RosieSue's Stream of Consciousness

Semantics

2011-05-13T19:45:00.001-04:00

In college, I took a class on Advertising. As an end-of-semester project, our class was divided into teams of six, and we were instructed to design a marketing campaign to sell grapefruit juice to college students; whichever team was voted to have the best campaign according to the students and the professor got an automatic A on the project. Some teams went crass, some teams appealed to the target audience's intelligence (mistake!). Our team gave up on white grapefruit juice entirely and focused exclusively on pink grapefruit juice, using celebrities as spokespeople and tying in a donation to the Susan G. Komen fund for every bottle sold. Whatever it says about college students or advertising or simply the fight put up from the other teams, our agency won.

Do you get the sense prune advertising was likewise developed by a bunch of college students? For a while now, I've noticed that Sunsweet and the like have shied away from selling "prunes" in favor of "dried plums." Semantics, certainly, but admit it: you associate prunes with nursing homes, scuffly slippers, and worn out bathrobes. "Dried plums" almost has a hipster-y quality to it, riding the tailcoats of dried cranberries as they rose to popularity and are now tossed in everything from cookies to salads to fancy autumn pastas. Well done, Federated Plum Growers of America, on maintaining truth in advertising while simultaneously making prunes an acceptable purchase to people not yet eligible for AARP.

Husband and I were browsing the fruit section at Costco some months back when we saw a label that made us stop in our tracks and consider for a moment. Here was a flat of plums - nicely colored, perfectly in season - that were being sold as "Fresh Prunes." Make of that what you will, America.

Dead Man

2011-05-02T20:53:00.001-04:00

I stayed up late enough to catch the headlines just before Obama's address was aired, so I knew that it had happened and been confirmed. But I also knew I needed to get to sleep so that I could function when The Kid woke me up at 2 a.m. Husband stayed up to watch the entire speech, and had a distinctly joyful and excited tone to his voice when he came upstairs afterwards. If we were in our pre-kid days and lived somewhere urban, I suspect he would have been among the multitudes celebrating in the streets.

I can't admit to feeling the same sense of joy. Don't misunderstand - I'm not sad or disappointed. I'm absolutely glad that bin Laden is dead: one less psychopath in the world for my son to contend with. I'm just not elated. It feels somehow hollow to me. I say this with an admitted ignorance if there is in fact proof to the contrary, but bin Laden seemed, in the end, to be little more than a figurehead, a mascot, a rallying point. There were so many eyes on him, even when we couldn't see him, that it seems to me he couldn't run quite the operation he used to. In his absence, other psychopaths have taken on his mantle and are, at this moment, plotting new attacks, most of which will fail before they even get off the ground, but some of which inevitably won't.

Bin Laden's death didn't end anything, except the manhunt. The wars are still going on and will be forever, just in different places, because we're fighting a concept, a spectre. Terrorism isn't something that can be stamped out. It is and always has been. With apologies to Jeff Maguire, all it takes is someone willing to trade their life for the chance to harm whom- or whatever they view as their enemy.

So let's all take a nice, deep, cathartic breath and exhale a sigh of relief that Osama bin Laden is no longer among the living. And then let's crack our collective knuckles, rub our tired eyes, and brace ourselves for whatever may come. This is no time to lower our guard.

Charlie Sheen: Real American Asshole

2011-03-07T21:33:00.010-04:00

To say Charlie Sheen is acting a little funny these days is like saying he has a little sinus trouble. The man has officially gone nuts, N-V-T-S, nuts. His ego has expanded past the boundaries of the known universe. In fact, there is no ego with him anymore; it's all id, all the time. The man blew a multi-million-dollar-per-episode gig in what was, I've heard, the highest rated sitcom on air, because he couldn't manage to stop sticking things up his nose and, when told to get his proverbial shit together, called his bosses meanieheads, took his toys, and went home. This from a man whose best performance was his 30-second appearance in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. This after he, in, what three years?, blew out two marriages with women who seemed balanced (at least in comparison to him) and gave him four children, and is now living with two ~~barely legal overly tanned bottle blonde porn starlets~~ "goddesses." That doesn't smell like a downward spiral at all there, Carlo.

As wacktastic as his behavior has been, however, it barely even registered on my radar except as another instance of spoiled celebs behaving badly (which sounds like a reality TV title, except that we've already seen that show). What pissed me off enough to bother writing a post was when he held the show hostage. I was unfortunate enough to catch 5 minutes of Two and a Half Men when a rerun came on after something else I was watching and I couldn't find something to switch to quickly enough. It was standard sitcom nonsense, canned laughter and all; but as I said, it was very highly rated, and employed dozens, if not hundreds, of people. By refusing to act like an adult (you know, coming to work, not snorting illicit substances, not bragging about your icky sexual proclivities), he put production on hold to the point that Warner Bros. had to 86 the rest of the season. All those grips and stagehands and assistants and wardrobers were suddenly without work until Sheen decided to put on his big boy pants. And then, because he couldn't just quietly pull himself together, he declared a war of words with the producers -- nothing is this guy's fault, after all -- which ended today in Sheen's getting the boot. What do you think is going to happen now, Charlie? This isn't a soap opera. They can't just swap actors in and out for characters and pretend no one's going to notice. It's dead in the water. You pretty much single-handedly wrecked the livelihoods of the off-screen support people. They'll find jobs again, sure, but whereas they used to have an all-but-guaranteed paycheck for as long as the writers could keep cranking out formulaic jokes (the kind the average American likes best), they have to get that resume all polished up and go out begging at the studio door again like everyone else in the Greater Los Angeles area. It's one thing if a show is cancelled in general, but this show was essentially torpedoed because you had to get into a pissing contest with Chuck Lorre.

Actually, now that I think about it, this will work well for the show's first episode or two back next season. Warner Bros. hasn't pulled the plug on the show altogether, and I'd bet any amount of money that it will be back in the fall, which would be WB's way of saying "nanny-nanny-boo-boo" to Sheen. All the old viewers and a few new ones will tune in to see what they did with Charlie's character, who the new guy is (rumor mill says John Stamos is a possibility, who I think is better than his reputation, though he's apparently on Glee - another show I don't watch, which is probably why it's still on -- and thus would be more difficult [and expensive] to woo away), and how they're going to reconcile the disaster from back in the spring. And then I would take my winnings from the previous bet and place them on the probability that, by mid-season, all those same looky-loos will have faded away once they realize that the show jumped the shark about five years back when the kid's voice dropped. I will then take my winnings from both of those bets and gamble that Sheen's future screen time will consist of a failed appearance on Dancing With the Stars, a losing season of Celebrity Apprentice, and conclude with a half-assed stint on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

That is, if anyone remembers in September that any of this happened.

The Bitch is Back

2011-02-28T09:13:00.000-04:00

Hi kids! Sorry I've been on hiatus so long, but Thing 1 has finally gotten old enough that he can play by himself for a little bit, allowing me time enough to ooze out some of the ferocious indignation that has been building pressure in the back of my mind. Assuming work continues to be slow and the kid continues to give me small spans of time to myself, I'm very happy to let Rosie back out of her cage. Stay tuned!

August Birthday Bust 2010

2010-08-04T21:54:00.002-04:00

On July 25, we got a call from Dad, inviting us out for the day on August 1 to see UncleR and AuntG's new house in Bunker Hill, and then to come back to Dad's house for dinner. We were expected out around 10 in the morning. As much as I relish the thought of spending a whole day in the company of my family, let alone a nice long drive in the confines of a car with them, I mercifully had other plans that morning and so, gee, I couldn't make it. However, in the interest of family harmony and not giving him another opportunity to sigh dramatically that he never sees us and therefore doesn't feel like he knows us, I compromised and said we could come out that evening for dinner instead. In fact, since AuntZ and CousinZ were going to be up from South Carolina that weekend, why didn't we just turn it into the August Birthday thing? I'd even bring cake. Dad was thrilled with the idea, and I was thrilled that I could abbreviate my time with them that much further. Everyone wins.

So August 1 rolled around. We arrived about 5pm, as promised. On the way out, we made guesses as to what time we would be getting out of there, since it was a Sunday and we therefore both had to work the next day and didn't really want to leave at 11 like we often end up doing at such gatherings. In a fit of optimistic psychosis, I thought we might be able to leave around 8. Husband pointed out that 9 was more likely, even if we made noise around 8 about having to leave. Okay, 9 was acceptable.

The attendance was greater than anticipated. While UncleR/AuntG/CousinM didn't attend, we still had Dad, Grandad, AuntZ, and CousinZ, of course; but we also had Harry (AuntZ's boyfriend), Jackie, Jackie's father, Jackie's sister, Jackie's daughter, and Jackie's niece.

There were no great outbursts, but I'll apprise you of the highlights:

AuntZ's boyfriend Harry is a hippie who doesn't have the first clue about propriety and that certain things should not be said in certain company. He and AuntZ got drunk and were smooching like teenagers... they're both almost 60. And no, it wasn't the cute kind where you're all, "Aw, sweet, look how happy they are." It was more the, "Oh god, seriously?" kind. We're pretty sure they also smoke pot together - they are both artists, after all. The guy was making a fair number of off-color jokes, and managed to use the word "cunnilingus" by the end of the night.
Jackie's family is, by and large, delightful, polite, engaging, patient, and friendly. However, Jackie's father is a crotchety old vet (saw action in Bastogne during WWII) and has a salty yet colorful vocabulary so he was mostly fun to listen to, and kept Grandad entertained so I didn't have to. However, he said a thing or two to Dad that I cannot imagine a potential father-in-law saying to his potential son-in-law, but I also know he wouldn't have said those things if he knew a lady was within earshot. I will not repeat it here because Mama raised me right, but still... I could really have gone the rest of my life without hearing a nonogenarian use that term. Or, pretty much anyone of any age.
Jackie's father also commented more than once that I was awfully big for 8 months along, and Grandad joined in the chorus. You know, I just love it when people comment on my size. Especially when they're essentially strangers. Especially when I'm not 8 but 7 months along. If I gave any value to either of their opinions, that's the kind of thing that might hurt a girl's self-image. Luckily, I know that they're both senile old bags, that they have no expertise to speak of on this subject, and that the doctors in charge when their wives were pregnant basically had the women starving themselves and feeling guilty for ingesting actual food. My doctor and I do not have such misconceptions.
The absence of UncleR/AuntG/CousinM was probably a blessing and may have contributed to the calmer atmosphere. You see, AuntZ likes, when the three sibs (she, Dad, and UncleR) get together, to incite something and then try to get one brother to side with her against the other. While I was on pins and needles to see how Jackie might react to seeing her beloved in a ranting tirade against his brother or sister, I can't complain about what passes for harmony in this family. That said, UncleR/AuntG did send along cards and gifts for the birthday people. Jackie said how nice that was. Dad replied, "Yeah it was nice. It would be nicer if they had bothered to come tonight..." Couldn't resist, could he?
Dad also, after a fair amount of wine, declared that Jackie is "the love of [his] whole life!" Oy. Glad he's happy and all, but I guess he was only faking it with Mom and Fran (Wife 2.0) then, hm. Just sayin'.

In such an environment, I know it confuses you that I was climbing the walls by 8 p.m. Husband was drinking (I'm a built-in desi these days, and I even passed up the half glass I allow myself because my tolerance is so much lower than it used to be and I knew it wouldn't take a lot for me to snap) so, while he was aware of how late it was getting, he also was going with the flow better than I was. In the end, after invisible cake and presents due to so little light, we didn't get out of there till 10, meaning we didn't get home until 11. I peeled off my face and got in bed, and must have passed out inside of 3 minutes. Next time, I think we'll have to make noise about leaving starting an hour after we arrive.

Open Letter: Summer 2010

2010-07-23T11:26:00.007-04:00

Dear Crotchety Document Author:

How nice for you that you were an English major and that you can't countenance sending something grammatically incorrect as a deliverable. But client direction does not bow to your professors' whims. When your professor starts paying us untold millions to write documents for him, then he can dictate that "veteran" not be capitalized in all instances, even when referring to former military personnel. As it stands, our client is paying us to do just that. They pay the bills, they make the rules. I know it stung your technically-one-level-more-senior-than-I ego that, when you demanded written proof (as it's obvious I spend my time making these things up just to make you jump through hoops), I was able to provide a 19 month old email proving my case.

Furthermore, so sorry, but I did not delete any of your tables' background shading, and it sounds instead like Word simply had a stroke. I can only deduce that you do not work often in Microsoft Office suite products, and therefore are unaware that sometimes those programs do some wacky shit with no rhyme or reason. I'm fairly well convinced that deep in the coding lies Satan himself. Until you come up with a better and more stable word processing program, however, it is often better to suffer the proverbial slings and arrows and merely patch back together what went the way of socks in the dryer than to point fingers and accuse overburdened QC personnel of deliberately sabotaging your document. Sucks, but such is life.

Have a shiny day!

~Rosie

P.S. I'm so glad you didn't mean to "infer" that the technical snafu was malicious on my part. But what I'm sure your grammatically infallible self meant was "imply."

Fool Me Twice

2010-06-30T13:16:00.023-04:00

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Well, consider me shamed.

We had Dad and J (the girlfriend) over for dinner on June 19. I’m sure you remember the last time I had family over for dinner. This one had a slightly less Benny Hill flavor to it, but was still sufficient to convince me that I should never host my family again. Three years later is still too soon.

A little background: Dad and J dated in college, and reconnected on Facebook earlier this year. He’s, predictably, head-over-heels for her again, and every little thing she does is magic. She lives in Morgantown, WV, so in order for her to meet (most of) the family, he had to cart her all over Northern Virginia. He had already brought her home to meet UncleR, AuntG, and CousinM (from whom I got most of my information about her in the first place). We were asked for a couple of hours to get to know her, so we extended the invitation to dinner, either out or in. He chose dinner at our place. I’m least myself when I small-talk, and instead I preferred to cook for them and show them my hospitality. I don’t know about you, but I learn most about a person by what they do and how they treat others; I almost never trust the words that they say.

Like last time, I planned out a very nice menu: chicken saltimbocca roulade, risotto primavera, sautéed squash, and mango icebox pie, paired with a light Sauvignon Blanc to complement the spring-and-summer flavors. Husband and I went to the grocery store early to get the ingredients, and he dashed over to the liquor store to make sure we had makings for the drinks of choice: martinis for Dad, gin-and-tonic for J. They were due over at 5:30, and we spent literally all day from the time we got home until that time cleaning the house and preparing food as far in advance as we could so that only a little time would be spent cooking while they were here.

At 5:30, the pie was chilled, the chicken was rolled, the risotto items were prepped and measured, the martini glasses were in the freezer, the china and silver were out on the kitchen table, and the coffee table was set with snack mix in finger bowls as a pre-dinner snack. At 5:45, Husband and I were still sitting on the couch, alone. They finally arrived a little after 6:00, having gotten caught up at Grandad’s. All right, no harm done. Let’s get the drinks out and be gracious and welcoming to Dad’s girlfriend. I managed about half an hour of small talk – where’d you go to school, what do you do, how’d you meet, how far along are you – and then I had to duck into the kitchen to get started on the risotto and such. (Have you ever made risotto? It involves 30 solid minutes of stirring while the rice gradually absorbs the broth. See? I learned something that night.)

Husband entertained them with vacation pictures and work talk while I cooked like a fiend (Husband's a far better host than I am anyway). I suspect Dad doesn’t realize that my hearing is outstanding and that the kitchen is only the next room over, because at some point, I heard Dad explaining why I lived with him when Mom and Sister moved away. He told the story that I had stayed to finish high school at the same school, which was partially true. He added, “Yep, she didn’t stay for me, she stayed for the school.” Consciously, I know he thought he was being funny, but the spark was lit: “You really want to play amateur therapy hour?” He just looked at me confused, and I ducked back into the kitchen before that conversation thread could take hold. Seriously, aren’t we supposed to be putting on our Sunday Best so that we don’t scare away the new girlfriend, and you’re going to play passive-aggressive, poor-little-me games? I know better, and I’m embarrassed that I took the bait, but it was done, and to her credit, J didn’t bat an eyelash.

Dinner went smoothly for the most part except when Dad tried to goad me a little more, and when he started in again about how we absolutely had to get a convection microwave when we replaced our ghetto-fabulous double-oven range (builder stock from the 80s). He also tried to tell Husband to quit his job, get another certification, and get another job for more money (Husband makes fine money, and even if he didn’t, it’s none of Dad’s business). I’m sure there were some more points of interest, but I’ve managed to block them. J seemed to be a nice lady who had her head on straight, seemed to keep Dad more or less in line, and seemed to handle Dad’s rants with grace, so I wish them the best. When they left, everyone seemed to have had a more or less nice time.

A week later, I received an email from Dad, thanking us for having them over. However, he thought that dinner had probably not been a good idea, since I had been in the kitchen so long, and since the whole purpose of them coming was for J and us to "get to know one another." This from the man who thinks that Husband and I should stay over at his house during the Christmas Eve misery because he "doesn't feel like [he] really knows me." I'm so glad I spent all that money and all that effort into making something nice for them just to have my hands slapped again. Next time you want to ensure that you get all the face-time you want, how about you show up on time and we go out to eat instead.

No One Wants Our Money

2010-06-21T11:06:00.000-04:00

Husband and I experienced Retail Fail yesterday.

We've been in need of a new stove for a number of years now, and because Husband got his first bonus at work recently, we decided to apply some of it to replacing our pathetic appliance. He found one he liked at Home Depot and this weekend we were going to go out and take a look at the floor model, some skinny blinds for our kitchen windows, and the hardwood flooring sample that Husband liked. Bonus: we'd probably run into some Father's Day sales or discounts. While we were out, we figured we would swing by the Verizon Wireless store to see about a new phone for him (his current one won't hold a charge anymore) and maybe adjusting our plan to better fit our usage. And hey, whaddya know, Babies R Us is having a 20% sale on in-store bedding sets so we'd try to pick that up, and there's also a 20% off coupon in the Sunday ads, so we'd see about getting the glider I like as well if it's in stock. We were even prepared to spend the big bucks this extravaganza was going to cost.

We went first to a nearby Verizon Wireless store, but the parking lot was empty - which made sense, as the sign on the door said they were closed on Sunday. Seemed silly to us, but as long as it works for the franchiser... Besides, there's another we knew of on the way back from BRU.

Next we went to BRU in search of the bedding set and glider. We got back to the gliders section... and no one was there, except one expectant father chilling in a floor model while his wife was going baby crazy somewhere in the store. Okay, well let's go get the bedding set and maybe a staffer will be on hand when we get back. We got over to the bedding set area and I thought I was having a hard time figuring out where the pattern we liked was (it's reasonably bright in its royal blues and lime greens)... until I realized that the big open space on one of the shelves is where they used to stock that pattern. They were all sold out. Miffed, and knowing that the glider was not likely to be in stock in the back anyway (and not willing to pay the $75 to have it shipped), we walked out empty-handed. (FYI: the same glider is available through Amazon for FREE SUPER SAVER SHIPPING!! I love you, Amazon.)

We stopped by the other Verizon Wireless store on the way home. There on the door were the posted hours and, lo and behold, they were open from 12 - 7 on Sundays. As it was 3:00 when we arrived, we figured we were in luck. We marched up to the door, ready to do some business and -- the door won't open. No really, it won't open. Lights are on in the store. Husband and I both checked our watches and our cell phones to make sure everything was in agreement in terms of time. We looked around for an alternate entrance. We were well within the posted hours. But the door was locked, and no one seemed in a rush to get to the front of the store to open it. No one seemed to be in the store at all. Confused, we again left, twice defeated.

Home Depot couldn't fail us. In we went, first to the window coverings section to look at the blinds... but I forgot to measure how tall the windows were. Okay, my fault for being unprepared (bad Girl Scout!), but it was an "as long as we're here" errand, so no big deal. Off we went to the flooring area, but despite parading up and down three aisles, they didn't seem to be carrying the hardwoods Husband liked. Again, not too big a deal. Let's go over to Appliance Land and see about getting a new stove. Husband had wisely brought our measurements along so we were all set. But oh dear. Our house was built in the early 90s, and perhaps you've noticed that kitchen dimensions have changed in the past few years. We found exactly one gas stove that fit our width requirements - which are strictly limited by the flanking counters. However, it was too deep. Our current stove was 25.25" deep - we could probably go up to 26. That one stove with the right width was 27.75" deep, meaning almost a 3" jut out from the edge of the counters. Unacceptable.

Curses. Foiled at every turn. It seems that no one wants our money, even when we're ready to spend!

(In)Sensitive

2010-05-04T15:15:00.006-04:00

My interactions with my father's family have been well documented here in the blog. I've heard them compared to a gross bug that makes you scream, "EW!", but instead of squashing it, you keep looking back to see what it's doing now. Here we have a new tale of paternal blundering, presented for your amusement.

A little background and catch-up before I launch into the story. Rosie will be Mama Rosie in October. Hooray! Perhaps that helps to explain my reticence in 2010. My parents have been divorced for somewhere in the range of 13 years. In that interim, my father remarried, and subsequently divorced his second wife after four years.

So here it is three years later. We invited Dad over in late March to let him know about the forthcoming grandbaby. In the course of conversation he mentioned that he had reconnected with an old college girlfriend on Facebook. I say, good for him, I'm glad to hear it.

Zoom forward another month, and I got an email from him this past Saturday. Because tone is important to the story, I feel quoting is appropriate:

Subject: Reservations Please.

Dear Rosie,

I would like an appointment to introduce you and Husband to someone special in my life during the weekend of 6/19 either Saturday or Sunday would be fine. You don’t need to plan anything special unless you wish but do allow a couple of hours.

Let me know.

Love,
Dad

After checking the calendar, I wrote back to say that we were clear that weekend, and that we'd be happy to meet her on Saturday the 19th. To remind him that I'm his daughter and not a client, I also asked "Why so formal?"

I received a response only hours later:

Hi Rosie,

The formality was supposed to be funny knowing how hard it is to get on your very busy calendar. I have to keep in mind how very sensitive you are and how sometimes my so-called sense of humor gets turned into something I did not intend.

In any case you assume that is want to introduce you to a “her”. Hmmmm….. I did not say that, but strangely you guessed correctly. Have you been corresponding with CousinM again? She met her last Sunday.

I started to fire off a response, but I knew I was furious and that there was nothing to be gained by a reply in such a state, so I deleted the draft reply and haven't responded yet.

"I have to keep in mind how very sensitive you are and how sometimes my so-called sense of humor gets turned into something I did not intend." I will admit I am a sensitive person and am easily stung, but this is classic blaming the victim. At what point was I supposed to infer that the opening email was a joke? A normal person would write, "Hi, what are you all doing on the 19th? I would like to see you two, but if that date's not convenient, let me know when you're free and we'll get together." That's all I was asking for. Not an apology or explanation, just a relaxed and familial tone. But that formality is how he writes all of his emails, like he's writing to a business correspondent. He's been using the Internet in various forms as long as I have - over 15 years now - so there is no excuse not to know that tone doesn't communicate readily through plain text. But it's clearly MY fault for misunderstanding and for convoluting his message. If I just wouldn't be so sensitive, everything would have been fine, but since I have this debilitating handicap, I must be treated with kid gloves. My fault.

"In any case you assume that [I]want to introduce you to a “her”." Well, yes. You told me you had reconnected with an old girlfriend over a month ago, so when you say you want me to meet a "special someone," please keep in mind that you are not subtle, and I am not stupid. I somehow doubt you would refer to a buddy as a "special someone." In these modern times, sure, it could have been a guy, except for that you already told me about "her." You couldn't have been so drunk that night that you don't remember telling me. Wait. I retract that statement.

"Have you been corresponding with CousinM again? She met her last Sunday." WTF. I withheld news about my pregnancy from anyone on his side of the family until I had told Dad because I thought it was only right that he hear first. I had wanted to tell CousinM, with whom I have a far better relationship, but I held back out of an apparently misplaced sense of propriety. The funny thing is, I was the last person to meet Wife 2.0 as well. I don't know why this is. Does he think I'm going to throw a tantrum at the thought of him marrying again, kicking and flailing and screaming, "She's not my mommy!" That's never going to happen. Aside from the fact that I'm not 6 years old, I'm happy to hear he's got a girlfriend. I'm happy he's happy. Mom's been with her boyfriend/fiance for 12 years. I supported the divorce, even back then. I do not and did not want them to get back together once it was done. So why the trepidation? And even though I know it's wrong to apply our principles to others' behavior, it frosts my last cookie that he's treating me like an afterthought again, like I'm the least important person to be introduced or told about this (since he obviously doesn't remember telling me in March).

Point of interest: He met/got engaged to/married Wife 2.0 when Sister was pregnant. Now he's getting serious about New GF, and I'm pregnant. Coincidence?

So I'm wondering. Is age 30 too late to put oneself up for adoption?

Census 2010

2010-03-17T19:48:00.005-04:00

We just completed the 2010 Census. I must say: What a waste, of everything, on every level.

First, the commercials. A waste of time, a waste of energy, a waste of airspace, and a waste of money. These visual disasters started on Super Bowl Sunday. No one had any clue what they were about. We all thought they were overblown. They appealed (and I use the term loosely) to a very, very small sliver of the population. Even those of us who appreciate that sort of wacky, spoofy, faux-dramatic style of humor thought they sucked, and certainly did not get the message across. If they felt it absolutely necessary to do this series of commercials, they could have done the same thing with no-name actors, but Ed Begley, Jr., Jennifer Coolidge, Don Lake... while they aren't A-list names, they are recognizable people and probably cost some actual cash.

Second, the pre-mail. A waste of paper, a waste of toner, and a waste of money. We got a letter in the mail with text on the front indicating that the contents were very important. VERY IMPORTANT! And that it was from the Census Bureau. So I opened it, thinking it was the census forms. But no, it was a simple, one-page letter informing me that we should expect the census in a week. Futurama fans out there will appreciate the similarities to Hermes Conrad's very own special episode in which he receives a letter from the Central Bureaucracy informing him that he should soon be receiving a letter from the Central Bureaucracy. But at least in the cartoon, the subsequent letter from the Central Bureaucracy came immediately after the alert letter. The 2010 Census did not in fact arrive in one week per the alerting pre-mail. It arrived at least two and a half weeks later.

Third, the Census itself. An utter joke. So much buildup and that was it? I remember the 2000 Census. I was sharing a townhouse with three other women at JMU, and we had a grand time deciding who was going to be considered Head of Household and filling out the sundry requested information like Occupation, Level of Education, Marital Status, etc. I guess that must have offended some people last time because the 2010 Census didn't seem to care for any information above our names, ages, birthdates, and race. That's it. It didn't want my maiden name or our full middle names (just middle initial). It didn't want our occupations. It didn't want our level of education. It didn't want ID numbers to differentiate Mr. Rosie from the other men out there with the same name. However, it did want both our ages as of April 1, 2010 AND our birthdates. You'd think that the computer program into which all this information will be entered could have calculated that out for them. Were they trying to test our math skills or honesty? And as for race, it first asked whether I'm of Hispanic descent, which I personally think diminishes those of us who aren't of Hispanic descent as of less interest. These sorts of things used to ask for race and gave the big categories, offering further specification for Hispanic or Asian. That pisses me off. Why is there only one all-encompassing checkbox for "White" and "Black," but "Asian" isn't sufficient for someone of, say, Thai descent? Why can you be not just "Hispanic" but Mexican or Dominican? If you're going to specify out like that, why not get specific with "White" and "Black"? Nothing whatsoever against my dear Rosie readers of Hispanic or Asian descent; I just question the dichotomy.

Anyway, my capital-i Issues with the Census checkboxes aside, I may be aging myself when I say that I remember when the census was about more than population density and finance appropriation. We used to use the census to trace genealogy, to determine demographics, to observe the movement of the population over time. What can you tell about me based on the 2010 Census other than I'm a 30 year old white chick with a blend-in name?

Olympics 2010

2010-02-18T15:41:00.000-04:00

Are you all as disappointed in the Olympics broadcasting as I am?

I remember back to years past when a sport I especially liked (or that just caught my interest) was on, and I would be watching it for hours. If figure skating was on, it was just figure skating (broken by commercials of course) until the competition at hand was over. One skater would go out and do their thing, they'd sit for their scores, the audience would clap politely, and the camera would then be on the next skater preparing to go out. Figure skating, pairs, ice dancing, speed skating, skiing, bobsled, luge, skeleton - you could watch the entire sport of your choice at once.

This time - or perhaps this is just the first time I'm noticing it and they've been doing it for a while now - it's all broken up and patched back together. To begin with, it's almost impossible to determine when your sport of choice is on. Remember the old TV Guide, where they would block several hours at a time and label it according to the sport being shown? Now, it's "Hockey, Curling" or "Speed Skating, Ice Dancing, Luge" all at once. I was excited to trip over pairs skating a few nights ago, and settled down to watch it. They showed one - ONE! - pair of skaters, then cut to commercial, then skipped over to luge for a round or two, then back to commercial, then skiing, then commercial... I have no idea if they ever did the second pair of skaters, let alone when I'll be able to see the other sports I care about. (Biathalon? No thanks; but I have to watch some of it if I want to catch Moguls.)

In this day of DVRs and on-demand viewing, it seems absolutely ridiculous to set it up this way. Curling's on at 2 a.m.? That's cool - you can set your Tivo and you won't miss a minute. Speaking of curling, I was watching last night. NBC would break for commercial or to talk to their commentators, then the camera would hop back to the competition and several more stones were on the ice. WTH? Since NBC is already playing Benihana chef with the coverage, you'd think they wouldn't clip the actual playing!

Whose fault is this? Is it NBC, trying to hold more viewers and sell more ad space? Is it the IOC, trying to get more people into more sports (and bowing to the commercial interests by setting more time between competitors)? Is this a response to America's growing ADD problem? Can't focus on one thing, let's hop back and forth between all of them. Or maybe it's a way to hold viewers and keep them from straying to other networks - I hear American Idol is on, so maybe if they tease you with 5 minutes of your favorite sport, they hope to keep you on the edge of your seat waiting for your sport to come back on rather than seeing what else is on.

Come to think of it, here's another complaint: they aren't even cutting into their normal daytime programming for this. In college (okay and a few years after), when I used to watch Days of Our Lives, I developed an intense hatred for the sport of tennis during that time because - for a solid week - they would preempt Days for some tennis tournament. However, for the last couple of days when I've been working from home, the cable guide has listed Days of Our Lives. They'll cut it for tennis, but they won't budge it for THE OLYMPICS?

All I know is that now I can't get a true respect for the skill of Shani Davis, or the grace of Tanith Belbin and Ben Agosto, or the speed or Lindsey Vonn, when I'm not seeing their performances back-to-back against the other competitors in their field. NBC, IOC, BOC, whoever's fault this is, please put it back the way it was. It wasn't broken. Don't fix it.

Like Taking Candy From a Baby

2009-12-28T15:01:00.006-04:00

Or, How to Estrange Your Granddaughter in One Easy Step

Christmas with the Family was uncharacteristically calm and (dare I say?) pleasant this year. The only points worth mentioning for your amusement were a minor dust-up over the scheduling of events on Christmas Eve, and that Dad ate a stinkbug (he thought it was a peanut). Are we maturing? Finding a rut? Getting along better? Who can tell. But far be it from Rosie to leave her loyal fans without a story, and therefore I offer for you this Tale Of Interest.

*********************************

My sister received her Bachelor’s degree on December 11, for which we are obviously quite proud of her, and my father flew out to Colorado to be present as Sister walked the stage and received her diploma. He arrived on Friday and he, Sister, Mom, and my five-year old Niece (henceforth known as “Isabelle” for the purposes of direct referral) went out to dinner at a nice restaurant near his hotel. Dinner went reasonably well, despite some awkwardness from his posturing and boasting, and his efforts to pressure Mom into driving 100+ miles out of her way to drop Sister off at his house for the holidays in order to spare him the “inconvenience” of driving up to BWI (where they were flying in) to collect Sister and Niece himself.

The next day, Sister was at the convention center early to prepare for the ceremony, leaving Dad, Mom, and Niece to occupy themselves in the meantime. While sitting in the stands and waiting for the graduation to get organized, Mom thought out loud, “I wonder if there’s enough time to get some flowers for Isabelle to give to Sister?” On cue, Dad took up the charge: “I’ll do it!” Niece joined him, and off they went into the hallways. Some time later, they returned triumphant: Dad bearing a lovely bouquet of red roses, and Niece proudly bearing her very own single red rose. “She cajoled me into buying it for her,” Dad explained. A very sweet gesture, I think you’ll agree.

The ceremony begins, and in due course, Sister walks the stage, performs the complicated hand-jive that graduation officials insist on to effect the simultaneous handshake/diploma-exchange, and rejoins the family at the ceremony’s end. Isabelle runs over to Sister, and Dad, chest puffed out, marches over with the flowers in hand. Isabelle reaches for the bouquet to give to her mommy, but Dad stops her.

“No, no, Isabelle. Since *I* bought the flowers, *I’m* going to give them to her.”

The End.

The Kitties and Doggies Need Your Help!

2009-12-14T15:41:00.011-04:00

Vote for Rolling Dog Ranch!!

Petfinder and The Animal Rescue Site are running a shelter giveaway challenge through December 20 in which participants vote once a day for the shelter of their choice; Petfinder/Rescue will then donate $20,000 to the shelter with the most votes.

Follow the link below to get to the voting site. To locate the organization, enter "Rolling Dog Ranch" in the Shelter Name field, and choose "MT" from the State list, then click Search. The shelter name should appear immediately beneath the Search box, along with a Vote button. Click the button - that's all it takes! No sign-up, no donation required, just a minute of your time.

Voting Site: http://www.theanimalrescuesite.com/clickToGive/shelterchallenge.faces?siteId=3

You can vote once a day from each computer in your access, each day through December 20. They're already in the lead, so join me in helping Rolling Dog Ranch to get this much-needed grant!

Rolling Dog Ranch is a non-profit sanctuary that takes in abused and/or disabled dogs, cats, and horses that would otherwise be put down in ordinary shelters, and gives them a chance at a better life. The new residents are blind, deaf, paralyzed, missing limbs, suffering from severe vertigo or spinal defects, but are rescued, given a safe home, and provided with medical treatment.

P.S. If you are able to give, all donations to Rolling Dog Ranch are tax-deductible!

Would You Like Some Hate With That Firewood?

2009-12-10T08:15:00.017-04:00

I've been meaning to put up this post for a couple of days now, but the holidays got in the way, as they tend to do this time of year. On Tuesday, Husband and I received a postcard-sized flyer tucked in our door jamb, advertising firewood and tree servicing. I was about to throw it away, as we have neither the space nor the use for firewood, and only two trees, neither of which needs removal, but something caught my eye and I paused to skim it.

What I share with you now is copied verbatim from the flyer, punctuation, capitalization, asides, ampersand abuse, and all. I will withhold the proprietor's name and street address, which he provided, because I am not in the business of inciting riot, or at least the egging of people's houses. I hope you enjoy this piece of fine literature as much as I did.

***************************************************

SEASONED FIREWOOD FOR SALE!

I SELL A STACK!

6 Feet wide x 3 Feet high & the average length is 16 inches long.

1 Stack cost $130 but, if you buy 2 stacks or more you take $10 off each stack

go for the deal of 5 stacksfor $560

for the super deal of 6 stacks for $630.

ALL PRICES INCLUDE DELIVERY & (STACKING-> within reason).

Other people have been selling & giving less wood than this for years for the same price. To be honest a stack measures out to 1/5 of a cord. You can get alot more wood if you buy a cord, but most of the time the wood is big & cut anywhere from 4 inch long chunks to pieces as long as 2 feet (mixed) then delivered & dumped & you have to stack it then clean up the mess & then pray it will burn. So it's your choice let me do the work for you or you can. I lose alot of business (Tree & Wood) by being honest, but I'm not gonna change & hope to work for you.

HERE ARE A FEW THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW

1) I'm Not being racist it's just that although the Spanish men (some Americans too) are willing to work cheap they AREN'T professionals. They help someone for a day or 2 and (SOMEHOW) get 10 to 20 years experience (that's what they tell you) anyway. So many have gotten hurt and some killed (I'm not making this up) following that pattern not to mention damaging your personal property. I'd also like to know how the Spanish and people from other countries can come to our country legal or illegal & can get credit, loans, new trucks,cars & equipment & houses or start a business when legal citizens almost have to get investigated by the FBI just to renew their drivers' licenses & are barely getting by?

2) Don't be taken by a fast smooth talking person with (big new trucks and equipment), they don't need. They're just showing off their (toys) to be envied by other tree people as well as creating (unnecessary) expenses that are passed on to you. (FANCY) doesn't mean professional.

3) Most say safety first then want to work up in a tree in high winds and rain. Then there are those that offer percentage discounts, then raise the estimate up so that when you deduct the percent-age the price comes down to what the original price would have been to start with (Unknown to the customer).

4) Doesn't it seem a little strange if someone tells you to get a couple of (written) estimates before they can give you their price? Is it because maybe they don't know how to price the work (amateurish)?, I think so. Also if someone gives you a ridiculously low price <--(I know that's what you want to hear) but, that should be a clue to something is not right.

5) I OFFER YOU 30 YEARS OF PROFESSIONAL, HARDWORKING EXPERIENCE ALL BACKED BY INTELLIGENCE! WORK INCLUDES TOPPING, TRIMMING, COMPLETE TREE REMOVAL, DEADWOODING, UPLIFTING, TRIMMING, THINNING AND STUMP REMOVAL.

***************************************************

Backdated Email

2009-11-18T10:35:00.004-04:00

I just love it when I'm checking my email inbox and, *SURPRISE!* A new email arrives yesterday.

I check my email just about every day, and anything I don't delete is either read or marked as read. I dutifully checked my email yesterday and marked everything appropriately. So how is it that, while my inbox is open on November 18 and in the midst of perusing my email, a brand new email appears received on November 17? Not showed up when I first opened the inbox, as in it was sent yesterday after I last checked, but showed up after my inbox had been open for a while on the 18th.

Magic.

R.I.P. Tree

2009-11-10T12:51:00.009-04:00

::NOTE:: The furry menace has been vanquished. The full containment traps garnered nothing, but the snap traps caught the culprit on the very first night. This was nearly a month ago, and there has been no mousey trouble since. So far, so good; and we have spare snap traps at the ready in case the situation changes again.

My parents separated 15 years ago this Christmas. The following year, my father bought a 3' tall tabletop tree for his apartment. He soon bought a townhome and furnished it for the holidays with a normal-sized tree, and bequeathed the 3' tree to me for use in my apartment and thenceforth.

In 2003, I moved in with Husband. The arrangement of our furniture in the living room pretty much prevented getting a real (or real-sized) tree, so we put my tabletop tree on top of the L-shaped entertainment center. It wasn't elegant, but it sufficed, and there was some rednecky charm to my stumpy fake tree balanced precariously on top of the DVD player.

Last year, even as I put it back up, I acknowledged that my little tree was not long for this world. The needles were falling out, one of the feet wouldn't slide properly into the base, and the branches were getting a bit wonky from the years of folding and unfolding.

This year, the sales were too good to ignore. I bit the bullet and bought a 6' pre-lighted tree. We'll have to rearrange the couches, but it'll only be for a month, which I think we can handle. Besides, with the advent of the new TV and thus the new entertainment center, there was no place to put Stump but on the floor, which I'm sure Pocket would love, but it would not bode well for our ornaments and such.

My tabletop tree gave 14 holidays of good service, but as all things must come to an end, so did the little tree go to the curb this morning.

Rest in peace, little tree. Deep in my heart, I'll probably miss you.

Mouse in My House

2009-10-06T15:39:00.008-04:00

Last Tuesday, I was quietly working from home under a metric ton of pressure, when I discovered we had an unwelcome new resident. In my peripheral vision, I saw a flash of black, and then it was gone. Another flash, and it was gone again. I leaned forward, staring at the edge of the stairs where the flash had come from. THERE IT WAS AGAIN - and it stopped in front of the riser... in the form of a rodent. There was a mouse in my house.

Our neighbors just discovered they had mice, so there was precedent; we're reasonably sure they're coming from the vacant house two down. And, having spent a fair part of my after-school hours working in food service, I can recognize a mouse when I see it. But since we saw neither hide nor hair of the vermin for the rest of the week, I was sincerely beginning to think I had hallucinated. I was wearing my glasses at the time, which leave peripheral vision almost entirely uncorrected, so it wasn't a far leap to think that maybe I'd only imagined it.

On Saturday morning, however, we found incontestible proof of its presence: mouse poop on the stack of cutting boards, which precipitated a frenzy of cutting board and counter washing and disinfecting. The boards are now stored vertically in the drip rack, thereby taking up most of the useable drip rack space, but at least I won't find those little presents on my food preparation materials again. We'll be going through the house this week to seal up all possible openings in the drywall, which is how we think they got in.

I remember several years ago when DC101 DJ Elliot talked about discovering his house had mice. He said his house felt dirty and that he was obsessed with getting rid of them. I remember thinking that he was a wuss, that it was just mice for goodness sake. But now, I know. Now my house feels dirty. Now I'm obsessed with getting rid of them. It's not just their nasty little mouse poops, but they could bring in fleas, and they multiply quickly, and I do not need an infestation nor can I afford the Orkin man.

When Pocket was very small, she singlehandedly rid our basement of the camel cricket menace, for which I am forever grateful. She has never since been so thorough, perhaps because she thinks she's done her part and that our job going forward is to lavish praise and attention upon her for it. So we have no hope of Pocket actually earning her keep by cleansing the house of the rodents as well. But she was behaving distinctly like a cat again last night, staring fixedly at the space under the stove and occasionally chancing a paw under it to see if she could draw out the strange new toy.

We set a couple of full containment mouse traps under the sink where they have clearly been, and next to the stove. Snap traps would most likely catch my toes, or Pocket's tongue if she went for the peanut butter, plus I'd have to make Husband deal with the corpse on the offchance the trap caught its intended target; and glue boards are inhumane as far as I'm concerned (see above re: food service). Full containment traps are ridiculously sensitive to vibration and are therefore a disaster to set (I think I've got the hang of it now), but they promise an instant kill, no body to handle, and no danger to people or pets. So far also, no luck.

Open Letter to My Colleague

2009-09-29T18:54:00.014-04:00

Dear Colleague:

Do not send me QC requests full of excuses as to your late submittal. I don't care when you were TRYING to get it to me. When you were TRYING to get it to me is completely immaterial to the fact that you DIDN'T get it to me until today. Your failed efforts do nothing to soften the point that you've given me exactly one business day to turn 79 pages of hot mess into something we might not be embarrassed to hand to the people who are indirectly paying our salaries.

I can only work so many miracles in a week. How about you build time into your schedule so that your drop-dead due date allows me a sufficient time to actually review the document? I would further recommend allowing enough time following my review for you to go through my changes to ensure that they were contextually appropriate and to ask any questions you may have, rather than clamping your eyes shut, crossing your fingers, and accepting all changes. Just a thought in the name of client service.

Furthermore, don't wave something off, saying it "shouldn't require substantial attention" because maybe it does! (In fact, it did. If I hadn't refreshed the table of contents and noticed the hell that rained down, you would have been completely hosed when you did it.) If you were in a position to determine whether a segment of a document required substantial QC attention, then I would not be employed here. Clearly, Company has determined that you are incapable of appropriately gauging the extent of the havoc you have wreaked upon this document, so maybe you should trust me to do my job.

Also, when drawing conclusions and making recommendations, I might suggest something with a little more punch than: "It is recommended that [client] focus on decreasing the loss of [personal data] and the number of significant incidents." Way to go out on a limb there, guys. With that kind of derring-do, you could conjecture that the police want the number of murders and thefts to go down this year.

Lastly, please be sure you get the client's name correct in the documents you are writing FOR them. They're a little tetchy about that.

Frustratedly yours,

Rosie

Vanity Plates

2009-09-28T09:10:00.006-04:00

I am unfailingly pleased to have been born and raised in the Great Commonwealth of Virginia, where we have endless sources of interest and amusement. There are the Shenandoah mountains to the west, the coastline and the Chesapeake to the east, the best wine country this side of the Mississippi (this side of the Atlantic as far as I'm concerned, but let's not ruffle too many feathers), and the greatest quantity of vanity plates in the entire nation. We may have rotten traffic, we may have questionable logic in our road system, but we will entertain you on your way as you try to make sense of our license plates.

I've been playing license plate games since my childhood on my family's frequent trips down I-95. There have been some clever ones (I once knew someone whose plate read "SDRWKCB;" another local, "SEDAGIV," never fails to make me and every other true Mel Brooks fan smile). There have been some groaners (former co-worker Troy and I agreed that initials were the worst because you spent all your time trying to decipher the garble only to realize that these people just took the term "vanity" plate to heart).

And then there are the stunners: the ones that leave you dumbstruck all the way to your destination because you have trouble making sense of a world in which someone would care so deeply about this message that they would shell out another $20 or so just to shout it to the general populace.

I recall my first stunner as one witnessed in 2001 during my drive home on Route 7: "ISCRAPBK." This person clearly felt that scrapbooking was an enormous part of their identity and that everyone must know it.

The second stunner outdid ISCRPBK in terms of pathetic identity bases, and was observed on I-95 just outside of Richmond on my way to visit my grandmother in 2005: "ISTENCL." Really? You needed me to know that? You needed me to know that you apply paint to walls or canvases in pre-determined layers and spacing based on someone else's artistic talent?

But today, ladies and germs, we have a new champion. Today, one plate stood out to me as I wormed my way through rush hour traffic. Today, this specimen wrested the title of Lamest Vanity Plate away from ISTENCL, which as I'm sure you'll all agree was quite a feat.

This morning, on I-66 East, just past the merge ramp from Route 28, was "SENSUAL." No interpretation necessary. Sensual. Wow.

Customer Service

2009-09-14T09:50:00.027-04:00

"We have a good client, who trusts us, who likes our work, who pays their bills on time. They don't deserve to be thrown out the door for a wink from American [Airlines]." -- Don Draper, Mad Men, Episode 202

About 8 years ago, Riggs Bank held a mandatory seminar on customer service. All employees in the DC metro area were required to attend a session. In that seminar, I learned that there are two categories of dissatisfied customers. There are the scary ones who will yell in your face and make a scene, but will let you know what they're upset about and what you should do to fix the problem, and will usually walk away from the encounter steamed, but more or less satisfied with the solution. And then there are the quiet ones who may not make a complaint at all. Companies fear these customers, because these are the ones who will simply take their business elsewhere and will tell everyone else in the world why they did so; thus the company loses business and suffers a negative reputation. Unfortunately for merchants the world over, I am of the latter type.

Husband and I have been Verizon Wireless customers for about 7 years. We have faithfully paid our bill in full, on time, every time. We have brought them business over the years in the form of family members and friends. Husband and I have one of the most expensive calling plans. We stayed with them when our very expensive calling plan failed to include a text quota on Husband's phone, meaning we're charged every time he sends or receives a text. We even stayed with them when our house developed dead patches and the idiot support guy (read that any way you choose) tried to tell me that it was because a mobile phone is meant to be mobile when it is used, and that my calls were dropping because a building isn't mobile. Don't ever pitch that excuse to a telecommunications major.

I have generally been pleased with their New Every Two system: I get a free phone, and their customers appear to be using the latest technology. You could even deposit your old phone in a little box in their stores, and Verizon would refurbish the phones and donate them to battered women's shelters. As time progressed and phones became more and more advanced, they changed the offer to a discount of a set amount off of any phone when you re-upped your contract. Because I'm a cheapskate and neither know how nor care to use most of the new tricks on modern phones, I continued to get my phone for free because any phone I chose was so basic that its price was less than my discount.

My most recent upgrade came up in December 2008. I went online to pick out my new phone, but there was exactly one new phone that was less than the discount; all others cost money above and beyond the discount or were - get this - "certified pre-owned." Why would Verizon try to sell me a used phone? And where were they getting these used phones? The shelter donation boxes, perhaps? Regardless, the sole free new/un-used phone, while ugly, had all the features I wanted (namely, speed dial, vibrate or silent setting, color graphics, and flip open/close), so I went ahead and got it. I activated my new phone in January.

No later than June, I noticed my phone was acting a little funny. Sometimes I would pick it up and it would be completely off, even though I could have sworn I charged it full only a day or two ago. Sometimes it would drop the signal and shut off, mid-call, from the middle of Fairfax County. And sometimes when I would plug it into the charger, it told me that I was using a non-supported battery. Odd... that's the battery that came with the phone, plugged into the charger that came with the phone.

The frequency of this annoyance reached a fever pitch in August over the course of Julie's wedding, when a reliable connection became crucial for coordinating with Husband, who was driving a separate car. Finding that it had shut off on me yet again for no reason, only my respect for the hotel's interior decorating and Julie's father's bill kept me from beating my phone against the table until it shattered into the same number of pieces as my sanity. I vowed to march into the nearest Verizon Wireless store, post-wedding, and insist - nay, demand! - that they replace my phone with a new one, and I wanted it to have all the bells and whistles possible, especially ones I wouldn't even use, just on principle, else I would remove my business from their clutches.

My righteous indignation, however, only goes so far, especially when tempered with my general laziness. I, in fact, did not go marching into the nearest Verizon Wireless store until Sept 9, and only then because it happened to be next door to the restaurant at which I met a friend for dinner. I only wish I had been prepared and worn sneakers that day instead of pumps.

The front kiosk of the spotlight-lit store was overrun with customers who appeared to need intense technological help, so I positioned myself around the cell phones. After a few minutes of looking helplessly about - usually a cattle call for salespeople - and finding myself yet alone, I went over and dithered with one of the fancy pants touchscreens that they scatter around the shop under the guise of helping you find the best item for you, but really only giving you something to play with while you stand around like a fool and convincing you that the proprieters of such an advanced store must know what they're doing. I was merely convinced that my obvious distress or the potential for a sale (and therefore commission) would attract a salesperson.

A few minutes later, having discovered that their touch screen materials are as useless as their website and that their staff remained as oblivious as ever, I located a salesman who was talking to a customer. I stood patiently to the side, waiting for him to finish helping her so that he'd be free to help me. He finished talking with her, and she walked off. He smiled at me, asked what he could help me with, and graciously guided me through the process of exchanging my demonically possessed phone for something shiny and new, and I went away pleased, my continued patronage of Verizon Wireless reinforced.

Oh wait. That's not what happened at all.

He finished talking with her, and she walked off. He glanced at me and the plaintive and tired expression on my face, and TURNED HIS BACK ON ME. Was he helping another customer who had been there longer than I and whom I had merely failed to notice before? Nope. He was just standing there, looking around, thinking of all the better things he had to do than to address a lost customer.

I suppose I could have tapped him on the shoulder and asked for his help, but I could not be sure exactly what would have come out of my mouth in the face of such rudeness. Instead, every fiber of my being tensed to bursting, I walked over to another kiosk under the FiOS area of the store where a young woman stood, nametag on display, and tightly asked, "Do you work here?" Perhaps a hint of red-hot fury glinted in my eyes, perhaps a note of barely repressed homicidal rage escaped my voice, but she took one look at me and - I swear - gulped. Good girl that she was, she put on a pretty smile, affirmed that she did, patiently listened to my complaint, and gently led me over to the front kiosk to get my name on the list.

Verizon Wireless stores are painstakingly designed by condescending twerps to be deliberately confusing so as to make their customers feel like blithering idiots. Ostensibly, the goal is so that you will be groomed to do idiotic things, like dropping $400 on a portable telephone that will be obsolete in two months. The existing, intuitive model of salesmanship and customer service, in which salespeople reach out to customers and customers feel free to ask any available salesperson for help, seems insufficient to Verizon's business plan. Rather, you are expected to know to walk up to the front kiosk and have them type your name into a service queue, resulting in a unique customer care hydra of the sign-in sheet at a doctor's office, the take-a-number dispenser of a delicatessan, and the round-the-block lines for toilet paper in Soviet Russia. If you don't know to do this, no one is obliged to tell you, not even to determine whether your name is on the various screens displaying the queue. Instead, they are entitled to ignore your pea-brained self because it's your own fault that you didn't know, Stupid. You are then expected to mill about the store until the salesperson finds you, whenever that may be. After that, God help you.

After about 15 minutes of attempting to feign interest in the various phones and finally resorting to pacing figure-8s near the laptop section (need I point out again that I'm in work clothes and heels, and chairs are scarce), SalesGuy finally manages to find me. I tell him I'm not going to yell at him because I know he has to deal with people yelling at him all day long and that has to suck, but this phone is a piece of crap (actual words) and I've only had it since January and I want to know what they're going to do about it. We go over to the Service desk and he dinks around with the phone for a while and finally has his eureka moment: "It's the battery!" Way to go, genius. Einstein proceeds to check their online inventory, tells me that they have a replacement battery, and disappears into the back. He reappears to check the online inventory again because he "swear[s] it was just there!" And back he goes. He returns toting a new incarnation of my old crappy phone. Apparently Inventory lied to him, and he's going to replace my phone. Oh happy day.

While Righteous Indignation Rosie would have told him just what he could do with the same-model replacement, Real Life Rosie is far more dormouse than Domina. However, when I did manage to get the nerve to say something about how I had no reason to believe this one wouldn't also crash and burn and that I'd prefer a different phone altogether, Einstein was happy to oblige. He told me that they could get me the 1-year replacement price on a different phone, whatever that means. For even the low-end-but-not-POS phones, that was about $80. So, I took my replacement POS phone, left the store, and am now shopping new carriers.

That quote at the top sums up everything that is wrong with customer service these days. Companies will go into contortions to attract new customers, offering them the world if only they'll favor Company with their business. But once they've got you, you might as well be last season's pashmina cast into a corner of the closet because it's too much of a hassle to go to the dry cleaners. While gifts and benefits rain down to get new business, nothing but the minimum is done to retain old business. And that is just not right.

If you need me, I'll be comparing plans from AT&T and T-Mobile. Maybe if Husband and I change over to one of them, Verizon will fall over itself to win us back.

New TV!

2009-09-10T10:42:00.005-04:00

Our new TV was delivered this morning! Fifty inches of LG plasma-screen bliss!

Husband has been hunting for one for more than a year now, and he finally found a quality one with a price tag under our budgeted limit of $1000.

But of course, a new TV is never just a new TV: our new entertainment console to support said TV and hold all the associated boxes will be delivered next week. Until then, the TV is propped on Husband's ugly old coffee table, which I will not be sorry to see go to the curb when its replacement arrives. (Love you honey!)

We are all set for when hockey preseason starts on the 21st!

Birthday Bash 2009

2009-08-23T13:27:00.041-04:00

Ask any random married couple whose side of the family brings The Crazy, and chances are good that each will point to the other. Ask me and Husband, however, and it’s unanimous: I win.

Dad has been throwing an August Birthday Bash every year since 2003ish to commemorate our four August birthdays: mine, Grandad's, Dad's, and Husband's. It's a way to acknowledge everyone's birthday at once without the hassle of having to see each other more than we must.

Birthday Bash 2007 set the bar pretty high for what counts as classic Family Crazy, but I must say that 2009 put in a good showing. No glassware was shattered, no tables were crushed, but sticks were thrown and names were called. This year, the Bash was set for Sunday the 16th, and the whole family turned out. Sister and Niece flew in on the 12th, AuntZ and CousinZ drove up on the 14th, and Dad, Grandad, UncleR, AuntG, and CousinM were already there.

PROLOGUE

The Seattles are no longer in Seattle. (If you have no idea who I'm talking about, read this post for a recap of Who's Who in the Fam.) In March or April, I was informed that UncleR and AuntG, after 16 years of West Coast residence, had decided to retire, move back east with CousinM as soon as they could sell their house, and set up housekeeping with Dad here in Virginia. UncleR would take care of the exterior property and general handyman things, AuntG would take care of the cooking and cleaning, and CousinM would go to the local community college. AuntZ and I made a bet as to how long the arrangement would last: she said a year; I said 3 months. Feeling generous, I revised my assessment and gave them till Christmas. Considering the current real estate market, particularly in the Seattle area, I figured it would take a while for them to dump the house; but, much to my surprise, on July 8, the Seattles arrived at Dad's house and settled in.

STICKS AND STONES

Sister and I made plans to go out to dinner on the 14th with Husband and Niece. The family can be a bit… overwhelming… and we wanted some time for just us to talk. As soon as Husband and I arrived at Dad’s to pick her up, the family descended and we were engulfed in hellos and age jokes. It seems it will just be me, Husband, and Sister for dinner; Niece is staying at the house because she “wants to play with [her] cousins” and with her new pet, an inchworm named Rachel. Sister tells me that the whole Fam went hiking earlier in the day at Great Falls, so Niece is probably a little tired too.

We went around the deck to say hi/bye to Grandad, who was sitting at the umbrella table over the back yard. With our usual fabulous timing, we'd managed to arrive just as they were sitting down to dinner, which means that they all had to wait until we left to begin eating. However, as often happens when you haven’t seen family in a while, we got roped into conversation with Dad, thereby further delaying everyone's meal.

That’s when it happened.

The food was out and ready to go, and Dad and I would be chatting for another minute or two. Cousins M and Z and Niece were sitting at the kids' table, and Aunts G and Z were bringing dishes out of the kitchen. Seeing that his father was hungry and not wanting to let the hot food get ice cold, UncleR started dishing up one of the sides onto Grandad’s plate.

A word here about Family protocol. In Dad’s family, formal meals have ever had an air of patriarchal ceremony to them. At dinner, all dishes are placed around Father, who magnanimously carves and serves the food his little wife has prepared to those for whom he provides. The symbolism cannot be lost on you. Service begins with Mother, then proceeds in gender and age order (ladies first, in ascending maturity), and you can’t eat until everyone is served. At their hands, I endured countless meals involving cold gravy and mushy sides. It's a condescending, inefficient, and silly practice that I take every opportunity of helping into the great beyond, but some people insist on bringing out the paddles to resuscitate it.

In his peripheral vision, Dad saw that UncleR was serving food to Grandad and, in what I’m sure he thought was a jocular fashion but came across as authoritarian, shouted, “Now wait a minute, Bro, you have to serve the girls first!”

(The word “Bro” would never actually pass the lips of anyone in The Fam, except in a sense of irony. But since I don't use the actual names of those related to me [that whole protect the innocent/protect me from the guilty thing again!], "Bro" will have to suffice.)

Well it seems he’d had just about enough from Dad because UncleR lost his proverbial shit. He threw down the spoon, grabbed a leftover hiking stick, uttered a primal roar, and winged the stick off the deck towards the woods before turning on Dad again. “It’s always what you want, isn’t it Bro? It’s McDonald’s every day with you: Have it your way! You are one arrogant, imperious son-of-a-gun!” (Apparently my uncle is Ned Flanders.) As everyone sat dumbstruck in disbelief, he flung his glasses into the chair and marched away from the table. Sister, Husband, and I took this as our cue to exit, but not before watching Dad shadow UncleR into the house, parroting after him, “Shake my hand! Come on, shake my hand Bro!” I decided it would be imprudent to point out that it’s actually Burger King where you can supposedly have it your way, and away we slunk.

ANCIENT HISTORY

We were instructed to arrive on the 16th at 11 a.m., bearing egg-free cake. The house was its usual chaotic self, due to the infusion of three new residents and two new dogs, the five new houseguests notwithstanding. Apparently everything had calmed down and blown over between the brothers on Friday night, because Dad and UncleR were right as rain on Sunday morning.

We put the cake in the fridge, then sat down and went through my library of photo albums and photobooks with the Cousins. Ever since the ill-fated Bash '07, I haven’t invited any of The Fam back to my house, so Cousins M and Z had never really seen any of my pictures. I got to show CousinM pictures of me holding her as a baby, and CousinZ pictures of her parents' wedding, which was fun.

UncleR volunteered to take us on a tour of the property improvements he had made in the one month that they had been living there: expanding the basement bathroom, building a walk-in closet for the basement guest room, cleaning up the landscaping, and building a woodshop in the outbuilding so he could work on his mandolins. Husband and I were mightily impressed, though I must admit disappointment that the rainbow-colored stenciled cat border on upper floor of the outbuilding will have to go away (fare thee well, Fran!) We did, however, score another leftover: a free iron silhouette of a cat chasing a mouse. Just what we always wanted.

Sometime in the early afternoon, UncleR remembered that he had found a crate full of old genealogical materials, some dating back 150 years. That was an interesting point and aroused some conversation, and the suggestion was made that we should go through the box sometime and scan things into the computer for posterity and future genealogical purposes.

All of a sudden, UncleR and AuntZ get it in their heads that we should do it NOW, since Grandad’s here and he’ll be able to put some of the material in perspective. Without another word, UncleR dashes downstairs to get the box, and before we know it, the family Bible and dozens of newspaper clippings and old photographs are scattered across the dining table. AuntG was instructed to get her scrapbooking kit with her special pens and pencils so that we could mark the backs of the photos, and a very confused Grandad is being led to a seat in the middle of the table to tell us stories about the things we find in the box.

Now, UncleR lived in Virginia as long as I could remember until I was… I guess 13 or 14, and I adored him then. He was boisterous, and zany, and goofy, and probably inspired a fair amount of my affection for the wacky and weird in life. However, with the exception of a road trip to the family hometown in Wisconsin when I was 8, I’d never spent any real extended time with him. Something I’d never realized about UncleR: his relentless enthusiasm. It's borderline manic. Any idea that gets in his head is a GREAT idea, it must be done RIGHT NOW, and EVERYONE must join him, and they will LOVE IT!

Unfortunately, Dad didn’t really want to do this right now, and even if he did, there was no room at the table. UncleR and AuntZ took this as a personal challenge and explained to him that no, it was a great idea to go through these artifacts and learn about all this, and this was the perfect time. Dad held his ground, so it of course became a squabblefest between the three siblings, and then UncleR went juvenile on us and actually pouted for a little while and tried to put away his toys because “this is Bro’s house and he doesn’t want to do this.” It seems that passive-aggressive guilt-tripping is a family trait. Dad ended it by telling UncleR and AuntZ that they were welcome to do this if they pleased, got a beer, and went outside on the porch. It was quite a scene.

Another characteristic I had never noticed before: AuntZ is an instigator. You’ve read about the annual sparring between her and Dad in previous Family posts; without having the larger dynamic to compare, I thought it was just ordinary arguing. But I watched her egg UncleR on against Dad in every parry and thrust. I know Dad can be an ogre, but the encouragement she gave UncleR on that score was wholly unnecessary, and it kind of soured me on her.

And the truth is, I side with Dad on this. Even if Dad had been gung-ho about the family history lesson, I would have tried to find a way to get out of it for myself. I’m not at all against looking through old pictures and articles and such – it was just the spontaneity and fervor of it: I’m very much an introvert and I require quiet and order around me as much as possible; I don’t respond well to that kind of chaos. So Husband and I made an escape to the front porch as well. If UncleR had set up a date a few weeks out on which we were going to go through the photos and articles, asked Grandad to narrate, and set up a voice recorder to make sure we got everything, that would have been a whole other issue. I would have been willing to do that. But instead, it had to be done rightthisminute!

Furthermore, Grandad, whose hearing aids never work even when he does remember to use them and who (at age 88) requires a little more preamble to understand the activity of any given moment, appeared to have no idea what was going on and what was being asked of him, so he kind of sat there, cloudily letting people whirl about him.

SANDWICHES

When your family invites you to come over at 11 a.m., what meal do you expect to eat? Lunch? Yeah, me too. Husband and I imagined we’d arrive at 11, have a drink, do lunch and cake and presents, chat for a while, be out around 5 and home by 6, so we made a point of not eating breakfast since we had eaten a metric ton on my actual birthday the day before and wanted to be ready to eat again at Dad’s.

We were told to expect burgers and hot dogs, and Dad wasn’t there when we first arrived, having gone to the store to get charcoal for the grill. Furthermore, Aunt G was cutting up veggies and grapes for what she said would be a chicken salad later. Dad returned shortly thereafter and went around to the back deck where the grill was, so we figured he’d be setting up the coals and that lunch would be coming along shortly.

But at noon, there was nothing.

And at 1, there was nothing.

At 2, when the Ancient History fight was going down and the table was being covered with photos and papers, there was nothing. Husband and I realized that lunch wasn’t just going to be late, but very late.

At about 2:30, Dad got up from the porch, saying he was going to make himself a sandwich. Stolid in our belief that it was just going to be a late lunch (okay, and not wanting to go back into the hornet’s nest), Husband and I stayed where we were, trying to trick our stomachs into believing that Red Stripe and Diet Coke were fine replacements for actual food.

Right now you all are thinking, “Well you big dummies, why didn’t you go fish up something from the fridge yourselves?” To which I say back that once you move out of your parents’ house, I don’t feel it’s right to consider their refrigerator or cabinets public domain. Plus, think about Thanksgiving and Christmas: when you skip lunch at a family gathering, it usually means that a feast will be taking place in the late afternoon to substitute for both lunch and dinner at once.

It wasn’t until 4 that The Fam decided they were hungry, and AuntG heated up some queso dip while UncleR brought out the cold cuts. Since lunch was not coming and the coals were not even lit for dinner yet, Husband and I gave up and fell upon the snacks like locusts in the Dust Bowl.

FAMILY PORTRAIT

Since the entire family was together, UncleR decided that we must have a family portrait done. And, much like the Ancient History thing, it had to be done RIGHT NOW! No planning, no warning, no foresight. NOW. So I have him to thank for the fact that I was wearing an unflattering tank top and had not brought my makeup and hairbrush for touch-ups.

At this point, we’ve been surrounded by my very loud and energetic family for five and a half hours. It’s wearing on me. But I assigned the day to The Fam, so we’ll go with their flow.

Of course it can’t be as easy as snap-snap-snap and done. No, no, there must be tripods and timers and posing and eleventy-five arrangements of subjects. Now the light’s not right and now the background is wrong. On top of that, there’s corralling a squirrelly 5-year old and convincing an octogenarian to do just one more picture. And of course everyone has to see the digital playback, and no one likes how they looked, so we have to do another one, and another one. I think this experience went down in Husband’s books on par with our wedding day, when he grew so sick of smiling that he was threatening to do all manner of things if someone pointed another camera at him.

STUPID HUMAN TRICKS

It’s about 6 now. The photos have been satisfactorily taken and martinis have been concocted and served, and I’m finally having a glass of wine. At long (LONG!!!) last, Dad has gone outside to start up the grill. AuntZ, Sister, Niece, Husband, the Cousins, and I are sitting in the loft, having just concluded a viewing of Niece’s dance recital DVDs. I don’t even know how the topic came up but we started talking about strange things people do, like whistling noses and talking in our sleep. Then AuntZ got it in her head that we should put on a Stupid Human Tricks talent show after dinner as evening entertainment. Sister would show off her shoulder blade wings, AuntZ would exhibit Whistle Nose, Dad would present his double-jointed thumbs… Husband and I looked at each other in panic. I tried to play it off that she was joking, but she was serious enough about it that she ran downstairs to tell the rest of The Fam and to get them to think of a weird talent to show off. Husband and I went through the rest of the evening in a state of frozen fear, hoping that it would blow over, and cringing every time she brought it back up.

PEPPER BURGERS

I spend a lot of time here poking fun at other people and the foibles of my family. Now, I’ve got to get as well as I give. This last Vignette of Fools from the day is my own fault.

CousinM was taking stock of dinner requests on Dad’s behalf to get a tally of how many hot dogs vs hamburgers to grill up. AuntG had been talking up Dad’s hamburgers that day, explaining how he grinds up several different kinds of peppers and puts them in the burgers, and they’re so fantastically good. Well with that kind of sell, of course I’ll have one! I love spicy things, and we grow peppers in our backyard – jalapeno, habanero, Thai, Tabasco, cayenne… I can’t wait to find out what this amazing pepper burger tastes like, and I haven’t had a burger in a good long while.

It’s almost 8 and food is finally on the table. My pepper burger is appropriately dressed with mustard, ketchup, and pickles. I take a nice big bite…

Oh.

It’s the other kind of pepper. It’s peppercorns. I hate peppercorns.

DENOUEMENT

In the end, we didn't get out of there until 9 p.m. That's 10 hours. Because I grew up with my family and am therefore used to their antics, whereas Husband grew up in a much more calm and peaceful environment, I have a standing deal with him that he is permitted to drink as much as he likes while at these kinds of gatherings and I will drive us home. The Fam is generally a much more entertaining experience when you're a few sheets to the wind. But because I was driving and have a reasonably low tolerance for alcohol, I did not partake of the wine past the glass and a half I had around dinner, so I did all 10 hours SOBER.

On the bright side, we did manage to avoid the Stupid Human Tricks talent show, though I cannot say what Sister and the rest of them were subjected to after Husband and I made our escape.

Passphrases

2009-08-19T09:38:00.006-04:00

Company has instituted a new security methodology. Effective as of the end of the month, we are no longer permitted to use passwords, but are instead required to create and use passPHRASES. Get used to the term: it's going to become ubiquitous in a fast way. The government has latched onto the idea as the latest rage in computer security.

The last time we had an evolution in passterminology was "strong" passwords - passwords which had to include at least one each of the following: capital letter, lowercase letter, number, and symbol (aka "special" characters, which always makes me giggle in a juvenile fashion.) While this was originally a burden, some of us developed a method for random strong password creation.

When I joined Company, there were so many systems, I was at a loss as to I was going to remember to change my password on all of them when it came time to change it on one (otherwise you're stuck remembering which ones use the new and which use the old). But Company has an internal website called Password Manager that allows you to change your password across all pertinent systems at once. Hooray, Company, for making your employee's lives easier!

But now we must develop passphrases. Passphrases must be between 15 and 30 characters long, to include spaces and symbols, such as "You have got to be joking!"

To own it, Company is probably only doing it as a brag point to the government. But policy is policy, so let's go online and invent our passphrase.

And now we come to the punchline. Computers that use Novell as a gateway are not permitted to use spaces or any special characters that were not already approved as part of the Strong Password movement. And, to my knowledge, we ALL use Novell. So basically, we're just supposed to create an exorbitantly long password.

But wait, there's more. This passphrase is only for systems that use our email password, which does not include our encryption system or our time entry system, possibly among others. So now we're up to three passterms to remember (because don't you dare write them down!), since our encryption system uses one set of criteria, our time entry system uses another, and neither of them accept passphrases. And let's add insult to injury: Password Manager now only let's you change your passphrase across the email-password-based systems - it won't let you change your password for the systems that won't accept more than 8 characters, so we'll have to do that manually.

Wow, that was quite a value-add. I'm so glad Company went to all that trouble to institute this policy since it will make such a difference. Really, the only difference I can note is that it is easier to mistype my fancy new password.

It's Baaaaack!

2009-08-13T11:58:00.005-04:00

I picked these up on August 11.

You know what this means, don't you?

At least I can stockpile them now while they're fresh.

Usually I get them when only the stale ones are on the shelves.

You know. In October.

Bon Voyage, Julia & Justin!

2009-08-09T14:41:00.012-04:00

It was with great joy that I watched my friends Julia and Justin set sail into wedded bliss yesterday afternoon!

I have known Julie for more than a decade, since we struggled our ways through the minefield of college. I was so proud to be chosen as her Maid of Honor and to stand by her as she promised her life to this man who loves her for everything she is.

Julie and Justin were married on the Royal Caribbean cruise ship The Grandeur of the Sea, at the Baltimore harbor. Due to cruise and Customs limitations that allowed only an hour and a half of reception time on the wedding day, Julie instituted the first "upside-down" wedding I've ever been to by holding the reception the night before. Her good friend Ted Garber performed live for us, and I danced in my gold stilettos until I could dance no more!

At 1 p.m. on August 8, the music played, the bride appeared, and the groom teared up at the vision of the woman who would be his wife. At 4 p.m., they sailed away on their honeymoon.

My very best wishes go out to them both! Justin, your bride is among the truest and most romantic souls that ever was. Know the gift that you have been given, and take good care of her.

Scaredy Cat

2009-08-03T09:09:00.005-04:00

Last night, my fierce huntress cat was scared out of her admittedly tiny wits by a fearsome beast of epic proportions. The monster came at her from nowhere like a bat out of hell, then dove at her with no mercy, making strange whapping sounds the whole time! She ducked from its ferocious attack, then dashed to safety behind the loveseat and stayed until it thundered downstairs to seek easier prey.

What was this Grendel, you ask? A little white moth that flew in when Husband pitched a bottle into the recycle bin out back.

Yes, my 7 lb cat was terrified by a 0.7 oz moth. Pride, thy name is Pocket.

This Is Why People Hate Weddings

2009-07-23T10:29:00.062-04:00

I wasn't completely honest in my previous post, but it was a sin of omission rather than a boldfaced lie. In addition to stitching till my hands and forearms cramped, reading an alternately dull and foppish book, and working my poor little fingers to the bone, I attended a circus - I mean, a wedding - on July 11 in my grandmother's hometown of Richmond, Virginia. The omission of wedding coverage was out of concern for the feelings of a friend of mine who happened to be a Maid of Honor at the event, is miraculously still friends with the bride, and reads this blog. However, this afternoon, she mentioned that she was anxiously awaiting Rosie's review. I reminded her that I am not always diplomatic or sparing; she acknowledged this and grinned at me. So, now that I have her approval, I present for you a thorough review of what may have been the most ostentatious and pompous wedding I have seen to date.

Let's begin with some background, shall we? In my adulthood and as of the time of this writing, I have attended no less than 15 weddings; I have donned a bridal gown for 1 and a bridesmaid's dress for 3, and have experienced the behind-the-scenes drama of 2 more either as a Reader or as Wife-of-Best-Man (once both). To say I know my way around an altar and a reception venue is putting it mildly. I have seen a bride hurl a phone against a wall in frustration with an almost-in-law, I have heard the Thong Song played at a reception (and danced to it!), I have participated in a post-wedding roast of the bride and groom (if you must do this at your wedding, do it while your guests are sober!), I have seen a candelabra-topped bellydancer perform during dinner, I have seen guests in black fringed leather motorcycle chaps, I have heard the THWACK! of a golfer teeing off in the middle of a country club ceremony, and I have witnessed too many drunken wedding toasts to count. Someday, I'll invite you to pick up a copy of my best-selling tell-all, All My Dresses.

The pomposity started early. I met the bride, let's call her "Adina*," in college while she was rooming with my good friend, "Ruth." Ruth and Adina have been best friends for the almost ten years I've known them, so it was natural and expected when Adina became engaged that she would name Ruth as her Maid of Honor. And she did... as one of two Maids of Honor. The other was "Carmine," Adina's post-college roommate and "best friend." Don't ask me how many best friends Adina has; my guess is that she'd turn to just about any friend and call them her "best" if the need arose. One of those ends-justify-the-means sort of things. I stopped calling people my "best" friend years and years ago when it occurred to me that prioritizing friendships felt wrong, and I developed blunt disdain for the phrase when "BFF" came into popularity and completely cheapened the sentiment. But I digress. Ruth and Carmine were actually among a retinue of ten - count 'em, TEN - bridesmaids, consisting of cousins and, I guess, lesser friends. (At my wedding, I had five bridesmaids total and considered that to be pushing the limits of good taste.) Matching these ten bridesmaids would be - of course - ten groomsmen. Yes, with the bride and groom, that's 22 adults in the wedding party alone.

I'll gloss over the year-and-a-half of planning that went into this event but I will mention just a few sideshows before we get to the center ring, including that Adina had two bachelorette parties, and a catered bridal shower that cost more than $800.

We received the Save the Date about a year in advance. A word on Save the Dates. This is a custom that originated some while ago to allow out of town guests to make any necessary travel arrangements in advance in order to get the best deals. In recent years, it has morphed into a way to have people essentially bookmark your wedding date on their calendar, so it's an invitation-before-the-invitation, not to mention it bears the unfortunate acronym in wedding circles of STD. What I don't understand is, if you're essentially telling people they'll be invited, why not just send your invitations a little farther in advance, because otherwise you run into the situation that Adina did, in which she sent a Save the Date to one person with whom she had a falling out later on, and thus did not send an actual invitation to said person, which is, frankly, rude. What if Person had made travel and hotel arrangements in order to go to the wedding? And while Person had no right to make the obnoxious comments she did at Ruth's shower, I must acknowledge her forbearance in not causing an ugly scene since Adina essentially made it plain that they were no longer friends. Future Brides of America, I beg you, save some cash and skip the Save the Date card except for out-of-town guests and/or unless your wedding falls on a day or weekend on which many people traditionally travel (e.g., federal or religious holiday), which might incite higher travel/hotel rates and occupancies if they did not book in advance. Otherwise, if you're that concerned that people might book a conflict on that date, send out your formal invitations an extra month early. And if So-and-so can't make your wedding, so what? Will you be any less married by the end of it? Remember, it is not YOUR date, but A date on which you happen to be getting married.

I will also mention that the invitation we received was no mere thick envelope, but an 11" x 6" box with a laser-printed address label stuck on the front. Inside the box... was another box, edged with gold embossed seals. Tucked inside the top half of that box was a gold lettered response envelope with gold lettered response card, and a gold lettered reception details card (namely, adults only and cocktail attire, even though I was later told that it was supposed to be an inch below black-tie). Inside the bottom half of that box was - would you believe? - a gilded and gold lettered SCROLL announcing the impending event, with a peacock feather tied into the gold tasseled cording square knot. They should have gone the extra yard and modeled the thing after those irritating musical greeting cards so they could have had a trumpet fanfare play as the box was opened. We were given the choice of Chicken Norfolk or Maple-Glazed Salmon as an entree for what would apparently be a plated meal. Ever heard of Chicken Norfolk? Me neither, but considering that Husband is allergic to seafood, we opted for the chicken as a safer bet.

Fast forward to July 11. We drove down to Richmond in truly awful traffic (there is no good time to drive 95, especially in the summer) and had a late lunch with Grandma, which was nice, went back to her house to change into wedding-appropriate clothes, and put our faith in Google Maps to get us to the church on time.

When we arrived, 15 minutes early, Adina and Daddy were in the classic car limo in front of the church, waiting for the ceremony to begin. I waved at her... and she scolded me to get inside because the ceremony was going to start any minute. I suppose a watch is not an appropriate accessory for a bridal ensemble, so we shrugged and went up the steps.

Once inside the doors, we had to fight to get to the pews through a sea of turquoise bridesmaids, lime green aunts, tuxedoed groomsmen, and other assorted family members. We took seats in an empty center pew towards the back of the sanctuary and took stock of the set up. It was a pretty scene at least, with the flowers and ivy and white chiffon draped over everything that would stand still. I deduct points for use of pew bows on awkward metal hangers on either end of every bench. The church was set up with three rows of pews with four aisles running between and around them. I saw some people in the pew in front of us skimming a program and wondered where we were supposed to have gotten those. Scanning the room (in lieu of a program) I notice umpteen photographers and videographers standing sentinel: there's two in the balcony, there's one of each to the left of the altar, a photographer to the right, there's one in the back... There's the groom and his two Best Men standing at the altar with the minister. There's Mama "Patsy*" in the back of the room spitting orders at people. Soft music is playing, but I can still clearly hear the minister, who was mic'd, making chitchat with the groom; I wonder that no one thought to turn the microphone off until the ceremony was due to start. The Best Men lit the candelabras, and, promptly at 5:00, the ceremony began.

The MC took the standing microphone and read a prepared speech about how crucial and instrumental the aunts of the happy couple had been in their upbringing. On cue, here came the parade of aunts, three down each interior aisle, clad in matching lime green dresses and each carrying an LED votive in a candleholder, spaced perfectly according to Patsy's very audible mandates. A friend of the bride (who must not have rated Bridesmaid level) was singing some song I had never heard of, but was entirely too long for the 50 ft aisles, so what they did to kill time was to meander down their respective aisles, cradling the LED candle as though it were a real flame, then walk around the front of the outer pews and up the exterior aisles on their side of the sanctuary, placing a candle in the recessed area in front of each stained glass window, then loop around to the back of the church where they began, and ambling down their assigned aisles again to take their seats in the front of the church. All that was missing was a glowing halo over each aunt's sainted head to complete the staging. No mention was made of any uncles, and I felt a little sorry for them.

After that, I believe it was Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring that the parents and grandparents walked to. The mother of the groom wore a chartreuse tea-length job, and the mother of the bride wore what appeared to me as a dingy ivory tiered floor-length thing with matching jacket, but I sincerely hope it looked better in better lighting. Everyone was dignified...except the groom's stepfather who must want his own talk show in a bad way because he strutted down the aisle, doing the gunpoint-fingers at the guests, slapping hands, waving, and stopping to give shout-outs as he went.

Then we had a musical interlude, or maybe it was the first go-round of Canon in D (it was replayed enough times to get the entire bridal party to the altar). Here came the ring bearer, then the flower girl, then the bell ringer (you read that right) who had to walk up and down every aisle in the place, ringing that bell like his life depended on it. After hearing Patsy's treatment of some of the participants, it may well have.

Now here come the eight groomsmen. The first two walk, in synch, all the way down the interior aisles, then stop at the edge of the center pew, with the arm next to the pew bent at the elbow and pinned at the small of their back, and the free arm bent and stuck out at the elbow and pinned against their stomach. The next two walk 75% of the way down and stop at the edge of either outer pew, making the same pose. The next two go 50% of the way down and pose at the edges of the center pew, and the last two go 25% of the way down and pose at the edge of either outer pew, creating a sort of zig-zag thing.

Now here comes the first bridesmaid who winds alone down one aisle, back and forth around the zigzag groomsmen until she reaches the first groomsman and takes his stuck-out arm. He then escorts her to the front of the room where she releases his arm, they face each other, and - no joke - he bows to her and she curtsies to him like they only just met, like they're about to begin a dance. How very twee. Then she takes his arm again and they walk another three steps to the altar, where they again let go and go to their mark on the floor. This repeats with each bridesmaid until all 8 bridesmaids and all 8 groomsmen are clustered - yes clustered, not lined up - in their respective corners. Now here come the maids of honor. Ruth goes first, walks at the expected measured pace to the front and center of the church below the altar, curtsies to the parents (still not kidding), and takes her mark at the top of the altar; then Carmine.

Now the doors close and there's another musical interlude, I think with singing. Hard to remember - it all kind of blended.

Now the bridal processional. And here comes Daddy escorting Princess Adina in her crystal-studded tiara and enormous ivory ballgown with the extended cathedral length train, and the veil that extended yet farther than the train. A note here about bridal parlance. "Cathedral length" is considered the longest standard length for a bridal gown. But that wasn't long enough for Patsy and Adina, and they specially ordered an extended cathedral train. She did look lovely, but I took a picture when Adina passed our pew, and then another when she was about three or four pews down and her train/veil had only just reached our pew. Hee.

Adina reached the altar (no curtsy to Patsy I noticed), her father raised the blusher (that's the part of the veil that some brides wear over their faces until the hand-off to the groom), she took the Groom's hand, and marched up the steps. Then there was a pause in the ceremony while the bridesmaids arranged Adina's train and Carmine did battle with the veil to get the entire business behind Adina's shoulders.

The ceremony was unremarkable except for the mutliple musical/singing interludes, the ever-intruding veil and ever-bunching dress (every time she moved, the train had to be re-fluffed and laid back down), and the fact that the minister could not pronounce the Groom's name right, no matter how many times he tried. In his defense, "Chanteyukan**" doesn't exactly roll off the tongue (nor off the fingers, ergo he shall henceforth be known as Chan), but you'd think he'd have practiced something he knew he was going to have trouble with. I did notice that, while the minister was mic'd, Adina and Chan were not, so while you could hear the minister's chitchat loud and clear, you could barely hear the couple's vows. I wonder how that will turn out on the video.

There was a lighting of the unity candle but the trigger-lighter that Chan's mother was using to light her parent candle was not working. After multiple attempts, Chan's father took it and managed to get the lighter going, and handed it back to Chan's mother (apparently only the mothers were allowed to light the candles; remember what I said about the uncles? Yeah, I felt bad for the fathers too). Of course, as soon as she took it, the flame went back out. He fixed it again, handed it back again, and, much to everyone's amusement, it went out again. So she tried Patsy's lighter; same deal. It turned out that she couldn't figure out to hold down the safety while also clenching the trigger. Finally they got the parent candle lit, and Adina and Chan were able to take their respective parent candles to light the unity candle. I must confess I was watching to see whether Adina's enormous veil would catch fire.

They concluded with a Jumping of the Broom, which is a traditional part of African American weddings. It's not a difficult concept to communicate (if you're unfamiliar, Google it), but the minister must have disagreed because he went on and on about the history and the various possible origins (any one would have sufficed!) and what it means and on and on. The Bride and Groom went down the steps and the broom was set out, and I was on all but my tippy toes to see if the enormous dress would cause the bride to collapse when trying to jump (I know, I'm evil), but no dice.

Yay, they're finally married! They exit the ceremony and one of the aunts says something about a small reception downstairs, but even in the back of the room, where she was standing and we were sitting, we couldn't hear clearly. So we got up and went out front where we talked with Ruth's parents for a few minutes before heading off to Ukrops to buy some champagne and roses. Ruth asked me on Friday whether I could do her a huge favor and bring her a bottle of Asti and some red roses so that she could decorate the bridal suite at the hotel where Adina and Chan would be spending the night. Apparently it's something Adina talked about while she and Ruth were rooming together. Mission accomplished, and we get back in the car and off we go trying to find the Jefferson Hotel where the formal reception was being held, but in my infinite wisdom, I did not include directions from that part of town. After many turns and turns and turns through numerically and presidentially named streets in downtown Richmond, we finally stumbled upon it (off of Jefferson Street, imagine that). Street parking was pretty easy, so we must have gotten to the hotel at about 6:30.

Now I've said before that I can recite the general blueprint of a wedding reception like my ABCs: Intro of the B&G, First Dance, Parent Dances, Open for Dinner, Dancing Begins, Cake Cutting, and Champagne Toasts. Since we were driving back to Fairfax that night, our plan was to make as inconspicuous an exit as possible once the dancing opened up, probably no later than 9:00.

The Jefferson Hotel is easily the nicest hotel in Richmond (don't correct me if I'm wrong), with marble floors and 50-foot ceilings, elegant staircases, and fine furniture. You can tell immediately that booking this venue cost a pretty penny, but the opulent effect was worth it. We entered on the first floor and the lower lobby, which conveniently happened to be where the cocktail hour was taking place. Ruth had instructed me to meet her there so we could do the hand-off of the Asti and roses, but a sweep of the floor showed she was nowhere to be seen. Slightly frazzled from getting lost, we rambled through the sea of wedding guests up the stairs to the second floor and main lobby, entreated the fine front desk staff to place the items in the bridal suite so that the Maids of Honor could later decorate the room, and slunk back downstairs to avail ourselves of free drinks.

Having fought our way to one of the three bar carts, I ordered a glass of white wine (Chardonnay; why did it have to be Chardonnay?) and Husband got a gin and tonic. Hors d'ouerves were served at various stations around the lower lobby, and there was a cheese tray and fruit and veggies, so even Husband could eat something, which was very good as I'll explain later. A live jazz band was playing, which was a nice touch, but was also a lot of loud and drowned out every word spoken between guests. Suddenly there was Ruth, stumbling shell-shocked down the grand staircase and making a beeline for me and Husband. She has apparently been held captive in Bridal Hell, and mutters something about dresses and bustles and Patsy and bridal suites. Without a word, I offered her some of my wine, for which she was enormously grateful though she looked like she could have used her very own bottle.

Soon after, we had the announcement of the happy couple, and here comes Adina and Chan descending the stairs, and I am nearly flattened by the throngs of people that ran up to them. Then there was posed picture after posed picture after posed picture. She never even saw us, I don't think. Husband and I got tired of crawling through crowds, so we got fresh drinks (another glass of wine for me, and a Sprite for him, since he was driving and would have wine with dinner and maybe the champagne toast, depending on time), and went and found a quieter corner on the second floor where we could hear each other but still watch everything downstairs.

It must have been 8:30 by the time the reception itself was announced. We go into the ballroom and find our table. Everything is white and gold and silver and turquoise. Centerpieces range from short bouquets to three-foot-tall floral sculptures. Big surprise, we're at the far back corner at a table full of complete strangers. Now, I try really hard not to criticize table arrangements because, having been there, I can sympathize with the inherent politics and the basic difficulties of just trying to make all the pieces fit, not to mention unforeseen obstacles to everyone's sightline such as structural support columns. But there we are in the back corner, two columns (each a yard wide) blocking us on one side, and one of those enormous centerpieces on the neighboring table blocking us on the other. We saw nothing. Absolutely nothing. It seems that our tablemates were all work colleagues of the groom's mother, and in truth, we had a fine time with them - all good natured and good humored. I think they understood why they were at the Nobodies table, but it seemed to surprise them that a college friend of the Bride would be tucked back there. As I understand it, we have Patsy to thank for the arrangements. In fact, we also have Patsy to thank for the Parade of Aunts, for the zigzag groomsmen, for the curtsying bridesmaids, for the clustered bridal party, for the bell ringer/flower girl/ring bearer (none of which Adina actually wanted apparently), and for Adina's hoarse voice on her Wedding Day, effected by too many screaming fights with Patsy the night before.

The MC gets his hands on the microphone and begins to introduce the wedding party. The guy must have an In with the folks at Roget's because he was playing fast and loose with the adjectives. One bridesmaid was described as "lovely" and "luscious" and "loquacious", one groomsman was "strong" and "silent" and "strapping," and one of the aunts - I remember distinctly - was written up as "amorous." Eeeeeeeeeew.

I suppose the Bride and Groom had a first dance, but I can't remember what to. I do remember that there were three rounds of "Unforgettable" played for the father-daughter dances. Plural. I think it was one each for her father and her two grandfathers, but they could have varied the songs. There was also apparently a video montage of the bride and groom being projected against a wall. We saw none of this back in our corner. At some point, we got up to try and see something of the video and - I kid you not - the scene I caught was of Adina running into Chan's arms in a botanical garden park. I sat back down.

Each place at the table was set with a gold charger, printed menu (just to inform; not that we were supposed to order from), silverware, napkin, a glass of water, a glass of sweet tea, and a wedding favor (mini bottle of Cook's champagne). Each table was scattered with turquoise-colored glass blocks, sort of like you might use in vases to stabilize flowers or candles. Each table was named for a gem; our table was Tempting Topaz. The MC informed the guests that each table was named for a gem because - brace yourself - each of us were gems to the bride and groom. Bleaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Numbers at least let you keep your dinner down.

Speaking of dinner, remember how we both put our names down for Chicken Norfolk when we RSVP'd, whatever it was, because our other option was Salmon, and that's automatically out due to the seafood allergy? Perusing the menu, we learn what Chicken Norfolk is: a seared breast of chicken with jumbo lump crabmeat and Hollandaise sauce. Not only does that offend the seafood allergy, but also the egg allergy. Super. Served with the chicken are a fried green tomato (egg batter; not Husband-approved) and a wild mushroom rice pilaf (potential sustenance).

Salad was served first, with dressing on the side, so at least Husband was able to eat that. Then dinner was served, and of course, the crab and Hollandaise sauce were splat on top of everything so Husband couldn't touch his chicken or even his rice. So that the waiters wouldn't think there was anything blatantly wrong with the food, I made a decent show of eating half of each of our dinners. (As I learned later, the substitute meals were putrid. Ruth ordered a dairy-free meal to accomodate her allergies, but the frozen mixed vegetables she was served had been boiled until slimy, and mixed with chunks of tofu that - I don't know how they did it - were cooked to the consistency of a golf ball.) The chicken was pretty bland, and the crab was thin little strandy bits (so much for jumbo lump crabmeat). I will say that the fried green tomato was actually tasty, the mushroom rice pilaf seemed almost like it had some salt to it, and I liked the tea. After dinner came dessert. No not wedding cake, but peach cheesecake with raspberry sauce (also verboten for Husband, but at least he could decline outright) that I will say was quite good. If it weren't for those bits of cheese and crudite during the cocktail hour, Husband would have subsisted all night on a small pile of mixed greens and a few puny cherry tomatoes.

During dinner, various speeches were made and various dances were going on (I think Adina had some nice words for her grandmothers, and her grandmothers had some nice words in response, and then there were nice words to Patsy and Daddy, and Patsy and Daddy had to say nice words back and so forth). We didn't follow any of it. Since we couldn't see anything or anyone outside of our little isolated bubble, we just ate and talked all the way through.

With the cheesecake were served champagne flutes, so we figured the cake cutting and final toast must be coming soon and this must be the champagne to go with it. But instead, Adina's brother got up to make a speech and he's talking and talking and talking... It ended up being a cute speech but could have done with some serious chopping. And still no cake cutting.

Miracle of miracles, they open up the floor for dancing after that. It's 10:30 now and we were expecting to be out an hour and a half ago, so we shrug and decide to make our exit, cake be damned. (Ruth informed me that Adina and Chan never did ceremoniously cut the cake.)

Waste not want not, so we take sips of our champagne, but it's not champagne. It's Martinelli's sparkling apple cider - alcohol free. This utterly confuses me, especially when you consider that wine was distinctly absent from dinner, and when it was clearly written on the various invitation materials that this was an Adults Only Reception. There were the bar carts from the cocktail hour in an auxiliary room, but they were empty all through the meal. I can understand making it an alcohol-free shindig if the bride or groom or both is a recovering alcoholic, but Adina and Chan are certainly not recovering alcoholics. It's also an easy way to cut back if there is some unexpected financial disaster (in 2003, a friend lost his job just before the wedding so they cut cocktail hour back to a cash bar, but they still managed to serve wine with dinner), and while I understand that Chan's mother and stepfather pulled a bait-and-switch a week before the wedding (they shorted their promised contribution by $4000 as I understand), if they cut back on wine with dinner to save money, why did they have an open bar at the cocktail hour? And why did they open the bars back up when they opened the floor for dancing? We certainly don't need alcohol to have a good time, but the randomness of its absence and provision made it conspicuous. Anyway, we downed the cider and got our things, bid farewell to our tablemates, and began our escape.

Ruth caught up to us as we were slinking out the door and asked us to stay, noting that this was only a brief dancing interlude and that the Maid of Honor speeches would be coming after. Really? A dancing interlude bookended by bridal party speeches? I've never heard of brief periods of dancing - if the party is starting, start it already.

We left, but Ruth filled me in on parts of the rest of it, including what happened when the party did in fact start.

Apparently all the dinner and toasts and dancing interlude and eating of the cake (it was served but never formally cut) was considered the "formal" part of the reception. When that part was over, Adina disappeared briefly and then reappeared for the "fun" part, miraculously regarbed in a reception gown, and I can describe it for you here because Ruth sent me pictures. Now, changing into a separate dress for the reception isn't necessarily a new thing - bridal gowns are heavy, hot, and not designed for comfort, and many brides switch into a sundress or party dress that's less burdensome. But this was not a cute, light, summery white dress. This was the Incredible Morphing Dress, bringing new meaning to the term "two-dress bride" (traditional meaning here). What Adina chose as her "reception dress" amounted to a bright white knee-length body hugging number that you might wear to a cocktail party, except for the V-shaped drop-waist, the bunchy beaded detailing on the bodice and the, um, the train. Yes, the train, which went from hip to hip around her back and cascaded several yards behind her, ending in pretty crystal beading, as if it had once been the skirt of a real bridal gown. That's right. She had a train, but her shins were showing. It was like her hips had a cape. It effected the impression of an albino peacock. (Perhaps the invitation was foreshadowing?) Someone fluffed out the train as she entered the ballroom again, then - eyewitness account here - Chan grabbed the mic and yelled "Let's get this party started!" and - stay with me - RIPPED OFF THE TRAIN. Oh my damn, ladies and gents, the thing was VELCROED ONTO HER BUTT! She spent the rest of the reception dancing the night away... with a Velcro strip on her backside.

Now, my sources inform me that this wedding cost a whopping $60 Grand. $60,000. That's more than some of us make in a year. The irony is that, with 60,000 smackeroos to spend, it all seemed terribly misappropriated. Everything seemed to be done for Adina and Patsy's enjoyment; the guests' enjoyment was secondary. Two dresses (three if you count the attached train as making a third) please no one but the bride. Adina and Chan are vegetarians, so they didn't even eat the same things as we did. 578 speeches flatter no one but the Bride and Groom. The aforementioned alcohol debacle still mystifies me. The extensive draw-out and compartmentalizing of the reception confused us. And, perhaps the biggest breach of all, the bride and groom didn't come around to look us in the eye and thank us for attending. I get that there were a lot (LOT) of people there, but if there are so many people that you won't be able to hit every table, the polite thing to do is to set up the dreaded receiving line. Basically, it felt like they believed that as long as it LOOKED expensive and opulent, we'd be too impressed to see it for the hollow shell that it was. I don't know about the rest of the guests, but this "gem" felt like an extra in a Cecil B. DeMille picture: serving no purpose but to fill up the background and to make a more sumptuous impression to an on-looker. I sort of wish I could have had those hours back.

It wasn't awful, certainly. It was no Big Fat Redneck Wedding. But the best part of the day was still having lunch with Grandma.

*"Patsy" and "Adina" are certainly not the women's actual names. No person in this entry is referred to by a real name in order to protect the innocent, and to protect me from the guilty! Pseudonyms were chosen to convey a sense of the character involved, but "Patsy" and "Adina" create a bit of a problem. I wanted names that denoted sloppy ostentation and self-centered mischief, for which the AbFab pair certainly serve the purpose; however, they also imply a certain wacky charm that the Bride and her mother distinctly lacked on this occasion.

**"Chanteyukan" is of course not the Groom's actual name, but you'll have to trust me that the true name is at least as hard to pronounce as this. I had to look on a baby names site in order to find one of similar complexity. Don't ask me how his mother came up with the real name, but I have the feeling that a miscalibrated epidural played a part.

Where Has Rosie Been?

2009-07-20T13:00:00.020-04:00

I've been here, of course. Just busy. But since I'm embarrassed that I've been so few and far between on my posts, I thought it would be a good idea to share some of my latest activities and thoughts and such and we can pretend I haven't left you all in the lurch for almost a month.

Stockings: When we were teeny, Mom made stockings for both me and Sister and it was something special to have a personalized stocking made just for you by someone you love. In a fit of insanity, I decided last year that it would be of the utmost brilliance to share that experience and make cross-stitched stockings for Husband and Husband's family too. I surprised Mother In Law with a stocking for Christmas last year, and as of this past Saturday, I finished the front of Husband's stocking as well (left; no his name is not Gabrielle). It took a solid month and a half of cross-stitching, sometimes up to 8 hours a day (I'm lazy on weekends), but I got it done and it turned out very nicely. But now I must call upon the myriad talents of Mom to complete it, since I can't yet sew a straight line with a sewing machine to save my life! I've got stockings to make for everyone in the family. My real stocking was red and white and had Santa on the front of it, but unfortunately, somewhere in my late teens when we seemed to be moving all the time, it vanished. It must be in a box somewhere in someone's basement or attic, but none of us are sure where exactly. I even got a new kit to make as a substitute for myself, but however pretty, it's just not the same, and the search for the Original continues. Next up: either Father In Law's, or Brother in Law's. However, I'm taking a little bit of time off to remind my hand that there are forms it can take other than Claw.

Work: Tomorrow is my anniversary with New Company, and that is very exciting to me, even though it will go unnoticed by everyone else. I've never been fired from a job, which is reassuring, but ever since Riggs, I've had trouble settling down. Nortel wasn't so bad until I was transferred to the Alexandria office and it all went to hell. Old Company had some great moments and great coworkers (some...), but there were too many late nights or overnights, too much disrespect, and too little quality management for me to stay, especially after Awesome Admin I left (CADDMan and Awesome Admin III, I still miss you!) I won't lie and say New Company is a dream job - it has its drudgeries, the commute is a disaster, it can be lonely, and it's a little too big for me to say with conviction to whom exactly I am supposed to report. But I've already been recognized for my accomplishments, I have mad respect from (many of) my teammates because I routinely save their butts, and - wonder of wonders - they allow me to work from home about half the week. Plus, looking down the line, they offer onsite day care (for a price, I'm sure, but I would bet it's discounted compared to KinderCare et al). So all things considered, I think I've found a place where I can set up shop for the foreseeable future, which is nice because Job Hopping is exhausting.

Reading: In January 2008, I embarked on an effort to read and appreciate more classic literature than I had done to that point. I acquired all of Austen, Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights from the Brontes, and Nicholas Nickleby from Charles Dickens. I enjoyed most of Austen, with the exception of Emma, and concluded the sixth book - Mansfield Park - in May during our vacation in Jamaica. Jane Eyre was beautiful and stark and tragic and noble and everything it should be. I haven't gotten to Wuthering Heights just yet, but I've been trudging through Nicholas Nickleby for a while now. Dickens. Dickens is not among my favorites. Like Hemingway, he has a huge and devoted following; but like Hemingway, I just can't bring myself to be especially interested in him, his writing style, or his characters. In sophomore year of high school, we had to read A Tale of Two Cities. I got bored after his effort to take the title for longest continuous sentence ever written, and closed the book, but had enough of a grasp on history and had honed my BS powers to the point that I still aced the test. I seem to think I tried reading another of his works in another English class with similar success. A few years ago however, I rented Nicholas Nickleby from Netflix, starring Jamie Bell, Romola Garai, Christopher Plummer, Anne Hathaway and a score of other unparalleled performers; and was completely enchanted and charmed, even if Charlie Hunnam's performance bordered on fey, even by nineteenth century literature standards. I thought, if there is one Dickens book that I could point to and say I enjoyed, this would be it; and I set about reading the novel. To my very great distress, I found that the movie was merely an adaptation of the story, and that the similarities between the movie and the book pretty much ended at the characters' names. The characters are cartoonish in their exaggeration, the prose is overly wordy, and he simply does not have the ease, wit, or compassion for his characters that Austen does. Nevertheless, I am nothing if not stubborn, and I WILL finish this book. And, always looking for that silver lining, it is the best sleep aid I have ever encountered.

Hypocrisy

2009-06-30T11:04:00.010-04:00

I am, to this day, befuddled that the fashion rags always send their issues a month in advance. The July issue arrives in early June, the August issue arrives in early July, and the January issue arrives the previous year. Perhaps it's with the idea that you can get a jump on the styles because you followed their advice or got the hot tip. Too bad I read them for a laugh as much as anything.

So I'm paging through my July issue of Glamour (less skanky than Cosmo, but doesn't take itself as seriously as Vogue) and I'm at the "Hey, it's OK!" section (page 106 if you're curious), where they ostensibly tell you things you already know but need to actually hear in order to get a grip and realize you're not a freak for doing/thinking/saying whatever. (Real life example: "Hey, it's OK.... to press 0 to speak to a live human every single time." Does anybody actually have a hangup about that?)

The last thing that Glamour has deemed it OK to do this month (June or July, I still don't know) is "to think the fireworks were a wee bit excessive. Ooh, ahh, how many small countries could that have fed?"

This, after recommending (in their Animal Prints spread on page 48/49) a $495 Nanette Lepore jacket from Neiman Marcus, a $268 Elie Tahari skirt, and a $495 DKNY dress. This, after recommending (in their Waterproof Stuff That Will Stay On! spread on page 40) a $57 YSL foundation compact and a $45 Sephora bronzer. This, before advertising (in their Wear White spread on pages 132 - 139) a $125 cocktail ring and a $128 cuff bracelet. This, before flaunting (in their 8 Style Ideas That Make Every Woman Look Sexy spread, on pages 140 - 149) "a dress that shows off your curves" to the tune of $4,995, "anything with a halter shape" for the bargain price of $5,290, "sleek casual pants" for $2,595, "sky-high heels" at $1,235, "your comfiest jeans" for $380, "a cardi[gan]" at a mere $495, a dress with "cutouts that show your skin" for only $1,700, and "a top that's cut low" - a steal at $2,450.

Those are just some of the highlights. Now, Glamour, we only shoot off fireworks a couple of times a year at very special occasions. You advertise items like this in every issue.

Now, what was that about small countries?

Happy Fourth!

Jamaica Recap

2009-06-18T13:11:00.020-04:00

Yes I know I'm almost exactly three weeks late on this, but it's here, isn't it?

Obviously, Husband and I returned from Jamaica safe and sound and with sunburns fading. I've had worse burns, but I don't remember any quite so painful. Since the tops of my thighs were so badly burned, every time I bent, lifted, turned, or straightened my legs was agony. Activities involving these movements include sitting, standing, walking, dancing, climbing stairs, getting dressed, and sleeping. Yes, sleeping - how many times do you change positions, or even simply shift, while you're sleeping? Result: I went several nights with only a couple of hours of sleep, leaving a very tired, pained, and helpless Rosie. And if any of you make any Rosy Rosie jokes, I will officially ban you from this blog!

To add insult to injury, I also severely burned underneath my flip flop straps, making walking anywhere a trick. I've finally figured out how it happened: when I put on my sunblock, I put it on before slipping on my flip flops. The straps rubbed off the sunblock, and the sand sloughed off any remaining smudges of it; then I kicked off my flip flops when we sat in the sun, leaving those poor unprotected stripes on top of my feet at the mercy of the Caribbean sun. Now, what did we learn about sunblock-application sequence?

But, in the words of Kate Gosselin, I think that's enough negativity, don't you?

Let's turn that frown upside down.

That's a smile, not an upside-down frown!

Jamaica is always a good idea. For our first trip as a couple, now-Husband and I went to Sandals Royal Caribbean; for our honeymoon in 2005, we went to Sandals Whitehouse. In fact, to own it, Jamaica is the only place I've ever been outside the United States! While I hate to be a walking advertisement, we are fond of an all-inclusive vacation, and Sandals has treated us well in the past. This time we went to a side of the island we've never been to before, and tried the Sandals Grande Ocho Rios.

Ocho Rios is in the rainforesty, northeastern part of Jamaica so, while it did rain pretty much every day, the grounds were absolutely spectacular with bright gardens and lush foliage. Besides, it gave me a chance to catch up on the reading I'd been neglecting. I polished off Interpreter of Maladies (Lahiri), The Department of Lost and Found (Winn Scotch), and Mansfield Park (Austen), so I am now able to say I've read everything of Jane Austen. Admittedly, none of these were light enough to be called "beach reading," but that's just how I roll.

Our room was on the Manor side of the resort, which was a little more secluded and private. But not too private - we had the regular company of one of the stray resort cats who had deemed our villa and the ones adjacent to be her personal territory.

Once we got a chance to explore the resort, we found that there were actually two sides to it: the mountainside resort (the part where we stayed), and the beachside resort.

The mountainside resort had the best pools - including this two-level wonder, complete with waterfall and waterslide:

Both Husband and I took a turn on it on our last day, and while it looks tame, it picks up speed awfully quickly! Husband made a fantastic splash on his run, and I cleaned my sinuses with chlorinated water on mine.

But who goes to Jamaica for a pool? (Other than the scads of people who spent literally their entire week camped out around it of, course.) No, no, you go to Jamaica to see this:

In contrast to most of our vacations, we took it pretty easy this time and mostly used our stay to relax beachside and to drink and eat entirely too much. (Ah, rice and peas! Ah, Jamaican beef patties! I shall miss you!) We did, however, work in three trips of snorkeling in water that looked like this:

That's right! Be jealous! The reefs were really beautiful too, full of colorful fish and bright corals. However, since we failed to bring an underwater camera and chose not to buy the underwater disposable camera at the resort gift shop for $25, you'll have to be satisfied with this above-water shot:

Look closely - there are lots of little stripey fish in there!

Every night we'd get drinks at one of the bars and walk out on the pier to our favorite evening spot and have our very own personal cocktail hour. Here's what it looked like (complete with the only picture of me you're ever likely to find on here, courtesy of Husband):

We also spent our 4th wedding anniversary there (Happy Anniversary Honey!), and celebrated with dinner at our favorite restaurant, complete with a full bottle of champagne. And then, just because we could - and because it was free! - we had a second dinner at the other evening-attire-required restaurant on the resort. How often can you go to Italy and Thailand in three hours?

However, as all things must, the week came to a close, and we bid goodbye to Resort Kitty, Banana Leaf, Colorful Fishies, and Waterslide Pool. Jamaica may always be a good idea, but sometimes you're just ready to come home.

Dispatch from Jamaica

2009-05-20T10:09:00.003-04:00

OUCH!!!!

The sunblock! It does nothing!!

Yeah, so I have a hell of a sunburn going on right now. Oddly enough, it's primarily across the tops of my thighs... and where the straps of my flippy floppies cross my feet. Don't ask me what confluence of time, space, physics and sheer dumb luck brought that on.

All that aside, better to be sunburned in Jamaica than pasty white at home! Husband and I will be flying back on Saturday, so with luck and a fair amount of time wasted in the shady part of the swim-up bar, my scary burn should have mellowed to a rockin' tan, with which I shall make all my Rosie-fans jealous!

And now, I bid you, adieu!

And So It Ends...For Now

2009-05-15T15:51:00.007-04:00

We’re now two days removed from the whoopee-cushion close of the Washington Capitals participation in the NHL post-season. I watched the game in the red shirt that I swore had brought us luck in Monday’s Game 6, watched as the eardrum-shattering roar that welcomed the boys onto the ice dwindled to a half-hearted clap-along with the stock arena music, watched as my beloved Caps were soundly spanked on a Wednesday night in Washington. It was a sorry thing.

If I’m honest, I’ll cop to it that I knew in my heart we weren’t going to see Round 3 this year. I hoped it, oh yes, but I knew otherwise. I just wish we had gone down swinging. As Buce Boudreau (I’ve redesigned his first name for easier pronunciation) said, “Whether we won or lost, I would never have thought it would have ended up in a game like it was tonight.” You couldn’t blame the officials – they were more judicious in their calls than I’d seen them in the entirety of the Playoffs, and we earned pretty much everything we were whistled for on Wednesday (I doubt the high-stick was intentional, but it was in fact a high stick and it did in fact catch a Penguin’s face). You couldn’t blame the ice – Verizon Center is infamous for its crappy ice and yet we dazzled crowds in both the regular and post season in spite of it. You couldn’t blame any one player – Varly collapsed, yes, but he’s also a 21-year-old rookie goalie who, until Game 2 of Round 1, was playing for the farm team and, in spite of his minimal NHL experience, managed to shock and awe us into believing from the moment he made his first block, so you can’t say the kid didn’t put on a show (besides, Theo let still two more go past him when they sent him back out). Only the team as a unit could be prosecuted for sleepwalking and fearing the puck.

That said, it’s a guarantee that even the Stanley Cup winners, whoever they may be, pulled a lemon at least a few times over the course of the season. Winning or not, the Caps gave us 13 edge-of-your-seat, down-to-the-wire, tooth-and-nail playoff games, 9 of which were decided by exactly 1 point (and of which, 3 of those were pushed into sudden-death overtime). The 14th game was a dud, yes, but it was A dud. The Penguins outplayed us. We very simply weren’t ready to progress. I can forgive the Capitals for that. I’m even a tiny bit glad it’s all over, as my blood pressure and anxiety can return to normal, my stomach can stop churning, my nails can grow back out, and I will suddenly have a glut of time on weeknights with which to punish Netflix for thinking it could make money by having me as a member.

The Caps have made unbelievably huge strides in the past season-and-a-half, compared to where they were in the beginning of 2007. I am immensely proud of them for that, and you'll catch me proudly donning my old-school Number 8 sweater to the Phone Booth as often as Husband can stand to take me next year. I think we can expect great things from the Caps in the coming years, and I can’t wait to see it.

The Break Up

2009-04-17T14:13:00.004-04:00

I just do not learn. How many times do I get burned and yet I go back? Does some strange, warped part of my withered raisin of a brain believe that, maybe this time, we can make this relationship work? That it won't happen again? That it will all be worth it? That I won't feel so cheap and cheated?

Fear not, Husband and I are great. I'm referring to my nearly decade-long love/hate relationship with Newport News.

I freely admit that I am stingy with myself and I am lazy and my tendency is toward that of a hermit. All of these factors contribute to my abhorrence of going to the mall to spend untold quantities of money on things I likely won't be wearing in 6 months, and that's IF the crappy lighting and scary mirrors and nasty dressing rooms don't reinforce my countless body issues and result in me sprinting back to my car, sobbing like a teenaged girl who didn't make the cheerleading squad. Thus, I am oft tempted by the siren song of catalog and Internet shopping. What's this? I can stay seated in jeans and a sloppy sweatshirt, paging through stacks and stacks of fashion-rag approved yet affordable items, selecting colors and styles at whim, and that these finds will be brought to me practically on a silver platter? Let me just get my card...

Newport and I have had some good times. I remain devoted to their 3 1/2" pumps, especially in my beloved charcoal gray, although I will admit some difficulty with the sizing these days (do they make a size 8 3/4? Because that would be sweet!) I receive nothing but compliments on the black maillot swimsuit I ordered six years ago and that they don't sell anymore. I sincerely love my gold and onyx earrings. And their semiweekly catalogs offer endless chuckles - especially from their Together line.

But oh, we have had our bad times as well.

I offer you Exhibit A, the two-piece suit (dress and jacket) I bought in 2002, which arrived with a shapeless nothing of a shift that was supposed to be the dress, and a jacket with one arm a solid two inches shorter than the other.

I offer you Exhibit B, the red lace stretch camisole (lined, Mom) I bought in 2008... that arrived with one strap sewn on twisted. No, seriously, after attaching the first side of the left strap, the seamstress accidentally twisted the strap before anchoring the other side; in other words, I have no way to untwist it without disassembling the entire upper seam.

And I offer you Exhibit C, my very first Rosie post.

I've tried to break up with Newport before. I thought they'd get the hint when I even cancelled my Club Membership. (To become a Club member, you pay $25 up front, then for the succeeding 12 months, you receive 10% off each purchase. If, over the course of those 12 months, you do not save a net minimum of $25 - thus saving you back your buy-in price - Newport sends you a store credit for the remainder, valid for a year from the time of award. This sounds like a no-lose plan, but counts on you being able to find anything to spend that store credit on within that year. Sometimes you have to push yourself and you end up with more returns.)

Yet through it all, my denial is strong and my will power and checkbook weak, and I come crawling back to order yet another disappointment. It happened again just last week.

Husband and I will be celebrating our fourth anniversary at a resort in Jamaica from May 16 to May 23, and the resort requires patrons to dress up a little for dinner at the nicer restaurants. Thus, I need an army of pretty warm-weather dresses, and my go-to wedding attire is just a little too fancy. Thus I found and ordered the pretty outfit at right.

Tropical, flowy, resort-y, downright pretty. The waist is low enough to not effect hippo-hips, the bodice tight enough that I won't have to worry about showing more than I ought, the skirt is graceful yet hemmed high enough for beach walking, and the colors bold enough to contrast well with my pasty complexion.

I knew it Newport! I knew you'd come through for me! I knew I could count on you! You won't let me down this time!

Feeling all was right with the world, I also ordered a red stone necklace much like that in the picture, some hot pink strappy wedges, and a pretty green/blue/violet swimsuit.

I know I'm probably setting myself up for a crash with that swimsuit because there is no way in hell anyone would mistake my figure for that of the lovely Yamila Diaz there, but hope springs eternal.

I received a shipment notice earlier this week, indicating the sandals and the necklace were being shipped and that the swimsuit and dress were slightly backordered. No biggie, they often backorder things at Newport.

I received the shipped items on Tuesday, and inexplicably, that sinking feeling I often get when their gray plastic bag shows up at my door returned. I didn't even open it until Wednesday, perhaps subconsciously trying to stave off what I've come to recognize as impending disappointment. It arrived nonetheless. The necklace was entirely too long and too heavy and looked way cheap. I guess you get what you pay for, and I've always had issues with dimensional perception, so I have no one to blame but myself for the length problem.

But as ever with their shipments, they included a solid pound of additional Newport catalogs, featuring on the cover the Dress of High Hopes. I was about to throw them away when something caught my eye and caused me to look just a little closer... In disbelief, I paged quickly to the product description. My fears were confirmed.

This is what I saw:

No, no, that is not a glitch in the graphic, or an optical illusion caused by the bold pattern.

That, my Rosie fans, is a PATCH POCKET! On a FLOWY SKIRT! What reason could there possibly be to place POCKETS on a FLOWY SKIRT!? WHAT COULD ANYONE IN THIS DRESS POSSIBLY NEED SO DESPERATELY TO CARRY THAT IT SEEMED CROMULENT TO INCLUDE BIG AWKWARD PATCH POCKETS?

The illusion is shattered. Suddenly the dress has become the upsetting love child of Carmen Miranda's closet and an apron. Disgusted, I looked up my order summary, intent on cancelling the dress before anyone wasted postage on it. Since it was backordered, I could probably head it off. It's a good thing I checked: "BACKORDERED. EXPECTED TO SHIP MAY 23."

That's right. It wouldn't even ship until after we returned from the vacation for which I had ordered the dress in the first place. What others have pointed out to me, and what I find even more disturbing than this latest heartache, is that the fact that the dress is backordered at all means that so many women were similarly duped by the Patch Pocket Dress that Newport actually ran through its entire stock.

So Newport, we need to Talk. I'm breaking up with you. It's not you, it's me. ... Okay, it's you. We're through, once and for all. Send me my guaranteed-to-disappoint swimsuit so that I can send it back with the necklace and maybe the sandals. I'm not angry, just sad. We can still be friends. I know you'll keep sending me catalogs in hopes that I'll forget again. And I can't swear I'll never buy another pair of your pumps or earrings. But never again shall your synthetics hang awkwardly from my frame or display VPL for the world to see. It's time. Goodbye.

Bet You Didn't Know

2009-04-09T10:34:00.014-04:00

As if you needed another reason to buy foreign!

According to Vocabula Amatoria, by John Farmer, 1896,
the definition of "corvette" is "a young sodomite."

Admit it - you always thought Ken was a little fruity.

It's A Major Award!

2009-03-24T16:39:00.005-04:00

I won something! I seriously won something! I never win anything!

In what I normally consider a Crappy Team Meeting, I was called up to the front of the class and bestowed with a Performance and Team Award "in recognition of [my] exceptional and on-going efforts to ensure the Program is seen as the model for high-quality products and timely delivery." The neat thing is, if I do my job right, my efforts are supposed to be invisible to the client, so I never expect recognition, which is why it's exciting to me now.

I rule!

I also received a teeny gold plastic mini-trophy and cold, hard American Express Gift Cheques.

This is a red letter day!

Musings on Politics and the Economy

2009-03-09T14:43:00.007-04:00

I know I've been sparse in my current events-related postings of late. It's partially because I've been a bit self-absorbed with my moods and my interpersonal relationships. And it's mostly due to the fact that the news and current events have been bad, worse, and worst. So bad, in fact, that I don't even feel the need to do a quick overview because seriously, pick a topic, here's the summary: BAD. I don't even want to educate myself on how bad, or to what extent, or the on the details of the actions we're chancing to fix the situation because it is just... oppressive. After two or three paragraphs of negativity, you lose the energy to keep reading. Really, it makes me sad.

This is the topic on which I found myself musing last night as I tried to fall asleep after going to bed an hour early. (Thanks daylight time switch!)

The economy sucks and I'm not positive that the moves we're making now to rectify the situation are the right ones. But is that because they're not the right ones or is it because I know jack about economics?

Is it because my politics are changing or is it because I'm surrounded largely by people with conservative opinions and am being bombarded with their vitriolic rebukes of the present path and assignments of blame? Would I feel better about it if similarly vocal liberals were around me to balance the equation? Are liberals happy (or at least, secure) in the present path? Do they believe that these moves will eventually be our saving grace, given the length of time economies tend to require in order to move? Or do they have their doubts too?

Are we even qualified to make determinations about it? According to the news media, the economy is in its worst state since the 1982 recession. Do you remember the 1982 recession? I don't. In fact, in 1982, I didn't even know what money WAS. (Ah, to go back!) What moves did we use to get out of that? And considering the fallout over the ensuing 27 years, do we even want to repeat those moves? Do we need a whole new choreography? How do we know we're making the right decisions and taking the right actions?

It seems to me that politics and economics consist largely of trial-and-error actions. Is that any way to run a country? On the other hand, what choice do we really have?

This is Why People Contemplate Suicide

2009-02-25T11:52:00.009-04:00

For about two weeks now, with a few blessed breaks (also known as "sleep"), I have had Spice Girls songs cycling through my head.

Let me say that again, in case you skimmed and didn't really get the full effect of the horror.

For two weeks.

I have been suffering through.

An almost endless cycle.

Of the Spice Girls.

The Spice Girls.

THE FREAKING SPICE GIRLS!!!

I didn't even like them when they were popular! And I passionately hate txt-speak, which makes it that much more painful that the primary culprit has been - kid you not - "2 Become 1." Vomit. Occasionally, they have chosen to torment me instead with...shudder... "Spice Up Your Life."

This is the sort of thing that pushes people to jump off of bridges, or walk in front of a bus. Unfortunately for me, the suburbs do not offer much in the way of bridges (overpasses will only leave you mangled) and it would be my luck that the DC Metrobus would manage to swerve out of the way in time to miss me, while taking out that nice humanitarian on the sidewalk.

I would ask that you pity me. But instead - admit it - it's happened to you too. Feel free to join me in my personal hell. It's been a little lonely in here.

It's a Blogthings Extravaganza!!

2009-02-13T12:44:00.029-04:00

I have nothing to do today. No revisions, no document prep, nothing. I guess I technically *COULD* start flipping through our template stockpile and determining which were duplicates and/or outdated and/or don't serve a purpose anymore. Then again, I *COULD* also spin around in my chair until I throw up. Besides, the contract is up for rebid and we may not get it, so killing time on that may be a wasted effort, on top of which, it will take me all of one hour to do the whole task, so there's no rush.

I tried killing time on Wikipedia, but even the Random Article link let me down on my interest-engaging mission. So instead, I'm playing around on Blogthings and frankly having too much fun learning arbitrary and meaningless things about myself. As a giver, I feel the need to share all my results. So today, Rosie-fans, I present to you:

!!!THE BLOGTHINGS EXTRAVAGANZA!!!

As a Keyboard Key:

You Are "Tab"

Some people might try to say that you're always spaced out.

You do tend to be a dreamer, but you're also a great multitasker.

You work quickly and efficiently. So it's no problem if you goof off a little while you're working.

And if people want to think you're flaky, that's fine. You're getting more done than they are.

What Keyboard Key Are You?

As an Aphrodisiac:

You Are Vanilla

You are incredibly sexy and sensual - yet still sweet and innocent.

You have an exotic, mysterious vibe. You leave people wanting to know more.

You know how to make lovers relax, calm down, and be vulnerable.

You draw people in and make them addicted to you. You're a lot more potent than people think.

What Aphrodisiac Are You?

In a past life:

You Were a Skunk

You carry yourself with sensuality and a flowing energy.

You have a great reputation, and you follow your own (good) advice.

What Animal Were You In a Past Life?

My Friendship Style is:

Your Friendship Style is Independent

You love your friends, but you don't always need them as much as they need you.

You like to do your own thing. Sometimes this means taking a break from your friends and carving your own path.

As long as your friends give you the space you need, you are happy to be there for them whenever you can.

Your friends lean on you for advice and problem solving. You tend to be "the rock."

You and an Empathetic Friend: Go well together. Your Empathetic Friend understand and accepts you... but may be too needy sometimes.

You and a Gregarious Friend: Get along well, as long as your Gregarious Friend is happy to only see you occasionally.

You and another Independent Friend: Have a love/hate thing going on. When you agree, things are blissful. However, more often than not, you butt heads.

You and a Philosophical Friend: Are somewhat a matter of opposites attract. You're both thinkers, but you think very differently.

What's Your Friendship Style?

As an Office Supply:

You Are a Red Pen

You have an eagle eye for detail, which often means you end up finding mistakes in people's work.
You may seem quick to criticize or correct, but you think accuracy and truth is important.

You like to be involved in every project. You feel like you put the polishing touch on things.

You would make a good editor, detective, or accountant.
When facts matter, you're the person to call on.

What Office Supply Are You?

My Communication Style:

You Communicate Honestly

You don't mince words. You are to the point and all about the facts.

However, you are charming enough to tell people the truth yet still not offend them.

It's likely that you have a hilarious, no holds barred sense of humor. And you sure tell an entertaining story!

You're also quite open. People can ask you anything, and you don't shy away from controversial conversation topics.

What Kind of Communicator Are You?

As an Ice Cream Flavor (you keep your Wayne's World lines to yourselves!):

You Are A Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream Girl

Creative. Expressive. Unique.

What Flavor Ice Cream Girl Are You?

Rosie Turns 100!!

2009-01-29T12:24:00.001-04:00

That's right everyone! This is my 100th post, and it's all because of your love and support and viable literacy! I can't thank you enough! I'd also like to thank Blogger for hosting my aimless ramblings for almost two years now.

In honor of this momentous occasion, I am posting not about news or celebs or the other oddities that cross my plane of existence. No, I write instead pure fluff and nonsense. I have found a series of 100 random questions on some random website that I will answer for your entertainment and amusement. Hopefully. I tend to answer honestly and that doesn't always equal funny. So here's hoping that this isn't boring.

1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn to page 18, and find line 4.

"It was forbidden in his home, and he appreciated it as though it were his own private discovery." - D. Sedaris, Me Talk Pretty One Day (I swear the context is G-rated! He's talking about his father's love of jazz music!)

2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can, What can you touch?

My office desk, my day planner, my company portfolio, an empty soda can, my wallet, a penny, a stack of homeless papers, my water bottle, some post-it notes, lip balm, my coffee (tea) mug, pens in my pen cup, a legal pad, a steno pad, my book, various bottles of hand lotion, my wedding picture, a bottle of spray-in conditioner, and a leftover baby shower invitation.

3. Before you started this survey, what were you doing?

Reviewing a document.

4. What is the last thing you watched on TV?

I'm bypassing Holly Morris's obnoxious face because her very existence makes me angry and instead answering Lie to Me on Fox. (Tim Roth rules! Though I suspect he's playing House without the limp or the M.D.)

5. Without looking, guess what time it is.

9:20 a.m.

6. Now look at the clock. What is the actual time?

9:42 a.m. (Explains a lot about my promptness, yes?)

7. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?

The HVAC system, and loud coworkers in the hall.

8. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?

I was walking from my car in the parking garage to my office building.

9. Did you dream last night?

I'm pretty sure I did.

10. Do you remember your dreams?

Sometimes.

11. When did you last laugh?

This morning.

12. Do you remember why / at what?

My cat was being ridiculous, as she often is in the morning.

13. What is on the walls of the room you are in?

Photos of my cat, Husband, Niece, a 2009 mini-calendar, my boss's business card, an outdated team contact list, a questionable responsibility matrix, a staple remover, a post-it with the voicemail number and my PIN (it's coded), and a list of things I need to do every day before I leavethe office (if you forget to put out your trash can, yesterday's lunch can be...pungent; they send nastygrams to you and your boss if you forget to do your timesheet every day...)

14. Seen anything weird lately?

Always.

15. What do you think of this quiz?

It had great potential, but the fact that I'm completing it at the office is drawing down the interest factor. I may do it again at home in hopes of better answers.

16. What is the last film you saw?

Oh good lord. I have no idea. I'm going to go with How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the good one, not the Jim Carrey one) when I was trying to drag myself out of my Humbuggy funk.

17. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you live?

Tough call, because my experience is sorely limited. The sad truth is that I'd probably live in Virginia still, but farther out in the more rural areas so people won't bug me.

18. If you became a multi-millionaire overnight, what would you buy?

A non-town house.

19. Share something about you that most people don't know.

As much as I love to eat, my senses of smell and taste are pretty weak.

20. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?

Eliminate organized religion. While I respect people's need to believe in SOMEthing, the minute you throw rituals into it, you're going to have trouble. People in Northern Ireland are killing each other over a difference in the way they perform the same religion. Jews and Christians and Muslims and whoall else have killed each other for millenia because their version of monotheism is better than your version of monotheism, which confuses me because if there's only one god, then aren't you all worshipping the same being under different names? (And yes, I know there's been a fair amount of property dispute at the root of it, but still.)

21. Do you like to dance?

Yes. Other people don't like it so much when I do, though!

22. Would you ever consider living abroad?

Sure. What kind of question is this?

23. Does your name make any interesting anagrams?

Not really.

24. Who made the last incoming call on your phone?

House phone: Graphics Lab. (We don't know either.)
Cell phone: Husband.
Work phone: Ha! Trick question - no one calls me here!

25. What is the last thing you downloaded onto your computer?

Sorry to disappoint, folks. It's either the Amazon Universal Wish List button, or an update to WinZip.

26. Last time you swam in a pool?

"Swam" isn't entirely accurate. "Flopped around like a breaching whale" is closer to the truth. This summer, to just answer the question.

27. Type of music you like most?

Ooh... I'm going to go with the various shades of Rock.

28. Type of music you dislike most?

Rap. Hands down.

29. Are you listening to music right now?

No.

30. What color is your bedroom carpet?

Beige, just like everybody else.

31. If you could change something about your home, without worry about expense or mess, what would you do?

And it has to be this house? Gut the kitchen, I suppose. New floors, new stove, new counters, new paint, better storage.

32. What was the last thing you bought?

A book of instructions on making crocheted snowflakes. Now all I need to do is learn to crochet.

33. Have you ever ridden on a motorbike?

NOOOOOOOOO!

34. Would you go bungee jumping or sky diving?

Unlikely, but I think I'd be more inclined to sky diving because at least the view is pretty and there's less blood rush to the head. Besides, you have to be a special kind of crazy to voluntarily jump off a bridge with a rubber band tied around your ankles.

35. Do you have a garden?

Yes.

36. Do you really know all the words to your national anthem?

I do.

37. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning?

HUNGRY!

38. If you could eat lunch with one famous person, who would it be?

Now see this is tricky. I never went in for those contests where you get to have lunch or spend a day around a celebrity. What am I going to talk about? Celebrity gossip? But since I'm being a good sport today, I'll go with Anne Hathaway for the out-and-out famous because I love her - as long as she doesn't get preachy about her vegetarianism. Otherwise, Brad Meltzer for the sorta-famous because the punk is living the life I should have and I want him to tell me how he does his research.

39. Who sent the last text message you received?

I can almost guarantee it was Julie! (What? You text a lot!)

40. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card?

Amazon, but that's not really a store. I'd say Ann Taylor Loft, but their styles are kind of hit-or-miss and I'd find it hard to max out in one go. Same deal with a kitchen store like Williams-Sonoma - I know their stuff is overpriced and I don't have storage for a lot of it, so I'd have issues with that. Maybe a furniture store, since I could max out in one trip, but our current furniture is functional and we have nowhere to put new things.

41. What time is bed time?

Most weekdays, 10:30 p.m.

42. Have you ever been in a beauty pageant?

No. When I was about 10 or 12, I took a notion that I wanted to be in one and asked Mom if I could. Mom tactfully hedged, and I didn't even notice when the deadline for registration passed without my name gracing the roster. This was definitely for my own good. Beauty pageants by their very definition invite people to rate you based on looks and whatever outward talent you can display in a 60-second span, which is doubly hard to the psyche at such an extremely vulnerable point in a girl's development and at that point can only place even more weight on judging the quality of one's physical appearance than is unfortunately normal during adolescence, which leads to eating disorders and self-hatred. Furthermore, I have stage fright, no outward talents, and my body type tends to be of the sort to withstand hard work and harsh winters but doesn't often stack up well against Little Miss Naturally Svelte.

However, I recognize that I am not possessed of such tact, so when the time comes for my daughter to ask me such a question, I only hope I don't laugh in her face, coughing out "No way!" between cackles.

43. How many tattoos do you have?

None.

44. If you don't have any, have you ever thought of getting one?

Thought about it, but couldn't commit.

45. What did you do for your last birthday?

I think Husband and I just stayed in.

46. Do you carry a donor card?

Yes.

47. Who was the last person you ate dinner with?

Husband.

48. Is the glass half empty or half full?

Half-empty. Why would you only fill it halfway?

49. What's the farthest-away place you've been?

Honolulu, Hawaii.

50. When's the last time you ate a homegrown tomato?

One that I/my family grew? Probably when I was 14. One that *someone* grew? Maybe 2007.

51. Have you ever won a trophy?

No, but I got a second-place ribbon on Field Day in 2nd grade for running bases, and a third-place ribbon for, I think, high jump. Which is odd because the last time I tried to do high-jump, I made such an uncoordinated mess of it that I couldn't get out of the mat, I was laughing so hard.

52. Are you a good cook?

I think so.

53. Do you know how to pump your own gas?

Did someone from NJ write this quiz? Yes, of course I know how to pump my own gas.

54. If you could meet any one person (from history or currently alive), who would it be?

Catherine II of Russia (before she went all paranoid), Elizabeth I of England, or Eleanor of Aquitaine. Only thing is, I would want to meet them as equals and I don't think any of them would particularly allow that.

55. Have you ever had to wear a uniform to school?

No.

56. Do you touch-type?

Yes.

57. What's under your bed?

A rabid tribe of dust bunnies, and the under-bed storage box where we keep our comforter in the summer.

58. Do you believe in love at first sight?

No.

59. Think fast, what do you like right now?

That it's sunny and that the local schools had a 2-hour delay today, making my commute a breeze.

60. Where were you on Valentine's day?

Which year? I was at home last year.

61. What time do you get up?

Weekdays, 5:45-5:55 a.m. Weekends and other days when I get up of my own accord, 8:30 a.m.

62. What was the name of your first pet?

There were two: Sneaky, and Pancake.

63. Who is the second to last person to call you?

Home? Graphics Lab. (They call a lot.)
Cell: Um... probably Julie.
Work: Ha! No one calls here! But, probably Husband.

64. Is there anything going on this weekend?

SUPER BOWL!

65. How are you feeling right now?

Hungry. A little light congestion still in the chest. My toes are a bit pinched. Emotionally stable. Otherwise, fine.

66. What do you think about the most?

Money.

67. Favorite non-alcoholic drink? (Stolen from the random website's other quiz because the original was a repeat question.)

Diet Coke.

68. If you had A Big Win in the Lottery, how long would you wait to tell people?

Until after I'd met with an attorney, financial planner, and the lottery committee. And moved to Montana where y'all can't get your hands on my CASH!

69. Who would you tell first?

Um, Husband? Oh, right, he's in Montana with me. Probably Mom.

70. What is the last movie that you saw at the cinema?

I... think it was Hancock.

71. Do you sing in the shower?

Only if I'm positive no one else is around.

72. Do you eat the stems of broccoli? (Again, stolen from the random website's other quiz because the original was a repeat question.)

Yes. Husband makes a good stir-fry with them.

73. What do you do most when you are bored?

Turn on the TV to a station that usually doesn't annoy me, or wander aimlessly around the house looking for something to do.

74. What do you do for a living?

Technical Writing.

75. Do you love your job?

Love is a strong word. I don't know anyone who loves their job. But I don't hate it and they keep giving me money.

76. What did you want to be when you grew up?

Author.

77. If you could have any job, what would you want to do/be?

Well-respected published author.

78. Which came first the chicken or the egg?

The egg.

79. How many keys on your key ring?

Four, I think.

80. Where would you retire to?

Somewhere in Virginia. Seriously, this place is pretty great. No earthquakes. No landslides. No volcanoes ready to blow. No hurricanes. Tornadoes and flooding aren't really problems. Four seasons. Temperate climate. Mild winters. Summers aren't bad once you get out of DC or Tidewater. Mountains and beaches only a couple of hours' drive either way.

81. What kind of car do you drive?

Honda Civic.

82. What are your best physical features?

I have a good smile, good teeth, and nice eyes. People seem to like my hair, but it's pissing me off right now between the static and general unruliness.

83. What are your best characteristics?

Genuinely nice personality, lots of empathy, and I'm always looking for a laugh.

84. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation where would you go?

Extended tour of Europe!

85. What kind of books do you like to read?

Lately I'm on a comedy kick, but fiction takes up most of my bookshelves, with some historical/biographical work thrown in.

86. What is your zodicac sign? (Yet again, stolen randomly from the random website's other quiz because the original was a repeat question.)

By birthdate, I'm a Leo. By personality, I'm a Cancer.

87. What is your favorite time of the day?

Afternoon, I think. The light is nice and I'm most productive in the afternoon.

88. Where did you grow up?

Northern Virginia.

89. How far away from your birthplace do you live now?

About 10 miles.

90. What are you reading now?

Me Talk Pretty One Day, by David Sedaris. Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye, by Florence King. We Thought You Would Be Prettier, by Laurie Notaro. And I'm still trying to get through Mansfield Park, by Jane Austen.

91. Are you a morning person or a night owl?

Night Owl, though I can't stay up like I used to.

92. Can you touch your nose with your tongue?

No.

93. Can you close your eyes and raise your eyebrows?

Yes. Can anyone not do this?

94. Do you have pets?

I have a very silly cat.

95. How many rings before you answer the phone?

Depends on how far away it is and how fast Caller ID registers.

96. What is your best childhood memory?

I liked climbing the trees in my grandparents' backyard when I was small, and popping the seed pods on Grandma's impatiens. I can't pinpoint one memory in particular.

97. What are some of the different jobs that you have had in your life?

Lawn jockey, babysitter, chicken slinger, salad artist, cashier, file clerk, temp, intern, food court server (worked the lines; did not cook the food), minute taker (blech!), document manager, and technical writer.

98. Any new and exciting things that you would like to share?

Husband and I thwarted a nasty group of credit card thieves! Well, at least as far as our account was concerned.

99. What is most important in life?

Being content with yourself and liking who you are as a person.

100. What Inspires You?

Passion, joy, laughter.

Simple Gifts

2009-01-20T15:19:00.010-04:00

I was proud and exhilirated today to witness an historic moment in American history. At 12 p.m. EST, I watched as Barack Obama, our nation's 44th, and first African American, president took the oath of office in 25-degree weather before a crowd of people so thick you could not see the grass on the entirety of the National Mall. I thought the classical arrangement of Simple Gifts was beautiful and moving, I smiled as our new president endearingly flubbed his lines (you'd be nervous too if you were being entrusted with leadership of this magnitude!), and I found his speech poignant, insightful, and inspiring.

But something troubles me now as it did during the election.

While I feel that Mr. Obama engenders the kind of optimism, forward-looking, and re-dedication that this country so needs right now, he is not the answer to all our problems and I feel it is a disservice to the man to consider him so.

I offer you an excerpt from Eavesdrop DC, a blog similar to Overheard in the Office in which random people submit bits of conversations they happened to overhear while traveling around Capital City:

"Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Overheard while transferring from ridiculously crowded Red Line train to ridiculously crowded Yellow Line train at China Town
Woman One: Dammmnnn girl! This Metro so damn c-rowded!
Woman Two: Shit yeah. Too many people here.
Woman One: Don’t worry, Obama gonna take care of that."

Seriously? I've heard other similar statements both personally and in print.

During and since the election, it seems people have looked upon him and treated him almost as the coming of the messiah. He is seen as the dawning of a Utopia, a right to all wrongs, the bringer of a harmonious society. They have painted a masterpiece-worthy image of him in their mind, and I'm sorry to break it to them, but no one can live up to that hype. That is an enormous amount of pressure to put on a person, and he will be under a level of scrutiny that would make even the most papparazzo-pestered starlet cringe on his behalf. His election was not a miracle, as some have called it; it was a reasoned act by people of all races of this country. The result will not be perfect. And there will be a lot of disappointed people when that becomes apparent.

The ugly truth: Obama will make mistakes. Obama will stumble through more than his oath of office. Obama will fail to deliver on some of his campaign promises. Obama will emerge as a fallible human being. Because he IS a fallible human being and he doesn't have all the answers, nor does he have a magic wand that he will wave and make our financial, international, and energy woes disappear. He's just a good person trying to do his best to lead his country in the direction he sees as the safest and most prosperous. And in that, the man has my gratitude, my respect, my faith, and my trust.

So on this momentous day, I say let us be grateful for the simple gifts of watching history made and observing the manifestation of Dr. King's dream, and let us look ahead on this new day with hope in our hearts and both eyes open.

2008 Holiday Recap

2009-01-13T12:57:00.013-04:00

Or, Adventures in Asshattery.

I know this is late, but I needed some distance from the last part. Also, this holiday required more running around than normal, and was followed up so closely by big events in friends' lives and actual real live work that this is the first time I've been able to sit down and put something together.

Overall, this holiday followed suit with the preceding 11 months and 24 days. It was a dud. The gifts were lovely; don't think me that ungrateful. But all furniture remained intact, all food was thoroughly cooked, demonstrable alcoholism was kept to a minimum, and family feuds merely sparked but did not rage.

Yet through all this, a hero emerged, bearing the mantle of Instigator, and shouldering the heavy burden of discomfiting the lot of us at every turn. The hero of whom I write is, as you may expect, my father.

By now, my faithful Rosie-fans are familiar with the semi-standard Holiday Pilgrimage. Christmas Eve with Dad&Co, Christmas Day with InLaws, Day After with Mom&Co. Usually, I am in contact with Dad at some point in early to mid-December, finalizing plans, determining expected dress code, and finding out what we can bring. However, 2008 threw us a loop.

Let me backup. This has to start back in October for the true effect to be made clear.

In mid-October, Dad wrote, asking if we could get together for dinner “so I have a chance to refresh my memory of what you two look like.” (Passiveaggressivesayswhat?) So I wrote him back, proposing dates on which we were free within the week and actual restaurants depending on whether he was coming from home or the office, to prove that we were serious about getting together (it has come up before). And I heard nothing. And nothing. The dates passed. Still nothing. I realized in time that nothing was coming, but knowing that we had made the last volley, I decided that it was his turn to reply and left it at that.

Now it’s November. Still nothing. He probably forgot and is too busy flying around to all his Very Important clients. Now it’s Thanksgiving. Still nothing. Not even a Happy Thanksgiving call, email, or text message. I know a card is beyond him.

Now it’s December. I get off my high horse and reach out by way of a Christmas card (the only one he received, as I understand).

And nothing.

And nothing.

And now it’s December 23. For several days, I’ve been saying that if he doesn’t call, we’re just not going. And I stomp around in a stew of self-righteousness (and I still know I was right in that determination, for what it’s worth) insisting loudly to no one that he’s cutting it awfully close. But Husband apparently inherited his mother’s need to bend over backwards in pursuit of family harmony and encouraged me to be the Mature One and call him. After more stomping around and railing at no one, I break down and do so. It’s 6pm on December 23, so I call his cell phone and his house phone and leave messages on both. Sister, Niece, and Sister’s Fiancé were all supposed to be there, so maybe they’re out seeing the sites of DC or at a nice dinner somewhere. They’ll call back and we’ll have a forced laugh.

And now it’s December 24, the day on which we are supposed to go to Dad’s. But I haven’t heard a peep out of him since mid-October. There certainly has been no invitation to Christmas Eve, no discussion of appropriate garb, and no suggestions of something I can bring to help out. I call again at 10 am – cell phone and house phone, but I know he has no cell reception to speak of and a questionable house line, so I also email both his home and work email addresses because even if his phone lines aren’t working, I know his email does.

And now it’s noon on December 24. And nothing. Now I’m not just bemused. I’m pissed off. Granted, my self-righteousness has been in overdrive, waxing poetic at the possibility of Best Christmas Ever (namely one in which we don’t go over to Dad’s on Christmas Eve and instead get to relax at home with the glow of the tree and a glass of good wine) and threatening to just not go and not try again since the man is an adult and needs to understand that inaction has its consequences as well. But my stubborn sense of What Is Right is simultaneously all up in a flutter over either being snubbed or outright forgotten. So I make one last round of calls to his cell phone, his house phone, and this time also to his work phone. No answer on any of the above. On each voicemail, I try to keep my voice light, but I do inform him that if we do not hear back by 2pm, we’re going to assume we are not invited this year and that we will make alternate plans. I email him this same information, again to both addresses. I also call Sister’s cell phone and text her for good measure, figuring that I’ve covered all of my bases this time and that there is nothing more I can do.

And now it’s 2:30 pm on December 24. Torn between giddiness over having Christmas Eve the way *I* want to and the indignation over having been excluded and general frustration with the man-child, I stomp my way upstairs and take my shower, preparing to run to Giant to get stuff for dinner.

At 3pm, as I’m combing my hair out, the phone rings. It’s Dad. And he’s cheerful. And he wants to know what time we’re coming over tonight. It seems that he has not yet received any of my messages or emails; it's just the first time it has occurred to him to make this call. In spite of all the threats I've been making about telling him what to do with his Christmas Eve, I instead very tightly manage to tell him that we weren’t sure we were invited tonight and that Husband’s at work right now. Dad moans that he’s so sorry that we ever felt that way, that of course we’re invited, and that we should just come over whenever we can. I relay the message to Husband and we bandy about the prospect of showing up way late just to spite him, but we agree that, since Sister’s Fiancé is cooking, it’s not fair to spoil the meal that Fiancé worked hard to prepare (while also really meeting us for the first time) when we’re actually only mad at Dad. About this time, Dad calls back – what time does Husband get home, and can we make it by, say, 5:30? So much for "whenever we can."

We went, and the evening was actually rather pleasant. Dinner was delicious, everyone was civilized, and it was, frankly, the nicest Christmas Eve I've had in a number of years now. The moments of most discomfort occurred over Dad and AuntZ squabbling across the entire house (seriously, I could hear them on the second floor), and Dad imploring us to come a day early next year, complaining that he “doesn’t feel like he really *knows* us.”

A side note here – when my parents were still married, my father’s parents would plague my mother with this exact line every single time she came over. Never mind that, had they asked her a question, she would have answered. Never mind that we lived across the county, not across the country. So I found it inexplicably hilarious that Dad is now pulling the same line on me that used to drive Mom insane. Dad, maybe if you would email, or call, or actually see us instead of treating us like casual acquaintances (you know the type – you run into them and there is an exchange of “we should do lunch sometime,” but neither of you really mean it), you might “know us” better. Furthermore, I am staring 30 in the face. If you don’t know me by now, one extra night before a holiday (during which my Husband will almost certainly suffer an asthma attack due to the dust and dog dander, and will otherwise be generally congested and miserable the entire time) will not go a long way towards rectifying the situation.

But let us move on. When we returned from Richmond and finally had a moment to ourselves, I found a mass email from Dad in my inbox, generally saying Happy New Year and listing items that were found and probably belong to someone in the family. He also emailed me directly, apologizing again for the Fail and saying that we should get together in January for pizza at Fireworks. I made a point of writing a very nice thank you note to him, trying to show that there were no hard feelings over the Christmas Eve That Almost Wasn’t and agreeing that getting together for pizza would be a fine thing.

And nothing.

And nothing.

Until January 8. I received an email from Dad. Subject line: “Was that you?” I’ll include the entirety of the email here for your edutainment:

Hi Rosie,
There was a voice mail waiting for me. It contained what sounded like a "Rosie sigh".

That’s it. No prelude, no taper, no “Love, Dad” (just an office email signature), and certainly no explanation as to exactly what a Rosie Sigh is. It had a statement of fact, a statement of opinion, but no question or whathaveyou that would initiate action on my part. Did he just want to inform me? Or did he think his subject line was enough? Did the guy completely miss the section in 4th grade during which we learn how to frame a letter? Nevertheless, I wrote back when I received it (a couple of hours later), explaining that I haven’t called since Christmas Eve and that then I left a real voicemail, so it probably wasn’t me; hope that helps; ~Rosie.

His response, quoted in its entirety, beginning to end: Hmmm! In any case - thanks.

And that is the last I heard from him.

Holiday Sale

2008-12-23T10:29:00.006-04:00

For what it's worth, I would like everyone to know that after three Christmas movies, four batches of cookies, a Tacky Lights tour, and a Cookie Party complete with roaring fire, I am feeling much more Holly Jolly and much less Bah Humbug.

Now, we all know about the Christmas Creep. No not your skeevy uncle after too much eggnog, but the insidious crawl of holiday-centric commercialism ever earlier in the year to the point that I saw red, green, and silver Hershey kisses available around Halloween. It's a familiar, if infuriating phenomenon, and I'm waiting for the good belly laugh when we celebrate Labor Day with 50% off all Santa merchandise.

But this is a new one for me.

I opened my Yahoo email account this morning to see an email from Ann Taylor Loft (love!) advertising a sale. It makes sense, as it's two days before Christmas, and the parking lot around Fair Oaks Mall was crammed yesterday with crawling cars filled with panicked people. I wasn't among their numbers, but I could see it from I-66. God bless online shopping. And I know the economy sucks and retailers have been busting their humps, doing just about anything to get people to at least look at their wares.

Anyhoo. I was all ready to delete yet another sale ad until my eyes caught the subject line.

(Note that it's currently December 23.)

"Ann Taylor Loft After Holiday Sale Starts Today!"

Amazing. I knew they were capable of great work-appropriate clothes. (I'm wearing a sweater of theirs right now.) I did not realize they were capable of bending the laws of space and time.

Good show, Ann Taylor Loft! I humble myself before your scientific prowess. Somebody get NASA on the phone!

Humbug

2008-12-16T11:11:00.032-04:00

Is anyone else feeling distinctly underwhelmed by the holiday season this year?

In spite of the fact that Christmas has not been my favorite holiday for a number of years, I find that I am usually able to gear up for the season. I have Christmas music CDs that I am often itching to play by mid-November. I delight in selecting a wreath and decorating my house. I start shopping sometimes by Halloween. I get all excited about how many different kinds of cookies I can make and the special food items I can bring. I bombard the Post Office with cards. I seek out lighting displays. I love choosing pretty wrapping paper, and I have a library of holiday movies that I start watching on Dec 1.

But this year feels like I sat on a punctured whoopee cushion. Maybe it's that my hormones have been on strike (no, I have nothing to announce) and it's been an awfully rough December for me. Maybe it's my depression and generalized anxiety rearing their ugly heads (great timing, guys). Maybe it's that Christmas is late in the week and, since I don't take off before the holiday, I feel pressed for time on my must-be-last-minute stuff (cookies can't exactly be done more than a few days in advance, and our family recipe for rolls is a Day-Of thing). Maybe it's been too gray this year. Maybe it's that so many homes in the area are vacant or foreclosed that the lighting displays are weak at best. Maybe it's all the bad news we've been hearing since September that sets such a gloomy air. Or, yes, maybe it's that my heart is two sizes too small. Whatever it is, nothing seems particularly festive and I have a hard time finding any semblance of spirit.

Husband had to convince me to decorate this year because I really wasn't feeling it. I whipped into Cox Farms alone after work two weeks ago and grabbed the first wreath I saw with a top-fixed bow rather than taking time to select the right size, shape, and arrangement. I'm sure it didn't help that I was in pantyhose and heels on a gravel lot. Instead of inciting joy and peacefulness, my CDs are an irritatant and I'm choosing Offspring and Fiona Apple over Tchaikovsky and Diana Krall. At the blowout office holiday party, I felt nervous and awkward and left early; and before you tell me that you wished you could have cut out early from yours, let me say that Company does up one hell of a party and I had planned on shutting the place down. I've so far watched exactly one holiday movie (Elf), and whereas I often bake at least five different kinds of cookies, this year I'm hard pressed to make the two requisite (sugar cookies and chocolate cherry thumbprints) and one maybe (caramel cookies). I didn't even feel the love when I made the fruitcake this year.

(Yes I make - and eat! - and love! - fruitcake. Now stop laughing or I'll throw it at you and if you value your facial structure, trust me, you don't want that.)

None of this is like me. I had lunch with Friend Kristin today and, while that cheered me up a little, she agreed that this is very un-Rosie. In years past, I've at least been able to fake it. But this year... maybe I'm just done with 2008.

I know I'm just a big barrel of warm fuzzies right now, but this is my blog, dammit, and I get to write about how I feel, be it peppy, funny, sarcastic, or depressing. And you all have to read it because you can't help yourselves. Let it be known: Rosie is broken. Please to fix.

However, I will end on a high note, so that I don't have you all reaching for the revolvers. I promise I will arrive at all functions on time (except to those to which I already made it clear that I would be late) and with a smile, offering cookies and showing gratitude. I will be sunshine and lollipops, or gingerbread and candy canes. I promise to spend the free part of the weekend watching Baryshnikov, Rudolph, Charlie Brown, and Mr. Grinch until my eyes bleed. With luck, that will trip the switch and I will be my sugar plum self.

Besides, I am down 10 lbs since October and am working out more regularly, so more yet may come off. Yay!

The Bailout

2008-12-10T15:43:00.006-04:00

While I can respect the need to save the jobs of untold thousands of auto industry workers, this somehow rings just a little too true...

Roommates

2008-12-03T11:04:00.009-04:00

My salad days in my lovely empty office with a window and a door that closes are over. On Monday I was assigned an officemate. When her boss walked her around and introduced us, it took me by such surprise that it was all I could do to mumble out a passingly pleasant, “Hi”. I’ll admit I never manage to say or do the right thing, especially under pressure and on the spot, but I think I was well enough able to conceal my sinking disappointment that I now had to share my space.

Sharing space. I’ve never been especially good at it. Perhaps I can trace it back to my childhood, in which my sister and I were lucky enough to never have to share a room except on vacation. Add to that my generally introverted nature, at least until I become comfortable with another person, and you have someone who is fiercely protective of her metaphorical homestead, whatever that homestead may be.

I was an awful roommate, both in college and after. I’ll be the first to cop to it. Truth is truth. I didn’t let the dishes pile up for weeks or allow strange people to crash with us or use up all the hot water knowing that Roomie needed a shower too. My defects are all about how I deal with conflict. I let things build and fester like a nasty infection until I snap over something miniscule, or just make life unpleasant in general with my silent glaring and snarls. Adult of me, I know, but we all have our faults. Husband is the last roommate I’ve had, but we’ve only experienced minor problems with it because both of us are conflict-averse, and he knows how to recognize and shut me down when I start building up.

In my professional life, however, I have experienced no situation in which I had to share my space. I always had my own cubicle, or at least my own clear work area when I was in the Tech Writers pod at Company 2. Here, however, is a new scenario for me.

Roommate is a very nice woman, bright and lively, polite and quick to smile. I have no cause for complaint about her. Best of all, she is in fact a woman. I was having fits trying to figure out how to handle the Aunt Flo issue with a male officemate. I considered stashing a box of “supplies” in the ladies room, but figured that everyone would take advantage of those and they wouldn’t be there when I needed them. I considered going the makeup bag route, but depending upon how much time Roommate was there and how observant and/or dense he was, I anticipated questions about why it was only one week a month that I seemed to need to touch up my makeup a couple of times a day. Cosmetics are a bitch, Roomie.

So I’m fortunate on that score. But today we’re already running into growing pains. Because I have a conference call at 11 and she has an in-person meeting going on right now, and not only do I know I can’t concentrate on the call with the two of them talking, I also know I won’t be able to concentrate on my work with someone talking – either in a meeting or on the phone in general.

Maybe sound canceling headphones are the answer. Or maybe we’ll have to arrange to work from home on alternating days. Hrm... In the meantime, maybe I need to go to Coworker's actual office instead of being on the call today.

NaNoWriMo 2008: Results

2008-12-01T12:13:00.006-04:00

NaNoWriMo 2008 has drawn to a close and the verdict is:

Qualified Fail.

"Fail" because I missed the goal of 50,000 words in a month. I also missed my own personal goal of 10,000 words. In fact, I concluded the month with a grand total of 3,089 words. To my credit, a number of them were big, multi-syllabic words. But it's still a Fail.

"Qualified" because even 3,089 words tops my previous NaNoWriMo (2006) total of... 0 words. So yay me! Maybe I can crest 5,000 words in NaNoWriMo 2009. And even though I cranked out 3,089 words of uselessness (seriously, the whole thing worked much better in my outline than it did on paper), it is not a total loss. I think it can be retooled and redirected to another genre and turn out... maybe all right. I don't know if I'd ever submit it, but it's good to have something.

Word counts aside, one goal was certainly achieved. I reminded myself of the thrill I can feel when scribbling borderline nonsensical words on paper. It's nice to make the world melt away and to sense nothing outside the blissful confines of your own mind but the smell of cheap ink and the feel of good paper. In remembering that simple joy, I count this year as a Win.

(And now that it's over, I no longer have to feel guilty for reading when I should be writing!)

The Death of Daytime

2008-11-21T16:16:00.005-04:00

I found an article today from a former soap opera magazine writer (e.g., Soap Opera Weekly) talking about how we're watching the demise of daytime TV. The source of this hypothesis: the firing from Days of Our Lives (my own former "stories") of Deidre "Exotic Bird Hair" Hall and Drake "Smell the Fart" Hogestyn.

Okay, Diedre's moniker is self-explanatory, but, for those of you who don't get the reference for Drake, here is the clarification: Jennifer Aniston's daddy, John Aniston, spent a goodly amount of his career playing Victor Kiriakis on Days, enduring many a ridiculous plotline and span of dialogue. In 1994, a little show called Friends came out on NBC (maybe you've heard of it?), the same channel that supports Days of Our Lives. Joey on Friends, as you may recall, was supposed to be a soap actor. So there are the various tie-ins, and why Days stars (Alison Sweeney, Kyle Lowder, Kristian Alfonso, among others) periodically showed up on Friends. In one season or another Joey took it upon himself to teach, or assistant teach, a community college (I guess) class on acting in soap operas. In response to - I believe - one student's question on what to do if you forget a line, Joey tells them to strike the "smell the fart" expression to buy them time. Then he demonstrates: he stops as if he's been paralyzed, raises one eyebrow skyward, then rotates his head vertically and away from the side with the raised eyebrow so his chin is stuck out in that direction, and inhales deeply. The desired effect is too look like you just, well, smelled a fart, though it's all suspenseful and dramatic to the audience. Those of us who are or were Days devotees, however, knew exactly and on the spot who taught Joey the trick: our main man, Drake Hogysten, who trademarked the look.

Now I haven't watched the show steadily since 2001, with a brief stint during 2005. I've caught an episode here and there, and there are a bunch of new characters, so I'm with the author: why not kill off one or five of them? Why are we digging more DiMeras out of the woodwork (even though we have trouble retaining evil mastermind Stefano!), but losing our anchors?

John and Marlena have been an institution on this show since the 80s. Allow us to hang onto one or two couples that manage to stay together through mistaken identities and demonic possession and adult children they never knew they had who turn out to not actually be theirs but her ex-husband's with another woman and hidden by Stefano DiMera on a secret island and never taught to speak or interact socially until they are dropped at age 18 essentially in his daughter's lap and she takes them under her wing and teaches them how to speak and to relate and to love!...where was I? Ah yes.

Let the younger characters bed-hop and make countless mistakes - that's their thing. Go ahead and create trouble for John and Marlena - conflict is, after all, the essence of drama - ... - and what is a soap opera without drama - ... - and functional couples aren't all that interesting to watch - ... - who was it that said that every happy family is the same but every dysfunctional family is unhappy in their own way? - but don't take them away.

I suppose, as I have abandoned the show to become part of the paid workforce, that I have no place to talk. I can't be angry about changes to a show I don't watch anymore, or speak out against plot twists that I can't follow.

But I can be a little bit sad.

And I am.

Congratulations, Leah & Phil!

2008-11-12T15:48:00.021-04:00

Congratulations to Leah & Phil, who made it legal on Saturday, November 8!

(See, it's funny because they're lawyers and they met in law school. I crack me up!)

Leah chose me as her Maid of Honor, but the honor was absolutely mine to stand beside my beautiful friend as she pledged her life to a man who I know cherishes her to her very core. As he should!

You couldn't have asked for a more perfect day. After threats all week of cold and rain for Saturday, the weather gods saw fit for the sun to shine bright and warm, which was quite the endorsement. The location was elegant, the cake was delicious, and the service was excellent (if a little enthusiastic about the NA cider). Leah was a vision, Phil missed the glass, the groomsmen hoisted both of them up for the Hora, and in true celebratory form, I danced the Dance of Joy until my feet nearly fell off. (It's okay! I can feel my toes again!)

My very best wishes go out to the happy couple! Phil, you are a lucky man to have found such a lady. I know you'll take good care of my friend.

The Trouble with Characters

2008-11-07T10:24:00.005-04:00

So I'm off on my NaNoWriMo adventure. Full disclosure: I will be very, very surprised if I reach 50,000 words. Frankly, I'll count myself successful if I reach 10,000. But no matter. I didn't do this to actually write a novel. I did this to get my hands moving again, because talking endlessly about putting words on paper does not actually put the words on paper.

I've chosen a character and I'm working her out, and building side characters who are gaining shape and color (for the most part) slowly but surely. In the first paragraphs, I really liked this main character and was interested at how she was taking form. But in all honesty, by this point (1,489 words in), I'm far less interested in her than I am in a side character I built for her. How did that happen?? When I first concocted this craptacular story, this guy was essentially a ghostly thing, always pale and shapeless, merely holding a place and serving a purpose in the plot. But he will not be suppressed the way I wanted him to be. In mindlessly scrawling words in my notebook, he gave me his name, some nuance, and personality-shaping details even as a child. I can't get such a clear picture of even my main character, and that's a problem, because the story originally centered on her!

This is what Amy Tan talks about in The Opposite of Fate, what Stephen King talks about in On Writing, what Jude Devereaux talks about in interviews and blogs. This is the exciting and energizing thing about writing, to me anyway. It's just a story, but it's a living thing. No matter how concrete your outline or your mental storyboarding, sometimes your story will decide despite your best intentions to yank the reins to the right. And you can kick and you can yell and you can pull all you want, but the horse is going this way and you're stuck in the saddle.

So okay. Let's see where he takes me...

Brave or Crazy?

2008-10-31T15:27:00.006-04:00

I just joined NaNoWriMo. I'm not sure what I've just gotten myself into.

For the unfamiliar, NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month, is an international phenomenon in which aspiring writers take up their pens and put on their Writing hats starting at 12:0o:01 a.m. on November 1, and waste reams of innocent paper in pursuit of a truly ghastly story by 11:59:59 p.m. on November 30. The goal is to have a novel (50,000 words minimum) written in one month.

A friend of mine got me into this two years ago and, much like this year, I leapt blindly into it... and never got more than about three pages written. I hope to top that number this year, but I confess I don't really have a story. I have an outline of one that I was knocking about in my head some while ago (outlines prior to Nov 1 are allowable!), so maybe I'll go with that - it was quickly turning sour in my mind's ear anyway so what's the harm in making it truly gawdawful this month.

The only hangups are about time really: I'm participating in Friend Leah's wedding next weekend, I'm spending the following weekend with my mom and grandma, the weekend after that is Thanksgiving Party weekend, and then there's Thanksgiving itself and...

But really I'm just making excuses. It's a hobby of mine. There is a lot of open time in the rest of the month and even during those weekends that I could be getting high on the smell of BIC ink and the feel of good paper.

Thus shall I persevere! Bring me my Writing hat, a pen, and a case of Diet Coke! NaNoWriMo, I declare myself to thee!

Reply All

2008-10-29T10:30:00.003-04:00

Why is it that people hit Reply All to broadcast office emails? It's bad enough when it's in your personal email account, but at least there it tends to be people you know and there's often some witty banter or a nice zinger to enjoy. But why is it that if you receive a clearly broadcast email for some FunCtion (get it? Yeah, I want to give it back too), you feel the need to let the entire office know what you think of it?

Maybe I'm just a curmudgeon before my time. I don't want to socialize with my co-workers at large. I do want office buddies, don't misunderstand, and I'm happy to spend some of my free time with those co-workers whom I consider actual friends. But as for the rest of them, not really. I'm happily married and my commute is long, so I don't want to go to happy hour, to after-hours Wii parties, or to mid-day team-building exercises of any sort. What I do want is to work my eight hours and go home to see my husband, pet my cat, and change into jeans.

So when the office organizes trick-or-treating for the little kids in the day care center, that's cute and maybe I'll even participate, but I don't care whether Enthusiasm McPerky wants everyone to "count her in! :-)". When the Fun Committee (I kid you not) organizes a movie night for remote team members, I don't care that Teamy McJoiner thinks it's a "GREAT idea, Fun Cmte!!" It's fine to like things, it's fine to be a joiner, it's fine to be peppy. But share your support with the people directly organizing it or by participating. The entire office doesn't need to be distracted by your non-work related opinion. Just sayin.

Working from Home

2008-10-28T14:40:00.004-04:00

I've had a stomach thing for a couple of days; I came home early yesterday and stayed home today. And before you crack the usual jokes, I want to say that I have had work, and that I have DONE work. Today I was busy straight through 1:30 p.m., so there. Come to think of it, I've had more work at home than I usually do in the office. Hrm... justification for working from home regularly now? Probably not, but a girl can dream.

Some things I have learned today:

1. BLISS! The old Philip is back on Days finally! And Chloe's back! The only sadness to my life in that respect: Brady is not back WITH Chloe, because he is apparently on The Bold and the Beautiful. I learned that in last week's Soup. But I think he just got killed off on that show, so maybe he'll be back. Not that I'll be able to see it. Curse you, gainful employment!!

2. Ellen is a fun show. I normally hate daytime non-trash talk shows, but Ellen is actually cute. It came on at 2 pm on NBC, right after Days, so it's not as though I was seeking it out. But every time I meant to shut it off and go shower (oh shut up, you'd slack on that too if you were home all day and going nowhere), she brought out something new and worth staying for. First it was Chris Rock, whom I haven't seen on camera in ages, then it was my gay boyfriend Neil Patrick Harris subjecting himself to a dunk tank to benefit breast cancer, and now it's Elizabeth Banks whom I love dearly.

3. Killing time is much more pleasant in jeans than in pantyhose, and on your couch than in the office.

I'm feeling vastly improved compared to how I was, so I'll be {pouts, kicks haphazardly at wall} back at work tomorrow... Sigh...

Spammity Spam

2008-10-24T09:34:00.008-04:00

Recall, if you will, that until a few months ago, I was voraciously hunting for jobs. Since finding one, I have removed my profiles on careerbuilder.com, dice.com, washingtonjobs.com, and such. I still receive cattle-call job opening emails from recruiters, but they're usually bland and easy to ignore. The one I received today, however, was extra special, and I felt the need to share. I promise, no doctoring of the verbiage has been undertaken in any way, shape, or form; this is strictly a copy-and-paste operation.

Today's email comes to us courtesy of sender "Support".

Subject Line: "The serious German company requires your help!"

Body: "Hello! How are you today? Our company, Gyterhompsens GmbH, is very interested in finding business partners in the Europe, USA and all over the world. We have been selling expensive Medical equipment for 7 years. Our headquarters is located in Frankfurt, Germany. We are looking for business partner, who will help us with wire transfer. Gyterhompsens GmbH is very serious organization, and we are ready to consider all possible variants with bank accounts."

Have the Germans taken on the mantle previously worn exclusively by exiled Nigerian princes?? Are they as serious as they say they are?? The world may never know, because I'm about to hit delete...

There's Only One October

2008-10-23T10:41:00.014-04:00

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

I hate baseball. There. I said it. And it's true, I do. It is the most boring popular sport out there - worse than basketball, worse than soccer, worse than curling. You heard me. Worse than Curling, that hilarious-yet-hypnotic winter Olympic event in which players try to use brooms to sweep a clean path on the ice so that a 20 lb stone can glide just-so onto a bullseye, or into another team's stone so as to knock it out of contention. Curling at least offers some measure of suspense. There might be a decent injury in soccer, and basketball players are dramatic showboats that can be fun to watch even if the game isn't.

But, Baseball. Is. Boring. The players are dull, unless they're sticking their easily-led noses into celebrity marriages (*cough*A-Rod*cough*). The action is slow unless (pleasepleaseplease) the pitcher manages to bean the hitter. The expression on the faces of the participants is even bored, as they chaw on their tabaccky and scratch their crotches. Going to the actual game, while slightly more enjoyable than the straightjacket that is the televised version, is merely an excuse to get soused on warm overpriced beer, eat greasy overpriced food, and yell obscenities at the top of one's lungs.

"America's pastime," my butt. It may have been America's pastime when there was no television (I've already conceded that it's slightly better in person, and I'll agree that it doesn't completely suck over the radio), and when football and hockey were just regional timekillers. But that day has passed, and baseball has not kept up with the times. There are still entirely too many games for entirely too many teams with entirely too low scores and entirely too little happens.

I can ignore it most of the year, relegated as it is to weekends and/or the sports channels. But then comes October, and suddenly it's on network TV in the middle of the week. No, I don't care that it's the World Series, especially because with the exception of maybe one Japanese exhibition game and the Toronto Blue Jays, it's still only American. Would you believe this snoozer is actually in the Olympics? But I digress.

October, and the stupid World Series. As we've established, baseball is boring. You know what's not boring? Bones. Simpsons. Family Guy. American Dad. Terminator. And all these lovely shows will be pre-empted by baseball, baseball, baseball, baseball.

Last night, Husband and I sat down for our regular Wednesday night viewing: Bones at 9, followed by South Park at 10. But, what's this? Why is Tivo not recording Bones?! We restarted the modem this afternoon, it's been recording everything else, is something not connected? Is there... oh wait... and we clicked over to the regular input and sure enough, there are people in ugly gray and red uniforms standing around and staring at people in ugly white and blue uniforms. This also happened last Sunday, and will happen again this Sunday, come hell or high water. And, god help us, if the Rays manage to beat the Phillies in one game, it will happen again this coming Monday, and possibly next Wednesday. Fox has already scheduled repeats of Terminator and Bones in preparation for the unfortunate event that the Rays won't completely bite the dust and that the viewing public will be held hostage for - I mean, treated to - more baseball.

Yes of course I can watch Chuck at 8pm on NBC on Monday instead of pouting through baseball, and I will. But as for the rest of it... well, at least I can catch up on my Netflix.

Happy Dance!

2008-10-16T10:57:00.001-04:00

I had to tighten my belt a notch yesterday! Joy of joys!

We'll have to see how long it stays that way, of course, but in the meantime, happy dances for all!

Scary Morning

2008-10-10T08:56:00.010-04:00

I literally paid off my car two weeks ago. I received the title in the mail earlier this week. I should be jumping for joy that my lovely car is now 100% mine-all-mine. I should be revelling in the fact that I have one less bill to pay every month.

But, pessimist that I am, I'm instead gingerly turning the key in the ignition every morning, waiting for the engine to fall out.

And this morning proved that I'm not too far off base.

I turn on the car this morning and my eyes go straight to the gas gauge because I noticed last night that I was getting low and probably need to fill up and isn't it convenient that I'm seeing $3.29 gas offered at the same time. This morning, the gas gauge is pointing to full-on "E", yet the "you have no gas" light is not on and/or blinking. The gauge wavers sometimes depending on the incline of the car, so I don't pay it too much mind; maybe it just needs to warm up. The temperature gauge is all the way at "C" after all.

I'm leaving the neighborhood, but I notice the gauges haven't changed. Again, I don't pay it any mind, because I know that even though my tank was low, I had enough to get me to and from work today, and then some.

About a half mile from my house, the panicked realization sets in. The gas gauge isn't moving. The temperature gauge isn't moving. THE SPEEDOMETER AND TACHOMETER AREN'T MOVING.

Crap. Oh crap.

I consider my options. The brakes are working, so the entire thing's not shutting down (I had a car do that once while I was in motion.) The radio and lights are on, so I don't think it's electrical. What else could it be?? I could go to the nearby automotive shop, but I have no idea how long they'll need to keep my car or how many other jobs they have lined up that day, I have no other ride to work, and I know that there will probably be a sizeable train-wreck of a document awaiting my speed-demon review. I could chance it and just go to work, but the prospect of driving 66 in morning rush hour with no certainty as to how fast I'm going, or whether the engine is going to suddenly cut out, is not appealing at all.

I decide to take it to the shop. It's just too risky to myself and others to do otherwise. The document will be in crappy shape no matter what I do, there are others on the QC Team to handle it, I can work some extra hours next week to make up for whatever I miss today, and I can probably beg Husband or Friend Michelle to pick me up and take me to work. Not a great plan, but it's the best option on the table.

The nice boy at the counter (he couldn't have been more than 22, and they're much more pleasant at 7:45 am than they are at 5:30 pm) takes down my information, and then does something uncharacteristic of many auto-repair people. Most auto-repair people would simply confiscate my car and return it at the end of the day with a sizeable bill regardless of how much work was or was not done. Instead, Nice Boy politely asks if I tried re-starting the car. Well no, I haven't. He suggests we go try that out and see if anything changes.

Lo and behold! Nice Boy is magical! The engine turns over and the dials all move. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief, thank him profusely, and am on my way. Apparently a car is much like a computer: if you're seeing abnormal things, try a restart.

I'm thrilled that my car is functioning and that the repair didn't cost a cent. I am also, however, a little embarrassed to reinforce the stereotype of "those woman drivers."

Money Money Money Money

2008-09-30T10:53:00.021-04:00

Welcome to Depression 2.0. If you disagree, that's fantastic for you, but I'm a pessimist by nature and that's just how I see it.

Yesterday the House voted to kill the $700 billion-with-a-B bailout plan, and while I'll admit up front to neither knowing nor frankly understanding the particulars, I have to say I'm glad. This is something that I would have been paying for until my retirement, my children would be paying for until their retirement, and likely my grandchildren and great-grandchildren would be paying for until THEIR retirement, and probably a generation or two after that. While I am aware and I agree that something needs to be done, I don't necessarily support the government whisking in with flags waving, fanfares blaring, and my forthcoming taxes at the ready to save the crooks who put all their eggs in one basket called Shady Mortgages. Furthermore, I don't support patchwork plans that cost more money than most of us can fathom and offer no assurance whatsoever of success.

Something that bothers me in the aftermath is all the finger pointing going on in the wake of the bill's demise. The facts are that the bill was voted down in the House 228 to 205; of the 205 Ayes (to approve the bill), 140 were Democrats and 65 were Republicans; of the 228 Noes (to decline the bill), 95 were Democrats and 133 were Republicans; one Republican abstained.

The Republicans are laying the blame squarely on House Speaker Nancy Pelosi's (D-CA) speech just prior to the vote. It was rumored that the Ayes had it on both sides of the aisle prior to the vote, so what happened? Some said she scared and upset the Republicans into voting against the bill, thereby giving the majority to the Noes; that because Pelosi's speech took so many digs at Republicans, the Republicans took their proverbial ball and went home. House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-OH) said that the speech "poisoned" the Republicans against the bill and, "I do believe that we could have gotten there today, had it not been for the partisan speech that the Speaker gave on the floor of the House." I'll agree that she was unnecessarily ideological and bitter in her speech (transcript here, for your reading pleasure.), but to that reasoning, I say, pbbbbbbbbbbt! Two weeks ago, two days ago, two minutes ago, you could have heard, up and down the halls of the House, Republicans taking any opportunity for another potshot at Pelosi et al. (To be fair, you could have heard the Democrats doing the same thing regarding the Republicans, but that's beside the point.) So since when are Republicans so moved and/or scared by anything Pelosi says or does that they would instantaneously change their vote? If the bill was such a shining example of bipartisan legislation, since when do personal feelings come into play? Congresspeople are figureheads, meant to represent the beliefs and opinions of their constituents. I know, my naivete is showing. But if the bill is bad, cop to it and say so. Don't whine and say, "She was mean to me!" You're big boys and girls now. Use your words. Furthermore, when people are this scared and the future is this foggy and/or bleak, how dare you even suggest that Republicans would vote against an ostensible economic - oh let's use McCain's semantics for it - "rescue" solely because of hurt feelings and insult?

Democrats by and large seem to be throwing up their hands, blaming the Republicans for killing the bill. Pelosi's reaction included statements such as, "Today, when the legislation came to the floor, the Democratic side more than lived up to its side of the bargain." There were various iterations to similar effect. Representative James Clyburn (D-SC) said, "...we came to the floor today with a piece of legislation that the members of our caucus decided was in the best interest of the country. And 60 percent of [the Democrats] put aside all of their individual feelings, emotions, experiences, and voted for this bill. Sixty-seven percent of the Republican Conference decided to put political ideology ahead of the best interests of our great nation." But let's not get too comfortable on that there high horse, Clyburn. If the bill was such a good plan, why didn't every Democrat in the room join hands in support of it? Democrats could have carried the bill without participation of a single Republican, but 95 Democrats voted against the bill. As Representative Pete Viscloskey (D-IN) said, "We are now in the golden age of thieves. And where I come from we put thieves in jail, we don't bail them out."

I've heard the media - several different outlets - painting the Republicans who voted against the bill in response to a flood of calls and emails from their constituents as weak and easily swayed because they by and large happened to also be up for re-election. The up-for-re-election business aside (because it would [okay, does] dismay me that voting one's constituency is an activity that is only seen during one's election year), I have this to say: um, that's their job, to vote the way their constituents tell them to. As I said earlier, they are Representatives, as in, representing the opinions and beliefs of the people who voted them into office. Under no circumstances should they vote their own beliefs when those beliefs go against the grain of their represented public, and don't you dare give me a line like, "Well the people voted the Rep in because s/he embodied the people's beliefs, so any way the Rep votes will thus be the way the people would have voted." That's crap logic. When your constituents tell you overwhelmingly to vote one way, you vote that way. Don't paint Representatives as villains because they voted their constituency. The people said no, so the answer is no. In fact, the real villains are the ones that pretend their constituency doesn't exist, that vote only their own opinions, as if they alone were in charge of how the vote should go.

Oh, but John Q. American Public, don't think you get to slide by unscathed. Today, Steven Pearlstein points the finger at you. It's YOUR fault that no solution is in hand. "The basic problem here is that too many people don't understand the seriousness of the situation. Americans fail to understand that they are facing the real prospect of a decade of little or no economic growth because of the bursting of a credit bubble that they helped create and that now threatens to bring down the global financial system." Really, Stevie? For two solid weeks, we're told that the sky is falling, that history is repeating itself 78 years and 11 months later, that we're all completely screwed, and we'd better go get in line early for the soup kitchen. We get that the problem is serious, that something BIG is going down. But I'll agree with you that we don't fully grasp the matter at hand. Why is that, do you think, Mr. Pearlstein? I posit to you that the people who get all this, who were at the root of the problem, who govern the subject, and who study it in depth, are collectively a very, very rare bird. Those of us who know finance only so far as to pay what the bill tells us to every month are collectively a much more common animal. So where do you get off taking me to task because I do not thrill at the sight of an Economics text? I pay people to be on top of that for me, just like people pay me to make sure they don't sound like blithering idiots to the client. However, those people, like yourself, who smugly sneer at silly little ignorant me, have yet to provide any comprehensive explanation of the problem in real-person words. How am I expected to "come to understand how deep the hole really is and how we're all in it together" without someone explaining to me that there is a hole, that it is this wide and this deep, and its walls are coated with this many slimy things and full of this many loose rocks? Jim Jubak, bless his heart, at least makes an attempt. And finally, thanks Steven, for closing with your holier-than-thou lament for what might have been: "In better times, the public might have put aside its reluctance in response to the strong and unified recommendation of political and business leaders. But it is a measure of how little trust remains in both Washington and Wall Street that voters are willing to risk a serious hit to their wealth and income rather than follow their lead." You're right that Washington and Wall Street have been stripping away every reason we have to trust that they know what they're doing. But just because someone takes the lead doesn't make them a good or knowledgeable leader.

I've said before that I honestly don't know how this all happened, what it all means, what's going to happen next, how it affects me and mine, or how we're going to get out of it. I don't know the details of the bill, I don't know how finance and markets and notes and bonds and all that crap works. That's for Sister, the finance major, to understand. Ha!

But here's what I think and here's what I know.

You don't put a band-aid on a gushing artery. The catastrophic failure and shaky prop-ups came to a head only last week. How in the hell did anyone think that a bill originated and concluded between then and Monday would be solid enough to win confidence from anyone? It was simply put together too fast and we all know that hasty, reactionary moves lead to nothing but more disaster down the line. Time was not taken to explore the alternatives, to consider other paths. It was as though the drafters got this idea into their heads and touted it as the only way to go, and since they're supposed to be the big experts, no one asked for anything else before putting it to the House floor. No one asked whether it was a good plan, or just A plan. This was a shell of a bill, a wad of gum in the hole in the dam, a strip of duct tape over the crack in the foundation. Rather than simply reacting, I think they need to take a step back and consider what's really happening, what's at the root, and how to prevent it from happening again. Deferral of the problem to coming generations, and faith that the future will turn it all around and make it all better, is foolish.

OMG U R SO S2PID!

2008-09-18T10:15:00.025-04:00

PUT IT DOWN! Yes I'm talking to you. You with the phone surgically grafted to your head, or with permanently crooked thumbs because you can't go five seconds without texting.

The world has gone completely mad. I should have seen it coming. I thought it was odd and amusing when I carried on a conversation for a couple of minutes with someone at Target, only to realize that they didn't know I existed - they were talking into their earpiece. I began to worry when I learned that 10-year-olds were taking remedial English summer camps because texting had taken such a toll on their linguistic abilities. But it all came crashing down on me today when a Friend Who Shall Remain Nameless admitted to texting me while s/he was driving. But only at stoplights, so it's okay, right?

No, Friend! Not okay! That is super-dangerous, even at a stoplight. Would you read a book while driving?? It's dangerous enough using printed directions in the car, and those aren't interactive. You text only at stops right now. But how long until you text just this once while moving? And from then how long until it becomes commonplace driving activity? You already said your Significant Other does it all the time. How long until s/he's so busy texting you that s/he misses the traffic jam coming up, and plows into the line of cars at 50 mph? An engineer in L.A. was texting while operating a moving train just last week, missed a signal, and killed 25 people in the ensuing wreck; and operating a train doesn't even require the same level of visual attention and concentration that operating a car does.

In fact, be forewarned, if I find out you're again texting me while in any gear other than Park, I will immediately cease communication. This goes for everyone. I will not be part of this. If you want to communicate with me, CALL ME! I know, I know, that limits you to only talking to one person at a time, but sacrifices must be made, and your eyes will at least remain on the road.

I've grown to see texting as just one more way that technology has allowed us to not interact. And while the misanthrope in me sometimes welcomes the opportunity not to have to talk directly to someone, the rest of me knows that it's not a good direction for society and civilization as a whole.

Here's a nasty little factoid: according to an article I've seen in several places (but I'm going to quote from the one posted on slashdot.org), in a survey of 6500 travelling executives, 35% of them said they would choose their PDA over their spouse, and 87% bring their PDA into the bedroom. And back in April, Madonna thought the world should know that she and her husband, Guy Ritchie, sleep with their Blackberries under their pillows. Madonna claimed that she wanted to be able to write something down in case she woke up in the middle of the night and wanted to remember it; Guy apparently takes his to bed to play games on it. First, Madonna, it's called a pen and paper - look into it. And Guy, seriously? How old are you again?

I will admit I am not 100% innocent in all this. No, Mom, I never text while driving. But I do spend the entire workday on Gmail and Gmail Chat. In my defense, I am stationary and not in command of a vehicle, and it does not interfere with my work because, frankly, I have no work to do. Eight hours is a long time to do nothing. It often feels like three weeks have passed in my 8-hour computer-bound seclusion. In my excessively bored state, having gone through the copious websites I use to entertain myself and it being blatantly unprofessional to crack open a book or bring my cross-stitch or paint my toenails, I harass my friends to talk with me.

However, there are times and places for these things. At the office, I'm on the computer anyway, in case some work happens to flow my way (it sometimes happens). Your phone, however, you have to actively choose to utilize, whatever you may be utilizing it for.

I have encountered people texting me from doctors' waiting rooms, even in doctors' exam rooms. I've noticed as people blatantly disregard the "Please turn your cell phone off!" sign in medical offices, airplanes, movie theaters; not only do they ignore those signs, but they actively use the offending instrument. Folks, I know it's boring and gray there and that the wait may drag on, but you can find something more reasonable to occupy your time, can't you?

I have watched people, on multiple occasions, initiate personal calls while we're having a meal in a restaurant. Is my razor-sharp wit and sparkling personality not enough for you? If so, invite more people, or don't have dinner with me.

I have seen people take personal calls right in the middle of small parties. To me, that's as crass as lighting up a cigarette in a roomful of non-smokers. At least take it outside!

Cellphones have become an indispensable part of modern culture. And I know that. And that's fine. I carry mine (mostly) everywhere, though I have yet to utilize 90% of the features included on even my bargain-basement model. All I'm advocating for is a little bit of realism - the point at which we step back from an action and say, "Wow, this is not smart," or "I can't believe I even thought of doing that." It's bad enough that there's no recourse against those who cross the lines of social mores and bring we fellow Kmart Shoppers and moviegoers in on the details of their best friend's sister's coworker's breakup, or enlighten us as to where and what the cat barfed. It's important to know our realistic limits, especially those that severely compromise the safety of ourselves and those around us. Reallocating eyes and at least one hand while driving should be clearly on the other side.

Register This

2008-09-04T09:57:00.002-04:00

I have had it. I've read one too many letters to advice columnists about the evils of wedding registries, and I just want to tell everyone to can it already.

Having nearly exited my 20s, I cannot tell you how many weddings I have attended or been a part of. I could sit here and count, but I'd rather get right up on my high horse and make everyone listen to me instead.

I love registries. I love them for weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, showers. I love getting a gift for my friend to celebrate their momentous occasion, whatever it may be, and knowing that my friend actually wants this thing. I love not having to stress over whether I'm giving my friend her 20th spice rack (sorry Stephanie!) because I was taking a shot in the dark. Don't you hate it when you ask someone what they'd like for their ______ (insert occasion here), and they say, "I don't know"? I certainly do, because now the onus is on me to find something fabulous.

Look, people, no event is gift-mandatory. If you don't want to give a gift, then don't give one. If you *want* to give a gift and you know exactly what the recipient would like, bully for you. But if you *want* to give a gift, and if you *can't think of anything* on your own, a gift registry is a blessing. That is the whole point of registering.

I know some people have ruined it for the rest of us and either enclose registry information in the invitation, or demand gift receipts, or get all bent out of shape if you get them something *not* on the registry. But that's a mark on your friend's character, and it's up to you after that whether you want to remain friends with those people. I have no defense for them.

But don't take it out on the well-meaning register-er (registree?). The registry is not your enemy. It is a dumb and passive tool if you want to use it. The register-er is not saying, "We've picked out exactly what we want you to buy." They're saying, "If you want to get us something but don't know what to get us, here are some ideas that we can volunteer."

So everyone, chill. Use it if you want. Don't use it if you don't. And if your friend has crossed lines of politeness, re-evaluate the friendship.

That is all.

What Is Wrong With You People?!

2008-08-29T15:32:00.010-04:00

I read an article in the Washington Post yesterday that made me blind with fury about what it supposedly means to be a parent in this day and age.

For your consideration, I offer you Angst 101: Packing Lunch.

Go ahead and give it a read. I'll wait.

******************************

What did you think? Is your head reeling too? Do you want to punch someone, you're so fed up with parenting one-upmanship nowadays?

When I went to school, I ate cafeteria food every day. And much like camp food, despite how much I complained about it, it tasted good enough. Furthermore the nitrates and artifical coloring and high fructose corn syrup and partially hydrogenated vegetable oils that terrify the child-worshipping parents today managed to neither kill me, turn me into a diabetic, sap my attention span, nor drive me to homicidal mania. And when I went to day camp during the summer, my parents sent me with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a piece of fruit, a small baggie of chips, and a juice box pretty much every day until I decided that cold cut turkey and ham were acceptable. I know. They're bad parents and CPS should have stepped in and saved me.

Now apparently cold cuts and Capri Sun aren't good enough for today's children. Today's children must be sent with horizon-expanding (and tastebud constricting) things like (did you read the article?) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce, and quail eggs, and muffins fortified with flaxseed and brewer's yeast.

Are you out of your goddamned minds?

Ms. Becker. I could have told you from the beginning that your toddler would reject your flaxseed and brewer's yeast muffins. It doesn't matter that she's never had a muffin before. Bad tastes Bad. Simple as that. Toddler's and children-in-general's tastebuds are attuned to sweet and salty; sour appeals as they grow older, and bitter becomes acceptable when they are 18. Bland is never okay unless they are sick. But you don't realize that because you're willing to merely react to every potential threat out there instead of actually mulling it over for a second or two (these are the people who buy books called Super Baby Foods. Newsflash: making your own baby foods will not make your child better, faster, smarter, stronger. If you want to do it just 'cuz, that fine; but don't kid yourself.)

Of course, the marketers are only too happy to feed the fears that You, yes YOU!, are the source of all the world's ills. Exhibit A is a quote from Thermos Canada, as found in the aforelinked article: "Today, how you pack your children's lunch is just as important as what you put in it. Did you know that Canada is the second highest per capita producer of municipal solid waste in the world? And school lunches are a major source of waste."

Disgusting. In this day and age, when we acknowledge that the pressure to be The Perfect Everything is too high, we're only raising the bar for ourselves. Now you're a bad parent if you send your kid to public school, if you don't pack their lunch for them, if you don't take care to make sure that everything in there is organic and low carb and no fat and high fiber, and god help you if you decide that working is more important to the well-being of your family than being ready with a plate of uberhealthy flaxseed fortified muffins when they come home from school. (Note: That was not a dig at stay-at-home parents, especially those who have made that choice consciously and deliberately. But even you know the kind of people I'm talking about there.)

Let's address some of the points and questions from the article:

How to package the lunch: PVC-free or PEVA vinyl? Or Neoprene? or Taste-Neutral Aluminum? Who cares? Everything gives you cancer now, so the lunch box will too. At least brown paper bags break down in the dirt.
""I remember growing up having the same peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich every day, and that's not okay with me," said Lindsey Paige Savoie of the District, who makes sure to pack a variety of foods each day for her son Caleb." What on earth was not all right about that? Now you're killing yourself to "make things better" for your son, when really it's all about your hangups? Grab the Jif and call a therapist.
"The crumbs in the Tupperware container say it all. You know instantly whether meatloaf dumplings were a success or a bust." Easy answer. BUST.

The real kicker was when Ms. Debbie Hamilton of San Francisco, a promoter of using the Japanese bento box style of lunch packaging, enlightened us with the things she has foisted upon her kid: quail eggs, Tuscan squid, and (as I mentioned above) grilled skate wing with chili sambal sauce. Also discussed are her "leftover makeovers" such as turning curried vegetables from last night's dinner (I kid you not) into dumplings for the kid's lunch.

How much did that crap cost?! I guarantee you, Ms. Hamilton, your son does not know what skate is aside from the thing that goes on your foot (and in case you don't either, I direct you here). And I, in my nearly 30 years on this planet, have never heard of chili sambal sauce, cannot place its ethnicity, and cannot imagine why you would put anything with a sauce in a kid's lunch. Where does one even buy skate wing?? And those dumplings were dumped as soon as he got to school.

"But the beauty of bento, as she sees it, is its ability to accommodate all sorts of foods and palates and present it in a way that entices kids." What, you're an advertising rep for your kid's lunch now? And how many palates are you expecting your kid to have? You're not expanding his horizons, you're creating a picky eater. And now that we've discussed how her son eats fancier food for lunch than I have even seen on a restaurant menu, allow me to drive the nail into the coffin:

"But she draws the line at trying to turn her son's lunch into food art. "I am wary of setting the bar too high," she said. "I don't want my kid to expect a fabulous creation every day."" Yes, Debbie, we can see that.

I have to say, though I've never met her, I hate this person. Or at least the person she represents.

She's the one at every PTA meeting with the sweater tied around her shoulders, the one measuring the grass in my lawn to make sure it's no more than the allotted 2.5", and the one sending nastygrams when a shingle is dislodged from my roof during a thunderstorm. The one who sneers when she learns I send my kid to public school. Who's appalled that I order a pizza when I'm too tired to cook. That I don't take joy in packing every single minute of my child's day with activities so that I can nurture their creativity... by smothering their creativity.

To all you parents out there: If you pack quail guts garnished with pigs' feet decorated in a red bow in your kid's $100 lunch box, chances are, he is going to open it, look at it, gag, throw it away, bum $5 off his BFF and go purchase a salted pretzel with a side of cheese fries for lunch.*

(*Thanks to Friend Michelle for the quote!)

Two Hours for a TV

2008-08-26T09:54:00.004-04:00

I mentioned that the August Birthday Bash of 2008 had come and gone in the last post, and I'll admit that a recap was notably absent. That's because there was nothing to note at this year's minigala except that AuntZ managed to convince Grandad to wear a SpongeBob party hat, which was out of character in a good way.

The Bash was held this year at my father's house, about a 50-minute one-way drive from our place. We got there on time, which is to say, about a hour before AuntZ, CousinZ, and Grandad arrived. In between fretting over where they could be (he's old, he's stubborn, he moves slowly, and he's not allowed to make that drive himself anymore - they're going to be late, it's okay), Dad took us on a tour of the house and regaled us with all of his planned renovations. Apparently he's having painters come this week, so he asked Husband if Husband would help him move the ginormous TV in the basement so that the entertainment center could be pulled away from the wall in preparation for the painters.

Sure, no problem, Husband is helpful like that. But before they got to it, Dad had another martini and got chatting, and it escaped his mind entirely. Then Aunt/Cousin/Grand showed up and we were doing the family thing, and the evening progressed as normal.

Last week I received an email from Dad. Had a great time, thanks for coming, oh and could you and Husband come back out here this weekend to help move the TV?

...Sure.

So last Saturday morning, instead of revelling in our original absence of plans, Husband and I embarked on another 50-minute drive to Dad's house to move a TV. In my family, a TV is rarely just a TV, so we anticipated a few other heavy-lifting activities on the schedule.

We arrived a little after 11, the appointed time. Dad's outside chatting with the pest control guy on his quarterly visit. And chatting. Husband and I wait on the steps. He's still chatting. We take a pass around the house, and when we've made the full circuit, He's Still Chatting. They must have been talking for the better part of 15 minutes while Husband and I stood around. Whatever. So Pest Man leaves and we go inside. I put down my purse and head to the bathroom, saying I'll join them downstairs in just a minute.

By the time I get downstairs, ready to help, the TV has been moved. And that's all we're doing. Husband and I kind of stare at each other. Seriously? We're not moving the rest of the bookshelf? No, he hasn't boxed up his movies yet. We're not moving the credenza? No, he hasn't moved the stuff out of it yet, and he can take care of that. So really, with today's gas prices, you asked us to make a 50-minute drive... to literally just move a TV? To move a TV five feet from its original location? Something you could have slipped the painters $10 to do themselves? It's not an unreasonably heavy piece - I've helped him move it before.

He asked if we wanted to stay for lunch but, um, no. In hindsight, we should have had him take us out to Fireworks - at least we would have been compensated with a free meal.

Wet Floor

2008-08-25T10:43:00.007-04:00

It is a little-known, but well-evidenced, fact that I live next to the crappiest Giant in the county. The produce is always mostly rotted or not even remotely ripe, the shelves are rarely stocked, the deli workers are surly, and the fish section is completely gone. However, the geniuses reached a new low last weekend.

I was making a mad dash last Saturday to get the makings of the cake I had to bake for this year's Annual August Birthday Bash (you'll remember last year's, I'm sure). I hadn't showered, but had merely thrown on enough clothing so as to not terrify small children and/or lose time by being thrown in the clink for indecent exposure. In short, a ratty tee, handy jeans, and my cheapo flip-flops. I'm not looking my best, but I'm going to dash in and out and attract no attention.

I'm burning through the produce section when I see a Wet Floor sign in my path. Well I'm not going to go halfway across the store to avoid a patch that may or may not actually be wet (those signs tend to stay out long after the floor is dry, or maybe that was just a convenient place to stash the sign so they didn't have to walk all the way back to the storage room), but I do take care to tread a little more carefully.

All for naught, as it seems. The next thing I know, I'm skating across linoleum, sliding down the sign, and landing heavily on my hip. (My self-defense teacher would have been proud of the landing at least.) Fear not, Rosie Fans, I received only scratches and a couple of ugly bruises, nothing serious. Shaken but not stirred, I get up, dust myself off, collect the scattered shards of my dignity, and continue on, brushing off the entourage of stockers who are now asking me in every breath, "Are you OK? Are you sure?," though until this point, they were passively stocking squashed tomatoes or rock-hard peaches or whatever.

First, my little stocker people, get the manager and have them have me sign a waiver so I won't sue your asses.

Next, this could all have been avoided. I recall clearly from my food service days that the Wet Floor sign is not an idle warning. It does not absolve the sign placer of liability when a person breaks into impromptu Ice Capades. Rather than a mere CYA or Caveat Emptor notification, its purpose is to alert passersby to the presence of a slippery substance in their path WHILE YOU ARE IN THE BACK, GETTING THE MOP OR PAPER TOWELS TO REMOVE THE LIQUID ON SAID FLOOR. Instead of getting such a drying material, you just put out the sign and proceeded to go about your business. Responsible of you.

I will say, however, that it was with amusement as I walked away that I noted the stockers now scurrying to find some rags to put down.

Heartbreak

2008-08-09T13:26:00.004-04:00

BERNIE MAC DIED! OF PNEUMONIA! AT AGE 50! WHO DIES OF PNEUMONIA THESE DAYS!?

Actually a fair number of people, it seems, because just over a month ago, my great uncle Marty (Mom's father's brother) passed away from pneumonia. Marty was like a second (third?) grandfather to me. I didn't write a tribute to him in here, like I did for my grandmother in February, largely because so much was going on in my life at the time. Also, whereas I saw Grandma's deterioration for a long time and was more prepared for it, Marty's death was out of the blue - he fell, and while the fall didn't hurt him physically, surprise!, he was given maybe a week to live because the undiagnosed pneumonia had progressed so far.

Marty was in his 80s, and a lifelong smoker, which is a normal demographic for pneumonia to be a real concern. It was sudden, and painful, but at least it was... I don't know... not unusual. But seriously, how does a 50-year old man die of pneumonia in this day and age? I had pneumonia when I was 3, and while all I remember of it was a whirl of people and lights in the emergency room, I understand that it's not comfortable. So how did it go undiagnosed in an otherwise healthy 50-year old?!

(Rosie's Update 08/11: Apparently Bernie Mac had been suffering from a tissue inflammation disease called sarcoidosis since 1983, and that it manifested primarily in his lungs. His publicist said the pneumonia was unrelated to the sarcoidosis, but when you've had problems with your lungs for 25 years, you probably tend to assume that whatever doesn't feel right with them is related to that, and that you know how to deal with it. Until it's too late. Sigh.)

I adored Bernie Mac. He was half the reason I kept watching the Ocean's # series, despite the waste of pixels that was the second one. The world seems a little less funny without him in it.

Weird

2008-07-30T09:30:00.002-04:00

I saw an Asian man in a plastic cowboy hat walking down Chain Bridge Road this morning.

I Don't Miss You

2008-07-25T12:26:00.015-04:00

In my previous post, I listed The Good, the people at Old Company whom I miss and who actually made working there at least remotely tolerable. Here, I introduce you to The Bad (those who meant well, but usually bungled, making my time more difficult), and The Ugly (those who made my life plain miserable.)

THE BAD

BOSSMAN

BossMan was a genuinely nice guy, but his managerial skills left a fair bit to be desired. He seemed distinctly detached from his employees, and never seemed to really grasp the depth of the mistakes or the transgressions they were making. He didn’t stay there late with us when the cards were down (he’d be accessible via his Crackberry until all hours, but it’s a different feeling when you’re chained to your desk until 3 in the morning.) He was a man of contradictions: he said he couldn’t stand “Yes-men,” but missed it when his engineers would do just that; he said he didn’t care about people’s feelings and that he’d fire people in an instant, yet he kept entirely too many of them long after their expiration date (and ironically, people who should have been kept on frequently went to the chopping block); he sort of floated along in a haze no matter how many problems Production brought to his attention, but rather than nip those problems in the bud at the onset and steer the Failboat back on course, he would wait until the problem became a project-threatening crisis and then he would yell at people for a while.

Ah, the yelling, the hallmark of our daily 9 a.m. stand-up meetings (no, seriously, sitting down was verboten because the meeting was going to be quick… or, more accurately, an hour long…) Every single day, it seemed, BossMan would bring fire and brimstone to the table. The trouble with yelling at the general population every day is that after a while, it just becomes an annoying buzz. He never yelled at Production – we never gave him reason – but the engineers were fair game. If you’re doing your job as a manager, there should be no need to yell at your employees.

When he wasn’t yelling, he was offering spotty direction. The big winner, the one that killed even the last shreds of my faith in his judgment, actually came to light in my last week. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that we had recalled the last submittal (the one that I killed myself to get out on time, and that I had set as the point when I could leave in good conscience), and one of the designers was adding client-required text to his section of the design report. Unfortunately, the new text increased the page count for his section (the first in the document), which would have caused us to repaginate and reprint the entire 200+ page report because the page numbering format was Page X of Y, and if this section increased in size, “Y” would also increase, meaning that every page would have to be altered. BossMan refused to reprint the whole thing based on cost, but we had to keep the page numbering static, and the new text was critical. BossMan’s solution: number the first few pages in the section 13A, 13B, 14A, and 14B, etc., until we were back on track to end at the original page 26. My professionalism forbade that (though I think I would have paid money to see Commander’s reaction to that suggestion), and I instead altered the font size just enough to retain the original pagination. But seriously. Page 13A?? You would be willing to submit that to the client?

At his core, BossMan was a truly nice person. Not nice enough to make up for the weak management, which is why he’s found in The Bad, but certainly too good to fall into The Ugly.

FLANDERS

Everyone knows Ned Flanders, the ever-chipper, uber-religious nemesis of Homer Simpson. That image you have in your mind is the perfect equivalent of one of our architects.

Flanders would take the time to make the rounds of the office every morning to say Hi to everyone. Flanders brought back gifts from visits to the client site. Flanders never cursed, never yelled, never had a bad thing to say about anybody. But Flanders was a straight-up buffoon.

The man could never meet a deadline, could never prioritize the work to be done, rarely finished one task before being distracted by another, was always rushing but producing little, could not get work out of his underlings, and was too soft-hearted to recommend firing those on his team who needed it. I grew to hate those morning rounds because I knew how much time that took up in a day and it was that much time he wasn’t spending on his work, which would be unconscionably late and often unfinished. He became an office joke because of it. He was quick to give me status updates on things he hadn’t provided me yet, and quicker still to say “I’m sorry” for his missed deadlines – to the point that the words "I'm sorry" are empty to me now, and they only inflamed me further. Don’t update me, don’t apologize – you’re wasting time that you could be spending on your work! He also regularly offered to buy the Production staff meals as a way to make up to us that we were there after hours, on weekends, at 2 a.m., working on things he’d given us only an hour before, and already very late. Because that will make up for it. You turned this in extremely late, but you bought us pizza, so it all washes. I don’t think anyone in the entire organization made me as regularly furious and frustrated as Flanders did.

But in the end, he always meant well, which is why he only rates The Bad instead of The Ugly.

LURCH

Why do we call him Lurch? He was tall, gangly, never seemed to have an expression or a reaction to anything, and never seemed to be rooted in the present.

Lurch used to be the lead architect. But he was quickly found out as incompetent, and was demoted. That should say something right there. Lurch should have been fired long ago, but as fate would have it, he became very sick and ended up on disability for a long while. He recovered from his illness substantially enough to return to work in May, much to the chagrin of most of the office. Don’t misunderstand – we were glad he was recovered and felt well enough to return to work. We were just sorry he returned to work. Lurch was the subject the only time I ever heard Flanders speak less than saintly about anyone: we were closing in on a submittal and client comment response, and Flanders was bordering on nervous breakdown (again). I was there late as well, and was making chitchat in the kitchenette with Flanders, when I heard him complain that Lurch wasn’t doing anything; that every time he gave Lurch a client comment to respond to, Lurch would sit at the design table and flip through the drawings again and again, until Flanders came back to realize that Lurch had neither done the response, nor even made a single note toward that end, so Flanders had to do that too. Basically, Lurch was sitting dumbly at the design table, taking up space and costing money. This all may sound callous of me. Rosie, how can you say such a thing about the recovering ill? But here’s how I see it: if the recovering ill are well enough to return to work, they need to be well enough to do work. There’s a certain amount of slack to be cut for them while they get back up to speed, but I have no respect for sitting still and making absolutely no progress while everyone else races around to meet deadlines.

He narrowly misses The Ugly because a) I worked with him very little, and b) he was out of the office for over 6 months, so he didn’t have enough chances to piss me off.

THE UGLY

CRUNCHY

Crunchy, an electrical engineer, seemed innocuous at first, but he quickly became one of the absolute worst people with whom I’ve ever worked. I named him Crunchy because he was very Granola: shopped exclusively at Whole Foods, biked to work, ingested nothing impure, and made sure everyone knew it and knew what was wrong with what THEY were doing. I heard him harass Awesome Admin 1 regularly as to the use of high-fructose corn syrup in this food item or that. Once when I was making a mid-day Target run, I good-naturedly asked him if he needed me to pick him up anything (I usually asked the people in my proximity). He gladly accepted, asking me to pick him up sugar-free, caffeine-free herbal cough drops. Do what now? (Turned out he wanted Ricola.)

The problem with Crunchy was that he hadn’t matured emotionally past the age of 8. Whiny, elitist, chauvinistic, self-righteous, and quick to anger, are all terms I would use to describe him. He would interrupt you in a heartbeat, but god help you if you returned the favor. His work was most important, far more important than yours, and if CADD was too busy with other work to do Crunchy’s drawings in the timeframe that Crunchy deemed acceptable, BossMan would often hear about it. He was never wrong. Never. And he would have screaming fights with you over the (open area!) design table if you thought otherwise. I distinctly remember one such fight with one of his underlings (who was as stubborn and as much of a bully as Crunchy was) back in August, in which Underling stormed off while Crunchy was talking and Crunchy demanded Underling’s badge on the spot, and in which the yelling got to be so overwhelming for Crunchy that he actually smacked the design table and screamed like a little boy having a temper tantrum.

I recall back in the spring when Awesome Admin 1 was still with us, and he asked her to fax something for him. Awesome Admin 1 was very busy, working furiously on the Specs for the approaching deadline. Crunchy got increasingly angry at her repeated refusals, and ended up spitting, “Fine, I’ll do it myself!” He spent probably more than five minutes trying to induce her to do it for him; it would have taken him less than two to walk over and do it himself in the first place.

I recall in May, when Crunchy was about to go on a two-week absence, he asked me to water his plants for him. It seemed a simple favor, so I said sure, no problem; how often should they be watered? He shrugged off the question as silly: “Oh just water them when you water everyone else’s plants.” In hindsight, I deeply truly wish I had simply said, “Okay, I’ll do that,” and let the damned things die. Instead, I ‘fessed up that I don’t water anyone’s plants, and he seemed annoyed at the inconvenience of having to offer a schedule.

I recall another time in late June. Note that, in preparation for this final submittal, I had printed out copies of everyone’s design reports for them to review, verify, and revise as necessary. Because Crunchy was only sporadically in the office anymore, I gave the reports for the electrical group to Crunchy’s second-in-command and let Crunchy know via email. Well, now it’s late June, the date BossMan declared as Pencils Down is tomorrow, and Crunchy has decided to start looking over his design reports. He asks me to print him copies of them. I dislike repeating work, especially if that work involves the wasting of paper, so I told him, “I printed all of your design reports and gave them to Second about a month ago, remember?” He huffs up, turns on his heel, and storms away, tossing poutily over his shoulder, “A month ago is like an ETERNITY now, Rosie!” Feel free to laugh. I did.

WEASEL

*Update 07/30/2008: I stand corrected. Lest anyone draw parallels between this individual and a certain fictional heroic mongoose, I have changed this person’s pseudonym from Rikki Tiki Tavi to Weasel. However, I hold that I cannot be held responsible for not knowing my Kipling, when I never actually read Kipling.*

Named for the creature like which he looked and behaved, this civil engineer was originally listed under merely The Bad, but the more I wrote, the more I remembered, and decided to reassign him.

Weasel was a junior civil engineer. But he wasn’t some 20-something out of college, paying his proverbial dues. He was mid-30s, and a three-time failure of the Professional Engineer (PE) exam. Apparently, fourth time was the charm (I don’t even know if they let you take the driving test four times!), because he FINALLY got his license in June. However, license in hand, he quit the same week I did. As I understand it, it was because BossMan refused to then give him the lead civil engineer spot.

Nor was this unfounded refusal. Weasel’s work was never complete. He’d say he was done, but the next day there he was, back at the design table, correcting something he’d forgotten about, after which he would say that he was *now* done. This sequence would repeat until the submittal went to print, and inevitably there would still be holes in his work big enough to drive a truck through. In those stand-up meetings, if BossMan was offering tips for or criticism of the group as a whole, Weasel was the only one to jump in and insist that whatever it was hadn’t been his fault because Thisperson hadn’t done such, and Thatperson never gave him such… Always very defensive and ready to redirect blame. A leader owns up to his misdoings, accepts that something could use adjustment, and looks for ways to ensure that such a problem doesn’t happen again. No, Weasel, you are no one’s leader.

As if the lack of professionalism wasn't bad enough, Weasel earned a reputation as a Taker. Anytime anything was provided free, he would take it. And take. And take, and take, and take. The concept of sharing or fairness seemed to elude him. CADDMan kept a pretzel barrel full of snacks for the CADDCrew - granola bars, single serve baggies of chips; Weasel would steal them every day, and never offered anything back. Awesome Admin 3 and I kept candy bowls at our desks to foster goodwill (and okay, to satisfy chocolate cravings); Weasel always had his hands in them. If a picnic or potluck were thrown, you could expect Weasel to whip out Tupperware and pack some (read: three days' worth) to take home with him. If there was leftover food from a meeting, Weasel would be on his second plateful by the time you got to the kitchen. Our office tried to institute something called Friday Treats, administered by Awesome Admin 2, in which two people on a rotating list would provide treats (bagels, doughnuts, cookies, etc) every Friday; Weasel wasn't on the list, but he was always at the Treats table. And the crowning glory: Awesome Admin 3 was gathering table items for a holiday potluck and had set out a cheap dollar-store white lacey tablecloth. When she looked for it the next day to prepare the table, the tablecloth was gone. She looked everywhere, asked everyone, sent out an email... and finally found it. Weasel had assumed that, since it was left out in the open, it was free for the taking. We never could figure out what he planned to do with it.

REDNECK

You remember Redneck. I wrote him an open letter last June. This is the same guy who could not control his bodily functions behind the invisible soundproof barrier that was the threshold to his open office. But I’ll give a light shading to him here, just for fun.

Redneck was Weasel's supervisor; the main point that was in Weasel’s favor for The Bad label rather than The Ugly was that Redneck made Weasel so much better by comparison.

Redneck was from Texas, and wanted everyone to know. It was hard to miss, between the accent, the expressions, the manners, and the attitude.

I distinctly remember an argument he tried to have with Awesome Admin 1 over something that was in fact his responsibility to do, but he was simply too lazy and too poor a time-manager to do it himself. Awesome Admin 1 steadfastly refused to do it – she had enough of her own work to do, and it was his responsibility. Redneck actually pulled out this chestnut (paraphrasing): Let’s compare what it would cost per hour for him to do it, to what it would cost per hour for her to do it, and see which of these scenarios cost the company less money. Say it with me: Asshole. Classless, elitist son of a bitch.

This is also the same guy that dragged the August design report so late that I ended up putting in 139 hours in two weeks, and caused the print shop to stay operational 24-hours a day for four straight days in order to meet the deadlines we imposed. The same guy that, when I demanded he stop working on a document because it was already past due and he was just going to have to deal with unfinished work, abjectly refused and got so ugly about it that Awesome Admin 3 had to get me out of the office before I did something I might regret.

KOMRAD

Old Company tended to have a revolving door when it came to staffing. After every submittal, BossMan would be given an edict to cut the fat, and about a quarter to a third of the staff would be sloughed off. Which would be followed shortly by a hiring frenzy when it was made plain that the remaining employees couldn’t handle all the work on their own. I know, I know.

Anyway, not wanting to be part of the blood-letting, our lead structural engineer jumped ship back in January, leaving a junior engineer all alone to handle, well, a metric ton of work that he was neither prepared nor trained for. He did beautifully, considering: his work was always in on time, succinct, and complete. But it came to light in May that he was afraid they were going to make him stamp the drawings, and since he was only a junior engineer, he didn’t want that much pressure. Nevermind that, as a junior engineer, he didn’t have a stamp with which to stamp the drawings, nor could he be listed as the engineer of record because he lacked a PE certification. So maybe that was just an excuse and he didn’t want to tell BossMan that it was simply an awful working environment. Whatever.

In June, we got a new structural engineer, a real live PE. I call him Komrad because he was Russian and it’s as good a nickname as any other (Boris wouldn’t work – there was a Boris already in the company). BossMan set him to answering client comments based on the existing drawings and calcs, and asked Komrad to alert him (BossMan) to any inconsistencies or problems. Everything’s going smoothly, and Komrad has his new calcs for the client comments in on time, and we – a first! – get a submittal out at the 4 p.m. pick-up time! (Normally Commander, Colonel, CADD, and I were there at 8 p.m., frantically trying to package these things up and get them to the shipper’s airport location.) We all breathe a sigh of relief. Until the next morning, when BossMan hands me a list of tracking numbers and tells me to fax the shipper and request the halt and return of all the packages we sent out the day before. It seems Komrad had not touched or even reviewed any material that he himself had not originated, and the comments could not be answered appropriately. Commander had realized this last night as he was trying to finish up the client comment spreadsheet and package it up for shipment. Gossip in the office held that Komrad was so obstinate and such a jerk about it all that Commander and Colonel had both been induced to yelling – yes, Commander CAN yell – and demanded BossMan find a new structural engineer because this guy was simply intolerable.

So it is because of Komrad, and certainly a few others but originally because of Komrad, that I was still in the office at 5:30 p.m. on my last day with Old Company, trying frantically to reprint the new material Komrad had been convinced to provide. I nearly had a nervous breakdown because there was no way I could get it all done, and I gave a very shoddy crash-course to Colonel on everything that was left as he and I were both trying to flee the office.

So I would like to thank you, Komrad, for making my last few days at Old Company pure and utter misery.

I Miss You

2008-07-24T16:30:00.011-04:00

In my solitude (officemate hasn’t materialized as yet), my mind drifts to the people who until recently surrounded me almost every day for 18 months. And I feel a little sad that you all, my lovely readers, didn’t get to play Fly-On-The-Wall and meet these people. Therefore, I would like to offer for your entertainment, a series of character sketches of the more colorful individuals with whom I used to work. Names have been changed to hide the guilty, to mask the innocent,… and to avoid any libel suits.

I begin with the Good: an overview of the people I left at Old Company only regretfully. In truth, my heart and gut still twist a little at having abandoned them. In spite of all the badness to be found there, Old Company was often a fun place to work, and it was largely because of the efforts of these people.

I’ll save the, um… The Rest… for another post.

CADDMAN AND THE CADDCREW

Note: I’ve seen CADD spelled with one D and with two. Acronymfinder.com agrees that both are acceptable. But I always go with two: first, because CADD with two Ds stands for Computer-Aided Drafting and Design, and drafting is important in the work we were doing; and second, to differentiate it from the term “cad,” which according to Dictionary.com is “an ill-bred man, esp. one who behaves in a dishonorable or irresponsible way toward women,” and all of CADD were incomparable gentlemen.

CADDMan and the CADDCrew were my fellow long-suffering Production staffers; they dealt with the drawings whereas I dealt with the documents. When I left, there were just four of them; the others had either run for the hills, or been subject to the callous layoffs that seemed to follow every submittal.

CADDMan gets the superhero name because he gave off a superhero vibe. Larger than life, he was a competitive weight lifter in his spare time, and he loved nothing better at the office than hassling the engineers. He’d insult them right to their faces, and they were never sure whether he was serious or joking, because he’d always follow it up with a big laugh. Most of them wrote it off as joking. Truth is, he was pretty much always serious.

The CADDCrew were my buddies, and we’d snipe about the engineers if we heard any of them make a particularly obnoxious comment or demand, or if they got abnormally out of line. They worked as many or more late nights than I did. What the engineers failed to internalize, while they often made themselves out to be holier-than-thou to us poor pathetic non-engineers, was that the CADDCrew could do most of what the engineers could do: one had earned a degree in mechanical engineering, another one in electrical engineering, and the third had drawn so many architectural drafts that he could probably design a building on his own. However, being the class acts that they were, the CADDCrew never saw fit to wave these facts in the faces of the engineers. Besides, it was more fun to watch CADDMan surreptitiously take the gauntlet to the ingrates.

AWESOME ADMINS 1, 2, and 3

I number these ladies only in the order in which I met them, but let me add that “Administrative Assistant” is a joke of a title compared to what all they did for us. While some of the engineers got some kind of sadistic pleasure in lording their titles, salaries, education, what have you, over them, the reality is that if the Admins all up and walked out, the place would instantly fall to pieces.

Awesome Admin 1 was present at my interview and became my first close friend in the office. We shared a cube wall, and she worked the specification documents while I worked the design reports. We kept each other sane, and she rescued me from more than one corner into which I had painted myself. We both realized that this was a sinking ship about the same time, but she got out first. We still talk most days over IM, but it was a much lonelier place without her there. Not to mention a lot (LOT!) more work! Granted this post is supposed to be about the people I left behind at Old Company, but I just can't talk about Old Company without including her.

Awesome Admin 2 played HR rep on my first day – lots of forms, introduced me around… she kind of became Mom At The Office for some of us, always ready with support and a smile no matter how rotten a day or how rotten the treatment. Her most shining moment, I think, was when she introduced our latest Structural engineer around the office, and she instructed him to be nice to me because it be bad for him if I got angry. And he did!

Awesome Admin 3: I was first attracted by the lure of the shiny candy bowl stationed outside her cube; in the longer run, she was a good friend with a good heart and entirely too generous a spirit. She didn’t really work in our group, but she may as well have, as much as we depended on her to bail us out of a bind. There was the evening in May when she and I spent hours installing spiral spines on deliverable materials because someone didn’t leave enough time to have them professionally done; there was every single submittal when she graciously stopped what she was working on to help me make CD covers and labels because lord knows I couldn’t figure out the printers myself; and there was the scary moment last August when she whisked me out of the office because I was thisclose to losing my temper with a certain Redneck.

COLONEL

Colonel was retired Army, and to be honest, I was never sure where I stood with him until the very end. His speech pattern and tone left a person unsure whether he was good-naturedly teasing them, or whether he was genuinely displeased. Colonel was a techie wizard and was always ready to dig up a program or whip up a macro to help with even the smallest details, and I didn’t always use them, so he’d come by and rib me for missing one typo rather than using the Find/Replace tool (I know I’m hypersensitive, but I honestly couldn’t tell whether he was teasing, or considered me incompetent). That may have sounded like I thought he was a jerk, but much to the contrary, Colonel was a man whose respect you wanted. When word of my notice got around, he came down to inform me that he didn’t recall giving me permission to leave – which was when I finally got it that he thought well of me. I still knew I had to go, but it was nice to know I’d be missed. Colonel was a good friend to me, and bears all my sympathy for having so much stuff dumped on him at the last second there.

COMMANDER

Last, but certainly never least, we have Commander. Commander was retired Navy, and whereas I wasn’t sure in the beginning whether Colonel thought I was incompetent, I knew Commander thought so. I could see it the first time we talked design reports. That’s okay. I like low expectations. It only made the victory that much more impressive when I knocked it out of the park, and it was that much more valuable when I earned his respect. (To be fair, Awesome Admin 1 informed me that my predecessor had set the bar pretty far down.) Commander oversaw the design report before I got there (okay, after I got there too, but he was glad to hand off the greater part of it) and, unlike the engineers, Commander could write – he’d done a fair amount of it for senior officers while in the Navy so he developed a very strong hand. Commander never yelled. He didn’t need to. But if his voice got tight and clipped, and his speech pattern slowed, you were wise to pay attention and watch yourself. A little grovelling probably wouldn't hurt at that point. He commanded respect like few I’ve ever seen in my career. Because of all of this, over the next year and a half, Commander ended up becoming something of a mentor to me. I cannot measure the amount I learned from him, including the ingraining of the difference between “shall” and “will” in government documents. In all honesty, if he’d been running the project from the start, I have a feeling I’d still be there, as might some other valuable individuals. Commander, in the immortal words of Dorothy to the Scarecrow, I think I’ll miss you most of all.

(Next post: The Bad, and The Ugly…)

Time for a Change

2008-07-22T11:55:00.008-04:00

Well hello my little Rosie-fans! I bet you thought I’d abandoned you. What’s that? You know better than that now? Oh I had hoped so. By now you’re aware that my extended absences generally mean Submittal Time, and you’d partially be right. But there’s more – so much more.

I think everyone knew I was getting fed up with Company. Low appreciation and minimal respect from everyone but those least obligated to offer it. Late nights and long hours. Rotten attitudes, chauvinism, and elitism from engineers. A complete and utter disregard for deadlines except from the Production and QA staff. It was just getting to be too much, and as I looked down the road, I knew I couldn’t do this forever. Something had to change. And, as it was proven time and again, the thing to change was simply not going to be Management. So I decided to pick up and make camp elsewhere.

I originally had a bitter diatribe right here as to the events leading up to my grand exit, but I decided not to punish my good friends, and instead to let the past be the past already. Besides, most of you have heard it, and those who haven’t can guess (clue: a 22-hour day).

I write to you now from my new laptop in my new office (with a window!) at New Company. It’s only my second day, and I’m still a little overwhelmed and lonely and lost, but this is my fourth new job in three years, so I’m getting used to the feeling.

On the Jargon of Pregnancy

2008-06-20T09:27:00.008-04:00

Pregnancy is everywhere these days. Every celeb is pregnant. The latest trend in non-maternity wear is maternity wear (seriously, walk through the Misses department at your local Kohl's, Macy's, or Penney's; or the Juniors department at Target). Teenage drug use is Out, Teenage Pregnancy is In (possibly the most disturbing news I've heard about high schoolers lately, and I used to watch Maury regularly!)

In all this coverage, however, a long-standing irritation of mine has come to the forefront. I must ask all of America (and the rest of the English-speaking world) to please, for the love of all that is sacred, STOP MAKING THE ACT OF GIVING BIRTH SOUND LIKE A CRUDE BODILY FUNCTION!

This is the miracle of life, people, regardless of who is producing it. Can we have a little respect please?

Thus, I would like to eliminate the following slang terms from common use (or any use relating to pregnancy):

"Popping out": A baby is not a pimple.

"Pushing out": A baby is not a bowel movement.

"Belting out": The birthing process is not equivalent to the passing of gas. (Rosie's Aside: For shame, Dear Margo. I tend to hold you to a higher standard than that.)

Husband would like to interject that "Preggers" should be stricken from the vernacular as well, as it diminishes the seriousness with which we should take pregnancy, and it makes the speaker sound like s/he belongs in a trailer park.

Radio Free Stupid

2008-06-19T08:53:00.014-04:00

I was treated to a live airing of Springer-quality family drama on my way in this morning. Elliot was talking about earpieces or something and had a good run mocking the Apple Bottom Jeans song and some other crap from Usher, etc., but then he went to commercial and whatever the product they were hawking was, it was a commercial I abhor (there are so many to choose from), so I surfed stations. And of all things, I got roped into this super-special segment on HOT! 99.5. I know, but bear with me. If you're familiar with my penchant for all things trailer-trashy, you'll understand what caught my interest.

So DJ Kane is chatting with a nice girl named Patty. Patty is participating in Kane's "War of the Roses" schtick, in which we sneakily confront alleged cheaters on air. Patty is telling Kane about all the things that make her think her husband Lance (his actual name) might be cheating on her, including how he gets texts and emails from other women (Lance claims they're for work) all the time, and how he'll come home late (Lance claims he forgot to mention he was meeting a friend after work to grab a beer), or how when they took a family trip to Amsterdam (who goes to Amsterdam for a family vacation?) Lance left Patty and their son out in the cold while he dashed into one of the... um... establishments in the Red Light district for a span of time unspecified by Patty, though one can imagine that standing confused on the streets of Amsterdam can warp a person's perception of time (Lance claims he was taking pictures of the inside for a friend back home so Friend could see what the Red Light houses were like).

Now, if you remain unconvinced - as apparently Patty was - that Lance is a deadbeat who's only trying to see what else Patty will put up with, I think this next scrap of evidence is the nail in the coffin: one night Lance needed to return a movie to Blockbuster, so he left to do that at 7:30... and didn't return until 3 a.m. Now, take note Husband - if you leave to return a movie at 7:30 pm and I don't see you again until 3, it had better be in the ICU or in county lockup (which will require outstanding explanations of how you could get in that much trouble in the time it took you to return a movie to Blockbuster.) Patty stayed up till 3 a.m. and asked him when he got home where he'd been. Lance claimed to Patty that he'd gotten a call from a friend who needed help or "to talk" (take note ladies: men don't invite each other over "to talk;" if you hear this excuse, he's seeing someone on the side!) Problem with this excuse: he had left his cell phone at the house so that Patty couldn't call him to check up on him. D'oh!

And yet, Patty tells Kane that she just doesn't know. Seriously? How is that not proof positive? I call a 7.5 hour movie-return "grounds for divorce." But Patty just isn't sure. I know. I'm shaking my head in disbelief too.

So Kane offers to call Lance and put him to the test. (Another note ladies, you never need to "test" him for any reason. If you even feel the need to test him, you need to be ready to lose, in which case, you've already lost.)

Kane calls Lance's cell phone and, under the guise of a startup Internet florist, tells Lance he got Lance's phone number from a magazine subscriber list his "company" bought, and offers Lance a dozen romantic roses free of charge to send to anyone Lance requests. Lance is unsure, Kane claims that the gig is that the "florist" sends the roses to the recipient and hopes that Lance and the recipient are so thrilled with the service that they use the florist again. Almost plausible, I'll give him that. Lance takes the bait, and requests that the card say,

(wait for it...)

"Dear Angela, Last week was amazing. Can't wait for this weekend. Love, Lance."

I'll wait while the laughter dies down.

Of course, Patty is on the other line, listening in, and now breaks in with a string of terms not appropriate to share with my adoring fans. Also because they were bleeped out and I can only speculate. Lance is pretty solidly caught red-handed, though we can all agree that Patty is twelve kinds of dense for not having had enough proof before.

Lance backtracks - oh no, it's only to cheer Angela up! (Sounds to me like last week provided a fair amount of cheer, but that's just my perspective...) Seriously dude, you're screwed.

Spectacularly screwed.

But wait. There's more.

Patty, you seem particularly dismayed that it's "Angela." Do you know this Angela person?

Why yes, yes she does.

Angela is Patty's stepsister.

Thank you! You've been a terrific audience! I'll be here all week! Don't forget to tip your waitstaff! Enjoy the veal!

Had to Share

2008-06-16T10:42:00.001-04:00

Courtesy of Overheard in the Office, June 16 2008:

9AM Mexico: Hey, We Warned You!

CSR, on speakerphone: And where would you like this order shipped?

Secretary: 123 Main St.*, Los Alamos, New Mexico.

CSR : We don't ship out of the country.

Secretary: That's fine, but this address is in the country.

CSR : No, you said to ship it to New Mexico.

Secretary: Yes, New Mexico is a state in the US.

CSR : Sorry, but we can't ship out of the US.

Secretary: Do you have a supervisor I can talk to, please?

[Long pause.]

CSR supervisor: This is Tim. Can I help you?

Secretary: I hope so, Tim. Your employee doesn't seem to understand that New Mexico is a state in the United States, and so refuses to ship me your product.

Supervisor: Well, that's true. We can't ship out of the country. I'm sorry ma'am.

Secretary, raising her voice a little: Have you never even heard of the state of New Mexico? It's one of the big, square ones? It's right between Texas and Arizona? It's one of the 50 United States?

Supervisor: I'm sorry, it's just our policy not to ship out of the US.

Secretary: Tim, let me get this straight. Your company is going to lose a $14,000 order because the people in your customer service department are too moronic to know or comprehend that the state of New Mexico is a part of the United States?

Supervisor: Yes, ma'am. That's our policy.

Secretary, completely exasperated: Well, I guess there's nothing more to be said, is there?

Supervisor: No, ma'am. Have a nice day.

Los Alamos, New Mexico
Overheard by: New Mexican

via Overheard in the Office, Jun 16, 2008

A Smattering for Thursday

2008-06-12T13:23:00.005-04:00

I'm feeling very scattered today and there are a fair number of things to piss me off in the world, but I'm not committed enough to choose just one and go with it. So I'll spread the love around.

Katharine Heigl needs to take the advice she gave third-person-style to Isaiah Washington back when he was shooting his mouth off and "just not talk in public. Period." First she ragged on "Knocked Up" and said it was sexist and portrayed women as shrews and men as loveable goofs. I want to know what movie she watched, because that's not at all what I saw in that movie - I saw a bunch of imperfect but overall good people, and the exploitation of funny but believable situations that their imperfections got them into. Hopefully Judd Apatow and Co. have the sense not to work with her again. Then today I see that she removed herself from Emmy nomination because she felt that the Grey's Anatomy writers hadn't given her Emmy-quality material to put forth an Emmy-quality performance. I'll agree that this season overall sucked and her character reached new depths of annoyingness in the fall, but if you don't think your performance was Emmy-worthy, fine, just say that. Don't go blaming the writers! Shame on you!

United is now charging to check a single bag. It's a good thing I'm not going anywhere that requires air travel this year.

I watched The Other Boleyn Girl last night. Dis. A. Ppointed. It reminded me of Titanic in that it seemed the filmmakers were far more interested in setting than substance. The set designers and constumers deserve Academy Awards - the realism was astounding and expert. But do you remember how bad the script was for Titanic? It was only slightly better for The Other Boleyn Girl. Scarlett and Natalie did what they could, and Eric Bana turned in a surprisingly strong and dynamic performance. But it all fell flat to me. Furthermore, it was as though the scriptwriter neither read the book nor even consulted with Philippa Gregory. In the book, Mary was the middle child; in the movie she was the youngest. In the book, Mary's first child by Henry is a girl; in the movie, it's a boy. In the book, George's homosexuality was evident; in the movie, they skimmed it so lightly it was imperceptible. In the book, Anne was a viper from the start and living at the French court where she learned charm, manipulation, intrigue, and court life; in the beginning of the movie, she and Mary are BFF and living in England, and Anne is only sent to France for a few months as punishment. Sloppy, sloppy job. The book was fluff but historical fluff and handily written. I had such high hopes - it would have been a cakewalk to make this movie a real thing of beauty. And it was in terms of the scenery and costumes. But the script was a landfill in the middle of parkland.

Ask Amy is showing her bitchy colors. In today's article, she had three letters. The first was legitimate: shy college freshman made friends in the first week who have progressively gotten into drugs and drinking and the writer wants to abstain but doesn't enjoy hanging out with his new friends while they're high; what can he say to his friends to get them to lay off the dangerous substance (Amy's Answer: very little, make new friends). The second one was silly and characteristic of the charged topic that any celebration has become: writer's neighbor sent graduation party invitations for their daughter with whom writer has had very very little contact in the 13 years they lived there; neighbor is obviously grubbing for gifts and writer isn't going but if writer sends a card will that set precedent for writer to receive yet more invitations of the sort.... (Amy's Answer: get a grip, send a card with a regretful decline and best wishes and stop overthinking). Third letter pissed me off: a hateful tirade framed in the guise of a question as to why women have not stamped out the awful concept of fathers giving their daughters away at weddings like they're property to be disposed of and why aren't we all walking ourselves down the aisle (Amy's answer: Amen sister.) Screw you both. I dare you to find one woman outside of scary cults who honestly believes this practice has anything to do with property anymore. It's a sentimental thing, it's a traditional thing, it's an honor thing, it's a compromise thing (we want to walk ourselves but are afraid we'll hurt our Dad's feelings if he doesn't get to walk his little girl down the aisle). Some brides have their mothers give them away to honor their mother as the person who raised them. Some brides have siblings do it, or friends, or no one. And that's all fine. Weddings are all interpretive now anyway. So Amy, how about offering perspective, or a gentle wait-a-minute to your "advice seeker." And Feminazi, stuff your dogma and actually ask someone why they're doing what they're doing before you go assuming you know their motivations.

Candy has calories. I think it's fair that that pisses me off.

Some Marines got expelled and punished for what Drudge Report describes only as "puppy video." I have no idea what the video is or is about, and I refuse to open the link because my imagination can carry me far enough to assume that whatever it was they did to a puppy had to be bad or they wouldn't have gotten in trouble for it. And to that I say, there isn't a circle of Hell severe enough for those people, but I hope Satan gets on that real soon.

Confession: June 10 2008

2008-06-10T09:01:00.013-04:00

I'm having a rotten morning where everything is going wrong. I'm inexplicably angry at everything and everyone, I probably bruised myself when I walked into the corner of a wall, my clothes looked like hell, it's hot as blue blazes, my new deodorant stinks, I got glittery eye shadow all over my face so I now look like a 13-year-old, and I caught my nice work bag in the door on my way into the office.

But all of that is okay now. Because I must confess something.

I am in love.

I have developed a terrible girl-crush on Anne Hathaway. My affection for her surpasses my adoration of Natalie Portman. I want to BE Anne Hathaway. Anne Hathaway is gorgeous. Anne Hathaway is radiant. Anne Hathaway is classy and graceful. Anne Hathaway is smart. Anne Hathaway kicks ass. Anne Hathaway is pale and has absolutely zero issues with it, and refuses to try to change it. Anne Hathaway can actually act (a rare trait in Hollywood starlets today). Anne Hathaway takes gutsy roles (see her play the wife of a barely-closeted gay cowboy in Brokeback Mountain) but isn't afraid of fluff work (*cough*Ella Enchanted*cough*, though I guess it was good for its target demo and even Colin Firth bows to the tweener audience sometimes) and will tolerate a boring and predictable ending in pursuit of an overall fun movie (The Devil Wears Prada). Anne Hathaway is naturally thin but still actually likes to eat (see story, albeit poorly written and a desperate topic to begin with, here). Anne Hathaway can be cut to the bone and only asks for Tylenol (see story here).

And best of all, Anne Hathaway is so cool that she uses this as a description of what it's like to kiss Steve Carrell on set of Get Smart:

"Making out with him is like the yummiest lollipop, dipped in sunshine and wrapped in a masculine wrapper! That's the only way I can think to describe it."

Anne Hathaway, I think I love you. Husband, try not to be jealous.

A Well-Deserved Long Weekend

2008-06-02T14:34:00.009-04:00

Was that the longest month ever or what?! High point: celebrating my three year anniversary with Husband. Low point: just about everything else.

By now, my adoring public should know that a month of no- or minimal-bloggage means only one thing: Submittal. Correct assessment. True to form, the engineers managed to amaze even this jaded individual with exactly how far behind schedule they could fall, and how little respect or regard they could show for the time, patience, and personal lives of people without an engineering degree (and in some cases, of people with one!) My head is pounding, my wrist aches, and I'm developing Smoker's Lips from how I keep mine pursed in frustration all day.

But the submittal is gone, with only one more to go, and since I had lots and lots of hours to burn since they won't pay me overtime, I took Friday off and gave myself not only two 3-day weekends in a row, but a 3-day week as well. Allow me to title the sum-up in alliteration.

Relaxation. The recycling truck woke me up pitifully early (since when do they recycle at 6:45 in the morning??) but that only ensured that I was awake and the bed was stripped when the mattress delivery people called to ask if an earlier delivery time was okay. So we got a new mattress, ending the threat of mornings in which I wake up with my shoulder locked way the hell up next to my ear and I look like Quasimodo staggering into work. Which I've done in the recent past. I also watched Bridget Jones's Diary for some mindless fluff, and enjoyed my directionless day immensely.

Reunion. On Saturday, I had lunch with Friend Leah, whom I hadn't seen since her 27th birthday in 2006, and we spent the vastly better part of 4 hours talking and catching up and taking up space in Sunflower Vegetarian Kitchen, and that was very much fun! I also got tapped to be her Maid of Honor in November! Hooray! And *blush!* I'd like to thank the Academy... I'm still all squishy inside over it.

Robbed. I also watched Atonement, which, might I add, was ROBBED for Best Picture last year. I saw No Country for Old Men, and while the Coens are still up to their old tricks, making deep and intense movies, I think I missed something. I got the morality play, and the predator-vs-prey aspect, and the right-vs-wrong aspect, and the fatalistic overtones. The scenery was stark, and the acting was good. But Atonement wiped the floor with it, I thought. Keira Knightley actually has talent (kudos to her for reminding us) (and holy crap I want that green dress!) (or at least one that would look good on me, but no one works in emerald anymore and they should!) (yet I digress), and James McAvoy is my latest obsession, and everyone played their part fantastically and the ending was chilling, startling,... and perfect, especially from a writer's perspective. I'll stop before I become a spoiler in case you haven't seen it too. But I haven't sent the DVD back to The Mighty Netflix yet because I think it needs another viewing to catch the nuances. After which, I may write a review in which I let loose the spoiler fury.

Redemption. On Sunday, I subjected Husband to my playing catch-up with this season's final three episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Last season was a complete shambles and I was not impressed at all with what I saw during the fall. Then the writer's strike hit and I lost track of most of the story lines and actually ended up deleting the episodes from Tivo because I had lost interest. For whatever reason, I saved these last three episodes and decided to use them as a barometer for next season: if I liked them, I'd stay on for the 2008-2009 season; if I was bored or hated them, I'd delete my Tivo season pass. Four hours(ish) later, survey says I'll be watching next season. Meredith grew a pair, which made me happy because I want to like her. The writers bolstered Callie's character, which made me happy because she's a hella-fun character. George developed a spine, which made me happy because he always gets shit on. Christina got props from the Chief and regenerated some confidence, which made me happy because Christina eats her fellow characters for breakfast. Bailey's marriage isn't dead yet, which made me happy because Bailey kicks ass. Izzie and Karev are a sorta-kinda thing again, which made me downright ecstatic (been waiting three years for that! Now if they can just work on giving her back the personality she had in Season One...) because Izzie used to be an interesting character, and Karev is hot (!!) and and still is an interesting character. However, as Friend Merideth pointed out, they need to lose Lexie. She's a failing character. She worked as a plot device last season, and she could have worked as a real live character. But it's like the writers didn't know what to do with her once she had served her dramatic-twist purpose. She isn't developed, she doesn't bring anything, her dialogue is annoying, and they're about to send George down another "stupid relationship" avenue (as in, it's stupid of him to be in this relationship) with her and... isn't that storyline dead by now? Can't you leave poor Georgie alone for just a little while?

This weekend I felt good, and genuinely relaxed, which was such a foreign sensation to me that I didn't know what to do with it most of the time. I shouldn't get too chill though: we're going into our final submittal, and it's the biggie. But after that, I'm changing jobs again. I don't care whether it's a multinational corporation or the Dollar General. I've got to get the hell out of here. This is ridiculous.

Big Fat Deal

2008-04-29T12:46:00.010-04:00

Here it is in all its glory:

I've heard this photo called slutty, embarrassing, racy, risque, sexualizing, mature. I've heard people claiming that sweet, wholesome little Miley Cyrus was manipulated into doing this by big, bad Annie Liebovitz. I've heard Cyrus's daddy and other entourage's avowals that it was a complete mistake and that they should never have done this and ohmygod isn't it awful what they've done to his little girl!?

And all I can think is, what's the big deal?

You say slutty, risque, sexualizing. I say innocent, vulnerable, tasteful, beautiful. I say she looks like a modern day Cosette. I say I see girls wearing less at the pool. I say I see girls wearing less at the mall. Miss Cyrus's green bra didn't get NEARLY this much publicity, nor nearly this vocal an outrage even from Miley and Co. I've seen those pics (and you can too!), and they're complaining about this??

The Cyrus Clan says they were manipulated. I say BULL! Daddy was on hand for this shoot; it's not like they handcuffed and blindfolded him in a soundproof booth outside the studio. Miley wasn't drugged or blackmailed into doing this. And before you point out that she's a minor, you can't deny that Miley's legal pitbulls wouldn't have allowed those photos to see the light of day if Billy Ray hadn't signed off that everyone thought they were fine. Miley said in the article (that's a 15-year old being interviewed by Vanity Fair, might I add) that she thought the photo was artistic (actual term used: "artsy," but that rhymes with "fartsy" and I don't like to use it), proving that she had seen the results and was - at the time - okay with it.

And everyone's coming down on Annie. This is Annie Freaking Liebovitz, people! She is a legend in portrait photography. May she ever deign to do a (free!) portrait of me. Cyrus et al can't say they weren't familiar with her work before they agreed to do this. Annie even sat down with the Cyruses and reviewed her (Annie's) style, portfolio, and plans for the session. And if they weren't put off by her treatment of Angelina Jolie a couple of years ago, then I don't want to hear a word from them about how "embarrassed" they are now.

Furthermore, do note that Miley was in fact clothed beneath that sheet. It was not a nude picture. Even if she wasn't clothed beneath the sheet, it's not a nude picture because she is draped in that cloth. But the fact is, she was wearing clothes when she sat down, and they draped the sheet on and around her to hide the clothes. But Rosie, that makes her LOOK naked! So what? As I mentioned before, you're not seeing anything indecent, and what you are seeing is graceful and beautiful. If I wear a strapless dress, and all you see of me in a photo is from my shoulders up, is that also a nude photo?

The only shame here should be on Miley - and her Crew - for complaining at all. You're only doing that because the Disney execs told you to. You were fine with it before, during, and after. Until the Christian Coalition of America (the same people who have nothing better to do than going frame-by-frame through childrens' movies looking for shapes that in any way resemble a phallus) piped up, everyone was cool. The CCA's representative, Michele Combs said, "Disney should reprimand her. Miley should say it was a mistake and that kids have to be very careful at such a young age. Kids look up to her. Something needs to be done...[Rosie's Aside to Miley: Good job reading that script they gave you!]...She was the one person out there who everyone seemed to trust. She should have been more thoughtful. If she's gonna go out there and represent wholesome values, she needs to be more accountable for her actions." To listen to all that, you'd think Miley personally went up to Michele, slapped the woman in the face, called her baby ugly, and kicked her dog. Ms. Combs goes on to say that Annie Liebovitz has "a reputation for doing racy things." Oooh! Racy! Them's fightin' words! (Credit to Mr. Perez Hilton for supplying the quote.)

Note: I have nothing against Miley Cyrus. She is cute, she is wholesome, she is good to her fans, and she can sing. I might even go so far as to say that if a person happened to trip over her song on the radio, they might possibly not be sickened and might possibly not change the station and just maybe might even admit in the deep recesses of my - I MEAN THEIR - soul that, despite its bubblegum nature, it was kind of a little bit catchy. The worst thing I can say about the girl is that she hasn't taken a razor to that stupid patch of fuzz under her daddy's lip.

So Cyrus Clan, kindly get over yourselves, do a better job of burying those green bra pictures (Miley, dear, be careful of whom you trust with a digital camera from now on), and quit railing against and apologizing for something most of us would be honored to experience.

Are You Stupid or Something?

2008-04-28T12:33:00.016-04:00

I have something to say to the role models for and of my generation and those following me: FAIL! When you taught us to "not care what other people think," you forgot to emphasize that there are limits to that statement.

I'm reading an article today in the Washington Post, titled "When Young Teachers Go Wild on the Web." The topic is (quite obviously) teachers who have racy MySpace and Facebook pages for all the world to see.

Ms. Webster, a Prince William Co. long-term substitute teacher (i.e., for when a teacher goes on maternity leave, has surgery, etc.) for students with emotional and learning disabilities, granted an interview with the journalist. Parents, brace yourselves - this person may have unfettered access to your children's tiny minds. If stupid is as stupid does, this chicky fits the description (and she wasn't even the worst of those quoted in the story; that title goes to one Ms. Espinosa).

Among the priceless gems on her public page is a graphic of a bumper sticker that says, "You're a retard, but I love you." Her defense, ladies and gentlemen: "My best friend, she always calls me that because I say ditzy things... [but] I would never go around calling people that. All of my [students] have emotional disorders or learning disabilities. . . . I love them." So, Ms. Webster, I take that to mean that both of you are devoid of basic manners, empathy, and consideration. Saying that it's okay because it was just your friend teasing you is like the Seinfeld episode (much as I hate to credit that show) about the dentist who coverts to Judaism just to be able to make the jokes. An ordinary person calling another a retard is appalling! But because you teach people with disabilities, it's okay for you to use it.

In the photos section of her page, she includes a shot of a couple of guys flipping the bird and one of herself apparently passed out drunk and holding a bottle of Cuervo. Great message to send to your impressionable students. She says she didn't realize that people could see her page regardless of whether she approved them as "friends." STUPID STUPID STUPID! It's a basic user functionality to make private or password-protected certain parts of your page, or the whole thing. Clue: can you see pages of people who didn't add YOU as a friend? Then they can probably see yours, dingus! And if you, an educator, are not bright enough to think of that, someone really needs to consider whether you should be at the blackboard at all.

In defense of her page as a whole (quoting directly from the article): "I know that employers will look at that page, and I need to be more careful," said Webster, adding that other Prince William teachers have warned her about her page. "At the same time, my work and social lives are completely separate. I just feel they shouldn't take it seriously. I am young. I just turned 22." Brilliant. So when you're looking to get hired as a sub, and the principal checks your page (nota bene, folks: employers are googling you and are looking at your webpages, blogs, and MySpace crap, if you have it), s/he'll see a drunk with poor social skills... but then they'll see your age and say, "Oh but she's only 22! We'll give her a pass!" Right. Besides employers, what parent who sees that page is going to overlook it just because it's a page regarding your social life, which you say is separate from your professional life. You may think they're separate, honey, but you lost the right to claim so once you posted that you were employed as a teacher at thusandsuch school. As soon as you did that, you became a representative of your school, and anyone looking at the page was free to make an association between your deportment and the standards at your place of employment.

See, that's the tricky word, isn't it? "Professional." To be sure, this lack of basic decorum and self-awareness reaches far beyond the boundaries of education. Here's the nuance to not caring what others think, and it's one of the first things I was taught when I got my first job at age 16 in a food service joint: Anytime you are identifiable as a representative of a professional organization, you must be aware that your appearance and behavior is equally representative of that organization. While my aphorism is particularly targeted toward employment, it pertains to anyone in a position of evaluation as a professional or as an individual: teachers, managers, leaders, job-seekers, college applicants, romantic interests, etc.

Quick and easy check: Google yourself periodically to see what turns up. Log out of your social networking site and check out your page as a stranger would see it. If there's anything you wouldn't want your boss, colleagues, boy/girlfriend, AND parents to see, take down the picture or make it private. Would you vote for a candidate who you saw on MySpace posing in nothing but lingerie against a fire truck? Would you be comfortable if your son's Boy Scout leader posted a picture of himself in mid-moon? Could you take seriously the teacher who posted shots of herself making out with her boyfriend? How about hiring that engineer who posted a video of himself stumbling drunk out of a bar and letting loose with a string of curse words? Would you let your teenage son date the girl photographed dragging on a joint? Do you want to waste time seeing the guy who posted a shot of himself proudly grabbing some girl's butt at Spring Break? (All but the first are completely hypothetical situations, so far as I know.)

This is especially important if you take a position that is clearly in the public eye and seen as a social influence, but it applies across the board. If you go to a company function and your boss is there, you mind your Ps and Qs of course. But if you're wearing a shirt (or carrying a tote, etc.) with the company logo to Happy Hour, you make sure you limit it to a drink or two. All it takes to lose out on a contract is for a potential client to see your company logo dancing on the bar.

It's neither my place nor my intent to regulate what you do in your private life. I'm not suggesting that we should all become Puritans because we never know who might see us. I'm just advocating a little common sense and propriety, and putting out fair warning that you're making an ass of yourself.

My Personality at 35,000 Feet

2008-04-22T11:28:00.006-04:00

Not to say what it is on the ground, of course...

Your Personality at 35,000 Feet...

Deep down, you prefer spending time alone to spending time with others. You enjoy thinking more than talking.

You are good with your place in the world. You are confident and comfortable with who you are.

Your gift is having a way with words. You know how to express yourself well.

You are inspired by what is possible. Real life is often too ordinary for you.

You are happy as long as you are given some personal space. It's important for you to have your own private life.

The Personality Test at 35,000 Feet

Changing My Mind

2008-04-17T10:51:00.005-04:00

I'm so going to get burned for this.

Pope Benedict LXXXIX or something is in town lately. Up till now I've only seen snippets of him via the ever-sage news outlets available to me. And you have to admit a distinct and disturbing resemblance to someone of pop culture significance:

But with the increased coverage and having read transcripts of his speeches, I find myself softening toward Emperor Papaltine. Maybe his unnerving appearance gave him a bad rap. Maybe he does have the good of humanity at the base of his intentions, whether you agree with his opinions and methods or not. Maybe he's just been misunderstood in the wake of the all-around nice guy that Pope John Paul II seemed. Maybe he in fact doesn't eat babies.

But the jury's still out on whether he shoots laser beams from his eyes.

Smells Like...

2008-04-03T11:24:00.002-04:00

Any guesses as to why the Ladies' Room in my office smells vaguely of hamster shavings?

TXT is the new SPM

2008-04-02T09:55:00.004-04:00

I got text-spammed today. I flipped open my phone to see how the battery was doing when I noticed I had missed a text message. Not surprising, as I have incoming texts set to silent mode. Figuring it was from one of my friends, I checked it, only to find that someone called McDermott was inviting me to online chat. I erased it, but I almost wish I'd saved it so I could quote it here for you. Ah well.

Be forewarned, my little chickadees, and welcome to the new phase as we whirl about in our Technological Sprial of Doom.

George Lucas Is A Moron

2008-03-26T08:55:00.046-04:00

It's bad enough that they're making YET ANOTHER Indiana Jones movie. I love the franchise, but I don't know that you can top Last Crusade, and seeing as that was the last one done, as Kenny Rogers tells us, you gotta know when to hold 'em, and know when to fold 'em.

It's bad enough that Harrison Ford is reprising the role. He OWNED Indy. He WAS Indy. To me, no one else can play Indy. But that was 20 years ago. Last Crusade was done in 1989. Harrison Ford is, quite frankly, too old now. I don't care if he can still play the part, work the whip, or moan pitifully about why it had to be snakes. The man is 66. Sir Sean Connery (perpetual swoon!) was only 59 when he played Henry Jones, Sr. I will always love Harrison Ford (Lady Readers, even if you didn't crush on Indiana Jones, you're lying if you tell me you didn't crush on Han Solo!), but you should have put your foot down and let Indy ride off into the canyon, never to be seen again.

It's bad enough that Shia LeBouef, or however you spell it, is cast as Indy's sidekick, as I have yet to be convinced that the pipsqueak has even an ounce of acting talent, and he seems to have way too much ego and self satisfaction for having essentially one big role in a movie that, frankly, wasn't very good, and he was not good in it. Not to mention he looks like he might start crying if you tousled his hair. I suspect he could pass for Matthew McConaghey's wimpier and less-stoned little cousin.

This is supposed to be Indy's heir apparent?? There's a feeble plastic quality to him, whereas Indy is all iron and grit and snappy one-liners. And what's with that name, "Shia" (pron. SHY-ah)? It sounds like the name of an underdressed female popstar. Oh. Apparently he's named for his grandfather. God, there was someone running around in the 30s with the name Shia?? The character's name is "Mutt Williams." Yeah, Mutt...at least they got that right. By the by, does he strike anyone else as the poor man's Justin Long (who usually fails to excite a reaction in me above boredom, though he was fun in Dodgeball, and while quite mismatched he seems to make Drew Barrymore very much happy, so I guess he's okay in my book; he just looks too young for his age - he's older than I am! Do you realize he played the kid in Ed?? Great show, Tom Cavanagh kicks ass, too bad it got cancelled. Now how do I get out of this parenthetical digression...).

All of that was bad enough.

But who greenlighted this ridiculous title??

You read that right. Indiana Jones and the KINGDOM OF THE CRYSTAL SKULL.

First off, crystal is very non-Indy. Too fragile. Yes real crystal in the raw form that would have been used to make an ancient skull-shaped artifact is actually a rather strong material, but the word itself implies frailty, which as I said, is very un-Indy (unless they were prepping us for the performance of 66yo Harrison Ford?) Also, check the disparity in titles over the course of the saga:

It's long and awkward and unwieldy and out of place. I can just envision someone doing the Panties Dance when they say it. It sounds like something one of his kids made up, like Jar Jar Binks (shudder). "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Skull" would have worked all right, but add "Crystal" in there and the rhythm is all off. The movie is bound to suck just based on the title. And on the casting of Weenie LeBouef. *sigh* I'll probably Netflix it anyway just to say I've seen all the Indiana Joneses.

Why do you do this to us George Lucas? We held you up as a demigod of cinematic genius for Star Wars (at least, for Episodes IV, V, and VI) and American Graffiti and Indiana Jones and Willow (shut up! I loved it!). I know it's lonely at the top, but if you felt too much pressure, couldn't you have just chilled on your millions instead of taking such a spectacular nosedive off the pedestal, and giving us Episodes I, II, and III, and now THIS?!?!

I know I've been unreasonably harsh in this post towards both Misters LeBeouf and Ford, but I was annoyed that they were making a fourth movie to begin with and I just heard the title today, which angered me, and when I'm mad, no one is safe. But I think you can all at least back me on this:

George Lucas, you are a moron. Now go back to your ranch and don't come out till we tell you to.

I'd Call It Apathy, If I Cared

2008-03-14T09:29:00.010-04:00

I've been infected lately by a nasty case of the Blahs. Poor Husband has had to put up with it: "What should we have for dinner tonight, Rosie?" "Ugh... I don't care." "Do you want to watch this show tonight, Rosie?" "Enh, whatever." "Hey Rosie, how about if I eat all your Samoas, load the dishwasher improperly, set the house on fire, and run naked through the streets?" "Sure, doesn't matter to me."

It's true. I don't seem to care about anything right now. I'm hungry, but there's nothing I want to eat either in my house or in the warped recesses of my mind from whence spring the periodic Random Cravings (really ought to start a sidebar on here with the Random Craving of the Moment). I'm thirsty, but there's nothing I want to drink. I'm bored, but there's nothing I want to do. It takes an act of Congress for me to vacuum, and the dishes are piling up. I'm gaining weight, my hair is shapeless, some of my favorite items of clothing have holes that need mending (like I could fit them anymore anyway), but... shrug.

I go through this periodically throughout the year and I'm usually able to snap out of it, but this just doesn't feel like it's going away. Maybe it's depression. Maybe it's burnout from the last submittal, although I really can't claim that excuse too much longer since we're coming up on two weeks since that went out. Maybe I'm devoid of energy from having had to deal with my family this weekend, though I think this was going on before that. Besides, giving it a name doesn't really matter, does it?

I originally wasn't even going to post anything on this matter because it seems rather pathetic and self-indulgent (let me whine about myself again like I'm the only person this happens to and it's such a hardship). But I realize I haven't put anything new up in a week and a half (aside from the result of a silly Blogthing quiz that I did for entertainment at work) and I can't jimmy up enough feelings about anything to really go off on politics or celebrities, though I have loads of would-be inspiration these days.

So, someone tell me what I'm wearing today, what I'm eating for lunch, and what I'm doing this evening. Because really, I just don't care.

I'm an Orange

2008-03-12T14:52:00.005-04:00

You Are an Orange

You have a zest for life, especially for anything colorful, wild, or dramatic.

You have a unique take on the world, and you're not afraid to be a little funky.

You are a bit reserved toward people who don't know you well.

You have a thick skin, which can protect you from anything that goes wrong in your life.

Once someone does get to know you, they totally get and appreciate you.

Your friends see you as a bright person with a refreshing take on life.

What Type of Fruit Are You?