December 26, 2009
December 25, 2009
December 24, 2009
Personally, I hate conference calls.
They're almost always boring and too long, and I can't recall any that have actually accomplished anything meaningful/productive. In short, 99.9 percent of all conference calls are a giant waste of time.
Which is why I, like most people I know, resort to acting like I'm taking notes while I'm really making a list of things I need to do that day, trying to remember all the lyrics to "We Didn't Start the Fire" and doodling in the margins of my notebook.
(Oh, don't judge me. You know you're not listening, either.)
For some, like me, "doodling" means just that. Aimlessly scribbling meaningless shapes and occasionally making checkerboard patterns within said meaningless shapes (for some unknown reason).
For others, like my former co-worker, Bill, it means drawing something that LOOKS like something.
Bill not only managed to whip off the above drawings during a typical 30-minute conference call, he did it with a sub-quality, corporate-provided red ballpoint pen, all while making everyone on the other end of the call believe he was totally paying attention.
And then he gave the drawings to me.
I'd like to say I keep them hanging in my cube to remind me not to take work too seriously, to keep some sense of whimsy as I traverse through corporate life.
But the truth is, I just think they look kind of cool.
December 23, 2009
That's from this story about three teenagers who poured alcohol over another teenager's head and then set him on fire. The kid has second- and third-degree burns over two-thirds of his body (the picture above shows some of his injuries) and will need surgeries, rehab, months of recovery. As one of his doctors said, this was a life-changing event.
Supposedly, the dispute was over $40, a video game and a bike.
December 22, 2009
...to my dear friend Trophy Life!
I'm so glad you're my friend, and I love you dearly. :) I'm glad to hear you're actually going to TREAT yourself on your birthday!
December 21, 2009
December 20, 2009
- The popped collar
- The model's fluffy, moussed-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life hair
- The feigned toughness on a face sporting a peach-fuzz mustache
- The jacket itself (do we really need chains AND embroidered stars AND green-and-pink pockets?)
- The fact that it's being marketed as "funky" (false advertising if I've ever heard it)
All I know is, in the 80s, I not only would've thought this Zach-Morris-wannabe model was foxy, I probably also would've begged my mother to buy me this jacket so that I, too, could be "funky."
And that is the saddest thing of all.
December 19, 2009
This story made me cry this morning. Full story here.
December 18, 2009
December 17, 2009
You know what doesn't love me knitting?
My job and all the 500 million other things I have to do.
But once upon a time, I knitted (knitted? knit?) a lot.
The picture above is of one little project I did a few years ago. It's a tiny purse, knitted with some of that novelty "eyelash" yarn and some ribbon. It's hard to see, but there's a flap that folds over the top of the purse, sort of in a messenger bag style.
It was supposed to be something I could use to carry my cell phone and a credit card, just something tiny when I didn't need to carry everything in my giant briefcase/purse.
However. I've discovered that I pretty much never go anywhere with just my cell phone and a credit card.
And it's such a cute little purse, it was depressing me, just sitting sadly in my Closet Where Craft-y Projects Go to Die.
So now it's hanging in my cubicle, where it's all cute and yellow and is a conversation piece when people walk past on their way to the kitchenette. (My favorite question so far: "Why did you make that?" Um, so you could ask me about it? Weirdo.)
December 16, 2009
We are 32 years old.
But once we were in our jammies and the Christmas music was wailing and flour was flying -- we might as well have been 18. Again. (OMG -- that was practically 15 years ago! Ugh. Moving on...)
Speaking of jammies, much squealing ensued when we discovered we were wearing the same pajama pants:
Wal-Mart: Making it possible to be a twinkie with your BFF, for less!
Here's B., with said cookies, in her cute kitchen:
Honestly. He is so sweet. (And it's a good thing he is, because he had a poo accident shortly after the above photo was taken. Thankfully, he got off the chair first. Ew.)
And here's a shot of Murray and Bubba with Jules in the center. Note that Jules looks curious and attentive, while my two look bored/resigned to taking yet ANOTHER picture because their mommy asked them to:
(And I just realized that beige carpeting makes for possibly the WORST photo backdrop in the entire universe. Note to self: Pose dogs in the kitchen next time. Also: Get more exciting flooring.)
December 15, 2009
More specifically, I hate dolls that are supposed to resemble actual, human babies.
I think it started when I was three, when someone gave me a cloth Raggedy Ann doll that was bigger than me. I still have it:
Granted, this doll doesn't look like a human baby. But something in its eyes scared the crap out of me. Or, maybe, the fact that its eyes were DEVOID of anything scared the crap out of me. Its eyes are all black and lifeless, and it's just perpetually smiling.
It sat on a tiny rocking chair by the foot of my bed for years, and it literally PETRIFIED me. When my parents turned out the light and my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I was convinced I could see it moving ever so slightly out of the corner of my eye, but if I focused on it, it would stop. Obviously, the doll was trying to sneak its way over to my bed so it could cause me some sort of bodily harm. Obviously.
(Can I just tell you that I have the full-body chills just typing this? I'm 32.)
So I refused any offers of baby dolls for Christmas and birthdays. (Barbies were OK; I mean, how much damage could a Barbie do?) And I steered clear of the antique Tiny Tears doll (with those awful flapping eyes -- UGH) that my mom kept in their bedroom. And I never went into my grandmother's basement (where she had multiple dolls -- with the crazy eyes -- HANGING IN BASKETS ON THE WALL) unaccompanied.
Dolls are evil. Don't believe me? Check out this article. The title is "The evil zombie doll we adore." It pretty much lays out my worst nightmare in a short, snappy article for Oprah.com.
The dolls are not messing around.
I would love to (someday) have a baby daughter. But family and friends, beware: Any gifts of baby dolls will be met with a tight smile and a (silent) hope that you've included a gift receipt. Because I just can't face having an evil zombie doll popping up behind the furnace and terrorizing repairmen and generally making me afraid to be in my own house.
(Stuffed animals are OK.)
(Unless they look like they're up to no good.)
December 12, 2009
And it's exacerbated by the fact that I always seem to think I have PLENTY of time to do something when, in fact, I have NO time.
We did a bit more online shopping than usual this year. WHY did I think it would be fine to wait this long to order stuff online?
I always forget about shipping time. UGH.
Hopefully my family members will be understanding when I just hand them a photograph of what they're getting with a sheepish, "Merry Christmas."
December 11, 2009
The affair was found out, the case went to court and the 17-year-old testified that the affair was consensual. Because she did, the guy went free. To quote the judge, "It's gross, it's awful, but it ain't illegal."
Oh, well, that's fine then. Later!
Leaving the age thing out of it for just a moment... He's her TEACHER. He's an authority figure over her. Companies have rules about things like this for a reason, too. And this is even worse because she's SEVENTEEN. I know, in theory, that's practically an adult. But I think it'd be very, very rare for any 17-year-old to be able to emotionally handle a relationship with a 36-year-old authority figure.
The laws of consent are so dicey, I think. So much depends on the individual child (CHILD!) that it's so hard to know where the legal boundaries should be placed.
I've known some ridiculously mature 13-year-olds. Does that mean they'd be able to emotionally (let alone otherwise) handle a relationship with an adult who is in a position of authority over them? Um, no.
As the CNN commentator said, in theory, this provides a loophole for teachers who find themselves in this situation in the future: Make sure the student says it was consensual (whether or not they actually feel that way) and you're golden. And, as they also said in the commentary I linked to above, consent isn't about just saying the words. It's about understanding what you're doing, the consequences, what it really means. Even if the student found his advances flattering (which she says she did), did she really understand what she'd be doing to herself, to her family and to his?
Since apparently Georgia deems 17-year-olds competent to choose their own sexual partners (even if they're more than twice their age, married and teaching them calculus), at the very least I hope his school system gives him the axe.
There are a lot of things wrong with this whole situation. And almost all of them fall on this disgusting man who thought it was cool to A) cheat on his wife, and B) do it with an underage girl who looks up to him.
December 10, 2009
(Yes, I know showing you stuff on my desk is stupid. Yes, I'm still doing it.)
This bowl looks like an orange. (Hence my clever post title.) I was in Kroger one day last winter and thought this was just the thing to brighten up my very, very gray and depressing cubicle.
I love this bowl. It's so bright and cheery, and it capably holds my car keys and loose change while I'm working.
(Do other people keep their keys in bowls like this? If I didn't, they would perpetually be lost.)
December 8, 2009
She's wonderful, but notoriously hard to buy for. She recently retired, and she takes care of my niece every other week, and she dotes on my grandparents and her friends and other family members. When she isn’t in constant motion, she’d just as soon sit down with a magazine or watch some kind of sporting event (which still baffles me. This is my mother we’re talking about. We could not be more polar opposite in this respect), but she also likes nice things.
I was thinking about an “…of the month” club gift. Fruit, wine, chocolate – something like that. Then I looked up a few of them online. Holy crap. They’re unfortunately a liiiiittle out of my price range this year. Those Harry & David guys are making a killing.
So I headed to trusty ol’ Google and typed in “gift ideas,” which led to a SUPER helpful site called FindGift.com. You tell them who the gift is for, the person’s relationship to you and their age, and the occasion. They even have a cheesy adorable “gift wizard” (with a…Palm Pilot?) to help you in your quest:
Following the wizard’s instructions, I dutifully entered the information and sat back to watch the magic ensue.
Wanna guess the number-one gift suggestion for my lovely mother?
Yeah. An OVEN SQUIRREL.
What the hell is an oven squirrel, you may be asking yourself (as I certainly was)?
Apparently, it’s a “home safety device” (um, what?) that keeps you from burning your hands when you get things out of the oven. You use the squirrel’s little wooden ears to hook onto and PULL the oven rack toward you, then you use its paws to PUSH it back in.
So, the Internet wants me to pay $21.99 for what is, essentially, a wooden and much-more-awkwardly-constructed OVEN MITT? Not to mention that the squirrel? Is not cute. It is tacky and stupid-looking. And, it’s just stupid.
Much like the Internet.
My other favorite (this is sarcasm, aight?) suggestions included:
#1: Instant Infant
What a horrible thing to give your mother! A very “in your FACE” move. Yuck.
#2: I Am A Stuffed Animal Buddy
Because there’s nothing my 60-year-old mother wants more than a stuffed version of herself, so she…never has to brush her teeth alone? Also, that is possibly the worst product name in the history of time.
#3: Tattoos for the Elderly
"This makes the perfect gift for saying you're old!" OK, that’s just mean.
If you know my mother, just picture her with this on her head and you’ll laugh for five hours.
“Everyone loves cat butts!” If that is true, I hate everyone.
And, it comes with a bonus hair ball. I don't even know what that could possibly mean. But I do know you can’t put a price on Christmas memories like that.
December 7, 2009
From this angle, I think he resembles a toothless old man.
December 4, 2009
So I decided that, during the month of December, I'm going to show you the Stuff on My Desk.
(I did warn you that my blog offerings this month were going to be less than inspired. And here we are.)
So for this first installment, let me introduce you to what I call my Rockin' Pinocchio:
He's made of plastic. I don't remember what company made him or why I have him, but I remember that he came in a plastic egg. He's assembled with a series of plastic pieces and a metal rocker that fit together with tiny tabs. And his features are actually stickers that I had to affix myself.
When you tap either side of him, the round orange piece makes Pinocchio rock back and forth on the green stand he's sitting on.
He amuses me during long conference calls.
Although I've never figured out why he's apparently in a fighting stance. Perhaps Jiminy Cricket was being a smarty-pants.
December 3, 2009
"Everybody's broke, so here's the rule for Christmas this year; if you still shit your pants, you get a present. Otherwise tough shit."
December 2, 2009
December 1, 2009
I sit next to the kitchenette at work. As a result, horrible, AWFUL smells are continually washing over me as people make cheesy microwave popcorn (which smells like FEET) and warm up their leftover Chinese/Indian/fish-products.
(I'm not even going to comment on the people who pound on the vending machines and curse loudly, as though they were the ONLY person in the world and I wasn't sitting four feet away trying to, oh, I don't know, WORK.)
But just now, the guy in the cube next to me (whom I call "Snorty," for the reason you'd think) is peeling an orange.
Is there any better smell than a freshly-peeled orange? Not for my money.
Sigh. It's so lovely. I could almost forgive his repeated sinus-horking if he'd just peel an orange and let me smell it every day.
Favorite smells? Do tell.