Fast Walkers September 9, 2009

I could spot them in the elevator.

The doors close, it’s almost an hour after quitting time, but they’re still maniacally typing on their blackberries. Their thumbs are blurs. I imagine the creepy thumb muscles they are developing.

I have an iPhone. I type on it occasionally. Not like they’re doing. Like starving Ethiopians scratching for rice grains. I look at my feet in the elevator on the long ride down from ninth floor. If I look at them I might roll my eyes, so I don’t look. I’m polite, you know.

Elevators and doorways are odd in this building. Men will go to great lengths to let a woman go first. Even women are a little hesitant to go running through the elevator door first, demuring to other women.

I find this very annoying. Get the hell off the elevator.

So out I march, nominating myself alpha female, thereby releasing her and then him, the two typing fools. But I know my lead won’t last. I don’t want it. I don’t walk fast. In fact, I am the slowest walker I know. You’re going to have to get over it, this is my top speed, my legs are long but they have a nerve problem. So they suck. And today, they hurt.

Knowing this, and also guessing that fast typers are probably fast walkers, I stop and pretend to fool with something in my purse while they both go speeding by. It is then that I recognise her. She’s on my floor, works for my company. She’s a tailgater. She walks unnaturally fast, like a senior at one of those mall-walking classes, hips swinging unnaturally. Her hips look even more odd because she wears hootchie pants that give her a wedgie. How do you find 20 pairs of pants that all give you a wedgie? I do not ask her, but I stare at her creepy butt all the time and am waiting for the call from HR.

She clearly hates my guts as she lingers too close behind me, then passes by me everyday on the way to the printer. There’s also a sniff that she is more important than I am. Because she has to walk fast, she’s just that important. I am good with that. I would like to be less important. Maybe then I would get less emails and work a little less hard. Yeah, I am good with her being more important, totally. I slow up. Maybe I’ll start forwarding my voicemails to her.

Him, I don’t know. It strikes me that he is from another floor.

They’re off and I catch a sideways glance and I finish fake-rifling through my purse. The two of them are practically bumping hips racing each other to the outside door, trying to get to their cars.

As they approach the outer door, I inwardly groan. Because I remember what happens next. Rushing typing girl bangs through door first, followed by rushing typing man. But RTM realizes there’s another girl following him, so he has to hold the door. Any gentlemanly qualities this act might impart are shot straight to hell by the look he gives me. “Will you hurry up?” he is clearly asking.

Jackass, you’re the one trying to be nice, not me. Clearly not me. Because I saw this coming, and I’m not hurrying the hell up. I got bum legs, yo. Bite me.

“Thanks, you shouldn’t have,” I say. Really.

Moms Gone Wild Still Got It September 7, 2009

This Labor Day weekend included a Girl’s Night Out. Just a bunch of ladies sitting around a hotel pool in Clearwater Beach drinking too much. No sweat, right? 90% of the group are married or parents, either event lending a certain amount of adult status to you. Adult street cred, I guess.

All of which was completely blown by 8pm.

I blame the Washington Apples. Because everyone has had that night of drinking that completely ruins a drink for you. Say the words Jagermeister, Goldslagger or Jose Cuervo in a room full of 30-somethings and there will be groans and stories of debauchery and fuzzy memories. I’ve never heard anyone give that groan to Washington Apples – a sweet Jolly Rancher girl drink – but that’s my new story of debauchery. Groan.

Because at Moms Gone Wild ’09 they were as potent as Mind Erasers, thank you Jen The Bartender. And we all drank too many of them. Well, something had to chase the tequila jello shots.

Bottom line, I’ve never laughed that hard in my life. We hit all the marks. There were multiple mentions of a donkey, drunken applications of MAC cosmetics, pictures that will haunt forever, and neighbor complaints (room 103, sorry about that). There were F bombs poolside, and deadly green jello. For some reason there were also mudslides and screwdrivers the next morning, all of which were such a bad idea.

And why do I want to  puke now? Why is it after being sober for several hours I almost lost it driving home? Where was that puke around 11pm as we stumbled into some greek plus italian plus greasy spoon after being rejected by (of all places) the Shepards dinner buffet?

The best part is that I had a stomach bug that didn’t really make me feel badly. Just made everything exit quickly. Do you know how hard it is to keep that sort of moment to yourself with 4 other people sleeping in the living room with you, just off the bathroom?

In the end (no pun intended), we all had a great time. And we also proved that a bunch of people who are supposed to be grown-ups still have it in them to still ruin a cocktail for themselves with a night of debauchery. Of course, we were all in bed by 1am.

TV update: Are you a reader? September 5, 2009

After my husband and I were laid off at the same time, we turned off the cable TV hoping to save some money. (We did. Bill went from $110 to $41 for just internet. Suck it Time Warner.) People stare at me agast when I say this. Someone accused me of being a “reader” the other day. When he first said it, I thought he said “breeder” and I think I just stared at him. When it sunk in, it struck me as such a sad statement. Like I am some annoying NPR-listening, liberal smartypants who doesn’t get out much. Oh wait, I am. Shit.

Thing is, we haven’t missed much being sans TV. We still get our John Stewart and Stephen Colbert on Hulu. There are movies to watch. There are TV shows on DVD. And on DVD you don’t have to wait till next week to get the ending of the cliffhanger.

As for my morning TV addiction, it may suprise you, but I found it was amazingly easy to switch from Gail Guiardo on Channel 8 to Carson Cooper on the local NPR. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to watch Carson get his lips plumped at the newest South Tampa salon at 5am and pretend it’s news.

I did miss much of the Michael Jackson hoopla. And the Ted Kennedy funeral. Which is to say that I haven’t missed anything.

You know, I loved Ted Kennedy as much as the next Irish Catholic liberal with a chronic medical condition. I read and listened (NPR, you know) to all the memorials with a heavy heart. But I am not sure why we had to watch the funeral. I discovered it was being aired when I visited my mother and found it on all the TVs. Of course, since it was my mother’s house, the TV was up full blast. Mourning with the volume on 20.

(The Kennedys were very gracious about all the wackos coming to visit them after the senator’s death. They allowed crazy people in red white and blue spangled clothing to sign condolance books and shook the hands of these “mourners” in reception lines. All while they were going through their own very real grief. Which leads me to wonder if they are amazingly polite and well-bred or if they’re a bunch a whack-a-doo’s themselves. Hard to tell. )

Would there be less whack-a-doos without TV? Think of a world without Fox News. A world without the phrase “death panels.” And we could all do with a little less Simon Cowell.

My point being, turn off the TV. Really. It’s not so bad being a reader. Because it seriously diminishes your chances of sporting any red, white and blue spangled clothing.

waddle waddle May 4, 2009

I’m dressed. My hair is cute. My makeup is so-so but hey, it’s cover girl (darn unemployment). Cute shirt. 

So what’s the problem?

I am sitting here waiting for my jeans. Oh, they’re on. They’re not in the washer or the dryer, though they recently were.

I’m waiting for my jeans to stretch out so I can wear them in public. Right now we have good waistband room. But the legs, not so much.

So here I sit, waiting for my thighs to wrestle my denim back, back, back! so I can walk like a normal person.

Why so fat? It’s become my mantra: Darn Unemployment!

Swine Flu Snub May 1, 2009

The TV caught my attention at the gym. Soundlessly a CNN guy is standing in front of one of those crazy floor to ceiling monitors. Like he wanted to be a weatherman but failed, so he settled for a spot in the newsroom. He’s talking confidently to the screen, but I can’t hear him on my treadmill. So I watch.

His face is clearly communicating that Something Very Serious is happening. The caption says something about Swine Flu, the emergency du jour. There is a map of the states behind him. The states have a choice of blue or blue. Somehow you really can tell the difference.  I guess people with black and white TVs are just screwed.

Florida, as well as its surrounding states, are all the same blue. Wow, maybe this really is some kind of emergency, it spread fast. Oh wait, no, this can’t be right.

Florida and its surrounding states are not affected? Not? We’re practically into day 10 and we still don’t have a case? Oh, c’mon!

Because if Florida doesn’t actually start the emergency du jour, we always play a commading role in it. I expected the CDC to have set up shop here by now. Or at least in south florida, where everything is always 10 times more dramatic. Housing crisis? Check. Unemployment? Check. Healthcare Crisis? Check. Elections? Florida, Florida, Florida, Baby. 

But no epedemics?

Florida, I am dissappointed. We should all be wearing little masks and closing schools by now. New York managed it. California managed it. We have to think about our public image. Now get sneezing.

Eyebrow envy April 27, 2009

“I got the worst haircut,” he lamented.

This got my attention. What guy ever complains loudly about a haircut? Not since the mythical days of glorious manes of boy hair (gone with the death of 80’s heavy metal), have I heard a male of our species say that they have had a bad haircut. But that’s what he was saying. So you can imagine I was even more shocked to hear that he had a bad eyebrow cut.

Apparently boys can get their eyebrows cut at the barbers. It’s one of those services that must shock you, especially the first time it’s offered to you. Something tells me it’s not something that the 20-somethings get asked. But I’m finding out recently that there is a great deal more to keeping up appearances after the age of 30. Knowledge I did not want to have. Should have stayed in the confines of the barber shop. 

Eyebrow cuts at the barbers’ aren’t exactly what I envisioned them to be, based on my girl-knowledge of the art. As with everything else in a barber shop, eyebrow cuts are utilitarian and straight-forward. Apparently my coworker was simply sitting in the chair getting a trim when his forehead was violently attacked by a comb and some clippers. The deed was done (at least an eye) by the time he even had time to react. Not the same eyebrow maintenance experience I’ve heard from the ladies.

I’m kind of for it. Eyebrow maintenace for women is just too much for me. I’m just hoping I don’t get offered an eyebrow shave at the salon.

A Particular Kind of Snotty April 15, 2009

not just any box

And then it struck me that this might be particular behavior. Even for Wal-Mart.

The scene was this: Me in my too tight jeans (the last ones that fit, stupid unemployment) that end just a bit too low on my rear-end for the shirt that I am wearing. Now to be clear, this is not my fault. When I left the house I was paying particular attention to my jeans/shirt ratio, and found myself to be perfectly covered in all areas.

But that was before this.

I was experiencing a slight breeze in the midsection because I was stretched out on tip-toes, pushing boxes aside, even flailing a little, in order to reach my prize.

I could see it.

It was within my grasp! Top shelf, over my head, behind all the other ones.

My precious.

Bringing a few extra down with it, I grasped my cardboard treasure in one hand, while pulling down the back of my shirt with the other.

I saw the other Wal-Martians eyeing me. Could have been the teal undies peeking up, but more likely they were wondering about my sanity.

See, there’s an industrial-sized aisle in Wal-Mart stocked with paper goods. And in that aisle, maybe 40% of it is taken up by boxes of tissues. The tissue peasants around me might think that any of them are good enough for my darling-little-turned-up-button-nose.

They’d be wrong.

First of all, I am brand loyal and need a Kleenex. Unless I have a full-on cold and go over to Puffs-Plus, but that’s a whole other story. Thing is, all I have now are tree pollen issues. Those require a mid-level tissue. Category Orange alert, you might say (yeah, I could have set it at Yellow Alert, but I’d never sink to that level, never).

Those ones there? Middle shelf? They’re like sandpaper. The ones to the right? One swipe and my skin will start to flake off like dandruff. Ever see face dandruff? Not pretty.

But there, at the end of the row. Kleenex Plus Douces. I have no idea how you say it in English, the French version on the package always stuck in my mind. Plus fine, plus douce, plus résistante. What’s it mean? No nose dandruff.

Now you might think that is the end of my search. You’d be wrong.

Because Kleenex Plus Douces comes it a variety of pattered boxes. And all the patterns are awful. They look like the very worst prints you’d ever find on a Wal-Mart bedspread. I only like one, that one looks like a Target bedspread, and the upgrade is enough for me.

Sometimes you have to work for what you want. And sometimes, that means feeling a breeze go by your belly button. I suppose I could invest in a few pairs of Wal-Mart jeans to close the gap, but you wouldn’t believe the hang ups I have in that aisle…

Pulling the Plug April 6, 2009

We did it.

We talked about it. We discussed it. We tested it out on a dry run (which failed).

But then the Unemployment ’09 Fest occurred.

So we took the plunge.

We disconnected the cable.

We were both very brave, acting like adults. Adults who didn’t spend great quantities of non-working hours in front of the tube (yes, we still have a tube, not a flat panel). Adults who don’t depend on the TV for news, entertainment, hobbies, etc. Adults who vowed to read more, listen to NPR, subscribe to the newspaper. Adults who have already vowed not to cry, not to cry, not to cry.

How, you may ask? How did we part from our Cable, knowing full well that over the air transmission of local channels is non-existent? How did we turn off our prime source of news, information and Oprah right when we know that we’ll have time to see her at 4pm now?

My mother thinks we are insane. “I spend 40 hours a week at a computer, do you really think I want to spend 4 more staring at a monitor?” She is indignant when she talks about it. She softens when she remembers we did it out of cost cutting concerns, and then thinks it is great “for you.” But it is clear that she will not consider it for her own home, even if it saves $60 a month. She’ll do without food before she does without cable TV. There are some things you just don’t do without, like Rocky Road ice cream and Air Conditioning. Cable is in that category for her.

I can’t blame her. It certainly took some getting used to. We ususally have to adjust viewing schedules so whomever is the Hulu bandwidth hog at that moment can watch their show without constant buffering. And sometimes volume issues mean I am hunched an inch away from my scrawny speakers, trying to read John Stewart’s lips at low resolution.

But it is interesting. We bought a newspaper subscription and now I have the time to go cover-to-cover like an 86 year old retired man. We have a renewed interest in libraries. And I still haven’t missed an episode of House, thanks to Hulu.

I’m not sure if the grand experiment will last far into employment. But for now, it’s something we can complain about to our currently non-existant kids in 40 years. “When I was your age…”

Overly impressed by me April 1, 2009

We were driving across a bridge and saw a massive fire north of us. Near the house. So I was concerned. I checked the local new websites with my iPhone for more info. I found none. It was a Saturday and everyone in newsrooms are very lazy on Saturdays. I should know, I was a weekend producer.

So I sent in a picture taken from the iPhone while we went over a bridge in the Miata with the top down. I complained that no one had info on the fire in the email accompanying it.

And then I was famous!!

http://snap.tbo.com/photos/index.php?id=2253438

Great Screen Debate

“You know to wear sunscreen right? You have a hat?” This is not my mother speaking. This is a stranger.

 

“You know I lost half my face to skin cancer?”

What more than “oh” can you say to that one?

“Yes,” he continues. “From here to here and some of this.”

He’s touching his face now, drawing long lines across it.

I don’t want this information. This is not helping me.

 

But people are driven to tell me. Because, you see, I’m a pale, pale white girl. I am so light, Cover Girl has a hard time selling something that matches my deathly sallow skin. I glow in the dark. If I sit out in the sun all summer in a hopeless quest for a tan, the best I’ll do is “ivory.”

 

Because of this, people think they need to tell me about skin protection. As if I haven’t been watching the news for the last 20 years. As if I wasn’t aware that I’m on melanoma’s most wanted list.

 

They don’t do this to my Jewish husband. They leave him alone to burst into flames. But me, they’re all over.

 

And do I wear sunscreen?

Of course not.

Well, a little.

I am adamant about not getting burned at the beach. I hate beach burns. Not because of the pain or the health concerns.

 

It’s that they always turn out wrong. Too much red on the tops of my thighs, nothing on my calves. One stripe of red down my arms, with lily white at the stripe’s edges.

 

And don’t forget the freckles! They love to make themselves known, but steadfastly refuse to join together and form a tan. 

My very favorite freckles? The only team players? The ones under my nose that join together to form a mustache.

 

But beyond the beach I don’t bother with sun screen. Vogue would have you believe you should slather up on before you go to the curb to get the mail. The man with half a face seems to be of the opinion that I should wear it to bed at night, just in case

 

I hate this kind of overreaction. This brand of vigilance. Because the Lord is a tricky one. I don’t think he likes people who prepare against certain disasters too well.

 

He can’t wait for the health nut who’s always taking vitamins to get sick this year.

 

For the SUV driver to make a trip to Lowes and confidently buy an item just an inch too large for the cabin of that big-ass cruiser.

 

For the family with the out-sized generator to run out of gasoline before the hurricane’s eye wall has even shown up.

 

Maybe he wants us to trust more? I’m not sure what his problem is, but he likes to play with us and the assumptions that we’ve been vigilant.

 

Case in point: you know that sunscree.n you’ve been using for the past few decades? Yeah, that only protected against UVA rays. Guess what, there are also some nasty little suckers called UVB rays. And those UVB rays? Well, those suckers made it right past your slathered tush. And guess what? Those are the more harmful ones. Sure, NOW you can buy lotions that have protect against both, but what about all the beach parties that came before the UVB protection? What did all that vigilance do you? And God laughs.

 

People look at me set my blanket out on the beach and they laugh a little too. They probably think I’m Canadian. Or English. What’s up with those two countries? Don’t they ever get any sun? They are the pastiest people out there! Even I want to tell them about the dangers of the sun.

 

People talk to me about sunburn (they feel it’s a topic I know much about) with a wave of the hand. “I’ll bet you just burst into flames, don’t you?” they say, laughing. “Yup that’s me, a regular human torch.” I don’t tell them the truth. Mostly because they wouldn’t believe me if I did.

 

The mystery revealed: I don’t burn. At least not right away. I always amaze people by settling down on the beach ad eschewing suntan lotion for a good half hour or so. Because I don’t need lotion for that long or even longer.

 

Because I reflect the sun. My pasty white thighsjust bounce that light right back into space. It can take up to an hour for the sun to work through my protective layer of white reflective material.

 

That doesn’t mean I don’t ever burn. Far from it. Once the protective layer has been worked through, I sizzle. I can sit and reminisce about bad burns. Once, as a young teenager I had some guy yell “Noxzema!” down from the boardwalk overhead as I felt my back radiating the sun’s heat. Another time I sat in front of the TV all night after a day in the sun and ran ice cubes across my face. They dissolved instantly. And who can forget the burn I got just for the junior prom? Especially when we have pictures?

 

Cancer man has stopped telling me about the dangers and is now letting me pass. I am free to burn as I like. The Cancer advocates who are alwas trying to get me to wear sunscreen shouldn’t be appealing to our vigilant side. They should be appealing to our lazy side. Instead of screaming “Put this on! Now in 2 hours, put it on again!” they should be saying “stay inside!” No one gets sun cancer by sitting on the couch. Another excuse to stay indoors and watch HGTV? Sounds good to me. That’s vigilance I can believe in.