As you might have noticed my return to the blog didn’t last for very long and I have found a new project to entertain me. Art has always been my way of relaxing from the types of things I liked to rant about here on this site so I’ve been putting that outlet to goo use by starting a new Etsy page as The Good Wine Artist as a play on my husbands alter ego The Good Wine Guru. I’ve been making lots of fun stuff out of our many old bottles and corks about the house, as well and getting back into painting as much as I can. Go check out the new site and tell me what you think, I’m always looking for new ideas of things to make so don’t be shy. Unless of course you going to tell me everything I make sucks in which case I’d like to tell you to go F$@* yourself in advance because I don’t see you making anything better.
P.S. The picture seen above is one of my recent paintings, prints are available on my site **insert more shameless plugging here**
At work we have an intercom system which serves a variety of purposes for various people. For myself it is seen as a last resort, if I go looking for you in the typical places I think you’ll be hiding, one of the labs, your office etc. and I can’t find you, then I’ll break down and page you. And it has been pointed out to me that unbeknownst to me I have developed a “phone voice” when I page. My pages usually go something along the lines of “**insert name here** call 217 please **name** 217” but I somehow manage to say “two…one…seven” with the voice of an angel. Others, however, are not angelic with their paging and not nearly so discriminating in their usage.
This cycle of abuse has been spiraling downwards for years. It began with a particular fellow employee who spend approximately 70% of her time attempting to make it look like she’s extremely busy and important despite the fact that she is naturally often neither of these things. She often begins pages with a giggle as if to show the world, or at least our buildings 40 or so inhabitants how jovial life is in the lab. She pages repeatedly over and over again and for two people at a time, which I have never managed to wrap my mind around since only one at a time can respond. She once paged beginning with a straining grunt which transitioned into what seemed like a plea for help, I believe that day half the building was fairly certain she was trapped under a murderous piece of lab equipment. Unfortunately, we were not so lucky and the pages continues year later.
By far my favorite pager of all time is the CEO of our company. His pages, unlike most, rarely indicate a location or a number at which he wishes to me called. They are barked out in his New York accent and usually consist of “**insert name here** would yah cawl me please!” But my favorite are the ones in which he says “**insert name here** CAWL YOUR AAWFFICE!” which in essence means “I’m looking for you where you’re suppose to be and you’re not here fucker”
The latest trend in paging is to use is as a platform for expressing your deepest darkest depression. One of my co-workers sounds like she’s about as down in the dumps as you can get every time she pages, and then fine minutes later when you see her in the hall she’s as happy as ever. I have reached the conclusion that while my phone voice is made of honey and butterfly kisses, hers is made up of ground up Zoloft and Cymbalta tablets. Today at work paging reached a new low in which two members of the warehouse support staff paged doing what I can only assume was their best Droopy Dog impressions (see video below). The first page sounded as if it was in slow motion and the pager was lost in a fog of sadness. The second page actually lasted a full minute and was 50% yawn, “**insert name here** please call 166….**creepy silence…. YAAAAAWN**…. 166.”
It wouldn’t bother me that people paged so much if at least they were quick and to the point and not ridiculous. We have all been paged at work and are therefore trained like Pavlov’s Dog’s by the introductory “Beep, BEEP!” to pause conversation and any tasks at hand to wait to hear which name follows. We have even all begun to have auditory hallucinations when it comes to our names. “Was that for me?” “No John, they called for Sally”
Which should I do tomorrow? “CAWL ME!” or “I’m so….. Happy” in my best Droopy Dog voice?
I’ve been trying to be much better about working out lately and trying to get back into shape, which is a funny thing to say because I’ve really never been in THAT good of shape… I guess I’m not setting the bar too high. That’s good though, then I can’t be disappointed. I recently started doing pilates again which I had done a few years back during one of my last fitness ventures. I have chosen Lara Hudson (pictured to the right) as my guide on this journey. Along the way I have discovered a few things that annoy me, which I’m sure are common to all exercise videos by nature.
I like Lara fine enough, she’s nice, has a pleasant voice that doesn’t annoy me, she’s pretty, but not too pretty so as to be threatening, it’s a nice balance. She’s supportive, but sometimes in a creepy way, like when she tells me “good form” from the other side of my computer screen. I mean I know they’re making new advancements in technology all the time but I’m pretty sure these things still only go one way… RIGHT!?
And sometimes diespite her encouraging nature she makes me feel pretty pathetic like when I’m teetering in a strange downward facing dog pose, with my right leg pointing up in the air behind me, the other turning to Jell-O beneath me, my arms shaking under my body weight and she says sweetly, “for a little added difficulty raise your left hand off the mat…” What!?!? and promptly plant my face into the floor?
It has come to my attention that I am extremely sensitive to sounds. You know, the strange nagging annoying little sounds the world is constantly bouncing off innocent eardrums, they are sounds I would define as noise pollution. This sensitivity I suppose has existed my entire life. I have always needed my room to be nice and quiet in order to fall asleep, only able to tolerate the steady whir of a fan or hum of an AC unit. This has been causing me problems for about 4 years… ever since I asked my non husband to move in with me. Were he to be bestowed with and Indian name I would nominate “Breathes Like an Ox” and ” the Great Wind Sucker” for he paints with ALL the colors of the wind when he sleeps. Unfortunately for both me and his ribs which I frequently elbow his funny little nose snorty sounds keep me awake, and he always falls asleep before me. It is almost as if the rest of the world fades into the background as I lay in bed and all I can hear is the all consuming sound of his breathing… and I slowly descend into madness and then it happens, the elbow takes flight.
A few months ago following a series of dental appointments which ended in 10 fillings, now refered to as my “new counter tops” I was gifted the ability to taste sounds. My dental renovations had resulted in a level of sensitivity which was other worldly. Every metallic ting or crinkle or squeak felt like chewing on foil and tasted like sucking on pennies. A knife would squeak across a plate and I would salivate discomfort. I spent my days literally bracing my mouth for sound impact, to the point that I was pressing my tongue to my teeth and gradually, slowly and uncomfortably moving them within my mouth. The phenomenon grew worse the further the temperature dropped when winter came, and this winter was one for the record books. Eventually the weather warmed, my teeth began to heal and specially formulated toothpastes have striped me of my unique gustatory/auditory super powers.
Now that I’m not experiencing such physical discomfort from sounds I am able to simply hear them again and they are getting more and more annoying. Today at work I finally fought back against the noise. Just outside the door to my new and otherwise lovely office there is another door to a main traffic pattern through the building. This door opens approximately 600 times a day and every time it does the squeak of the hinges sounds like a pod of humpback whales is being set loose down the hallway. And then when the door finally makes the long and loud journey back to its resting place it slams into its frame shaking the entire wall in front of me. After sitting at my desk all day yesterday losing a bit more of my mind to this distraction with each opening and closing, I decided today had to be a better day. The first order of business at work today was a heavy coating of WD40 on all of the doors moving parts, and the placement of multiple foam pads along the door frame to cushion the impact. The difference was immediate and… powerful. Today flavors were tastier and colors were brighter because the door wasn’t putting a damper on it all. I went back later and sprayed another celebratory layer on the hinges. And I didn’t stop there, I sprayed my creeky chair and my squealing hole punch.
And the next time my office mate disturbs my sanctuary with the rustle of his pant leg and squeak of his chair as he absent-mindedly bounces his leg, I’m throwing that can of WD40 at the back of his head.
Lately I have had a lot of friends remark on both twitter and facebook that they just love the feeling of crossing something off of their to do list. I too suffer from this disorder, I shall refer to it as “false accomplishment” disorder. I write post-it notes all the time at work, usually just as reminders, sometimes as lists. The truth of the matter, however, is that these post-it are typically representative of isolated events/accomplishments. And even if I did down and make a list of the 20 things I had to do and cross of each thing one by one I’d feel my false sense of accomplishment, only to have it followed by and inevitable “Oh shit” moment in which I realize the other 5 things I left off that list. The most complete lists I make are grocery lists and even when I get every item on that list I come home to realize another item I was running low on or should have picked up. Or I decide to make a recipe I have only half the ingredients for, because well, that’s life for you.
Lists for life, or “to-do” lists I find function about the same way. You finish everything on your list at work only to have a new project thrown at you, or better yet something you thought you finished ends up back on the bottom of some new list. So at the end of the day why do we make lists, and why do we feel such a sense of accomplishment when we finish them? That’s just humans trying to impose order on chaos, and well… that never leads anywhere good. (that’s how religion was invented and look how ridiculous that’s gotten) So… please, before things get out of hand, put down your notepads and your post-its and join me in admitting you have no idea what it is you need to do, and you have no clear concept of if and when you’ll ever truly be able to finish half of those tasks anyways, because things are constantly changing.
Five days a week I go to work, and I marvel at the fact that some of the people I work with are still there, and by that I mean…still have jobs. Why? Because they’re lazy, stupid, more interested in talking and socializing than their work. Some of them are generally useless human beings. I marvel at their continued employment because the national rate of unemployment is over 10% and the unemployment rate where I live in Richmond, Virginia is 9.8%. This leads me to believe that out of that 9.8% of the local population at least half of them are likely more worthy of employment that some of the people I work with. Moreover someone who has been out of work for a while would probably be so happy just to have a new job that they’d be far more focused and dedicated than the people I see take their jobs for granted daily. I’m not saying you need to be in love with your job or try to save he world everyday but if you are given a task at least finish it properly and in a timely fashion if you expect your next paycheck.
I mean if 10% of the population is going to be unemployed at least make it the 10% who doesn’t deserve a job in the first place. Maybe they’d finally learn some type of work ethic. Just a thought.
(First off sorry I haven’t posted in ages, I’ve had trouble coming up with ideas for posts. If you have any please share them with me here.)
I did some depressing math recently in my head… OK, I lied because I can’t do math in my head. But it’s alright because that’s why God created Texas Instruments who in turn blessed us with advanced calculators. Anyways, getting back on track. I figure the average person works from about again 20 at the latest to say age 60 give or take a few years on either end and that’s roughly 40 years. A year as 52 weeks so if you figure about 2-3 weeks vacation/sick time that leaves you working at least 49 weeks every year. Are you keeping up with me here? And at 40 hours a week that’s (40hrs) x (49weeks) x (40years) = 78,400 hours of an average life spent working.
You read all the time about the amount of time people spend watching TV or sleeping etc. Correct me if I’m wrong but while it might not be productive to watch TV at least it’s entertaining and enjoyable… unless someone else is holding the remote in which case these feelings may be slightly deminished. And sleeping… well a.) it’s not like it’s a stressful activity, b.) you usually feel better after doing it and c.) you have to sleep to live. Work on the other hand for most people, myself included, is often stressful, is not fun or entertaining and I usually don’t feel better after doing it. So the question is… must you also work to live?
All of these facts plus my astounding deductive reasoning skills have led me to the conclusion that I will most likely spend somewhere in the neighborhood of 78,000 hours of my life working at an assortment of jobs I don’t like. And countless others complaining about people there that I like even less, and dreaming of ways to somehow become independently wealthy. And all for a paycheck. Unfortunately, in the real world in order to have the things we want: houses, vacations, cars, clothes, food, etc. we have to have the money to by them. And unless your last name is Hilton, Trump or Bloomberg, there is only one way I know of to get that money; working. So that answers our previous question. I suppose the key at the end of the day is finding a job you really like doing, with people you like doing it with, so the remainder of your days can be spent toiling away in happiness. Who am I kidding… the key is alcohol and drinking it when you get home from work so that you can build up the courage to go back for just one more day, or… get drunk enough to rob a bank.
I’ve been seeing more and more photo albums pop up on people Facebook pages in the weeks since Halloween and there is a growing phenomenon which continues to bother me. Halloween is all about costumes, the scary ones, the creepy ones, the slutty ones, the funny and or really clever ones… they’re all good. Sometimes even the last-minute ones can be the most inventive and at least show a little bit of thought and effort. You know the kind: the guy who shows up wearing a hefty bag because he’s “white trash”. The definition of a costume is dress or garb characteristic of another period, place, person, etc.
That being said there are certain last-minute effortless costumes that bother me. The kind that you might as well not even bother with. There is always the girl who puts on some leggings and basically all of the ugly colorful things she owns and is a generic 80’s montage of a person… cop-out. And there is the guy who wears a wife beater and jeans and says he’s a redneck… it’s not a costume if it’s your real life buddy. But the one I have been seeing all over the place that really aggravates me is girls wearing football jerseys and jeans with maybe some team colored ribbons in their hair or some black smudges under their eyes if you’re lucky. What are you supposed to be? A sports fan? Because if you owned that jersey already you are a fan… so it’s not a costume it’s… what you wear on Sundays. A football player? I’m going to at least need some spandex pants to go with or maybe you could cleverly fashion some kind of pads? You know… try a little.
Oh I know! If it’s an Aaron Rogers jersey you might be going as me for Halloween. Now that’s a clever costume. So dear 20 something girls, if that’s the best you can do, don’t even bother next time. Or do us all a favor and make a $20 trip to the local Party City and buy… ANYTHING!
I am a terrible insomniac, the only person who never took naps even as a child (much to my mother’s chagrin) and to this day it takes me nearly an hour to fall asleep after I lay down, no matter how tired I may be. And during that hour and sometimes for many more after when I can’t sleep my brain is running a million miles a minute. And it’s usually now about anything important. It goes something like this: “I wonder what shirt would look cute with those boots tomorrow?… Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there… I wonder if anyone I follow in Twitter is still awake too… you know what I miss, Skip it… yeeeeah those were awesome… I think I left something in the dryer, that’s gonna wrinkle…why is dryer lint always the same color?” And that’s where about I got stuck the other night. And I spent far too much time mulling over the topic in my head.
I mean if every time you wash the load is different why is the lint always nearly the same? If I wash a load of blacks and then a load of whites why instead of dark almost black line and crisp white lint do I end up with two slightly varied wads of the same old greyish, bluish, purplish lint? Dryer lint is composed of what I can only assume is fibers off of the clothing in question. So I would understand a load of jeans producing this bluish glob… but why blacks and whites. For white first I pondered if perhaps it was bluish because of the fact that yet another mystery of the universe is the fact that every detergent I have ever used is blue. Why is that? I suppose for the same reason tampon and sanitary napkin commercials always use blue in their informative video demonstrations. Blue is the color of clean. But then wait of the blue is from the detergent why is the lint from my blacks not… black? The blue wouldn’t cover black.
And then I resolved the debate with myself swiftly and harshly. “Why is dryer lint always the same color? Who really freaking cares you weirdo! Shut the hell up and go to sleep. Oh and by the way… BY MENNEN!”
We’ve all seen them… covered in lace, embroidered with monograms, emblazoned with cutesy appliques, folded over rods, draped through loops and perched on the edges of sinks. They are… the decorative hand towel. And the only thing worse than the decorative towel you know you’re not supposed to touch… is the decorative soap sitting idly next to it. How dare you get it wet and begin to smooth out its carefully carved and molded edges! Just imagine what would happen if just anyone used that soap. Why that seashell would just be a sad little triangle, and those initials, well who would be able to read those anymore? It’s just barbarism!
Nothing seems more pointless to me than soaps and towels you’re not supposed to use being on display in a bathroom. First of all, I can only assume the people who own these items are trying to impress the guests in their bathroom. And surely nothing impresses more than wet unsoaped hands you have to wipe off on your own jeans. Not only is this impractical but, wasteful. I for one can honestly say that there isn’t a single item in my house that I have not, do not currently or will not in the future actually use. And just to clarify display/decoration is a use for a painting… not a hand towel. I am willing to bet the same people who get upset when people use their decorative hand towels also own candles that they have never and will never light, and vases that have never held flowers and never will, and that at least one piece of furniture somewhere in their house still have some sort of protective coating of some kind on it. And that’s what really bothers me. Not the towels and the soaps but people need to impress and build a facade. It’s a bathroom, not a museum.
In today’s materialistic world people talk about the need to have everything, but some people seem to have a need for two of everything. Their “nice” set and their everyday set. The only version of this phenomenon which exists in my house is that I have everyday dishes and I have fine china. But to be fair, the china does actually get used occasionally. It’s like buying a new wardrobe and still only ever wearing your old clothes because you’re afraid the new ones with get dirty. Or buying a brand new computer and using your old own because you don’t want the fancy one to get a virus. At the end of the day things get dirty, and scratched, and bend and broken. But guess what, that’s why we clean things, and we glue things back together, and we pick things up and dust them off and move on with life. And that’s why my guest bathrooms each contain two solid colored hand towels, and metal liquid soap pumps. It’s not the Ritz but guess what… no one is wiping their hand on their pants.
As you might have noticed my return to the blog didn’t last for very long and I have found a new project to entertain me. Art has always been my way of relaxing from the types of things I liked to rant about here on this site so I’ve been putting that outlet to goo use by starting a new Etsy page as The Good Wine Artist as a play on my husbands alter ego The Good Wine Guru. I’ve been making lots of fun stuff out of our many old bottles and corks about the house, as well and getting back into painting as much as I can. Go check out the new site and tell me what you think, I’m always looking for new ideas of things to make so don’t be shy. Unless of course you going to tell me everything I make sucks in which case I’d like to tell you to go F$@* yourself in advance because I don’t see you making anything better.
I am a terrible insomniac, the only person who never took naps even as a child (much to my mother’s chagrin) and to this day it takes me nearly an hour to fall asleep after I lay down, no matter how tired I may be. And during that hour and sometimes for many more after when I can’t sleep my brain is running a million miles a minute. And it’s usually now about anything important. It goes something like this: “I wonder what shirt would look cute with those boots tomorrow?… Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there… I wonder if anyone I follow in Twitter is still awake too… you know what I miss, Skip it… yeeeeah those were awesome… I think I left something in the dryer, that’s gonna wrinkle…why is dryer lint always the same color?” And that’s where about I got stuck the other night. And I spent far too much time mulling over the topic in my head.
We’ve all seen them… covered in lace, embroidered with monograms, emblazoned with cutesy appliques, folded over rods, draped through loops and perched on the edges of sinks. They are… the decorative hand towel. And the only thing worse than the decorative towel you know you’re not supposed to touch… is the decorative soap sitting idly next to it. How dare you get it wet and begin to smooth out its carefully carved and molded edges! Just imagine what would happen if just anyone used that soap. Why that seashell would just be a sad little triangle, and those initials, well who would be able to read those anymore? It’s just barbarism!
My Thoughts on the Matter 
What Other’s Think: