So today I completed my first day of "work" as a Banff volunteer. I went from having 2 hours of assignments to working the whole day (guess it's hard to find competent volunteers). I knew things would work out when, upon showing up at the Banff Centre, they put me in charge of the wine. The rep for the wine was super hot (the free wine hookup also foremost in my mind) but I was bitch blocked by some bleach blond tramp who kept following the guy around. I also put up a bunch of posters and decorated the room where they're setting up all the vendors. I was given a volunteer shirt that hooray! is pink.
Then tonight I went to Radical Reels, which is a collection of extreme sport movies. The show opened with Timmy O'Neill, more sober than usual, going off about something that made no sense, followed by these kids from the audience jumping on stage and playing Eye of the Tiger in some game called Guitar Hero. It was fairly retarded and was a waste of 10 minutes of my life I'll never get back.
The films this year were exceptionally good, especially compared to last year's kind of boring documentaries. My favorite was either Crux, which had such a good sound track that I'm going to download it (http://cdbaby.com/cd/corduroykid) or Massive, an amazing ski movie. The Sonny Trotter movie came partially thanks to Will Gadd who apparently organized some funding so he could finish his movie If You're Not Falling.
After the intermission we had to suffer through another song, this time Blondie, though the kids were around 14 (how do they know these songs?). There is a way to "win" Guitar Hero though I'm not sure how. And it was kind of gay to see some kid jumping around on stage with the equivalent of a plastic toy. Like, dude, those aren't the kind of plastic toys that get a girl hot. Goes to show how little 14 year old boys know...
Then there was this weird Mountain Idol contest thing. These kids got $100 for being "ambassadors", what ever that means. Some kayaker guy won the Mountain Idol contest and was given $1,000. Didn't get what that was about at all.
As for victims, so far I've racked up three. I heard from Tami Knight, illustrator and author extraordinaire, that Banff is a huge hook up opportunity. Since I've been slacking around doing my own thing today was my first interaction with the male species hanging out here. Most of them are Canadian (read: timid virgins with no game that likely only get laid because some events have alcohol).
My first encounter was with a sound engineer who is two inches shorter than I am (and that's an even bigger number in centimeters) who kept following me around today while I was trying to decorate. I had to hide in the women's bathroom for 5 minutes and then lock the room I was working in to lose him. Then there was the documentary film maker who thought he was sneaking a picture of me with his camera phone while I was having a smoke (it was about as subtle as a shark attack) and then texting his friends about me when he was standing RIGHT NEXT to me and I could see the messages. Lame. I ditched him in the crowd going into the auditorium to watch Radical Reels. Then there was the guy, kayaker, age 25, who thought I was 23, and who seemed overly excited about the fact that I have a job. Ech.
I did, oddly enough, end up sitting next to a guy who works for New Belgium who lives in Ft. Collins and who knows some people that I know. I am supposed to meet him and his friends out for a drink later this evening but it's almost 1130 and, hell, I'm old.
If I could transport myself anywhere right now, it would be to a ski slope with 2 feet of fresh powder and with my new skis, and maybe one of the guys from Massive to give me ski lessons. Then, back in my hotel room, if someone brought me sushi I would think I had died and gone to heaven.
The sushi in Banff...well, that's another story.
Tomorrow I work until 9 PM and will hopefully get myself invited to some parties. Not that I'll go, I just like being invited places, especially if I also get a badge to get in to the parties.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
IKEA epic - the corrections
After a, well, let's just call it a discussion, Con Way requested the following corrections be made to the IKEA epic story (see pic at left of CW punishing a wall that made fun of his driving):
He DID listen to me about closing the passenger door. What happened was he opened it to tie rope around it that was being used to hold the back door closed after we got everything loaded, and when he opened the door a box that had been resting on the arm rest fell and that's why we couldn't get the door closed and had to unpack. I did not realize that was what happened because I was at the back of the car and so I falsely assumed that he (being male) ignored me. He said he told me that he thought it was a good idea when I first mentioned closing the passenger door. I probably wasn't listening when he said that because I was busy cursing him in my head for buying so much fucking stuff at IKEA.
He is a good driver, even though he is Asian. He just occasionally forgets he's driving. For the record I rode to Brooklyn, the doughnut shop, and to the Flushing mall on the back of his motorcycle and only once feared for my life. I heartfully apologize for being racist regarding my comments on the way Asians drive.
(It must just be a coincidence that none of them can drive, and have nothing to do with them being Asian - I mean shit, if Asians could drive wouldn't Lucy Liu have had an Asian driver in Kill Bill? Con Way, I'm KIDDING! KIDDING!)
I did something bad, which I failed to mention. After we got everything packed up Con Way asked where the cookies were and I told him they were not accessible, when in fact they would have been very easy to get to.
I also forgot to add that earlier in the afternoon Con Way and I were giving piggy back rides to each other (CW's idea) to get in a leg workout. So by the time we got to IKEA we were both kind of tired, leg wise, though our piggy backs provided great amusement for at least one couple that was watching us act like total idiots in the park.
So, CW, the record is set straight, or straighter. Please don't be mad at me anymore...
Monday, November 3, 2008
the three Fs
At Bachtoberfest I started talking to a woman named Claire, mostly, to be honest, because she said she wanted to set me up with her son, a Marine Colonel currently serving in Iraq. Yum. But then she told me he's married to, as she described his wife, "a ding dong" that she was hoping her son would divorce upon return from Iraq (enter me, stage left, according to her plan).
I told her I wasn't interested in her little scheme, and then we started making fun of men (at a party where we were served 4 types of german wieners, it was hard to not chuckle every time we saw a guy), and discussing our bad behavior with them over the summer. She told me that she had a procedure for men, which she called "the three Fs": find him, fuck him, forget him.
Claire, I should mention, is 72 but looks 42. She was married, had three kids, drop kicked her husband, and has followed the three Fs since. I can't help but think she's right. As a woman, if you have a job and don't need a man for anything other than sex, why invest all the energy and money into a real relationship? You know the asspipe you're with is going to fuck someone else sooner or later. Wouldn't it be nice to have not wasted your resources on him?
A movie I watched recently, Romance and Cigarettes, had a line along this theme. Susan Sarandon finds out her husband is cheating on her and during an argument screams at him "It's just a hole!" Since the movie was written by a man I thought the line was very profound. That's the difference between men and women. When a man is fucking you, you are just a hole. For women (again, as in the movie) it's hard to think that way when you're having sex (for the record, I don't actually think the movie was about a guy who cheats on his wife - it was about a guy dying of lung cancer - oops, spoiler - and I think that's why there was an emphasis on "the hole", as in smoking even though you know it will kill you and maybe that's the equivalent of cheating on your spouse, which, now that I think about it, should somehow be a theme in the book I'm no longer writing, but with climbing instead of smoking...hm...I digress).
Likely women feel differently because, if you aren't careful, nine months after something goes in something comes back out. Men don't ever have to understand that or feel responsible for their actions once they have sex. This is why there are mis-understandings between the sexes that can never be resolved. I know people stay together, happy or unhappy, for reasons that usually don't make any sense, but can be boiled down to a feeling of security for the woman and a feeling of dependence on the part of the man. Yawn.
And they call it love.
I told her I wasn't interested in her little scheme, and then we started making fun of men (at a party where we were served 4 types of german wieners, it was hard to not chuckle every time we saw a guy), and discussing our bad behavior with them over the summer. She told me that she had a procedure for men, which she called "the three Fs": find him, fuck him, forget him.
Claire, I should mention, is 72 but looks 42. She was married, had three kids, drop kicked her husband, and has followed the three Fs since. I can't help but think she's right. As a woman, if you have a job and don't need a man for anything other than sex, why invest all the energy and money into a real relationship? You know the asspipe you're with is going to fuck someone else sooner or later. Wouldn't it be nice to have not wasted your resources on him?
A movie I watched recently, Romance and Cigarettes, had a line along this theme. Susan Sarandon finds out her husband is cheating on her and during an argument screams at him "It's just a hole!" Since the movie was written by a man I thought the line was very profound. That's the difference between men and women. When a man is fucking you, you are just a hole. For women (again, as in the movie) it's hard to think that way when you're having sex (for the record, I don't actually think the movie was about a guy who cheats on his wife - it was about a guy dying of lung cancer - oops, spoiler - and I think that's why there was an emphasis on "the hole", as in smoking even though you know it will kill you and maybe that's the equivalent of cheating on your spouse, which, now that I think about it, should somehow be a theme in the book I'm no longer writing, but with climbing instead of smoking...hm...I digress).
Likely women feel differently because, if you aren't careful, nine months after something goes in something comes back out. Men don't ever have to understand that or feel responsible for their actions once they have sex. This is why there are mis-understandings between the sexes that can never be resolved. I know people stay together, happy or unhappy, for reasons that usually don't make any sense, but can be boiled down to a feeling of security for the woman and a feeling of dependence on the part of the man. Yawn.
And they call it love.
Friday, October 24, 2008
IKEA epic - the Con Way Renovation Story
I think someone should offer me my own home renovation show. I’ve spent the past 4 weekends helping people renovate their places (with one weekend off for Bachtoberfest). But last night showed how willing I am to risk my life so a friend can have a closet.
I’m staying with my friend Con Way in NYC*. I arrived Sunday to find his apartment in a state of utter disrepair. I spent the evening ripping a closet out and sustained many wounds and bruises, and also touched an exposed switch that shocked me so bad I’m pretty sure I saw Jesus waving me over to the open bar. He’s been renovating everything in his apartment, at the same time, but not finishing anything, so the place is a mess of drywall, clothes, furniture, exposed wires, rotting insulation, and wood shavings.
After ripping out the closet, CW informed me that we would be going to IKEA to get a new closet, which is blue. Sounds simple enough, I thought to myself and agreed to help him. His friend Chris spent the night Wednesday night and he and CW spent 4 hours discussing the set up of the new closet. It was starting to sound more complicated than just putting up a new cabinet, but I figured CW knew what he was doing.
After consuming, I am not making this up, five, yes FIVE, doughnuts as an afternoon “snack” CW (who makes me look fat) rented a Toyota Scion zip car and we headed to New Jersey. CW had no idea where the IKEA was, so, as the driver, I was subjected to many last minute changes in direction and was even admonished because the map software on my black berry “sucked”, that being the excuse of why we got so lost. I tried to explain to him that some of the driving maneuvers he suggested were okay for him because he’s Asian, but not for me because I’m a good driver, but he wouldn’t listen.
At IKEA I perused the cookies and jams while CW spent 2 hours (it seemed like 10) with the closet lady trying to figure out what he needed for his “little” project. At one point I was so bored I hid in a closet, planning to scare him when he opened it. But after about 5 minutes he didn’t open the closet so I walked out, scaring instead, on accident, a family with a small child.
Finally, inventory list in hand, we ran down to the self service area to pick up part of the order, the other part being pulled for us. I should have, at the time, questioned WHY we couldn’t pull everything ourselves. We had to run to pull stuff because it was 9:25 PM and IKEA closes at 10 PM.
After checking out, CW pulled the car to the loading zone and went in to get the rest of his order. He arrived with a pallet containing three 93 inch glass doors. They weighed a lot. This is going to be interesting I thought, surveying the mess of boxes that had to fit into the poor little Scion.
“There’s two more pallets I have to bring out.” CW said, running back into IKEA before I could protest.
It turns out that CW decided to buy TWO closets instead of one, explaining the now four VERY HEAVY glass doors and extra boxes. I knew we were in trouble when the IKEA staff made themselves very scarce instead of offering to help us load the car as they normally do for customers.
“Dude, we are so fucked,” I said.
“Dude, this is going to fit!” CW retorted, waving a tape measure in my face.
With only 5 minutes until IKEA's closing I realized the stuff would HAVE to fit.
Thus began a long ordeal of loading the heaviest fucking boxes on the face of the planet into this poor little Scion. The highlights of the loading process was probably when a box slid over onto the shifter, causing the shifter to get a little crushed, and causing us to have to completely unload and reload. In the process of the reload, against my suggestion, CW left the front passenger door open, and then we couldn’t close it because a box, on the bottom of course, was sticking out too far.
So we unpacked the VERY HEAVY glass doors AGAIN, plus some other fucking heavy boxes, and reshuffled the boxes AGAIN, this time managing to get the front door closed while at the same time not blocking the gear shifter. There was a moment of panic when CW tried to move the gear shifter after we freed it from the boxes, fearing we had broken it by piling, oh, let’s estimate about 600 lbs on top of it, and it wouldn’t move. I let him freak out for a minute or two before telling him that the car had to be turned on for the shifter to move. We also lost the tuner button for the radio and never found it.
We couldn’t get the back of the Scion closed so we had to tie it shut with twine. I watched CW fuck around with the twine for a while and then asked him if he knew what he was doing. He immediately put me in charge of knot tying and hopefully realized that hanging out with a climber has advantages.
At approximately 10:45 PM the car was loaded. We argued over who had to drive and CW lost so he got into the driver seat, started the car, and then realized he couldn’t see to the right at all because boxes were stacked seat to ceiling from the very back of the car all the way up to the windshield. After ANOTHER reshuffling of boxes, and an improvised solution involving propping my Vitamin Water bottle between two layers of cardboard to provide some right side visibility, we decided we were ready to head back to Manhattan (go system engineers!).
CW drove around the parking lot while I stood outside the car watching for bad things. There was only about two inches of clearance between the car frame and the wheels but it seemed to be okay. I got in the back seat, wedged myself between boxes, and ducked my head under the twine that was wrapped around the door frame to hold the back door closed. It was, shall we say, a bit uncomfortable.
Then we took our first major left turn. All the boxes shifted over on top of CW and I. He ended up wedged under about 5 flat boxes that landed on his shoulder. I got crushed against the car door. We were later laughing that if the boxes had shifted more we could have been crushed and trapped in the car. We imagined the IKEA staff driving by the Scion and staring at us as our faces were mushed against the windows and our limbs impaled by particle board.
We managed to get back to Manhattan with only a few little mishaps like when CW almost drove into a guard rail because he forgot he was driving and was looking at something that wasn’t the road, and when a guy who got pissed that we were going slow (with the hazards on) decided to cut us off right before a red light. We seriously missed hitting him only because he then ran the red light. We arrived home at midnight.
Then began the process of unloading all this shit from the car and carrying it up two flights of stairs. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say I can barely move today. To his credit CW talked a sushi bar into letting us do take out at 1 AM (I was so hungry I was ready to eat my own arm) and after only a bit of complaining opened a good bottle of wine (all I had to do was gently imply that he was one dead fuck if he didn’t pour me a drink post haste and he popped the cork). Then we ate most of the cookies we bought at IKEA and passed out around 2 am.
I would like to point out that, after getting everything into the apartment last night, CW now refers to his place as "a blue closet with an apartment". He'll probably rent it out as a bedroom.
and the rest of us had to get up early for work this morning…
*Full disclosure: he said I could write this story making fun of him only if I linked to his company (www.xerpi.com).
I’m staying with my friend Con Way in NYC*. I arrived Sunday to find his apartment in a state of utter disrepair. I spent the evening ripping a closet out and sustained many wounds and bruises, and also touched an exposed switch that shocked me so bad I’m pretty sure I saw Jesus waving me over to the open bar. He’s been renovating everything in his apartment, at the same time, but not finishing anything, so the place is a mess of drywall, clothes, furniture, exposed wires, rotting insulation, and wood shavings.
After ripping out the closet, CW informed me that we would be going to IKEA to get a new closet, which is blue. Sounds simple enough, I thought to myself and agreed to help him. His friend Chris spent the night Wednesday night and he and CW spent 4 hours discussing the set up of the new closet. It was starting to sound more complicated than just putting up a new cabinet, but I figured CW knew what he was doing.
After consuming, I am not making this up, five, yes FIVE, doughnuts as an afternoon “snack” CW (who makes me look fat) rented a Toyota Scion zip car and we headed to New Jersey. CW had no idea where the IKEA was, so, as the driver, I was subjected to many last minute changes in direction and was even admonished because the map software on my black berry “sucked”, that being the excuse of why we got so lost. I tried to explain to him that some of the driving maneuvers he suggested were okay for him because he’s Asian, but not for me because I’m a good driver, but he wouldn’t listen.
At IKEA I perused the cookies and jams while CW spent 2 hours (it seemed like 10) with the closet lady trying to figure out what he needed for his “little” project. At one point I was so bored I hid in a closet, planning to scare him when he opened it. But after about 5 minutes he didn’t open the closet so I walked out, scaring instead, on accident, a family with a small child.
Finally, inventory list in hand, we ran down to the self service area to pick up part of the order, the other part being pulled for us. I should have, at the time, questioned WHY we couldn’t pull everything ourselves. We had to run to pull stuff because it was 9:25 PM and IKEA closes at 10 PM.
After checking out, CW pulled the car to the loading zone and went in to get the rest of his order. He arrived with a pallet containing three 93 inch glass doors. They weighed a lot. This is going to be interesting I thought, surveying the mess of boxes that had to fit into the poor little Scion.
“There’s two more pallets I have to bring out.” CW said, running back into IKEA before I could protest.
It turns out that CW decided to buy TWO closets instead of one, explaining the now four VERY HEAVY glass doors and extra boxes. I knew we were in trouble when the IKEA staff made themselves very scarce instead of offering to help us load the car as they normally do for customers.
“Dude, we are so fucked,” I said.
“Dude, this is going to fit!” CW retorted, waving a tape measure in my face.
With only 5 minutes until IKEA's closing I realized the stuff would HAVE to fit.
Thus began a long ordeal of loading the heaviest fucking boxes on the face of the planet into this poor little Scion. The highlights of the loading process was probably when a box slid over onto the shifter, causing the shifter to get a little crushed, and causing us to have to completely unload and reload. In the process of the reload, against my suggestion, CW left the front passenger door open, and then we couldn’t close it because a box, on the bottom of course, was sticking out too far.
So we unpacked the VERY HEAVY glass doors AGAIN, plus some other fucking heavy boxes, and reshuffled the boxes AGAIN, this time managing to get the front door closed while at the same time not blocking the gear shifter. There was a moment of panic when CW tried to move the gear shifter after we freed it from the boxes, fearing we had broken it by piling, oh, let’s estimate about 600 lbs on top of it, and it wouldn’t move. I let him freak out for a minute or two before telling him that the car had to be turned on for the shifter to move. We also lost the tuner button for the radio and never found it.
We couldn’t get the back of the Scion closed so we had to tie it shut with twine. I watched CW fuck around with the twine for a while and then asked him if he knew what he was doing. He immediately put me in charge of knot tying and hopefully realized that hanging out with a climber has advantages.
At approximately 10:45 PM the car was loaded. We argued over who had to drive and CW lost so he got into the driver seat, started the car, and then realized he couldn’t see to the right at all because boxes were stacked seat to ceiling from the very back of the car all the way up to the windshield. After ANOTHER reshuffling of boxes, and an improvised solution involving propping my Vitamin Water bottle between two layers of cardboard to provide some right side visibility, we decided we were ready to head back to Manhattan (go system engineers!).
CW drove around the parking lot while I stood outside the car watching for bad things. There was only about two inches of clearance between the car frame and the wheels but it seemed to be okay. I got in the back seat, wedged myself between boxes, and ducked my head under the twine that was wrapped around the door frame to hold the back door closed. It was, shall we say, a bit uncomfortable.
Then we took our first major left turn. All the boxes shifted over on top of CW and I. He ended up wedged under about 5 flat boxes that landed on his shoulder. I got crushed against the car door. We were later laughing that if the boxes had shifted more we could have been crushed and trapped in the car. We imagined the IKEA staff driving by the Scion and staring at us as our faces were mushed against the windows and our limbs impaled by particle board.
We managed to get back to Manhattan with only a few little mishaps like when CW almost drove into a guard rail because he forgot he was driving and was looking at something that wasn’t the road, and when a guy who got pissed that we were going slow (with the hazards on) decided to cut us off right before a red light. We seriously missed hitting him only because he then ran the red light. We arrived home at midnight.
Then began the process of unloading all this shit from the car and carrying it up two flights of stairs. I’ll spare you the details. Suffice it to say I can barely move today. To his credit CW talked a sushi bar into letting us do take out at 1 AM (I was so hungry I was ready to eat my own arm) and after only a bit of complaining opened a good bottle of wine (all I had to do was gently imply that he was one dead fuck if he didn’t pour me a drink post haste and he popped the cork). Then we ate most of the cookies we bought at IKEA and passed out around 2 am.
I would like to point out that, after getting everything into the apartment last night, CW now refers to his place as "a blue closet with an apartment". He'll probably rent it out as a bedroom.
and the rest of us had to get up early for work this morning…
*Full disclosure: he said I could write this story making fun of him only if I linked to his company (www.xerpi.com).
Sunday, September 28, 2008
the confusion (or, my Saturday afternoon with the evil twins)
My Uncle Denny, Aunt Carol, and cousin Andrea are supposed to be coming to visit me from Kentucky. They are traveling around out here and weren't sure when they would get here so Den said he'd call me. He left me a message on Friday when I was stuck in this shit show travel situation trying to get home from Vancouver (DEN was closed and I got stuck on a runway in Cheyenne for three hours - fun) and I thought he was getting to my house Friday. But when I got home at 930 PM on Friday he wasn't there and so I assumed that he might have decided to stay with my evil twin cousins in Boulder since he couldn't get in touch with me. The evil twins are Chris and Andrew, identical red head twins that moved to Boulder two years ago.
So on Saturday while I was having lunch I got a text from a Kentucky area code number inviting me to see Andrew, one of the evil twins, play at a bar in Denver. I assumed it was Den so I called the number back, left a rambling message, and headed out to the bar. Then I got to the bar and found the evil twins but no Den. Turns out the text was from my cousin Chris, who also has a Kentucky area code because he never updated his number when he moved here. I was like "Where's Den, Carol and Andrea?" and they were like "Oh, are they in town?"
Andrew is an amazing performer and the audience was really into his show. I had to save him from these two horrible 40 something women who wanted to attack him. A guy in the back gave him a $40 tip for playing two songs. People were dropping money in his guitar case during the show.
He told me this great story about how once these really drunk girls once dropped their phone number in his guitar case. It turns out, as they were leaving, they hit a car as they were pulling out of the parking lot. When the cops showed up they were asking Andrew about the girls and he gave them the phone number. So then the cop called the driver and pretended to be Andrew. When the girl drove back to the bar to meet him the cops arrested her.
Too funny.
So on Saturday while I was having lunch I got a text from a Kentucky area code number inviting me to see Andrew, one of the evil twins, play at a bar in Denver. I assumed it was Den so I called the number back, left a rambling message, and headed out to the bar. Then I got to the bar and found the evil twins but no Den. Turns out the text was from my cousin Chris, who also has a Kentucky area code because he never updated his number when he moved here. I was like "Where's Den, Carol and Andrea?" and they were like "Oh, are they in town?"
Andrew is an amazing performer and the audience was really into his show. I had to save him from these two horrible 40 something women who wanted to attack him. A guy in the back gave him a $40 tip for playing two songs. People were dropping money in his guitar case during the show.
He told me this great story about how once these really drunk girls once dropped their phone number in his guitar case. It turns out, as they were leaving, they hit a car as they were pulling out of the parking lot. When the cops showed up they were asking Andrew about the girls and he gave them the phone number. So then the cop called the driver and pretended to be Andrew. When the girl drove back to the bar to meet him the cops arrested her.
Too funny.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
folding papers
I have been having some really weird dreams lately.
A week ago I had a dream that I was standing in an airplane hangar with my friend Jen who used to be a lesbian but isn't anymore. The airplane hangar was on fire and I was trying to get the maps out of the plane before they burned up because the maps were expensive. Jen and Angelina Jolie were arguing about Jen deciding to not be a lesbian anymore because apparently Angelina wanted to hook up with Jen. Angelina kept pointing this really long finger in Jen's face and saying "I want to know if you're really going to do THIS!" and Jen kept making excuses about not hooking up. I was like Jen, you're an idiot and no one cares that the hangar is burning down except me. Then the roof of the hangar fell in and I woke up.
Then I had a dream that I showed up to work and everyone looked like a zombie and had blood coming out of their eyes. I took a secret staircase from whatever floor I was on and started running down the stairwell because I was afraid someone was going to eat me. That's what zombies do. Then I got to this lobby and started running across it and this guard was like "Oh god! Look in the mirror!" and I looked in one of the mirrors in the lobby and my eyes were bleeding too. So I started crying because I didn't want to be a zombie and then the guard shot me in the chest and I woke up.
On monday before I left for Canadull I had a dream that I was at work meeting with a client and the client kept staring at the cuffs of these brown tweed pants I was wearing. So finally I looked down at them and the bottom of my pants were covered with deck stain and I had accidentally worn my flip flops into work and all my toe nails had turned black and one of my feet was a really weird green color and was slowly disintegrating into this gelatinous goo. I started to panic because I thought I had accidentally stained my deck in my work clothes and now they were all ruined. Then the client got on the phone to my boss and told him I had to leave before all of me disintegrated into goo. I was trying to explain to the client that it was only my foot but then these guys came in with a wheel chair and put me in an elevator. As soon as the door closed I realized the elevator didn't work and I was going to plummet to my death as soon as one of the wheel chair guys pushed the button for the ground floor, the elevator buttons being outside this particular elevator. I heard the ding of the bell and the elevator started to fall and then I woke up.
My favorite dream I've had this week is I was in a garbage dump but all the garbage had been washed and smelled like soap. I was standing on this huge pile of junk pulling out everything that could be recycled and these little midgets were taking the recycling and putting it into magic wheel barrows that would fold up the recycling. So then I sat down on this old tricycle and started racing the wheel barrow to see if I could fold the recycling up faster than the wheel barrow could. When I woke up I was really happy because for a second I thought I really had recycled a bunch of garbage. But actually I didn't.
A week ago I had a dream that I was standing in an airplane hangar with my friend Jen who used to be a lesbian but isn't anymore. The airplane hangar was on fire and I was trying to get the maps out of the plane before they burned up because the maps were expensive. Jen and Angelina Jolie were arguing about Jen deciding to not be a lesbian anymore because apparently Angelina wanted to hook up with Jen. Angelina kept pointing this really long finger in Jen's face and saying "I want to know if you're really going to do THIS!" and Jen kept making excuses about not hooking up. I was like Jen, you're an idiot and no one cares that the hangar is burning down except me. Then the roof of the hangar fell in and I woke up.
Then I had a dream that I showed up to work and everyone looked like a zombie and had blood coming out of their eyes. I took a secret staircase from whatever floor I was on and started running down the stairwell because I was afraid someone was going to eat me. That's what zombies do. Then I got to this lobby and started running across it and this guard was like "Oh god! Look in the mirror!" and I looked in one of the mirrors in the lobby and my eyes were bleeding too. So I started crying because I didn't want to be a zombie and then the guard shot me in the chest and I woke up.
On monday before I left for Canadull I had a dream that I was at work meeting with a client and the client kept staring at the cuffs of these brown tweed pants I was wearing. So finally I looked down at them and the bottom of my pants were covered with deck stain and I had accidentally worn my flip flops into work and all my toe nails had turned black and one of my feet was a really weird green color and was slowly disintegrating into this gelatinous goo. I started to panic because I thought I had accidentally stained my deck in my work clothes and now they were all ruined. Then the client got on the phone to my boss and told him I had to leave before all of me disintegrated into goo. I was trying to explain to the client that it was only my foot but then these guys came in with a wheel chair and put me in an elevator. As soon as the door closed I realized the elevator didn't work and I was going to plummet to my death as soon as one of the wheel chair guys pushed the button for the ground floor, the elevator buttons being outside this particular elevator. I heard the ding of the bell and the elevator started to fall and then I woke up.
My favorite dream I've had this week is I was in a garbage dump but all the garbage had been washed and smelled like soap. I was standing on this huge pile of junk pulling out everything that could be recycled and these little midgets were taking the recycling and putting it into magic wheel barrows that would fold up the recycling. So then I sat down on this old tricycle and started racing the wheel barrow to see if I could fold the recycling up faster than the wheel barrow could. When I woke up I was really happy because for a second I thought I really had recycled a bunch of garbage. But actually I didn't.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
the coasties
I'm in nowhere West Virginia this week working with the coast guard. Don't ask me why they have an office that is so far away from any body of water, I don't know.
The class has been interesting, starting with the second day when I discovered a workbook that has all the student exercises in it wasn't shipped. I had to tap dance through the next hour while the customer printed the books (customer being NOT happy about that). It was even more fun than the first day of class when everyone's laptops were crashing due to a bad software image and me having a different set of slides than what was delivered to the students.
This is one of those weird dry counties and there are signs all over the hotel (not a chain) that I'm staying in saying you can't have alcohol in the hotel. So the coasties who came in for the training hang out right outside the door of the hotel with their alcohol. At any point in the day, starting around 4 pm, there are at least 5 guys outside smoking and drinking.
Yesterday, while I was trying to make calls to figure out what the hell happened to my training material, a bunch of coasties showed up from dinner. The guy who drove was so drunk he had vomit on the sleeve of his shirt, where he had, he told me, wiped his mouth after puking out the car window. He said this as he was downing a long island iced tea. I asked him if he thought it was a good idea to keep drinking at which point his friend defended him with the statement "Well, he's eating peanuts too!" Apparently vomit head dumped a bucket of peanuts in the bar they were at (I suspect Divas, a topless joint 30 minutes from the hotel) into his pants pocket. The friend then yelled at vomit head for not offering me a peanut.
He offered me a peanut.
Living in a small town makes people crazy like that. The guard at the base gate decided to give me a hard time yesterday when I was entering the base. He wanted to see my ID, class roster, black berry, and probably my tits. When I pointed out to him that I had a base pass, which he had given me the previous day, and which had his handwriting on it, he said "That pass don't mean shit. I'm not talking about yesterday, I'm talking about today." I was told by my customer that the "threat level" of the base had been elevated due to the Yemen embassy incident. Elevated to what I wonder? Bringing out the rednecks and their trailers so they can shoot people in rental cars? I mean, how could someone attack this little base that isn't even on a map and is hard to find with directions from the customer? And why would the base get attacked?
Unless vomit head stole his peanuts from a terrorist...
The class has been interesting, starting with the second day when I discovered a workbook that has all the student exercises in it wasn't shipped. I had to tap dance through the next hour while the customer printed the books (customer being NOT happy about that). It was even more fun than the first day of class when everyone's laptops were crashing due to a bad software image and me having a different set of slides than what was delivered to the students.
This is one of those weird dry counties and there are signs all over the hotel (not a chain) that I'm staying in saying you can't have alcohol in the hotel. So the coasties who came in for the training hang out right outside the door of the hotel with their alcohol. At any point in the day, starting around 4 pm, there are at least 5 guys outside smoking and drinking.
Yesterday, while I was trying to make calls to figure out what the hell happened to my training material, a bunch of coasties showed up from dinner. The guy who drove was so drunk he had vomit on the sleeve of his shirt, where he had, he told me, wiped his mouth after puking out the car window. He said this as he was downing a long island iced tea. I asked him if he thought it was a good idea to keep drinking at which point his friend defended him with the statement "Well, he's eating peanuts too!" Apparently vomit head dumped a bucket of peanuts in the bar they were at (I suspect Divas, a topless joint 30 minutes from the hotel) into his pants pocket. The friend then yelled at vomit head for not offering me a peanut.
He offered me a peanut.
Living in a small town makes people crazy like that. The guard at the base gate decided to give me a hard time yesterday when I was entering the base. He wanted to see my ID, class roster, black berry, and probably my tits. When I pointed out to him that I had a base pass, which he had given me the previous day, and which had his handwriting on it, he said "That pass don't mean shit. I'm not talking about yesterday, I'm talking about today." I was told by my customer that the "threat level" of the base had been elevated due to the Yemen embassy incident. Elevated to what I wonder? Bringing out the rednecks and their trailers so they can shoot people in rental cars? I mean, how could someone attack this little base that isn't even on a map and is hard to find with directions from the customer? And why would the base get attacked?
Unless vomit head stole his peanuts from a terrorist...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Balls
File this story under things you probably didn't want to know.
When I was in the shower at 530 Sunday morning getting ready for my flight to DC I happened to notice my razor was on the wrong shelf. I went to move it and noticed that it was clogged with long hairs. That's strange, I thought to myself, especially since I haven't used the razor in over a week and had just changed the cartridge.
As I was toweling off after my shower, suddenly I remembered the following conversation I had with my housepest Ryan, who has taken a part time job teaching swimming:
F: Michael Phelps swim suit always looks like it's about to fall off.
R: That's how you're supposed to wear that suit.
F: I wonder if he shaves his back.
R: Of course he does. Swimmers shave everything.
F: Even their balls?
R: Especially their balls.
If Ryan shaved his balls with my razor, I really really really don't want to know.
When I was in the shower at 530 Sunday morning getting ready for my flight to DC I happened to notice my razor was on the wrong shelf. I went to move it and noticed that it was clogged with long hairs. That's strange, I thought to myself, especially since I haven't used the razor in over a week and had just changed the cartridge.
As I was toweling off after my shower, suddenly I remembered the following conversation I had with my housepest Ryan, who has taken a part time job teaching swimming:
F: Michael Phelps swim suit always looks like it's about to fall off.
R: That's how you're supposed to wear that suit.
F: I wonder if he shaves his back.
R: Of course he does. Swimmers shave everything.
F: Even their balls?
R: Especially their balls.
If Ryan shaved his balls with my razor, I really really really don't want to know.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
My Uncle Denny
My Uncle Denny and Aunt Carol are planning a drive by through Denver on their way home from picking up my cousin Andrea. Andrea works for the forest service and does things like jumping out of helicopters to tag elk. We've been emailing to figure out if I am going to be around when they come through.
My Uncle Denny is my godfather of sorts. We have a similar sense of humor. For my 9th birthday he gave me a Ouija board. For my 10th birthday he gave me Dungeons and Dragons, the first set ever made.
He also has a lot of good stories about farts. Sometimes when he's telling fart stories he farts. I laugh my ass off every time we hang out.
He has scars on his face from the time, when he was 10, that he decided to build a volcano. He and my mom lived in this plantation house in Louisville that took up an entire city block. It was haunted and had secret passages. One of my cousins wrote a book about the house called "The House on 3rd Street". Anyway, my uncle dug up a major part of the back yard and made this huge pile of dirt that was about 5 feet high. Then he dug out the core and put dynamite in the hole so his "volcano" would explode. The dynamite, as physics dictated, blew the dirt outward rather than exploding upward, at which point my uncle belated realized that standing next to the volcano was not a good idea.
I sent him an email today to let him know that I am going to be in Vancouver when he was initially planning on coming by. He sent me a response that started out: "Franki, What the hell are you doing in Vancouver ?" He then went on to make fun of my cousins who are referred to as the evil slacker twins in Boulder, and then he closed the email with "Love, Uncle Denny _everyone does".
Indeed...
My Uncle Denny is my godfather of sorts. We have a similar sense of humor. For my 9th birthday he gave me a Ouija board. For my 10th birthday he gave me Dungeons and Dragons, the first set ever made.
He also has a lot of good stories about farts. Sometimes when he's telling fart stories he farts. I laugh my ass off every time we hang out.
He has scars on his face from the time, when he was 10, that he decided to build a volcano. He and my mom lived in this plantation house in Louisville that took up an entire city block. It was haunted and had secret passages. One of my cousins wrote a book about the house called "The House on 3rd Street". Anyway, my uncle dug up a major part of the back yard and made this huge pile of dirt that was about 5 feet high. Then he dug out the core and put dynamite in the hole so his "volcano" would explode. The dynamite, as physics dictated, blew the dirt outward rather than exploding upward, at which point my uncle belated realized that standing next to the volcano was not a good idea.
I sent him an email today to let him know that I am going to be in Vancouver when he was initially planning on coming by. He sent me a response that started out: "Franki, What the hell are you doing in Vancouver ?" He then went on to make fun of my cousins who are referred to as the evil slacker twins in Boulder, and then he closed the email with "Love, Uncle Denny _everyone does".
Indeed...
The List
My perfect man qualifications:
- A good climber and who excels at other sports
- Older than me and established (i.e. not living out of his car)
- Owns a custom made pair of cowboy boots and understands shoes
- Can socialize across the spectrum
- Has a good set of friends
- Writes well and reads a lot
- Has a great music collection of stuff I haven't heard yet
- Has a background in the sciences and likes to talk about math and physics just in case I want to talk about, for example, small number theory or strange attractors
- Has good business sense
- Is not a water sign
- Is above average height
- Has a large dog or would get a large dog and name it Heshy the Knuckles because I've always wanted a dog called Heshy the Knuckles
- Can cook
- Eats sushi a lot
- Knows something about wine and will drink wine with me
- Will hold my hand in public
- Is not obsessed with porn
- Knows who the Little Prince is
- Has traveled extensively
- Has had one traumatic injury from which he's recovered
- Can do currency calculations so when we travel we don't get ripped off changing money
- Owns a tux and wears it at least once a year
- Has above average intelligence and an above average sense of humor
- Doesn't have to wear anything to correct his vision
- Has some interesting scars, especially on his hands
- Doesn't have any tattoos, but has his ear pierced
- Is not afraid of the water
- Does something for his community or gives money to charities
- Speaks at least one other language besides English
- Has an advanced degree but not a PhD
- Has the same taste in films as I do and doesn't make me watch shit movies (Transformers comes to mind)
- Writes romantic notes to me and sends me postcards
- Believes in recycling and rides his bike
- Will not sandbag me on a climb or if we are skiing
- Plays at least one musical instrument
- Has at least some Romanian blood
- Tells the long version of a story rather than the short version
- Only gossips with me
- Doesn't have kids or any weird drama with an ex
- Self effacing
- Can identify trees and birds
- Would take care of me if I were sick or injured and wouldn't complain or expect me to have sex with him until I was better
- Owns a Toyota truck
- Drinks yerba mate and coffee but doesn't put sugar in his coffee
- Has great teeth, which he brushes and flosses regularly
- Gives me records even though I don't have a record player
- Likes John Coltrane and going to listen to music
- Is a good photographer
- Wears flip flops when ever possible
- Is not financially irresponsible
- Has lips like Mick Jagger or Keith Richards
- Has an imperfect rib cage
- Doesn't get headaches or whine about being tired
- Knows how to shave with a straight edge razor
- Is president of at least one thing
- Is not easily intimidated
If you happen to find this creature, please send him to me ASAP...
Words of wisdom from Neil
Last night I was talking to my friend Neil and we were laughing about my latest romantic entanglements and he said something that I thought was very profound. He said that to even get started in a relationship takes so much, and if the situation is complicated chances are it won't work out.
He quoted the Springsteen song Tunnel of Love "ought to be easy, ought to be simple enough/man meets a woman and they fall in love". I started thinking about how all of my relationships have been more or less mitigated disasters, and how every one of them was so complex I found myself spending all of my time trying to figure out how to make the relationship work rather than enjoying the relationship.
There was my ex who lived in a different country and who couldn't ever seem to be in the same city as me no matter where we moved. The idiot mountaineer who would argue with me all the time because I refused to drop out of my master's program on the off chance he was home for a week. The guy who lived 1,200 miles away from me with kids who was going through a divorce and, even though he didn't really have a job, was busy doing other stuff, forcing me to drive up to New York every weekend to try to spend time with him. Etc.
None of these guys ever did anything to try to accommodate me or my schedule. Even with my recent relationship, I ended up making some less than beneficial career decisions to spend time with him. All of my efforts ended up being a waste since every one of those guys ended up with someone else.
From now on I'm keeping things simpliciter. No more guys with a shit ton of problems or inconvenient issues. I feel like I should have stocked up enough karma going out with some of the biggest ass pipes on the planet to find a good guy. Hopefully there's someone out there that can qualify.
He quoted the Springsteen song Tunnel of Love "ought to be easy, ought to be simple enough/man meets a woman and they fall in love". I started thinking about how all of my relationships have been more or less mitigated disasters, and how every one of them was so complex I found myself spending all of my time trying to figure out how to make the relationship work rather than enjoying the relationship.
There was my ex who lived in a different country and who couldn't ever seem to be in the same city as me no matter where we moved. The idiot mountaineer who would argue with me all the time because I refused to drop out of my master's program on the off chance he was home for a week. The guy who lived 1,200 miles away from me with kids who was going through a divorce and, even though he didn't really have a job, was busy doing other stuff, forcing me to drive up to New York every weekend to try to spend time with him. Etc.
None of these guys ever did anything to try to accommodate me or my schedule. Even with my recent relationship, I ended up making some less than beneficial career decisions to spend time with him. All of my efforts ended up being a waste since every one of those guys ended up with someone else.
From now on I'm keeping things simpliciter. No more guys with a shit ton of problems or inconvenient issues. I feel like I should have stocked up enough karma going out with some of the biggest ass pipes on the planet to find a good guy. Hopefully there's someone out there that can qualify.
Monday, September 8, 2008
I knew it was Monday before you told me...
In the interest of trying to make my backyard look better I decided to stain my deck and fence. I spent the past two days doing that and some other little carpentry projects. This summer we've only had a few days of rain, which happened to coincide with my dad's visit and our hiking. The stain required two days of drying during which it's not supposed to rain.
Last night, when I was standing on my patio, I noticed a breeze had kicked up and the sky was a weird kind of reddish color. This summer has been characterized by evening thunderstorms that never produce any precipitation so, though I felt a little uneasy, I assured myself that it wouldn't rain.
This morning I woke up at 430. It was raining.
Fucking rain. I wonder what will happen now.
Last night, when I was standing on my patio, I noticed a breeze had kicked up and the sky was a weird kind of reddish color. This summer has been characterized by evening thunderstorms that never produce any precipitation so, though I felt a little uneasy, I assured myself that it wouldn't rain.
This morning I woke up at 430. It was raining.
Fucking rain. I wonder what will happen now.
Friday, September 5, 2008
lions, tigers, and yaks
Last night I had a dream I was in this field in England for a birthday party for Clint. He walked up to me and was holding hands with some girl that was his new girlfriend. I was trying to figure out why he invited me to the party but instead of answering my question he took me over to this rickety wooden fence and said "Look at my animals".
There were two doors like a barn and one had a small window. He slid the window down and there was a horse head in the window. Then he slid the window closed and open again and this time there was a yak with all these weird ribbons and shit on its head. Then Clint walked away but not before saying "don't let my animals out".
So I opened the doors to see what other animals there were and the animals started running out. None of them were real animals except for one which was a lion. The fake animals were really scary looking, like a tiger with a bear head. I started to panic when I saw the lion and tried to close the doors but the lion jumped on the doors and knocked me over.
I was laying on the ground and knew the lion was going to try to eat me so I pulled myself up between the wall and the door and the lion went running across the field. Then these two guys came up to me wearing suits and carrying briefcases and they were like "Franki, you missed your flight! We have to go to the airport now!" And I asked them who I should call to let them know I let all the animals out and they were like "We don't have time!" so then I was in this really old airport and a woman told me my flight was leaving in an hour so I ran up to security and I had these HUGE orange and red tickets.
Then I got to my terminal and found out my flight didn't leave for 6 hours. So then I was like well I'll go smoke but I couldn't get out of the terminal because there was no door, only windows and then I also realized I was in the airport by myself and that I was trapped for whatever reason by the guys with the suitcases.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
my coke habit
So today is the first day in my entire adult life that I haven't had a coke. Instead I drank 2 pots of green tea, made with three tea bags each pot. I suppose this is a good thing...
PROS:
-green tea is a lot healthier
-won't have to carry cokes around anymore
-can stop trying to force myself to eat broccoli since I'm drinking so much green tea
-can finally use up that huge thing of Agave nectar I bought 2 years ago that has since crystalized but I think it's still okay to use
-can use all my cool coffee cups assuming my idiot room mate brings them down from his room where he seems to be hoarding them like some kind of twisted underpants fairy
-um...
-oh yeah, if I ever get dragged to starbucks I will actually be able to order something instead of going "do you have any cokes back there?" like I usually do
CONS:
-I'm pretty sure I'm dying, or I feel like I'm dying, and I never used to feel that way when I drank coke, so that means I'll never live to reap the benefits of drinking green tea. Fuck.
PROS:
-green tea is a lot healthier
-won't have to carry cokes around anymore
-can stop trying to force myself to eat broccoli since I'm drinking so much green tea
-can finally use up that huge thing of Agave nectar I bought 2 years ago that has since crystalized but I think it's still okay to use
-can use all my cool coffee cups assuming my idiot room mate brings them down from his room where he seems to be hoarding them like some kind of twisted underpants fairy
-um...
-oh yeah, if I ever get dragged to starbucks I will actually be able to order something instead of going "do you have any cokes back there?" like I usually do
CONS:
-I'm pretty sure I'm dying, or I feel like I'm dying, and I never used to feel that way when I drank coke, so that means I'll never live to reap the benefits of drinking green tea. Fuck.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
a short history on explosives
I just sent the following email to my co-author, regarding a Red Bull video he sent me about some guys creating a wave in a river somewhere in Europe and then surfing it. Why he's watching videos instead of finishing our book is a mystery to me. My co-author and my brother got into a little tiff about the veracity of the vid. Note that my co-author is a geologist who works in the oil industry fracking.
I wrote to my co-author:
I just had the most scintillating conversation with my little brother (insert comment "I'm not so little any more" due to the fact that he is over 6' tall, and then do what I do, ignore the comment and continue on with the story...okay, where were we, oh yes, Nobel). Any way, we were talking about whether or not that explosion in that surfing vid could have been real.
Steve then went through the whole dynamite thing, including how Nobel discovered you could mix sawdust in with nitro glycerin and that makes it stable (NOTE: I am just guessing, yeah, just a GUESS, that Nobel was a bit of a slob and he accidentally got pencil shavings or some shit in his nitro glycerin, and then Bertha, his secretary, was all freaking out and shit, like "Goddammit Alfred! I've told you a MILLION times don't sharpen your fucking pencils around your experiments!" and then he was like, "What evah bitch! I just discovered some serious shit. You want the Nobel Peace Prize? Then shut the fuck up and go type something!" and then she was all like "Dick! I am SO marrying that baron! Then I'm going to tell him to smite you! Oh fuck, wait, then I won't win the peace prize. Fine. I'll just go around saying bad things about your penis." She won the NPP in 1905.).
And that's why dynamite really can't get wet. Or, oh, left that part out, water is what caused nitro glycerin to get so fucky after just sitting around for a few days (or was it weeks? I'm trying to not exaggerate.) And if they really threw some dynamite in that river thing it would have gotten wet and not exploded. That's why bomb squads use a water tank to diffuse bombs (I did not know that, BTW, until I did some research).
So, um, then...
Oh yeah. I threw a wrench in the monkey works quick like. I said "Well, maybe they put the dynamite in a water proof box!" I'm the creative one in the family you know. So then we started talking about Peak Particle Velocity. Steve said geologists probably don't know much about that, because rock people are kind of limited to the whole "Ooh rock. Rock is hard." kind of analysis, usually done before they insert a finger up their nose and stare vacantly at the neighborhood squirrels, going, "Heh heh. I think that one forgot where he buried his nut." PPV causes all kinds of bad things like making buildings fall down and shit. Causing ruptures in the earth. Or, maybe it was PPV is bad if there already is a rupture in the earth, that part is a little foggy, cause I was focusing on remembering PPV.
But, even more exciting, is the Air Blast. Air Blast can cause brain damage and brain damage causes things like confusion over whether the month is June, when the book was due, or July, which is when it is now, and that comes AFTER June, if you were wondering. I've heard climbing is therapeutic for these kinds of brain injuries because climbing doesn't require a lot in the way of intelligence (those in dis-agreement should hang out at the gear counter at Paradise, where, last time I was there, and had a gakked up toe nail, I was asked "Dude, is that your TOE?" to which I wanted to respond "No, I've removed all those and sewn little trinkets I found at the everything under a dollar store on my foot to replace them. Aren't they cute?" but I didn't because at the time I was looking for a climbing partner and didn't want to deal with the rumors of being the "toeless girl").
The bottom line is, could that wave have really been caused by dynamite, and what was the PPV anyway? Did all those building fall down right after the vid was shot due to PPV and Red Bull was like "Fuck us!"?
Also, Steve has a been a member of the International Society of Explosive Engineers for 12 years. He prefers the phrase "blowed up" rather than "blew up". Um, and, to be honest, he doesn't like oil guys too much because they are always hogging up the mountains and you can't mine for coal in the same place because they're always like "Dude, you're going to ruin my hole" in a whiny voice. And, ahem, he said they call it "sweet crude oil" because they are a bunch of arrogant pricks that like to say things like "sweet crude".
the end
I wrote to my co-author:
I just had the most scintillating conversation with my little brother (insert comment "I'm not so little any more" due to the fact that he is over 6' tall, and then do what I do, ignore the comment and continue on with the story...okay, where were we, oh yes, Nobel). Any way, we were talking about whether or not that explosion in that surfing vid could have been real.
Steve then went through the whole dynamite thing, including how Nobel discovered you could mix sawdust in with nitro glycerin and that makes it stable (NOTE: I am just guessing, yeah, just a GUESS, that Nobel was a bit of a slob and he accidentally got pencil shavings or some shit in his nitro glycerin, and then Bertha, his secretary, was all freaking out and shit, like "Goddammit Alfred! I've told you a MILLION times don't sharpen your fucking pencils around your experiments!" and then he was like, "What evah bitch! I just discovered some serious shit. You want the Nobel Peace Prize? Then shut the fuck up and go type something!" and then she was all like "Dick! I am SO marrying that baron! Then I'm going to tell him to smite you! Oh fuck, wait, then I won't win the peace prize. Fine. I'll just go around saying bad things about your penis." She won the NPP in 1905.).
And that's why dynamite really can't get wet. Or, oh, left that part out, water is what caused nitro glycerin to get so fucky after just sitting around for a few days (or was it weeks? I'm trying to not exaggerate.) And if they really threw some dynamite in that river thing it would have gotten wet and not exploded. That's why bomb squads use a water tank to diffuse bombs (I did not know that, BTW, until I did some research).
So, um, then...
Oh yeah. I threw a wrench in the monkey works quick like. I said "Well, maybe they put the dynamite in a water proof box!" I'm the creative one in the family you know. So then we started talking about Peak Particle Velocity. Steve said geologists probably don't know much about that, because rock people are kind of limited to the whole "Ooh rock. Rock is hard." kind of analysis, usually done before they insert a finger up their nose and stare vacantly at the neighborhood squirrels, going, "Heh heh. I think that one forgot where he buried his nut." PPV causes all kinds of bad things like making buildings fall down and shit. Causing ruptures in the earth. Or, maybe it was PPV is bad if there already is a rupture in the earth, that part is a little foggy, cause I was focusing on remembering PPV.
But, even more exciting, is the Air Blast. Air Blast can cause brain damage and brain damage causes things like confusion over whether the month is June, when the book was due, or July, which is when it is now, and that comes AFTER June, if you were wondering. I've heard climbing is therapeutic for these kinds of brain injuries because climbing doesn't require a lot in the way of intelligence (those in dis-agreement should hang out at the gear counter at Paradise, where, last time I was there, and had a gakked up toe nail, I was asked "Dude, is that your TOE?" to which I wanted to respond "No, I've removed all those and sewn little trinkets I found at the everything under a dollar store on my foot to replace them. Aren't they cute?" but I didn't because at the time I was looking for a climbing partner and didn't want to deal with the rumors of being the "toeless girl").
The bottom line is, could that wave have really been caused by dynamite, and what was the PPV anyway? Did all those building fall down right after the vid was shot due to PPV and Red Bull was like "Fuck us!"?
Also, Steve has a been a member of the International Society of Explosive Engineers for 12 years. He prefers the phrase "blowed up" rather than "blew up". Um, and, to be honest, he doesn't like oil guys too much because they are always hogging up the mountains and you can't mine for coal in the same place because they're always like "Dude, you're going to ruin my hole" in a whiny voice. And, ahem, he said they call it "sweet crude oil" because they are a bunch of arrogant pricks that like to say things like "sweet crude".
the end
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Bad Graveyard Bunny
One animal I forgot to mention in my zoo is the bad graveyard bunny. This bunny is pretty large as bunnies go. And he might have rabies or something. As I’ve been walking through the grave yard in the evening (there’s basically a quarter mile track around all the graves) the bunny runs in front of me and does very destructive things.
Because of the upcoming holiday most of the graves have flowers on them. The bunny likes to jump into the flowers, knocking them over. I try to not laugh because I don’t want to encourage him, but yesterday he jumped into the leg of a tripod flower arrangement and sent the thing tumbling into two other flower arrangements, causing this kind of daffodil domino effect.
I know he had to have done that on purpose. Even if he is in dire need of bunny spectacles there’s NO WAY he could have not seen that arrangement. It was gargantuan. In the hour I was wandering the graveyard he knocked that over, two vase arrangements, jumped over a low bench and I’m pretty sure pooped on it, and then he ate some of a nice bushy kind of arrangement. I saw him eating it and asked him if he was allowed to do that and he gave me this look like "what are you going to do about it even if I’m NOT supposed to be eating this?" I felt like telling him that I used to eat rabbits so he better watch his attitude around me, but didn’t bother because those types of bunnies never listen.
Speaking of arrangements, while we are on the subject, some people put strange things on their graves. One person that’s there has a flag on her grave that has a picture of one of those small annoying dogs with a hairy face and a bow on its head. I didn’t even know you could buy a flag with a dog on it. Nor did I know that people put flags on their graves.
If someone ever made a grave for me I hope they will put a pirate flag on it. I however, will not be there, as I plan to be elsewhere. Being buried is not great for the environment.
Because of the upcoming holiday most of the graves have flowers on them. The bunny likes to jump into the flowers, knocking them over. I try to not laugh because I don’t want to encourage him, but yesterday he jumped into the leg of a tripod flower arrangement and sent the thing tumbling into two other flower arrangements, causing this kind of daffodil domino effect.
I know he had to have done that on purpose. Even if he is in dire need of bunny spectacles there’s NO WAY he could have not seen that arrangement. It was gargantuan. In the hour I was wandering the graveyard he knocked that over, two vase arrangements, jumped over a low bench and I’m pretty sure pooped on it, and then he ate some of a nice bushy kind of arrangement. I saw him eating it and asked him if he was allowed to do that and he gave me this look like "what are you going to do about it even if I’m NOT supposed to be eating this?" I felt like telling him that I used to eat rabbits so he better watch his attitude around me, but didn’t bother because those types of bunnies never listen.
Speaking of arrangements, while we are on the subject, some people put strange things on their graves. One person that’s there has a flag on her grave that has a picture of one of those small annoying dogs with a hairy face and a bow on its head. I didn’t even know you could buy a flag with a dog on it. Nor did I know that people put flags on their graves.
If someone ever made a grave for me I hope they will put a pirate flag on it. I however, will not be there, as I plan to be elsewhere. Being buried is not great for the environment.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
The "unofficial" King George, VA Zoo
Never heard of King George, VA? That's not too shocking. The town has about 200 residents, most of whom are stray dogs. My "hotel" also is the town's trailer park, grocery, and, I am not making this up, grave yard. The closest restaurant is The King of Pizza (having had it, I would postulate that is an exaggeration unless they are referring to just this county).
To entertain myself, which has not been easy since there's no gym and the only place to walk is in the graveyard, or down the side of Rt 301, I have created a little zoo that I like to visit every day. It's unofficial, but fun, if you ever find yourself in King George VA:
First, walk past the rusted Mercedes with no wheels, and past the grills laying in the grass, to the office, which is actually just a room with lock boxes that contain room keys. When you check into the hotel you have to call a special number and a guy reads you the combo and then takes hits off his bong while you try to open the lock box, saying things like "yeah dude, just turn it slow". Around the door to this office you will find Dusty Cat, a species of cat known for giving off clouds of dust when it fluffs its tail and runs away from you. Besides dust, this species can be identified by its singular ear.
Walk down the drive way onto the highway. As you walk in the gravel break down lane you will encounter the bush bees, bees that collect together in a swarm on a bush. They only leave the bush to chase people like you who are walking by.
A half mile from the bush bees is the electri-dog. The electri-dog has an electric collar, and lives in a trailer park habitat. It is known for lunging furiously at visitors to the zoo and then falling on the ground and wiping its face with its paws as it gets the shit shocked out of it.
Empty pig is the next animal on our tour. Empty pig is a big white pig on top of Crazy Ray's Ribs, which may or may not be closed, it's hard to tell.
Finally, as you cross the highway and head back to the hotel, look for the venemous black strap snake laying on the side of the highway. It looks like a snake, though in reality it's really just a strap that was blowing around from the air currents generated by all the trucks. But, it could have been a snake.
Finally, encounter that truck babboon, hanging out the window and cat calling as you pick your way up the Woodside Inn driveway.
Thanks for visiting the zoo. Please don't feed the animals.
To entertain myself, which has not been easy since there's no gym and the only place to walk is in the graveyard, or down the side of Rt 301, I have created a little zoo that I like to visit every day. It's unofficial, but fun, if you ever find yourself in King George VA:
First, walk past the rusted Mercedes with no wheels, and past the grills laying in the grass, to the office, which is actually just a room with lock boxes that contain room keys. When you check into the hotel you have to call a special number and a guy reads you the combo and then takes hits off his bong while you try to open the lock box, saying things like "yeah dude, just turn it slow". Around the door to this office you will find Dusty Cat, a species of cat known for giving off clouds of dust when it fluffs its tail and runs away from you. Besides dust, this species can be identified by its singular ear.
Walk down the drive way onto the highway. As you walk in the gravel break down lane you will encounter the bush bees, bees that collect together in a swarm on a bush. They only leave the bush to chase people like you who are walking by.
A half mile from the bush bees is the electri-dog. The electri-dog has an electric collar, and lives in a trailer park habitat. It is known for lunging furiously at visitors to the zoo and then falling on the ground and wiping its face with its paws as it gets the shit shocked out of it.
Empty pig is the next animal on our tour. Empty pig is a big white pig on top of Crazy Ray's Ribs, which may or may not be closed, it's hard to tell.
Finally, as you cross the highway and head back to the hotel, look for the venemous black strap snake laying on the side of the highway. It looks like a snake, though in reality it's really just a strap that was blowing around from the air currents generated by all the trucks. But, it could have been a snake.
Finally, encounter that truck babboon, hanging out the window and cat calling as you pick your way up the Woodside Inn driveway.
Thanks for visiting the zoo. Please don't feed the animals.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Women - Stop Being Bitches
Today I find myself wondering why women are such assholes.
I’m in my fourth week of dealing with professional, or should I say “professional” women. Normally, thank Allah, my job is done by men so I usually don't have to deal with members of my own sex. Also, up until a month ago, the women I ran into in my job were more like me (of the successful women I met who do architecture, not a SINGLE one had a spouse that had a job - not a SINGLE working husband among the lot).
I spent two weeks working for a woman who was an idiot. My favorite thing she did was call a meeting without informing me, blindsided me as I was trying to get my code done by saying "we have a conference call with everyone in 5 minutes" (thanks for giving me some prep time!), and then, when everyone had joined the call, she announced "I haven't seen any of the code so if this is wrong it's not my fault." Really bitch? Weren't you the one giving me the requirements???
This woman also purposely withheld information from me until the second to last day of my consulting gig, and that required me to pull an all nighter to completely restructure my code so that I could do a presentation the next day for her three bosses, all of whom are VPs. I wanted to kick her in the cunt for that. There I was, for two weeks, putting in twelve hour days including working the weekend, and she couldn’t even give the most basic professional courtesty by providing me with the information I needed to do my job.
And then she had the balls to start crying when I confronted her about withholding information. And I did it nicely, when I was tired from a long run, so I would be able to control the urge to slap her. The entire project was almost ruined because she was so stupid.
Then, last week, I was teaching a class and got into a confrontation with a woman in the class about her project. She made a bad engineering decision, and rather than deciding to correct when her team realized she had made a bad decision based on an example I gave in my class, she decided to attack me instead. Personally and in a passive aggressive fashion. She is lucky, as she stage whispered shit to her embarrassed male colleague, that I don't kill clients that pay me. Her fatal error was when she made a blatantly false statement about a technical standard, and when I pulled the standard up on my laptop and said "Show me where it says that" she picked up her stuff and ran out of the room crying. This woman was in her 40s. It was sad.
I then sent her an email that night saying I would be willing to discuss her point further if she thought it might help. She was a dumb bitch but I was trying to be nice. She didn't even respond back to my email, and sent a male colleague to my class the next day to tell me she wasn't coming back to class and that I didn't need to contact her again. I am embarrassed for her, and feel bad that her coping skills are to act like a pussy.
Ladies, do you really think that kind of behavior is going to get you equal pay with a male colleague? Do you think it's going to help your career to try to fuck over every other professional woman you encounter?
This week in class I got a blonde bimbo who is obviously fucking the program manager, who has made it his mission to get some "after class tutoring" with me. He's divorced. Since he has been asking me questions at break and after class about WORK, she has been disrupting my class by talking loudly, making jokes, complaining about how the software tool that I'm using to teach the class is unuseable (that's right honey, because it requires intelligence), and has been flirting with every other guy in the class, one would assume to make the PM jealous. The guy who set up the class is thinking about removing her because other students are complaining about her behavior.
For the record, I don't fuck redneck guys from small towns that aren't smart. Especially when they are shorter than me. And have a beer gut.
Here's what would be nice: for you, as a woman, to get a fucking REAL education. Don't skate through school getting some bullshit liberal arts degree. Don't take a job in a tech environment if you can't handle it. Stop running off to have a baby every time the going gets tough for you.
You think you're the first woman treated badly because of your chromosomes? Trust me, you are not. And yes, you're going to get hit on, lose your boyfriend because he can't handle a woman that is smarter than he is or makes more money than he does, you are going to pull all nighters for your customer, and they are going to complain because your company sent a female consultant instead of a male consultant and that's life.
And you keep doing your job because you love it. And you aren't going to let some asshole stop you.
Even when that asshole should be supporting you because she's in the same boat. So women, please, stop acting like fuck nuts. Help a sister out.
I’m in my fourth week of dealing with professional, or should I say “professional” women. Normally, thank Allah, my job is done by men so I usually don't have to deal with members of my own sex. Also, up until a month ago, the women I ran into in my job were more like me (of the successful women I met who do architecture, not a SINGLE one had a spouse that had a job - not a SINGLE working husband among the lot).
I spent two weeks working for a woman who was an idiot. My favorite thing she did was call a meeting without informing me, blindsided me as I was trying to get my code done by saying "we have a conference call with everyone in 5 minutes" (thanks for giving me some prep time!), and then, when everyone had joined the call, she announced "I haven't seen any of the code so if this is wrong it's not my fault." Really bitch? Weren't you the one giving me the requirements???
This woman also purposely withheld information from me until the second to last day of my consulting gig, and that required me to pull an all nighter to completely restructure my code so that I could do a presentation the next day for her three bosses, all of whom are VPs. I wanted to kick her in the cunt for that. There I was, for two weeks, putting in twelve hour days including working the weekend, and she couldn’t even give the most basic professional courtesty by providing me with the information I needed to do my job.
And then she had the balls to start crying when I confronted her about withholding information. And I did it nicely, when I was tired from a long run, so I would be able to control the urge to slap her. The entire project was almost ruined because she was so stupid.
Then, last week, I was teaching a class and got into a confrontation with a woman in the class about her project. She made a bad engineering decision, and rather than deciding to correct when her team realized she had made a bad decision based on an example I gave in my class, she decided to attack me instead. Personally and in a passive aggressive fashion. She is lucky, as she stage whispered shit to her embarrassed male colleague, that I don't kill clients that pay me. Her fatal error was when she made a blatantly false statement about a technical standard, and when I pulled the standard up on my laptop and said "Show me where it says that" she picked up her stuff and ran out of the room crying. This woman was in her 40s. It was sad.
I then sent her an email that night saying I would be willing to discuss her point further if she thought it might help. She was a dumb bitch but I was trying to be nice. She didn't even respond back to my email, and sent a male colleague to my class the next day to tell me she wasn't coming back to class and that I didn't need to contact her again. I am embarrassed for her, and feel bad that her coping skills are to act like a pussy.
Ladies, do you really think that kind of behavior is going to get you equal pay with a male colleague? Do you think it's going to help your career to try to fuck over every other professional woman you encounter?
This week in class I got a blonde bimbo who is obviously fucking the program manager, who has made it his mission to get some "after class tutoring" with me. He's divorced. Since he has been asking me questions at break and after class about WORK, she has been disrupting my class by talking loudly, making jokes, complaining about how the software tool that I'm using to teach the class is unuseable (that's right honey, because it requires intelligence), and has been flirting with every other guy in the class, one would assume to make the PM jealous. The guy who set up the class is thinking about removing her because other students are complaining about her behavior.
For the record, I don't fuck redneck guys from small towns that aren't smart. Especially when they are shorter than me. And have a beer gut.
Here's what would be nice: for you, as a woman, to get a fucking REAL education. Don't skate through school getting some bullshit liberal arts degree. Don't take a job in a tech environment if you can't handle it. Stop running off to have a baby every time the going gets tough for you.
You think you're the first woman treated badly because of your chromosomes? Trust me, you are not. And yes, you're going to get hit on, lose your boyfriend because he can't handle a woman that is smarter than he is or makes more money than he does, you are going to pull all nighters for your customer, and they are going to complain because your company sent a female consultant instead of a male consultant and that's life.
And you keep doing your job because you love it. And you aren't going to let some asshole stop you.
Even when that asshole should be supporting you because she's in the same boat. So women, please, stop acting like fuck nuts. Help a sister out.
Expressions I Dislike
"What ever floats your boat" - What exactly is that supposed to mean? That something besides water can float a boat? What's the visual I'm supposed to get when someone says this? A boat floating in outer space waiting for something (jello, money, candy corn) to gather around it and hold it up? It has appalling alliterative qualities. Say it while looking in the mirror. Look at the way your mouth forms around the long O. Yeah, you look like an idiot.
"Getting a bite to eat" or worse "Getting a bite" - My prejudice against people who use this expression always seems to bear out. For example, I was recently invited on a date "to get a bite" by a man who failed to mention until 5 minutes after the date was underway, that he had giardia (AKA horrible diarrhea), meaning I sat at a table in the restaurant by myself, with people staring as my date rushed to the bathroom every 10 minutes, for most of the "date". Which is not to say explosive diarrhea is a bad quality, but the guy didn't have much else going for him, except that he was super rich. He told me I was "over educated" and that "most guys don't see that as a positive thing". Really fucknut? Because, I'm not the one who was so stupid I drank some water I shouldn't have and got giardia. Maybe you wouldn't be shitting your brains out all day if you were smart enough to have known the water wasn't safe.
"Shut up!" - This is an East Coast girl thing I think. I dislike it immensely when I am telling someone a good story (e.g. "So, last night I had a date with a guy who had explosive diarrhea") and I'm interrupted with the exclamation "Shut up!" I often fantasize about slapping the utterer across the face and then waiting to see what will happen next.
"Toodles" - Guys seem to say this to me. I have no idea why. How can you purport to be straight and say such a thing?
"Getting a bite to eat" or worse "Getting a bite" - My prejudice against people who use this expression always seems to bear out. For example, I was recently invited on a date "to get a bite" by a man who failed to mention until 5 minutes after the date was underway, that he had giardia (AKA horrible diarrhea), meaning I sat at a table in the restaurant by myself, with people staring as my date rushed to the bathroom every 10 minutes, for most of the "date". Which is not to say explosive diarrhea is a bad quality, but the guy didn't have much else going for him, except that he was super rich. He told me I was "over educated" and that "most guys don't see that as a positive thing". Really fucknut? Because, I'm not the one who was so stupid I drank some water I shouldn't have and got giardia. Maybe you wouldn't be shitting your brains out all day if you were smart enough to have known the water wasn't safe.
"Shut up!" - This is an East Coast girl thing I think. I dislike it immensely when I am telling someone a good story (e.g. "So, last night I had a date with a guy who had explosive diarrhea") and I'm interrupted with the exclamation "Shut up!" I often fantasize about slapping the utterer across the face and then waiting to see what will happen next.
"Toodles" - Guys seem to say this to me. I have no idea why. How can you purport to be straight and say such a thing?
Monday, June 23, 2008
girl fight tonight
Is it not bad enough that I have spent the past two weeks in Vegas getting hit on by a very unattractive lesbian? Why, baby Jesus, did you put that stupid bitch C in my class today?
This woman is a cunt of the highest order, which would be fine if she were smart, but she's really quite stupid, and worse, lies when confronted about the stupid shit she keeps saying in an attempt to derail my class. She started off the morning by making a stupid comment that was more aimed at me personally than the class material, which I turned around on her to explain because her logic was so poor it only took mere miliseconds to poke a hole in her argument (for architecture geeks, she stated that she had created a business function hierarchy using a UML activity model - this is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard of).
So the next hour she escalated by making another, more personal comment and another more idiotic technical comment (that a sequence flow and a functional decomp accomplish the same thing). I seriously think she was out surfing web sites and just reading random sentences. She accused me of not knowing the course material that I am teaching (yeah, I've only been doing this FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS BITCH). Then she claimed the standard doc I teach to said something it didn't (that you could use an activity diagram in place of an IDEF0 or use case model). So, being a retarded engineer, I pulled up the standard and said "Show me where you read that" because I've used the standard since 2004 and I know what it fucking says because I argue with idiots like her all the time.
Meanwhile, the front row, all 8 seats, are filled with retired Navy guys, who start quietly chanting "girl fight tonight!" I can hear them, but C, who is sitting 5 rows away can't. I am trying to not laugh. I am trying to not jump up on the table in front of me, cross the room Lucy Liu style and cut her head off with my imaginary samurai sword.
I instead start to laugh as the "girl fight tonight" chant gets more lines added to it, of the flavor you would expect from a navy kind of guy. Fine, I'm immature. Cheri apparently thought I was laughing at her, started to cry (this woman, by the by, must be in her late 40s, going on, I guess, 5), and ran out of the room. Then there was stunned silence. I kept going with the class and then afterwards when everyone else had left the navy guys were all like "what the fuck was THAT?"
I'm pretty sure this doesn't happen to the male instructors but I could be wrong. And this could explain why women in general get a bad rap in engineering organizations.
This woman is a cunt of the highest order, which would be fine if she were smart, but she's really quite stupid, and worse, lies when confronted about the stupid shit she keeps saying in an attempt to derail my class. She started off the morning by making a stupid comment that was more aimed at me personally than the class material, which I turned around on her to explain because her logic was so poor it only took mere miliseconds to poke a hole in her argument (for architecture geeks, she stated that she had created a business function hierarchy using a UML activity model - this is one of the stupidest things I've ever heard of).
So the next hour she escalated by making another, more personal comment and another more idiotic technical comment (that a sequence flow and a functional decomp accomplish the same thing). I seriously think she was out surfing web sites and just reading random sentences. She accused me of not knowing the course material that I am teaching (yeah, I've only been doing this FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS BITCH). Then she claimed the standard doc I teach to said something it didn't (that you could use an activity diagram in place of an IDEF0 or use case model). So, being a retarded engineer, I pulled up the standard and said "Show me where you read that" because I've used the standard since 2004 and I know what it fucking says because I argue with idiots like her all the time.
Meanwhile, the front row, all 8 seats, are filled with retired Navy guys, who start quietly chanting "girl fight tonight!" I can hear them, but C, who is sitting 5 rows away can't. I am trying to not laugh. I am trying to not jump up on the table in front of me, cross the room Lucy Liu style and cut her head off with my imaginary samurai sword.
I instead start to laugh as the "girl fight tonight" chant gets more lines added to it, of the flavor you would expect from a navy kind of guy. Fine, I'm immature. Cheri apparently thought I was laughing at her, started to cry (this woman, by the by, must be in her late 40s, going on, I guess, 5), and ran out of the room. Then there was stunned silence. I kept going with the class and then afterwards when everyone else had left the navy guys were all like "what the fuck was THAT?"
I'm pretty sure this doesn't happen to the male instructors but I could be wrong. And this could explain why women in general get a bad rap in engineering organizations.
Friday, May 23, 2008
"Here's your hockey octopus!"
I was reading an article today about why one should watch hockey. I read it in part because I was shocked that there was still hockey going on. Or maybe it's one of those sports that goes on all year, like...um...karate.
My favorite, of the 8 reasons cited by the author of why one should watch hockey, was this:
Octopi: Another sell for the NHL, Wyshynski says, is the grand tradition of bringing raw octopodes to the game and throwing them on the ice either before the game or to celebrate a goal. He says the league banned raw octopus-twirling because of the goo and slime, but they still make appearances, their eight legs representing the eight wins once required for a Stanley Cup win.
I am sorry to have not gotten to see this before the NHL banned the practice. I think giving a bunch of drunk red necks raw slimy things to throw during a sporting event is a great idea, slightly better than giving base ball bats out to passionate fans who have been drinking.
My favorite, of the 8 reasons cited by the author of why one should watch hockey, was this:
Octopi: Another sell for the NHL, Wyshynski says, is the grand tradition of bringing raw octopodes to the game and throwing them on the ice either before the game or to celebrate a goal. He says the league banned raw octopus-twirling because of the goo and slime, but they still make appearances, their eight legs representing the eight wins once required for a Stanley Cup win.
I am sorry to have not gotten to see this before the NHL banned the practice. I think giving a bunch of drunk red necks raw slimy things to throw during a sporting event is a great idea, slightly better than giving base ball bats out to passionate fans who have been drinking.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Slip Ray & Ajibberish
My favorite people to talk to when I fly out to DC are the people who work with Avis. I always rent cars from them and have gotten to know a few of the people there beyond just getting my receipt for my car.
One of my favorite people is Slip Ray. The other people at Avis call him Slip Ray because he’s always slipping and tripping getting onto or getting off the bus. I have personally seen him slip and almost fall three times getting onto the bus. Two of those times he was holding a big suitcase so it was really funny.
Then there is Ajibberish. Ajibberish is from Korea and no one can understand what he is saying so that’s why he’s Ajibberish. Usually he will lean his head out the window and yell at Slinky as we are pulling out of the Avis parking lot. Slinky is Slinky because he has orange dreds that are styled in this kind of weird spiral design. Ajibberish will yell “Hey Slinky! You no use you eyes where you put that cars!” And then Slinky will yell back “Why you always talking ajibberish?” Then the other two guys who work in the parking lot will start yelling “Ajibberish! Ajibberish!” Then Ajibberish gets a smile on his face like he’s Elvis and drives us about 40 miles an hour over the metal teeth and out the parking lot.
One time he missed the turn out of the parking lot and drove us up on this grass hill. The bus was momentarily stuck but Ajibberish finally figured out to put it in reverse and got us off the hill. The guys who work the guard shack came running over and Ajibberish yelled “I drive use the force!” Those of us that weren’t smiling were probably scared.
As I pulled into Avis today it was raining, and Slip Ray ran over to my SUV with an umbrella. I got stuck with a Dodge Nitro this week. They tried to give me an H3 but I flat out refused to take it. This was the same day the bandage was taken off my cornea and my eye was hurting horribly besides watering non-stop. The little Indian guy called Soup came running over and switched out my car. I think he thought I was crying about my car but I wasn’t.
Slip Ray grabbed my suitcase and escorted me to the bus. He’s been carrying my luggage for me since I broke my hand back in February. I tell him he doesn’t have to but I think he might have a crush on me. He was also excited to tell me about the woman bus driver Colleen. Colleen is a large, large woman who doesn’t always seem to be aware she is driving. I have made fun of Colleen to Slip Ray and Ajibberish, who don’t like her because she’s a bitch.
It turns out Colleen that very day backed her bus into a brand new Lincoln Navigator. Then she tried to say that the Lincoln Navigator hit her even though no one was in it. She was fired. The manager asked how how she could have missed seeing the Lincoln in the back up camera. Colleen apparently screamed at him “I wasn’t looking at the camera! I was trying to look at the steering wheel.” His repeat of this line in a female falsetto sent Ajibberish into hysterics. Then, as we arrived at the airport (Slip Ray rode the bus with me, ostensibly to help me with my bags, but mostly because he likes to tell me what has happened since the last time I was at Avis) he said “You know why she wrecked the bus? Cause she’s a woooooo-maaaaaaaaan!” I smiled and got off the bus, and as he was pulling away Ajibberish opened the bus door again and yelled “Woooooo-maaaaaan!” at me.
I think they deserve their own TV show.
One of my favorite people is Slip Ray. The other people at Avis call him Slip Ray because he’s always slipping and tripping getting onto or getting off the bus. I have personally seen him slip and almost fall three times getting onto the bus. Two of those times he was holding a big suitcase so it was really funny.
Then there is Ajibberish. Ajibberish is from Korea and no one can understand what he is saying so that’s why he’s Ajibberish. Usually he will lean his head out the window and yell at Slinky as we are pulling out of the Avis parking lot. Slinky is Slinky because he has orange dreds that are styled in this kind of weird spiral design. Ajibberish will yell “Hey Slinky! You no use you eyes where you put that cars!” And then Slinky will yell back “Why you always talking ajibberish?” Then the other two guys who work in the parking lot will start yelling “Ajibberish! Ajibberish!” Then Ajibberish gets a smile on his face like he’s Elvis and drives us about 40 miles an hour over the metal teeth and out the parking lot.
One time he missed the turn out of the parking lot and drove us up on this grass hill. The bus was momentarily stuck but Ajibberish finally figured out to put it in reverse and got us off the hill. The guys who work the guard shack came running over and Ajibberish yelled “I drive use the force!” Those of us that weren’t smiling were probably scared.
As I pulled into Avis today it was raining, and Slip Ray ran over to my SUV with an umbrella. I got stuck with a Dodge Nitro this week. They tried to give me an H3 but I flat out refused to take it. This was the same day the bandage was taken off my cornea and my eye was hurting horribly besides watering non-stop. The little Indian guy called Soup came running over and switched out my car. I think he thought I was crying about my car but I wasn’t.
Slip Ray grabbed my suitcase and escorted me to the bus. He’s been carrying my luggage for me since I broke my hand back in February. I tell him he doesn’t have to but I think he might have a crush on me. He was also excited to tell me about the woman bus driver Colleen. Colleen is a large, large woman who doesn’t always seem to be aware she is driving. I have made fun of Colleen to Slip Ray and Ajibberish, who don’t like her because she’s a bitch.
It turns out Colleen that very day backed her bus into a brand new Lincoln Navigator. Then she tried to say that the Lincoln Navigator hit her even though no one was in it. She was fired. The manager asked how how she could have missed seeing the Lincoln in the back up camera. Colleen apparently screamed at him “I wasn’t looking at the camera! I was trying to look at the steering wheel.” His repeat of this line in a female falsetto sent Ajibberish into hysterics. Then, as we arrived at the airport (Slip Ray rode the bus with me, ostensibly to help me with my bags, but mostly because he likes to tell me what has happened since the last time I was at Avis) he said “You know why she wrecked the bus? Cause she’s a woooooo-maaaaaaaaan!” I smiled and got off the bus, and as he was pulling away Ajibberish opened the bus door again and yelled “Woooooo-maaaaaan!” at me.
I think they deserve their own TV show.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Dr. D's Dirty Undies
My wonderful opthamologist (if you are in the Denver area and need a good eye doctor send me an email and I'll give you his name) told me the following story when I was in his office Monday getting the old eye ball checked out...
He often goes to Mexico and brings back Cuban cigars which he sneaks in either in his coat or, if it's warm, under his shirt. He's jewish and as our MOT has suffered throughout history we figure it's okay to to say fuck it to some arbitrary embargo.
The past month, coming back from Mexico, TSA found out he was a doctor, and, as he went through customs, they pulled him aside and started going through all of his bags. He said they began ripping his bags open and throwing the contents all over the floor of the airport. As he says it "Dirty underwear was flying everywhere!"
The reasoning given by TSA is that they had gotten some intell that a doctor was smuggling body parts into the US. Never mind that Dr. D is an opthamologist, so what did they think he was going to smuggle in, eyeballs, and that, in general, packing, say, a heart or lung in with your dirty underwear is not a great way to ensure the viability of the organ for a transplant.
Lovely that our airports are being run by people who can't even get a job at McDonald's. If you say they are protecting me put the word in quotes.
He often goes to Mexico and brings back Cuban cigars which he sneaks in either in his coat or, if it's warm, under his shirt. He's jewish and as our MOT has suffered throughout history we figure it's okay to to say fuck it to some arbitrary embargo.
The past month, coming back from Mexico, TSA found out he was a doctor, and, as he went through customs, they pulled him aside and started going through all of his bags. He said they began ripping his bags open and throwing the contents all over the floor of the airport. As he says it "Dirty underwear was flying everywhere!"
The reasoning given by TSA is that they had gotten some intell that a doctor was smuggling body parts into the US. Never mind that Dr. D is an opthamologist, so what did they think he was going to smuggle in, eyeballs, and that, in general, packing, say, a heart or lung in with your dirty underwear is not a great way to ensure the viability of the organ for a transplant.
Lovely that our airports are being run by people who can't even get a job at McDonald's. If you say they are protecting me put the word in quotes.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Proust Questionnaire: James "justifiably james" Nathan
So, let's see...the first time I met James I was jacked up on chemo sitting in his office trying to figure out what the fuck he was talking about regarding RBAC, ISSM, and wanting me to write a paper on the security features of Solaris 10. I went to the nearest bathroom and puked. He got me out to Denver on a project and supported me through my time with the c. He is one of my true friends and I know if anything every happened to me I could count on Jamesy to help me out. We are going to work on a book together, as soon as the other one is out the door, called "the player chronicles". Hugs & xxx to you J.
http://iamanmd.multiply.com
What is your current state of mind?
BLESSED
What is your greatest fear?
That I wont live long enough to see my children prosper
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
my Patience and acceptance of people
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
lack of integrity
What living person do you most admire?
Muhammad Ali
What living person do you most despise?
hmmmm any conservative talk show host
On what occasion do you lie?
"daddy is santa going to grand ma house too"
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
Vera Viera my second wife
When and where were you happiest?
Hawaii
Which talent would you most like to have?
SING
If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?
my height
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
my girls are my greatest achievement
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
hmmm OBAMA
What is your favorite occupation?
the one i am now
Who are your favorite writers?
lawd!! JR TOLKIEN , Philip Margolin, LA Banks, Cornel West
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Aragon
Who are your heroes in real life?
Ali, OBAMA, Ben Disraeli, my grand pop
What are your favorite names?
James, Franki, Aayana, Aanisa, Aarika, Aakira, to name a few :)
What is your greatest regret?
that I didnt go back to art school
How would you like to die?
in my bed in my house, in my sleep with my children around me
What is your motto?
Today is a day worth LIVING FOR!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Proust Questionnaire: Tami "XT" Knight
An intro to Tami: the Canadian version of me, illustrator and author of a lot of books including Everest: The Ultimate Hump and a book about household knots. She works with cirkids.org and knows how to make hats!
What is your current state of mind?
Slightly rushed & preferring a bit of a slow down
What is your greatest fear?
Barfing. I really don't like barfing.
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Inability to advocate on my own behalf.
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Dishonesty.
What living person do you most admire?
Jane Goodall.
What living person do you most despise?
My ex-boss at my old job who was a pompous asshole but thought of himself as a mystical genius.
On what occasion do you lie?
If it keeps others from being hurt......or asking too many questions.
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
My husband. I'm serious. I won the lottery meeting him.
When and where were you happiest?
Rite now here at home with my family & especially when my son is here with the five of us ( 3 humans ; 2 kitties )
Which talent would you most like to have?
To play the violin and speak Japanese.
If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?
Lower blood pressure.
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Becoming a circus arts coach to children
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
......as opposed to "want it to be"? I'm likely to come back as a Jack Russell terrier.
What is your favorite occupation?
Teaching circus arts.
Who are your favorite writers?
John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, Gunter Grass, Michael Ondaatje, Tom Robbins ; I'm currently reading Truman Capote.
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
I don't seem to have one.............yikes. Even searching and thinking about it I can't think of one. I'm not drawn to "the heroic" in literature but , rather, the complex web of a story that an author can tell.
Who are your heroes in real life?
My mum and my favorite coaches and teachers.
What are your favorite names?
I don't have favorites but, being a teacher of children I sure have non-favorites and those are , first, any name that is spelled weird or unordinary to it's norm ( e.g. "Jaimz" for "James" ), secondly, names that are just plain silly ( "Spitfire", "Ramamoon", "Moss" ). Yes I've come across those last three.
What is your greatest regret?
I've divested myself of having regrets and make a monumental effort not to have them. Regrets are a massive waste of time.
How would you like to die?
In a long time from now and at the same time as my husband.
What is your motto?
Carpay all the diems hahaha
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Proust Questionnaire: Kerreck "hug me I purr" Jones
An intro to Kerreck: one of my best friends from back in the days of San Fran, ballet, and gourmet cooking (by Ker). A gifted mathematician that got away with a lot more than the rest of us regarding our customer and occupation. The culmination of our partying was the exotic erotic ball where he was interviewed on national TV wearing the star spangled g-string about a month after 9/11. He will hopefully remember me breaking into a boat house in my vampire costume to get my ticket and almost taking a swim in the bay. Our best heist was stealing someone's box at the ballet and then staggering over to Alcatraz the next morning for a tour. We did the sharkfest together although he got out of the water about 40minutes before I did. He is also the one who served me with divorce papers. He even dressed up for the occasion, walked into my cube, slammed them on my desk and said "You've been SERVED!" My last hug in San Fran...
What is your current state of mind?
mildly contented
What is your greatest fear? Becoming morbidly obese
What is the trait you most deplore in yourself?
Not having a job I love
What is the trait you most deplore in others?
Gargantuan Ego with extremely large body fat %
What living person do you most admire?
No one, right now
What living person do you most despise?
Certain disgusting repulsive obese people at my last job
On what occasion do you lie?
I'm at the point where even I can't tell
What or who is the greatest love of your life?
My kitty
When and where were you happiest?
When I was in the cast of the musical "Good News" in the summer of 1991.
Which talent would you most like to have?
Strolling and playing accordion while singing Rodgers and Hart ballads
If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be? Acquire the above talent
What do you consider your greatest achievement?
Having less than 9% body fat at my age.
If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you think it would be?
A poolside towel boy at the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas
What is your favorite occupation? Entertainer
Who are your favorite writers?
I loved Hemingway. Kafka is cool as well as Isaac Bashevis Singer. I am now getting into Gabriel Marquez Garcia
Who is your favorite hero of fiction?
Can't think of one right now
Who are your heroes in real life?
Navy Seals, Marines and Rangers who whip it up on the Taliban
What are your favorite names?
Don't have any
What is your greatest regret?
Getting involved with hateful Zionists when I was younger.
How would you like to die?
Being attacked by jailbait while performing as a male stripper at a sweet 16 party
What is your motto?
Don't have one.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
meta crap, broken fingers
Great find by Anonymous:
http://www.well.com/~doctorow/metacrap.htm
My favorite quote from this article: "Short of breaking fingers or sending out squads of vengeful info-ninjas to add metadata to the average user's files, we're never gonna get there."
http://www.well.com/~doctorow/metacrap.htm
My favorite quote from this article: "Short of breaking fingers or sending out squads of vengeful info-ninjas to add metadata to the average user's files, we're never gonna get there."
super eyes
So, by the end of this week, I may have one super eye. And if things go well with that, I will, in a month, get another super eye. Right eye is going first.
When I was a kid my parents would make gifts because we didn't have a lot of money. My dad started making me chemistry sets when I was six. I also had my own microscope. He would get the chemicals and then put together a lab book of experiments for me to do. That worked out well and as the years went on the chemicals I got became more and more dangerous.
Around the time I was 10 I think, I got my usual chemistry set, did the experiments in the lab book, and then began improvising. For one experiment I put some chemicals in a test tube. Nothing happened. So then I corked and shook the test tube. Still nothing. So then I applied heat to the bottom of the test tube. This was all being done in my "laboratory", a pile of bricks on the side of our house. The yard went down a steep slope to our neighbor's driveway, and my dad had been trying to grow grass there, finally succeeding. So there I was, sitting on the side of the house, applying a lighter to a test tube.
The test tube exploded. I remember stomping in the grass because it seems there was a fire in the grass and I was worried about burning the house down. My brother ran inside to tell my mom what I did, which was lucky. She rinsed my eyes out with cold water, almost drowning me in the process. That likely saved my eye sight.
The explosion caused a lot of scar tissue on my eyes. By the time I was 14 I was developing major sight issues and could barely tolerate normal light. This is because, with the scar tissue, my pupil was not reacting as quickly as it should to light. Also, my vision would star and halo in low light or darkness. I ended up going through a treatment for my eyes, but through the military so the treatment sucked. At one point I started wearing sunglasses all the time because I couldn't keep my eyes open in normal light because it was too painful.
In 1994 I had started to get tunneled sight so badly that I could barely read and had lost almost all peripheral vision. A doctor operated on my eyes and attempted to clean up the mess. This was when I was dating a guy named Arthur, who was from South Africa, and the poor thing was in the waiting room, saw me coming out, and then I fainted so he had to carry me to the car. I was wearing these things that looked like paper cups on my eyes to protect them. We had not been dating long. In the car I started describing to him how I saw these metal rings laying on the table that they had used to cut up my eyes. He wretched. I had been given valium before the surgery, making me chatty.
Anyway, as we headed towards my apartment Arthur was pulled over by the hate because my vehicle tags were expired. The cop was confused by his South African driver's license and me sitting in the passenger seat with these cups on my eyes babbling about my surgery. He gave us a police escort to the DMV and got my tags renewed in 20 minutes. He even let us park in the handicap parking space. Arthur had to sign everything because I couldn't see. He told everyone he was my husband which was the first time a guy had ever referred to himself as that. Years later he left a comment on a web page I had set up. We wrote a manual together on object oriented design but they took our names off of it and it was never published: http://www.idef.com/IDEF4.html.
So now, a million bilion years later, I have to get surgery again because I'm losing my peripheral vision due to a build up of scar tissue. Also, currently my vision can't be corrected to better than 20/40 in one eye and 20/70 in the other. The haloing is so bad I probably shouldn't be allowed to drive at night. And my depth perception is shit. Since I spend a fair bit of time teaching classes and in rooms lit only by the light of a projector, this has become a bit of a problem. Also, while in Paris, I was unable to navigate around the various bars and restaurants I was attending without having someone to hold on to (thank you JJ and Dunc, aka bad snow white). But, the surgery, which has been performed for the past year, will fix many of those problems, and possibly even give me 20/15 vision.
Having always had bad eye sight that was never 20/20 it will be interesting if that happens. I keep telling my doctor I will have super eyes. He just smiles at me and asks if I want a prescription for valium to take before the surgery.
When I was a kid my parents would make gifts because we didn't have a lot of money. My dad started making me chemistry sets when I was six. I also had my own microscope. He would get the chemicals and then put together a lab book of experiments for me to do. That worked out well and as the years went on the chemicals I got became more and more dangerous.
Around the time I was 10 I think, I got my usual chemistry set, did the experiments in the lab book, and then began improvising. For one experiment I put some chemicals in a test tube. Nothing happened. So then I corked and shook the test tube. Still nothing. So then I applied heat to the bottom of the test tube. This was all being done in my "laboratory", a pile of bricks on the side of our house. The yard went down a steep slope to our neighbor's driveway, and my dad had been trying to grow grass there, finally succeeding. So there I was, sitting on the side of the house, applying a lighter to a test tube.
The test tube exploded. I remember stomping in the grass because it seems there was a fire in the grass and I was worried about burning the house down. My brother ran inside to tell my mom what I did, which was lucky. She rinsed my eyes out with cold water, almost drowning me in the process. That likely saved my eye sight.
The explosion caused a lot of scar tissue on my eyes. By the time I was 14 I was developing major sight issues and could barely tolerate normal light. This is because, with the scar tissue, my pupil was not reacting as quickly as it should to light. Also, my vision would star and halo in low light or darkness. I ended up going through a treatment for my eyes, but through the military so the treatment sucked. At one point I started wearing sunglasses all the time because I couldn't keep my eyes open in normal light because it was too painful.
In 1994 I had started to get tunneled sight so badly that I could barely read and had lost almost all peripheral vision. A doctor operated on my eyes and attempted to clean up the mess. This was when I was dating a guy named Arthur, who was from South Africa, and the poor thing was in the waiting room, saw me coming out, and then I fainted so he had to carry me to the car. I was wearing these things that looked like paper cups on my eyes to protect them. We had not been dating long. In the car I started describing to him how I saw these metal rings laying on the table that they had used to cut up my eyes. He wretched. I had been given valium before the surgery, making me chatty.
Anyway, as we headed towards my apartment Arthur was pulled over by the hate because my vehicle tags were expired. The cop was confused by his South African driver's license and me sitting in the passenger seat with these cups on my eyes babbling about my surgery. He gave us a police escort to the DMV and got my tags renewed in 20 minutes. He even let us park in the handicap parking space. Arthur had to sign everything because I couldn't see. He told everyone he was my husband which was the first time a guy had ever referred to himself as that. Years later he left a comment on a web page I had set up. We wrote a manual together on object oriented design but they took our names off of it and it was never published: http://www.idef.com/IDEF4.html.
So now, a million bilion years later, I have to get surgery again because I'm losing my peripheral vision due to a build up of scar tissue. Also, currently my vision can't be corrected to better than 20/40 in one eye and 20/70 in the other. The haloing is so bad I probably shouldn't be allowed to drive at night. And my depth perception is shit. Since I spend a fair bit of time teaching classes and in rooms lit only by the light of a projector, this has become a bit of a problem. Also, while in Paris, I was unable to navigate around the various bars and restaurants I was attending without having someone to hold on to (thank you JJ and Dunc, aka bad snow white). But, the surgery, which has been performed for the past year, will fix many of those problems, and possibly even give me 20/15 vision.
Having always had bad eye sight that was never 20/20 it will be interesting if that happens. I keep telling my doctor I will have super eyes. He just smiles at me and asks if I want a prescription for valium to take before the surgery.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Men's Underwear - My Research
Since I've nothing better to do, and I drank an entire pot of green tea this evening and will probably be awake until 2009, and Ry my room mate and constant source of entertainment even if only in the sense of watching YouTube vids of people catching crappies, went to bed early, and I can't go for a walk because the hate is out in force and it makes things less fun, I did some research on men's underwear. As odd as this may sound, I really have no experience with it.
Every guy I've happened upon either wears patagonia boxers or nothing. My interest was spurred by a funny comment my co-author made about Y fronts, and since I didn't know what he was talking about, I did an internet search to find out what Y fronts were.
So: http://www.internationaljock.com/balls-in-one-mesh-ultra-pouch-boxer-briefs-black,8447.html
Yikes.
And how about these suspensories (never even heard of those but I do love the name): http://www.internationaljock.com/suspensories.html
My favorite was the rubber zipper thong, described as such:
This is one of the sexiest and most unusual thongs we've had the pleasure to wear. The pouch is made of rubbery, 100% polyurethane with a very obvious zipper right down the front. The waistband and ass strap are made of 90% cotton / 10% spandex blend that provide just the right amount of stretch. It 's black, it's fun, and it's a conversation piece. From the PB Ultra Body 69 Collection.
"Ass strap". "Very obvious zipper". "Conversation piece".
Perhaps I should get the female version for when I have moments of shyness like when I have to talk to a human being who isn't a client or student, and the conversation comes to a screeching halt. I could just pull out my rubber zipper thong and start the party again. "Look," I would shout, "a very obvious zipper!"
Also, just think, you could name an entire crag of climbs based on that one product description.
This was my favorite though. It's like a
whiffle ball/underwear hybrid:
http://www.internationaljock.com/jofa-hockey-cup,3520.html
I used to wonder why men are so fucked up. Now I know.
Semper ubi sub ubi. Or not. It's bad for the environment. And maybe your psyche.
Every guy I've happened upon either wears patagonia boxers or nothing. My interest was spurred by a funny comment my co-author made about Y fronts, and since I didn't know what he was talking about, I did an internet search to find out what Y fronts were.
So: http://www.internationaljock.com/balls-in-one-mesh-ultra-pouch-boxer-briefs-black,8447.html
Yikes.
And how about these suspensories (never even heard of those but I do love the name): http://www.internationaljock.com/suspensories.html
My favorite was the rubber zipper thong, described as such:
This is one of the sexiest and most unusual thongs we've had the pleasure to wear. The pouch is made of rubbery, 100% polyurethane with a very obvious zipper right down the front. The waistband and ass strap are made of 90% cotton / 10% spandex blend that provide just the right amount of stretch. It 's black, it's fun, and it's a conversation piece. From the PB Ultra Body 69 Collection.
"Ass strap". "Very obvious zipper". "Conversation piece".
Perhaps I should get the female version for when I have moments of shyness like when I have to talk to a human being who isn't a client or student, and the conversation comes to a screeching halt. I could just pull out my rubber zipper thong and start the party again. "Look," I would shout, "a very obvious zipper!"
Also, just think, you could name an entire crag of climbs based on that one product description.
This was my favorite though. It's like a
whiffle ball/underwear hybrid:
http://www.internationaljock.com/jofa-hockey-cup,3520.html
I used to wonder why men are so fucked up. Now I know.
Semper ubi sub ubi. Or not. It's bad for the environment. And maybe your psyche.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Cranky the Baggage Claim
I recently bought my nephew a toy called Cranky the Crane. It's some character from some book or something where there's a magical world of talking trains I think. I have to admit to not paying attention when he tries to explain it to me.
Anyway, as I was standing in DIA waiting for my luggage to show up, I couldn't help but think what a shit show baggage claim is at DIA. I was there one Friday evening, in a hurry, and bags were going around three deep on the carousel and getting clogged coming out of that magic hole that spews our bags. There were 3 other carousels not being used at all. Who makes the decision where the bags come out I wonder, a fucking hamster?
The best part of that particular baggage episode was when this really rude middle eastern guy tried to grab his bag, which was a big black suitcase sandwiched between a green roll on and one of those Swiss bags. He grabbed the handle and tried to pull it free but it was stuck so tight he couldn't. And rather than let go he clung to the bag as if it were the last raft leaving the Titanic. He ended up laying across other people's bags going around on the carousel. People were yelling at him because he was on top of their bags and they couldn't get to their luggage.
Then he started yelling for help, and this big african american guy came out of an office where you go to report missing luggage and told the middle eastern guy to get off the baggage claim and then started throwing bags off the carousel onto the floor. The middle eastern guy turned around and started crawling across the luggage in the opposite direction the carousel was turning trying to get away from the african american guy who was yelling "Sir! SIR! Please get off the baggage carousel! SIR!". I was laughing so hard that I started to cry and I couldn't get my bag off the baggage claim so I just followed it as it went around, and people backed away as I approached them. When my bag got to the African American guy he took it off the carousel and said "Here you go, ma'am" but I couldn't thank him because I was laughing.
If the baggage claim were a person I think he would be from the bronx, a guy of 50 who looked 60, with knotty forearms and saggy biceps, smoking a cigarette and complaining about all these goddamn people who travel all the time. And if someone had a piece of expensive luggage he would kick it ,or drop it in a puddle if it was raining. He usually would have alcohol on his breath at work but no one would fire him because his wife left him after 25 years of marriage and even though he would rough her up from time to time he did love her in his own fucked up way and people felt bad for him. When he would finish his pack of smokes he would crumple the pack up and throw it on the floor and say "it's someone else's job to keep this goddamn place clean".
Occasionally the customer representative would come out and say "why are you so cranky? why don't you try a smile?" and then he would mutter to whoever was standing near "that woman don't have the sense god gave a chicken, and they roll around in their own shit".
Anyway, as I was standing in DIA waiting for my luggage to show up, I couldn't help but think what a shit show baggage claim is at DIA. I was there one Friday evening, in a hurry, and bags were going around three deep on the carousel and getting clogged coming out of that magic hole that spews our bags. There were 3 other carousels not being used at all. Who makes the decision where the bags come out I wonder, a fucking hamster?
The best part of that particular baggage episode was when this really rude middle eastern guy tried to grab his bag, which was a big black suitcase sandwiched between a green roll on and one of those Swiss bags. He grabbed the handle and tried to pull it free but it was stuck so tight he couldn't. And rather than let go he clung to the bag as if it were the last raft leaving the Titanic. He ended up laying across other people's bags going around on the carousel. People were yelling at him because he was on top of their bags and they couldn't get to their luggage.
Then he started yelling for help, and this big african american guy came out of an office where you go to report missing luggage and told the middle eastern guy to get off the baggage claim and then started throwing bags off the carousel onto the floor. The middle eastern guy turned around and started crawling across the luggage in the opposite direction the carousel was turning trying to get away from the african american guy who was yelling "Sir! SIR! Please get off the baggage carousel! SIR!". I was laughing so hard that I started to cry and I couldn't get my bag off the baggage claim so I just followed it as it went around, and people backed away as I approached them. When my bag got to the African American guy he took it off the carousel and said "Here you go, ma'am" but I couldn't thank him because I was laughing.
If the baggage claim were a person I think he would be from the bronx, a guy of 50 who looked 60, with knotty forearms and saggy biceps, smoking a cigarette and complaining about all these goddamn people who travel all the time. And if someone had a piece of expensive luggage he would kick it ,or drop it in a puddle if it was raining. He usually would have alcohol on his breath at work but no one would fire him because his wife left him after 25 years of marriage and even though he would rough her up from time to time he did love her in his own fucked up way and people felt bad for him. When he would finish his pack of smokes he would crumple the pack up and throw it on the floor and say "it's someone else's job to keep this goddamn place clean".
Occasionally the customer representative would come out and say "why are you so cranky? why don't you try a smile?" and then he would mutter to whoever was standing near "that woman don't have the sense god gave a chicken, and they roll around in their own shit".
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
it all comes down to socks
Today I learned a fact that I seriously could have gone my whole life without knowing: people started wearing high heels to avoid stepping in human excrement when walking down the street.
Thank you NPR for ruining my image of stilettos FOREVER.
And, while in the gym, trying to find ways to blank that particular fact out of my mind, I got stuck watching a baseball game, which is weird, because there is some big hockey "series" thing going on (going on forever, it's like the primaries - I think it started about a billion years ago and they still haven't gotten to some playoff thing, which, by the way, is for the "national" hockey thingy even though Canadian teams are playing - oh hockey, the sport that makes no sense, spawned by theoretical physicists as respite from writing papers on worm holes) and it seems like they shouldn't be playing together as one is a winter sport, and one summer, but whatever.
There was a guy on one of the teams that had the ugliest blue socks pulled all the way up to his knees. I'm not sure what team he was on because I was listening to my MP3 player, not the TV, and the symbol for his team name was just some cryptic letter on his hat. You know, they can have a huge advertisement for Viagra on the wall but allah forbid they put a team name on the uniform so we can know who's playing. It's like, oh look, the blue socks people against the other guys.
The other team were these other guys, not sure who they were either, except that they kept showing this Japanese guy (wonder if he knows how to make sushi, he was kind of cute and looked like he wouldn't talk too much) and they all had super long pants. In fact, the pitcher had pants that were down past his shoes. And, while we're on that subject, his shoes were ugly. They were white and looked like something you might find in a geriatric hospital. You would think an athlete who has to use his feet would have the sense to buy a sexy little pair of cleats or whatever it is they wear to pitch a ball, with some stylie laces but no. He'd rather look like grandpa.
Thank allah I could not see what color socks he was wearing. It might have forced me to swear off baseball forever. That is, the time every two years watching an hour of a game in the gym. It doesn't seem like a lot but it adds up.
So the guy batting was wearing these puffy pants (reminding me of how, in Greece, everyone said "pantaloons" when they meant "pants" - lost in translation) and ugly socks, and the guy throwing a ball at him was wearing baggy pants and ugly shoes, and, you are going to tell me that millions of Americans watch this sport? No wonder why I see so many fashion don'ts in my classes...
Thank you NPR for ruining my image of stilettos FOREVER.
And, while in the gym, trying to find ways to blank that particular fact out of my mind, I got stuck watching a baseball game, which is weird, because there is some big hockey "series" thing going on (going on forever, it's like the primaries - I think it started about a billion years ago and they still haven't gotten to some playoff thing, which, by the way, is for the "national" hockey thingy even though Canadian teams are playing - oh hockey, the sport that makes no sense, spawned by theoretical physicists as respite from writing papers on worm holes) and it seems like they shouldn't be playing together as one is a winter sport, and one summer, but whatever.
There was a guy on one of the teams that had the ugliest blue socks pulled all the way up to his knees. I'm not sure what team he was on because I was listening to my MP3 player, not the TV, and the symbol for his team name was just some cryptic letter on his hat. You know, they can have a huge advertisement for Viagra on the wall but allah forbid they put a team name on the uniform so we can know who's playing. It's like, oh look, the blue socks people against the other guys.
The other team were these other guys, not sure who they were either, except that they kept showing this Japanese guy (wonder if he knows how to make sushi, he was kind of cute and looked like he wouldn't talk too much) and they all had super long pants. In fact, the pitcher had pants that were down past his shoes. And, while we're on that subject, his shoes were ugly. They were white and looked like something you might find in a geriatric hospital. You would think an athlete who has to use his feet would have the sense to buy a sexy little pair of cleats or whatever it is they wear to pitch a ball, with some stylie laces but no. He'd rather look like grandpa.
Thank allah I could not see what color socks he was wearing. It might have forced me to swear off baseball forever. That is, the time every two years watching an hour of a game in the gym. It doesn't seem like a lot but it adds up.
So the guy batting was wearing these puffy pants (reminding me of how, in Greece, everyone said "pantaloons" when they meant "pants" - lost in translation) and ugly socks, and the guy throwing a ball at him was wearing baggy pants and ugly shoes, and, you are going to tell me that millions of Americans watch this sport? No wonder why I see so many fashion don'ts in my classes...
one of those days
I am trying to decide what my favorite part of teaching class out in DC has been.
Maybe it was when United mistakenly shipped my luggage on an earlier flight to DC and I stood around in baggage claim for AN HOUR waiting for it to arrive, only to find out it had been there all along.
Or maybe it was Monday when I arrived at 730 in the morning to set up my class room only to find that the key I was sent for the building was never activated. And all my students showed up and stood around in the lobby for a half hour until someone with a working key showed up.
No, I think it was today, when the network went down because of Sprint so I am now a half day behind in my class because it's kind of hard to teach people how to use software when their computers aren't working.
No, my favorite part is definitely a few minutes ago, when a metal ceiling tile covering the lights in my class room just randomly fell out of the ceiling. No one was injured. At least it woke everyone up from the nice slumber they were enjoying while I lamely tried to walk them through a meta model exercise on the white board...
It's not just me. I talked to another consultant named Tab and he told me he refuses to teach here anymore. I'm taking everyone out for drinks this evening in the hopes I don't get eviscerated on the evaluation.
Maybe it was when United mistakenly shipped my luggage on an earlier flight to DC and I stood around in baggage claim for AN HOUR waiting for it to arrive, only to find out it had been there all along.
Or maybe it was Monday when I arrived at 730 in the morning to set up my class room only to find that the key I was sent for the building was never activated. And all my students showed up and stood around in the lobby for a half hour until someone with a working key showed up.
No, I think it was today, when the network went down because of Sprint so I am now a half day behind in my class because it's kind of hard to teach people how to use software when their computers aren't working.
No, my favorite part is definitely a few minutes ago, when a metal ceiling tile covering the lights in my class room just randomly fell out of the ceiling. No one was injured. At least it woke everyone up from the nice slumber they were enjoying while I lamely tried to walk them through a meta model exercise on the white board...
It's not just me. I talked to another consultant named Tab and he told me he refuses to teach here anymore. I'm taking everyone out for drinks this evening in the hopes I don't get eviscerated on the evaluation.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
monogamy
The major problem I've always had with being in a monogamous relationship is that I am usually the only one actually being monogamous. Of course, I try to understand that men are from Mars and that causes them to sleep with slutty girls they meet on midnighthookup.com and that because as a woman I'm from Venus where we don't engage in that kind of behavior that I am responsible for the whole mis-understanding of what is to be expected in a relationship these days.
Like, for example, when a guy says to me "I can't figure out how to make you happy." So then I try to reiterate what I tell every guy that I date, which is "I will be happy as long as you don't fuck someone else". And then they are shocked when they fuck someone else and I'm
...wait for it...
not happy!
Keeping it simple for stupid doesn't always work out. I think in the future I will just present a more detailed request, maybe even laminate it so he can carry it around in his wallet, stuck to his lame ass glow in the dark peppermint flavored condom, laying out the specific rules about not fucking someone else:
Like, for example, when a guy says to me "I can't figure out how to make you happy." So then I try to reiterate what I tell every guy that I date, which is "I will be happy as long as you don't fuck someone else". And then they are shocked when they fuck someone else and I'm
...wait for it...
not happy!
Keeping it simple for stupid doesn't always work out. I think in the future I will just present a more detailed request, maybe even laminate it so he can carry it around in his wallet, stuck to his lame ass glow in the dark peppermint flavored condom, laying out the specific rules about not fucking someone else:
- if we are dating, I would prefer you not fuck someone else even if, in your mind, it doesn't count because you paid her to fuck you
- especially if you used the money that you were supposedly saving to buy me a birthday present
- and it still counts that you fucked someone else even if I was in DC and you were in Bangkok and then you sent me an email right after letting me know what you did
- and then had the friend that you borrowed money from for my birthday present send me a bill for the aforementioned present because he needed his money back
- I would prefer you not fuck someone who will then email you pictures of herself sitting naked on the side of a bathtub and you will look at these pictures on my computer in my house and then forget to close them so that when I go to check my email I am instead looking at a naked picture of some girl you fucked
- and then gave a copy of a CD mix you made for me
- I would prefer you not fuck some girl who is going to throw a beer all over you, and me, when she runs into us at a party in NYC, especially if I am wearing a new dress and my favorite shoes, black silk stilettos, which are damaged by the beer
- but I'm not allowed to kick her ass for fucking up my shoes
- because, to be honest, I'm not going to kick her ass for fucking you because I realize you suck as a boyfriend
- it would be nice if you would not fuck someone who scored a 600 on the SATs, works part time as a librarian at an elementary school, and can't "handle the stress" of her life although it's okay if you intend to accidentally get her pregnant and marry her
- while we are dating because you think I'm not going to notice that you are married to a pregnant girl
-because I guess you are used to fucking people who got 600 on the SATs and don't understand the concept of "girl with brains"
- please don't fuck girls who have the same size foot as me because it's convenient to have someone else to fuck who also can wear my motocross boots
- please don't break up with me when you know I'm going to be gone for at least a week for a work related trip because you plan on fucking someone else for the week I'm gone but want to be able to get back together with me when I return home because you need someone to clean your apartment
- and then tell me I have no right to be mad when I find out you fucked someone else because "we were broken up that week"
- try to not fuck our marriage counselor
A lawyer could find the loop holes...which is why I won't be dating one of them anytime soon...
Sunday, April 20, 2008
ballet lessons
I recently got back in touch with a friend from high school who has, as it turns out, spent the last three years dancing with Martha Graham's dance company (Kerreck, you need to move to NYC!!!). Funny that right before we got back in touch I was thinking it was the first time in my adult life I haven't had a professional dancer (as in ballet, not pole) as a friend. I was showing his pics to my sister and we both started laughing about my childhood dance experience...
Besides wanting to be an engineer when I was a kid, I also wanted to be a ballet dancer. I realized the first dream would be easier to meet than the second as we had a house full of math books. But when I was 8 I finally convinced my mom to sign me up for ballet lessons.
This is how badly I wanted to be a dancer: my mom decided that we only had enough money for lessons, but not anything else, so I wore my bathing suit to practice. A fucking bathing suit that was white with red stars and blue stripes on it (I had forgotten about the stars and stripes until talking to my sister today - oy vey).
Worse, I didn't have any tights. My mom had me try on some of her panty hose before deciding I was better off going with these thick ribbed tights that I wore with my school uniform in the winter so I wouldn't freeze during recess, although at the time of this story it was spring and it pretty warm. For shoes my mom decided I could wear my little tennis shoes that she used to buy at the drug store every time my teacher sent a note home about the condition of my shoes (once I had a teacher staple my shoes back together because they had extreme structural failure and I couldn't walk in them - then my dad "fixed" them by putting some kind of contact cement on duct tape to glue them back together - the contact cement formed these weird lumps that caused my toes to bleed - and you wonder why in my adult life I once owned 300 pairs of shoes...okay fine...400 pairs of shoes).
Picture it: I show up my first day, 10 minutes late because our car wouldn't start, wearing a star spangled bathing suit with lumpy ass tights under it and tennis shoes. I vaguely remember the teacher trying to talk my mom out of the lessons while I ran over to the barre thinking that day was the best day ever of my life. I can clearly remember the smell of the mirror and the sound of the wood floor and, at the end of the lesson, running to the other side of the room to the adult barre thinking I would never be tall enough to dance at it.
My ballet teacher ended up getting me a proper leotard, tights, and shoes for the next session, and even gave me a little white hat box to keep them in at the studio since I wasn't allowed to take them home with me. That night at home I made a label with my name on it for my hatbox using my dad's label machine, which was only supposed to be used for labeling his various academic binders, which are still in the library in his office to this day with blue labels and white lettering on this super industrial plastic strip with god knows what chemical as an adhesive.
I did 8 lessons. I practiced my ballet religiously every night in the room I shared with my sister using this old writing desk where my sister did her homework as a barre because the top of the desk had a rail on it. For some of the dance moves that I made up myself I also employed a wooden ladder that my dad had made that went up to my sister's bunk bed. The only record I listened to was Nutcracker Suite.
On the day of my eighth lesson, my mom brought her sister, my Aunt Michelle, to watch me dance. I had my sister fix my hair with a curling iron and was nervous to be performing before an "audience". My mom and my aunt laughed through my entire lesson, and were eventually ejected from the studio by my teacher. It occurred to me then that maybe I wasn't a very good dancer. That was also the day I found out I would not be able to participate in the recital because it cost money. Also, my mom was mad about being asked to leave the studio and told me I couldn't take anymore lessons.
I packed my leotard, tights, and slippers into the hatbox for the last time and gave it to my instructor. She gave me the white and gold outfit that I would have worn in the recital and she gave me the hatbox. I'm not sure if that was an act of kindness or if she had to give it to me because she couldn't get the label I put on it off. I wore that costume every day until it didn't fit
me any more. Every picture of me from that period, including family reunions, birthday parties, me riding a bike and a skateboard, and even a get together in someone's backyard after my mom and a bunch of other neighborhood wives decided to learn to shoot guns, shows me in that outfit.
My sister said she had wanted to take ballet too but after watching what I went through, she decided it wasn't worth it. She recently started taking dance lessons.
Besides wanting to be an engineer when I was a kid, I also wanted to be a ballet dancer. I realized the first dream would be easier to meet than the second as we had a house full of math books. But when I was 8 I finally convinced my mom to sign me up for ballet lessons.
This is how badly I wanted to be a dancer: my mom decided that we only had enough money for lessons, but not anything else, so I wore my bathing suit to practice. A fucking bathing suit that was white with red stars and blue stripes on it (I had forgotten about the stars and stripes until talking to my sister today - oy vey).
Worse, I didn't have any tights. My mom had me try on some of her panty hose before deciding I was better off going with these thick ribbed tights that I wore with my school uniform in the winter so I wouldn't freeze during recess, although at the time of this story it was spring and it pretty warm. For shoes my mom decided I could wear my little tennis shoes that she used to buy at the drug store every time my teacher sent a note home about the condition of my shoes (once I had a teacher staple my shoes back together because they had extreme structural failure and I couldn't walk in them - then my dad "fixed" them by putting some kind of contact cement on duct tape to glue them back together - the contact cement formed these weird lumps that caused my toes to bleed - and you wonder why in my adult life I once owned 300 pairs of shoes...okay fine...400 pairs of shoes).
Picture it: I show up my first day, 10 minutes late because our car wouldn't start, wearing a star spangled bathing suit with lumpy ass tights under it and tennis shoes. I vaguely remember the teacher trying to talk my mom out of the lessons while I ran over to the barre thinking that day was the best day ever of my life. I can clearly remember the smell of the mirror and the sound of the wood floor and, at the end of the lesson, running to the other side of the room to the adult barre thinking I would never be tall enough to dance at it.
My ballet teacher ended up getting me a proper leotard, tights, and shoes for the next session, and even gave me a little white hat box to keep them in at the studio since I wasn't allowed to take them home with me. That night at home I made a label with my name on it for my hatbox using my dad's label machine, which was only supposed to be used for labeling his various academic binders, which are still in the library in his office to this day with blue labels and white lettering on this super industrial plastic strip with god knows what chemical as an adhesive.
I did 8 lessons. I practiced my ballet religiously every night in the room I shared with my sister using this old writing desk where my sister did her homework as a barre because the top of the desk had a rail on it. For some of the dance moves that I made up myself I also employed a wooden ladder that my dad had made that went up to my sister's bunk bed. The only record I listened to was Nutcracker Suite.
On the day of my eighth lesson, my mom brought her sister, my Aunt Michelle, to watch me dance. I had my sister fix my hair with a curling iron and was nervous to be performing before an "audience". My mom and my aunt laughed through my entire lesson, and were eventually ejected from the studio by my teacher. It occurred to me then that maybe I wasn't a very good dancer. That was also the day I found out I would not be able to participate in the recital because it cost money. Also, my mom was mad about being asked to leave the studio and told me I couldn't take anymore lessons.
I packed my leotard, tights, and slippers into the hatbox for the last time and gave it to my instructor. She gave me the white and gold outfit that I would have worn in the recital and she gave me the hatbox. I'm not sure if that was an act of kindness or if she had to give it to me because she couldn't get the label I put on it off. I wore that costume every day until it didn't fit
me any more. Every picture of me from that period, including family reunions, birthday parties, me riding a bike and a skateboard, and even a get together in someone's backyard after my mom and a bunch of other neighborhood wives decided to learn to shoot guns, shows me in that outfit.My sister said she had wanted to take ballet too but after watching what I went through, she decided it wasn't worth it. She recently started taking dance lessons.
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