:59:00.000-05:00

I came across an interesting map today (yes, maps can be interesting) here: States Renamed for Countries With Similar GDPs .

And here's a (really crappy) picture of the map for those of you too lazy to click:

While California may have bested us in this particular economic category, I'd still rather be Canada than France any day. Welcome to Texas, eh?

Define:Irony

2007-06-11T10:26:00.000-05:00

On Friday, I tripped and fell. Actually, it was more like I went ass-over-teakettle and bit it, hard, in front of the entire department, all of whom were gathered to celebrate a fellow co-worker's birthday. I mean, drink-in-my-hand-flying-everywhere, bruised-and-rugburned-knees, sprained-ankle, down-for-the-count bit it. And since it was only my second week on the job, I'm sure I'll be known for at least the next few months as "that girl who busted her ass in front of everyone."

But here's my favorite part: I tripped and fell over a stack of safety posters that had been waiting to be hung on the walls for about six weeks.

If that's not a euphimism for Human Resources in general, I don't know what is.

AH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!

2007-06-08T15:33:00.000-05:00

Man, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. From a Worker's Comp report I was reviewing today:

Per patient report, injury occurred prior to care in our facility. Mr. ________ was lifting a vibrator weighing 100 lbs. when he felt sudden pain in his back.

Really, now?

Currently being sought for questioning.

I Ain't Saying She A Golddigger...

2007-06-07T14:28:00.001-05:00

Why am I wholly unsurprised that this lovely little nugget of a story came out of Dallas? Granted, it was written and published in my hometown newspaper (seriously, I might as well live in Legoland or Smurf Village given the quality of our newspaper; it's a total joke), but it was completely inspired by the husband-hunting hags in Dallas.

The feminist in me wants to curl up and die right now out of sheer embarassment for my gender.

Going for the gold
You have to use the right bait if you want to land a rich fish - er, husband

By EILEEN McCLELLAND
Copyright 2007 Houston Chronicle

Dress for Success
Author J.C. Conklin offers the following tips for what to wear while husband-hunting.
Heels: At all costs.

Bra: The pushup is best.

Hair: Long and blond, if at all possible.

Thong: Always, and it should match the bra.

Accessories: Now is not the time for big jewelry or purses. Both scream high maintenance to men.

Makeup: Most men don't even realize you're wearing it. They think you naturally look that good. Now is not the time for them to find out otherwise.

Know your strengths: If you have good legs or arms, show them off.

But remember: Dress like the girlfriend, not the one-night stand.

Hunting for a rich husband?

Think camouflage, but not the woodsy kind - unless, of course, you're at a rattlesnake roundup, prime husband-hunting grounds in Texas.

In an urban milieu, you've got to look prosperous enough to blend in with your prey's elite social circle. For example, drive a leased Lexus only if you can't borrow a Mercedes.

J.C. Conklin, author of a snarky new novel about Texas women and their pursuit of a rich husband, advises that even spiritual matters matter. Choose a popular Texas religion, Methodist or Baptist.

And don't hesitate to resort to plastic surgery. At the very least, bleach.

"You should have long hair and if you can, be blond, be blond,'' says Conklin, author of The Dallas Women's Guide to Gold-Digging With Pride (Ballantine, $22.95). "Every man I've ever talked to has never described a woman who's blond as mousy.''

In the satirical novel, ex-New Yorker Jenny Barton, 29, works for a frumpy female boss-from-hell at the Wall Street Journal's Dallas bureau. Recovering from a recent split from slacker journalist Rafe and under the influence of her blond, husband-hunting roommate, Aimee, Jenny attempts to lure a rich Texan or two.

There are certain parallels to the author's life. During Conklin's four years in Dallas, as a reporter for the Wall Street Journal and then the Dallas Morning News, she was surprised to meet women in their 20s stalking wealthy men in their spare time. Women who wear stilettos to shop at Whole Foods. Who liposuction their uncooperative thighs to squeeze into size-4 Vera Wang wedding gowns. Who order room service for their traveling boyfriends to make sure they're spending the night where they say they are.

Born in Houston, Conklin grew up in upstate New York and graduated from the University of Washington in Seattle with a degree in comparative religion. Landing in Dallas was a culture shock.

The women she met weren't hunting for just any husband, but the super-rich variety. To that end, they underwent plastic surgery, starved themselves, bought clothes they couldn't afford and even popped pain killers so they could sleep with guys they found revolting. (Sexy and rich is not that common a combination, Conklin's characters lament.)

"Some of it's exaggerated but a lot of it is what people told me," said Conklin, now 29 and living in Austin. "There is a high premium on looks. I don't think that's exaggerated. There is a high premium on tracking the men. There has been breaking and entering, or breaking into e-mail at the very least."

And when they weren't snooping, they were grooming.

"You can't be too overt," Conklin said. "You can't have a short skirt and a lot of cleavage. You have to choose one or the other. You have to imagine what he would be thinking of you as a wife. Dress appropriately, not desperately. Heels are always good. Accentuate the assets that you have, not the style of the day, because men never know what's in. They only know what looks good on you."

Other strategies apply once you have set your sights on a particular target.

"Find out what he likes so you can pop those things into the conversation before he does. And learn to cook one really phenomenal dish so it looks like you're a good cook." You can always hire a chef after the nuptials.

It helps if you're not too squeamish to engage in sports, or better yet, hunting. Wrangle an invitation to a rattlesnake roundup.

"Anytime you show no fear of blood or killing that adds to your ranking," Conklin said. And Texas guys reportedly love to play with rattlesnakes. "I saw a guy holding five rattlesnakes by the tail in his mouth. His left hand was all shriveled from the venom. It's a very macho, very Texas thing to do."

Conklin's Dallas friends had jobs, careers even, but didn't expect to work for very long. After the wedding, the marriage becomes a full-time job.

"What you have to do to keep the rich husbands is just amazing," she said. "All the exercising, all the devotion to this other person. It's not your life. It's the other person's life and you're just staffing it."

Still, there was something about their goal-oriented pursuit that started to change career-girl Conklin's thinking about the whole marriage thing.

"I didn't husband-hunt for a rich guy," she said, "but I was dating a lot of guys who were slacker-reporter guys, and being in Dallas made me realize that was a dead-end proposition. It made me look for guys who wanted the things that I wanted, like a family. In New York, you don't think about getting married until you're well into your 30s."

Some of the changes she made when she moved to Dallas made her more approachable, she said, more marriageable. In addition to becoming nicer and less competitive, she said, "I got a lot blonder.

"I started to work out a lot more. I never used to get my nails done, never used to get my eyebrows waxed, all the beauty maintenance. And when I was living in Dallas, I was wearing heels every day, skirts, suits, very dressed."

Today, she has an 11-month-old son and a daughter on the way. And yes, she is married, not to a millionaire but to a guy with a stable income and goals she shares.

"All my friends in New York are living the kind of life I led 10 years ago," she said. "I got married last year. That's a very Texas influence, I would say."

As if I really needed another reason to despise Dallas and its disturbingly pervasive influence on the way that Texas is perceived...

Honestly, though, I think what bothers me more than anything is not the utterly desperate ends that these women will go to in order to line their pockets, but rather the men who so eagerly accept them as wives. What does this say about them? I don't know what the general consensus is, but I can tell you that every single time I see a man with a trophy wife or girlfriend on his arm, the first thought that comes to my mind is, "What an insecure moron."

See, I think it says a lot more about the man than it does the woman -- and maybe that's just me. Unfortunately, we still live in a society where so many young women are told that they need a "provider" and so many of them are valued based solely upon their material accumulations and outward appearance. We perpetuate this in our society and until that vicious cycle ends, we will always have misguided women. That's an argument for another day, though.

But we've never prided ourselves as a society on allowing people to prey on our money and take advantage of our insecurities. Those are things which, should they happen to you, you'd normally correct or hide or both. Yet, here we have these men -- whether they be aesthetically-challenged, emotionally-challenged, or simply common-sense-challenged -- who are proud of their trophy wife investment! They display them proudly and the message that they hope to convey is, "I'm a success both in my business and my personal life and I have this fine piece of ass to show for it!"

Instead, what they are really saying is, "I'm deeply insecure and/or stupid and willing to forego having any kind of real love, companionship or meaningful relationship with a woman and instead require this Botox-ed, silicone-enhanced, bleached-blonde, Mystic-tanned, money-hungry bimbo to overcompensate for my many shortcomings. Now, can I please have some A-1 for my steak and a piece of lettuce for the lady?" Good job, guys.

/approves

Hot, Warm, Nervous Hands

2007-06-06T17:48:00.001-05:00

Woody Guthrie is deeply underappreciated.

Remember The Mountain Bed

Do you still sing of the mountain bed we made of limbs and leaves:
Do you still sigh there near the sky where the holly berry bleeds:
You laughed as I covered you over with leaves, face, breast, hips and thighs.
You smiled when I said the leaves were just the color of your eyes.

Rosin smells and turpentine smells from eucalyptus and pine
Bitter tastes of twigs we chewed where tangled woodvines twine
Trees held us in on all four sides so thick we could not see
I could not see any wrong in you, and you saw none in me.

Your arm was brown against the ground, your cheeks part of the sky.
As your fingers played with grassy moss, and limber you did lie:
Your stomach moved beneath your shirt and your knees were in the air
Your feet played games with mountain roots, as you lay thinking there.

Below us the trees grew clumps of trees, raised families of trees, and they
As proud as we tossed their heads in the wind and flung good seeds away:
The sun was hot and the sun was bright down in the valley below
Where people starved and hungry for life so empty come and go.

There in the shade and hid from the sun we freed our minds and learned.
Our greatest reason for being here, our bodies moved and burned
There on our mountain bed of leaves we learned life’s reason why
The People laugh and love and dream, they fight, they hate to die.

The smell of your hair I know is still there, if most of our leaves are blown,
Our words still ring in the brush and the trees were singing seeds are sown
Your shape and form is dim, but plain, there on our mountain bed
I see my life was brightest where you laughed and laid your head…

I learned the reason why man must work and how to dream big dreams,
To conquer time and space and fight the rivers and the seas
I stand here filled with my emptiness now and look at city and land
And I know why farms and cities are built by hot, warm, nervous hands.

I crossed many states just to stand here now, my face all hot with tears,
I crossed city, and valley, desert, and stream, to bring my body here:
My history and future blaze bright in me and all my joy and pain
Go through my head on our mountain bed where I smell your hair again.

All this day long I linger here and on in through the night
My greeds, desires, my cravings, hopes, my dreams inside me fight:
My loneliness healed my emptiness filled, I walk above all pain
Back to the breast of my woman and child to scatter my seeds again.

I wanted to play this song at the wedding (the Billy Bragg/Wilco version), but Richard said that he'd only indulge my eccentric tastes if I would indulge his and allow him to play Rock You Like a Hurricane for our first dance. Thanks so much for that idea, Marge.

The Horror, The Horror

2007-06-06T10:35:00.000-05:00

After many years of being a faithful and devoted Outlook user, I find myself forced to become intimately acquainted with that coelacanth of the IBM era: Lotus Notes.

I loved Outlook. No, you don't understand. I loved Outlook. I had a special bond with Outlook, a symbiotic relationship, a knowledge that no matter where I went or what new software or processes I'd have to learn, Outlook would always be there. In return for its steadfastness, I learned all of its ins and outs, the little quirks, the keyboard shortcuts that meant I never even needed to use a mouse while in Outlook (I hate mice/mouses/whatever, a holdover from my college days spent in front of the comforting green glow of CLIs on our Sun computers).

But now I've been thrust into an entire new e-mail world and I'm completely and totally disoriented. It's an awkward feeling. I've always felt comfortable learning new systems and software pacakges. I'm the person (nerd) who can fool around with a piece of software for a few minutes and feel totally at home with it. I'm the person (even bigger nerd) who goes home at night and researches shortcuts and idiosyncrasies and experiments with new and different ways to achieve my ends with those new software packages.

But Lotus Notes has me in a stranglehold. It is a dinosaur. It is a mammoth wallowing in a tar pit. My 51-year-old mother even laughed at me when I told her that we use Lotus at work. Her reaction: "I haven't seen Lotus since 1989! Loser!" I haven't seen or heard from Lotus myself since my "microcomputing" class during my sophomore year of high school. I didn't know that it still existed in any practical form, much less at a global corporation known for its affinity for technology. But I'm stuck with it for now.

It has by far one of the most unappealing and unintuitive GUIs I've ever seen. Granted, it apparently developed the idea of tabbed browsing long before Mozilla or the fancy new Explorer did, but the tabs themselves are tiny, hard to read and open and close at random (Replication? I didn't click on Replication!).

It's advanced enough to know that you've received new mail (yes, but so is the new Hotmail server, so BFD) but it's not advanced enough to actually display that new mail unless you go to a tiny menu in the far bottom corner and click on "Receive," which is maddeningly close to "Send Outgoing Mail" and which I unfailingly click on every time instead of "Receive" because I am so freaking clumsy with a mouse.

If you fail to interact with Lotus for more than five minutes, it will lock you out. It doesn't notify you that you've been locked out, however, so in the meantime you're pecking away at your keyboard and toiling at your other work actitivies, blissfully unaware that there are about fifteen e-mails waiting for you that need to be answered. And when you finally do cotton to the fact that you've been locked out and log yourself back in, the goddamn thing takes about five minutes to "Replicate" all of your e-mails and actually display them for you.

Furthermore, there is no real capability for storing e-mails in folders (the system which I've always used to sort through the masses of crap I get every day). It exists, and Lotus will let you do it, but it's very stilted and difficult and I get the feeling that every time I move an e-mail to a folder, Lotus creakily opens its eyes like an ancient tortoise and stares at me quizzically as if to say, "Whaaat are you doingk, yaaawngk one? Ve do not store files in this vaaay."

And in one of my least favorite moves so far, it has the most ridiculous address book system I've ever encountered. To send an e-mail to someone within the company, you have to know their middle name. That's right. We have over 22,000 employees in North America alone which equals roughly 25 Rogers, 68 Alans, 112 Johns, etc. An intelligent program would rely upon their last name to whittle things down from there. But not Lotus; here we use middle names. So not only am I learning everyone's names and positions and locations, I'm also becoming acquainted with their sometimes bizarre nomenclature (ex: Ernest Quest Daniel III). And it gets worse with people external to the company -- all of my outside contacts like brokers and consultants have to be painstakingly and meticulously added to the little address book subprogram before I can send e-mail to them. Otherwise, I have to pull up an old e-mail of theirs, copy their e-mail address and paste it into a new "memo" (not e-mail, memo...grr) or else I have to type the entire thing in from scratch/memory.

Luckily, I'm not alone in my sentiments. While doing some of the aforementioned nerd-research, I found these sites:

Lotus Notes Sucks
Gripes About Lotus Notes
70 Reasons Lotus Notes Sucks
and my favorite: Lotus Notes - The Horror, The Horror

What I have yet to find, of course, are any sites with names like "I Love Lotus Notes!" or "Lotus Notes Is The Greatest Thing Since Vacuum-Sealed Lunchmeat!" I won't be holding my breath for those.

Leonard Cohen

2007-06-05T12:50:00.000-05:00

Well, after many moons of posting blogs on another site, I've decided to transfer them over here to lovely Blogger, which I once utilized and then callously abandoned about three years ago. Unlike Myspace, Blogger is actually accessible here at work and -- what a sad commentary this is -- I do most of my writing at work. It's not that I don't have real work to do, it's more that when I'm sitting here in a big, mostly empty office with music playing, that's when ideas come to me. That, and it really helps diminish my stress level when I can put things aside for thirty minutes or so and just gush randomly onto a little white screen and into a mostly unknown audience.

It's a Rufus Wainwright kind of day over here, by which I mean that I've been listening to old Wainwright CDs all morning long. He makes the perfect contemplative music -- relaxing yet edgy and thought-provoking. I also love the random covers that he does; if you've never heard his cover of Careless Whisper with Ben Folds, go ye to YouTube right now and check it out. It's just awesomely funny and trippy. And right here is where I could head off on a tangent about how much I love Ben Folds now that he's no longer with Ben Folds Five, but let's just stop right here, shall we?

Anyway, one of the covers that Rufus Wainwright did was an old Leonard Cohen song, Chelsea Hotel No. 2, hence the title of the new-ish blog. It's my absolute favorite Cohen song, which is saying a lot (I think that my perverse obsession with Leonard Cohen has been well-documented elsewhere in my blogs, so I'll not go into this right now). I love Cohen's voice, but in the same way that you love Bob Dylan's voice. You accept that it's not perfect, it's often off-key, it's gravelly and not in the good Don Henley way and that's okay because - goddamn - the man wrote some of the most beautiful lyrics this world has ever seen and he can fucking mime them if he wants to because they're his. It doesn't matter how his voice sounds; to actually hear the man that wrote the words say or sing them aloud is an experience in and of itself. It's akin to listening to Eliot read The Wasteland aloud (please, please, please check this out if you've never heard it) and hearing where emphasis is placed upon certain words and phrases, where the pauses and breaths communicate deeper imagery and meaning, far removed from a world where scholars endlessly pick apart his lines and insert their own agendas and interpretations into his work.

But listening to Wainwright's voice with Cohen's lyrics...that was a revelation, too, the first time I heard it. Rufus Wainwright has the amazing ability to take lyrics that aren't his or that are his but have nothing at all to do with him (listen to The Art Teacher for an excellent example) and make you believe that he's felt all of the agony or excitement or passion himself. Now that's a great artist, a great performer. When I listen to Chelsea Hotel No. 2, I ache. I ache for lost opportunities, lost friends, lost times and possibilities and potential. But aching is not a bad thing, not always. Aching - any kind of unpleasantness, for that matter - just paints the good moments in starker contrast to the bad, forces you to appreciate them both more.

Now that I've driven on that side road for long enough, back to the highway. The main point here is that I wanted to share these lyrics because - as I've always said - there isn't enough Cohen in the world:

Chelsea Hotel No. 2

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
You were talking so brave and so sweet
Giving me head on the unmade bed
While the limousines wait in the street
Those were the reasons, that was New York
We were running for the money and the flesh
And that was called love for the workers in song
Probably still is for those of them left
Ah, but you got away, didn't you, babe?
You just turned your back on the crowd
You got away, I never once heard you say
I need you, I don't need you
I need you, I don't need you
And all of that jiving around

I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
You were famous, your heart was a legend
You told me again you preferred handsome men
But for me, you would make an exception
Then, clenching your fists for the ones like us
Who are oppressed by the figures of beauty
You fixed yourself and said, well, nevermind
We are ugly, but we have the music
And then you got away, didn't you, babe?
You just turned your back on the crowd
You got away, I never once heard you say
I need you, I don't need you
I need you, I don't need you
And all of that jiving around

I don't mean to suggest that I loved you the best
I can't keep track of each fallen robin
I remember you well in the Chelsea Hotel
That's all
I don't even think of you that often

BONUS POINTS: Whosoever of you can tell me about whom Leonard Cohen wrote this song will receive, by U.S. Mail, a shiny penny.

Thank you, come again!

2007-06-04T21:53:00.000-05:00

In the ongoing, agonizing struggle to free myself from the townhome that I was leasing (very little of which I've bothered to complain about on here because: provokes anger), I had what I thought would be the final walkthrough tonight with the leasing agent and the new tenants. The new tenants are nice enough, I suppose - although I could really give a shit at this point - but they are the type of very anal-retentive foreigners (you know the type, don't act like I'm the asshole here) that make people from a certain subcontinent look really bad and perpetuate a certain stereotype, which I hate (stereotypes, I hate stereotypes). So, by the time that they're finished with their "walkthrough" an hour later - and what am I even doing there? I'm not the landlord! - they've compiled a handwritten, two-and-a-half page list of "problems" that need to be fixed before they'll move in. Which they then give to me. And the proceed to explain at length how they won't be moving in until I fix these things. Again: not the landlord.

Among the many, many things on the list are the following items:

1) Re-key the locks (I'M NOT THE LANDLORD)

2) They want the showerhead that was in the bathroom when they originally viewed the townhome, which was mine. I explained that the showerhead currently in the bathroom is the one that came with the home and that the one they saw was my showerhead, which I suggested they could purchase at Lowes for $49.99. They didn't seem amused by this.

3) They also want the shelves that I had hung in the bedroom. Again, my shelves. When I explained that they were my shelves, the husband launched into a shrill tirade which went, verbatim: "We agreed to rent this particular unit based upon the assumption that certain items would be retained in the unit and if these certain items aren't included with the unit, then we will be unable to rent it!" So, in other words, you want me to bring back my shelves, rehang them and just flat out give them to you? Sure thing. I'll get right on that.

4) One of the wall sockets in the bedroom was missing A screw. One.

5) The baseboards were dusty.

6) And, finally, my favorite - they were convinced that I had been living - nay, squatting - in a townhome with no electricity and no A/C and they wanted me to fix this immediately. Actually, the electrician that had been out the day before to fix the wiring had accidentally turned off the breakers in the breaker box. But no matter how many times I tried to explain this and the fact that I'd been living in my new house for over a week and not in the townhome, they just kept asking me, "How could you live like this?!?" in incredulous voices as if they were speaking to a woman who'd been found living in a house filled with 57 cats and two feet of feces in every room.

I can't even tell you how incredibly relieved I am to not be living in a rented house anymore. Escaping my lease has been an utter nightmare - a story for another day, though - and I can't wait until we're completely settled into the new house, drinking beers on the patio with the doors open, listening to salsa music on the stereo until the late hours, and then - much later - driving by my old townhome with six dozen eggs and egging it for all it's worth.

I love italics.

Lumbergh

2007-06-03T21:49:00.000-05:00

Okay, I only have a little bit of juice left on this thing today, but here we go:

So, I quit my job at Neighborhood Centers last Friday. I think we all know that by now. Everyone, apparently, except my old boss. On a whim while at my new job this past Thursday, I logged onto the old NCI mail server to see if the retards over there had disabled my e-mail access yet. Of course they hadn't. But it gets better...

My boss was still sending me e-mails. E-mails with subject lines like "10-Month Employees" and bodies like "Katharine, will you please take a look at the attached spreadsheet of 10-month employee payroll errors and get back to me? We need to get these fixed." This is the same guy, mind you, that I handed my letter of resignation to less than two weeks ago. NEWS FLASH, MORON: I DON'T WORK THERE ANYMORE.

*sigh*

So glad to be away from that place...

Wednesday

2007-05-08T05:17:00.000-05:00

I know that we have all -- every one of us -- worked in an environment that, at one time or another, we have deemed to be a little slice of hell or at least a slightly more sanitized version of an insane asylum. As a teenager, my father worked grueling, hot summers in a meatpacking plant in Fort Worth, treading carefully as he lugged pound upon pound of freshly-butchered beef across floors slicked with blood and viscera in the days long before OSHA or plant management executives ever attempted to make the packing floor safer for employees. Fresh out of the Navy after World War II, my maternal grandfather worked in a three-story shoe store in San Francisco for a store manager so nasty that, even as his mind is failing him at the age of 90, is still remembered with a clarity only invoked by certain levels and means of cruelty, leaving their marks upon his mind after nearly seven decades. In the summer of 1978, my stepfather was indoctrinated in the methods of "crowd control" used by the Houston Police Department as he clashed with Black Panthers and other demonstrators during the race riots that plagued the city, battering sweat-beaded temples with his nightstick and Macing unprotected eyes as he fought through a tide of rioters. My paternal grandfather was an orphan, raised at the Itasca Home for Boys until he was 18 years old. The boys earned their stay by making, mending and washing their own clothes, milking the cows and collecting eggs from the hens, and growing their own food -- all while getting an education.

I…work in an office. It has air conditioning and inspirational framed artwork (not mine). I have a comfy chair that I stole from the office next door when the former occupant was asked to resign. My iPod is docked in a Bose stereo system that pipes out Chet Baker and Air while I work. I get fresh office supplies every two weeks and a paycheck every other Friday. I do not pack meat. I do not fit shoes onto smelly feet while being harassed by a paranoid asshole. I do not get shot at, wear riot gear, or get urinated on by arrested suspects. I did not work in an orphanage for my entire childhood and adolescence. I also do not work in a Chinese sweatshop, a Thai whorehouse, a Ukranian smelting plant or a Columbian coca plantation. So why do I feel like I'm losing my mind when I'm at work? Why do I feel like this, of all jobs, is the worst job on earth?

Sometimes I feel like I'm in an elaborate reenactment of "Gaslight," or maybe that's just my narcissism rearing its ugly head. But I do believe it's the little things, the small insanities and pretensions, that will wear you down over time. Tiny things, really; very tiny things. Things that, in a normal world, would go unnoticed. Things that, if you bring them to an outsider's attention, would make you seem insane for being bothered about. Only your fellow inmates can commiserate and understand -- Did you see the way that guard let Nacho get an extra chocolate pudding at lunch today? And he let him stay out in the yard five minutes extra to finish his cigarette! Nacho must be slipping him something through the outside… -- and you feel foolish for venting about your frustrations during the fleeting moments that you're in the outside world.

Today -- maybe if I explain "today" then I can make more sense -- was nothing special. It was a Tuesday, still is a Tuesday. The recently-appointed director of our department has recently gone what Moira and I have termed "power-retarded" and we are all dealing with the repercussions of the massive promotion and accompanying breakdown of all of his social and intellectual skills in our own silent ways. He has responded to his promotion by finding new and subtle ways to demean us and insinuate to other directors and their departments that we are all terribly worthless and shouldn't be bothered with matters of real importance – all issues are to go through him now. This also includes my area of "expertise" (cue huge peals laughter from me here -- okay, but seriously, I really do have an area, breathtakingly lame as it may be, that he knows jack shit about), so in between fuming and fielding calls from idiot employees, I entertain myself while I listen to him next door, attempting to explain what a pre-existing limitation exclusion clause is and how it affects Jeff Butterman's medical plan deductible (hint: it doesn't and…I hate you). So, again, regular Tuesday.

It's only 9:00 a.m. and I'm already heavily feuding with the payroll department in our ongoing, epic, Hatfield–and–McCoy battle of "who can put the most monkeys onto each others' backs." It would be fun if there were real monkeys involved, but sadly…no. By 11:30, it's time for lunch. Since we're always pressed for time, Moira and I decide to take our lunch break and use it to run out to Party City to gather supplies for the job fair that we're hosting this weekend. Since it's only a few miles up the road, we don't plan on claiming mileage and -- again -- we're using our lunch break to do this. Moira grabs $50 from the petty cash reserves, we buy our supplies and come back to the office. She takes the receipt, the change and her itemized purchase order -- filled out in triplicate, because that's how much we like paperwork -- to accounting. They scan the receipt and P.O.s, count the change carefully. Then they notice it: the sales tax. Being a non-profit, we are a non-taxpaying entity with regard to certain areas and items. Accounting asks Moira, "You paid sales tax?" Yes. "Why didn't you give them the card showing our tax exempt status?" Because I don't have one; I didn't know we had anything like that. "Well, you're responsible for the extra sales tax paid, then." Excuse me? "You're responsible for the extra sales tax! We'll just take it out of your next paycheck." Seriously…excuse me? "NCI shouldn't have to pay sales tax since we're tax exempt. So, since you didn't follow agency procedure when purchasing these items, you're responsible for the sales tax. It comes to $3.52." You're going to dock my check for $3.52? You're really going to do all the paperwork required to dock my check for a measly three dollars? After I used my personal time to take care of agency business for a job fair that I'm being forced to work at all day on Saturday? "I'm sorry, Moira, but you should have followed agency procedure."

I feel like there should be a paragraph here, but I'm still too aggravated by our $3.52 mistake of apparently monumental proportions to even follow up.

Later that afternoon, our power went out. Our director was in a meeting at the time. My coworkers and I expected that after the first ten minutes of the power outage, the meeting might be dismissed and the assorted directors would scurry back to their departments to "assess the situation," since everything is a situation around here. A pane of glass broke a few weeks ago when the central atrium was being painted; company-wide e-mails were sent warning of the imminent danger presented by the rogue glass shards that landed in the flower beds below -- Don't go into the flower beds! Dangerous glass!!!11!1! -- as if trekking through the flower beds in the atrium was our favored lunchtime activity. So we were surprised when our director showed up nearly an hour after the power had gone out. He was equally surprised that we were sitting in a group in Angela's office, not working.

Our building was built in the 1960s and in addition to not providing enough parking for all of the tenants (most of us have to park at another parking lot six blocks away and take a shuttle to work), the insulation is shot to shit. I normally love the giant plate glass windows in my office – a view to a sane and sunny world – but during the power outage I started to feel like an ant under a malicious child's magnifying glass. So the four of us spread out in the one dark office without windows, cherishing the remaining A/C, as Angela suddenly found herself and her windowless office vindicated. We discussed actual HR-related issues for a while before falling into American Idol debates and the pros and cons of DVR. By the time that our director made his way back to the department, we had long left the domain of polite conversation and were viciously mocking various employees and telling crude stories of various incidents (yes, of course the woman who stunk of sex came up…do you even need to ask?).

His first words: "What's going on here? Why are you all just sitting around?" Moira, jokingly: "Well, in case you hadn't noticed during your meeting, the power has been out for an hour." Director: "Yes, but why aren't you working?" Us: blank stares, hate. Me, finally: "The power…is out. The computers…are dead. The phones…are dead. The copier…is dead. There's not a whole lot that we can do in the dark, without phones or computers." Director: "Well, I can think of a lot of different things that we can get accomplished without power. For example, you can collate. You can stuff envelopes. You can organize your office. You can shred things in your 'To Shred' bins. You can file." Me: "File. In the dark." Moira: "What envelopes? Why would we stuff envelopes? We don't have any envelopes that need stuffing." Angela: "Collate?" Me: "Collate what? I don't have a big pile in my office marked 'To Collate On A Rainy Day.' And we can't file in the dark." Moira: "How are we supposed to shred things without a shredder? Can we just go home now, please? It's sweltering in here. And we don't have any work to do." Director: "I don't know…" Moira: "All the other departments have left. We're the only ones still here. And it's freaking hot, seriously." Director: "Well, if you all feel like you just can't come up with any work to do, then I guess so. Just make sure that you get your work done from home." Us: blank stares, but this time with much more hate, then lots of shuffling around and getting the hell out of that dark, sweaty pit while we still could.

As we were leaving, I heard the director calling after us, "Well, I guess I'll just stick around here and do my work, since I've got tons of work that I can get done with or without power! And I'll make sure that payroll knows not to dock your checks since you're leaving an hour early." We left him behind in the unusually silent, darkening building, seemingly the only person still there; left him to his scurrying and paper-shuffling and insane bureaucracies, feeling lighter with every step that we took towards our cars, six blocks away. On Tuesday, we got an extra hour of sanity – an extra hour on the outside. Let's see what Wednesday holds.

Home

2007-04-29T17:52:00.000-05:00

I'm home again, and it's awfully quiet around here today with Richard gone. I dropped him off at the airport this morning, less than 12 hours after we touched down in Houston. So, in approximately 24 hours, he'll have been in Memphis, Little Rock, Dallas, Houston, Detroit and finally Rochester. My poor boy is such a travelin' man these days.

Anyway, I'm slowly sorting through the roughly 250 pictures I took in Memphis (I'm...not kidding. It's a sad sort of addiction.) and I'll post some later this week. For now, though, a really great quote from a New York Times article about Houston:

It's true: The greater metropolitan area is truly a geography of nowhere, a crazy quilt of strip malls and strip clubs and gas pumps and houses. But the sneaky thing about Houston is that the city's heart isn't to be found in one place; it's in a thousand small places and subtle pleasures. Trouble is, most outsiders don't have the time to assemble the scattered pieces. Only with time does mishmash become mosaic.

How abundantly true.

Quotes from the weekend

2007-02-06T09:09:00.000-06:00

Scene: St. Arnold's brewery & tasting room, Jeff and I playing Hnefatafl at our table

Drunk guy: That duddint look like chess. There'zzz too many pawns.
Jeff: It's not chess, it's an old Viking game.
Drunk guy: That'zzz a lotta paaaawns.
Jeff: Well, the Vikings liked their pawns.
Drunk guy: I thought they liked fucking up Greenland.
Jeff: Yes, well, I suppose one doesn't preclude the other.

Scene: In my car, driving back from the brewery, as I put the Indigo Girls in the CD player

Richard: Turn that awful shite off!
Me: But they're lesbians. You like lesbians.
Richard: Only when they're kissing and playing with each other's private parts.

Scene: Superbowl party with about 15 other people

John's three-year-old daughter: Do you have a baby in that belly?
Me: No. Why? Does it look like I do?
John's three-year-old daughter: Yes.