Not one, but two of my closest working friends are in the midst of losing their minds. Both of them have met The One.
You know the one.
The guy that is different from any guy before. The guy that has them actually giggling at the mere mention of his name, the guy they just know was meant to be, the guy whose lovemaking skills have led them to discovering their own vaginas for what seems like the very first time ever, and the guy they never, ever thought would ever happen to them.
Ten thousand Care Bear stares can not begin to compete with the joy emanating from these once neurologically typical women. They are so fucking happy right now, they're pooping glitter and sunbeams.
The best any of us can do is to avoid eye contact for fear of facing another conversation about whether he's just so wonderful, or simply awesome.
Don't get me wrong - I'm happy for them both. Really, I am. I know there are those of you who think of me as a petty, jealous and cynical bitch and you would be correct. However, these girls deserve all the happiness in the world and I'm glad that they've found it.
No, really. I am!
I'm only a petty, jealous and cynical bitch when I'm...well...jealous. Could I be the bigger person and accept that Alex's girlfriend might in fact be a great girl and I should be happy that he found somebody?
No.
Could I be the only person who walks out alive from a cage match to the death with that slut?
Yes. Yes, I could.
That feeling probably isn't unusual, but the idea that happiness is deserved or that I should have any say in who and who doesn't deserve a story book life consumes me more than normal people.
All of my friends deserve happiness, and when they're happy I'm happy for them. When I feel somebody has good fortune they don't deserve, I'm angry with the universe.
Luckily for those people, I have barely any say in when I have to pee let alone who in my highly esteemed opinion deserves a good karmic ass-kicking. Life isn't fair. It's about the one thing I know for certain, other than buttered bread will always fall to the floor face down.
Which brings me back to my two girls, who are just so entertaining. I make it a point to stop by one woman's office a couple of times a day, just to stick my head in the door, say his name, and watch her light up and giggle. This woman is a grandmother, albeit a young hot grandmother, but a grandmother who's still a giggling hot mess.
I'm too lazy to walk to my other friend's office, so I phone her instead. I have no other purpose in calling besides knowing that if she doesn't get to gush about him every 15 minutes her head and heart will simultaneously explode.
Like all deliriously happy people, they want everybody around them to be just as happy. Although the two have never actually met as far as I know, they have both breathlessly told me the exact same thing at different times.
"Oh Bambi...I just want you to experience what I'm feeling!"
I know it could be worse. It's not like they're saying this while their faces are on fire or they're cramping with diarrhea. They want me to be just as deranged with joy over having finally met a really great guy I fall ass over ears for, who in turn, and I believe this to be the key difference, falls head over heels for me.
The truth is, I know exactly what they're feeling. It's not as though I've never been consumed with a guy to the point I can't think of anything or anybody else. I know how strange it is to be smiling all the time for no reason, and to squee with happiness every time somebody says his name.
That feeling of...this is who I'm supposed to be with. This is what it's supposed to feel like. This is what everybody is talking about. This is who I've dreamed about long before I even knew I wanted him is very, very familiar.
I know what they're feeling. In fact, there are actually two guys in my life who have let me glimpse beyond the velvet ropes separating those of us who go about our daily lives only worried about our jobs and our bills and whether the yogurt in the back of the fridge is safe to eat versus those whose only concern is whether it's actually possible to die of happiness.
As it turns out, both of those guys just happened to find other women. Before meeting me, while meeting me, after meeting me - the results are the same, and they're all deliriously happy.
In those situations, it's a little harder to be quite as happy for them as I am for others.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Bambi: Patron Saint of the Ridiculous
When I don't feel like working, which is pretty much 90% of my working day, I drop by a friend's office for an update on her dating life. I have to live vicariously through her, as I have no dating life of my own.
She's one of those terribly annoying women in their late forties who look about five years younger than I do in my mid thirties. She does very well with online dating, given that her demographic is men who are also in their late forties, coming off of their first or second divorces.
It also helps that she doesn't mind if they're fat or bald, citing something about personality and spirit over appearances. Admittedly, this is not an equation I'm familiar with.
The fact is, she's got so many men lined up to date her, she hasn't had to pay for a coffee, lunch or dinner in two weeks.
She was telling me about a lovely dinner date she had with a 49 year old high school teacher that she said even I might like, largely because he has a very dry sense of humour.
She knows perfectly well I'm much more likely to be pursuing one of his students, but she can't help trying to steer me in the direction of men who need to trim their ear hair more frequently than I shave my legs.
It amuses her.
She and the high school teacher agreed to share a plate of calamari, and all was going well until a piece of deep-fried squid became lodged in her throat. Aware that she was choking, she attempted to drink some water.
To her horror, her throat was so completely blocked the water just washed up again, spilling out down her shirt and over the table. By now she was panicking, flapping her arms, getting out of her seat, all the while trying desperately to cough or vomit.
Her date had rushed to her side, and was preparing to go full Heimlich when the deadly appetizer dislodged itself and plopped to the floor.
I was suitably horrified on her behalf, right up until she told me the only thought going through her head as she was being slowly murdered by a mollusk.
Instead of her life flashing before her eyes, all my friend could think of was that she was having a "Bambi Date."
My name is now so synonymous with dating mortification, that a woman can't simply come close to death, vomit on a dinner table and regurgitate seafood while her date attempts to save her life without thinking about me.
If I leave no greater legacy, I can be happy with that.
She's one of those terribly annoying women in their late forties who look about five years younger than I do in my mid thirties. She does very well with online dating, given that her demographic is men who are also in their late forties, coming off of their first or second divorces.
It also helps that she doesn't mind if they're fat or bald, citing something about personality and spirit over appearances. Admittedly, this is not an equation I'm familiar with.
The fact is, she's got so many men lined up to date her, she hasn't had to pay for a coffee, lunch or dinner in two weeks.
She was telling me about a lovely dinner date she had with a 49 year old high school teacher that she said even I might like, largely because he has a very dry sense of humour.
She knows perfectly well I'm much more likely to be pursuing one of his students, but she can't help trying to steer me in the direction of men who need to trim their ear hair more frequently than I shave my legs.
It amuses her.
She and the high school teacher agreed to share a plate of calamari, and all was going well until a piece of deep-fried squid became lodged in her throat. Aware that she was choking, she attempted to drink some water.
To her horror, her throat was so completely blocked the water just washed up again, spilling out down her shirt and over the table. By now she was panicking, flapping her arms, getting out of her seat, all the while trying desperately to cough or vomit.
Her date had rushed to her side, and was preparing to go full Heimlich when the deadly appetizer dislodged itself and plopped to the floor.
I was suitably horrified on her behalf, right up until she told me the only thought going through her head as she was being slowly murdered by a mollusk.
Instead of her life flashing before her eyes, all my friend could think of was that she was having a "Bambi Date."
My name is now so synonymous with dating mortification, that a woman can't simply come close to death, vomit on a dinner table and regurgitate seafood while her date attempts to save her life without thinking about me.
If I leave no greater legacy, I can be happy with that.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Would this be dill or gherkin?
I had lunch with a friend the other day who described my situation as being, "a real pickle."
Frankly, I've never understood why this phrase would ever be used to denote something negative. Pickles are phallic shaped, crunchy salty goodness. If I had more pickle in my life I might actually be getting somewhere.
Crunchy salty goodness was not what she was referring to though. I have a job I can't stand, and to be fair, the job hates me back hard, so we're even. The best course of action would be to find another job, which wouldn't be a problem if there were other jobs available.
It's true it wouldn't be impossible to land a job at the lower-end of the pay scale, but I have a mortgage to pay, shoes to buy, and an inability to walk by Sephora without spending my grocery money on eyeliner.
Mostly it's the mortgage that's the problem, and I truly can't afford to make any less than I already do, even if I went back to the cheap eyeliner that smudges.
Surprisingly enough, my salary would be considered by most to be decent, and yet I need to work a second job anyway.
I live in a city filled with old people who bought their houses for $1500 two years before the discovery of fire, and now that their homes are worth 1.5 million they can't understand what's wrong with all the young people these days who won't stop whining about the crazy cost of living in our chosen city.
My cost of living would be less if I had a partner who also made a decent salary, but according to at least one friend of mine, I can't ever hope to "get" a guy who makes anywhere close to decent money.
Even though I may want to start reconsidering my friendships on top of everything else, that friend is probably correct. So far, the last six months have demonstrated I can't land a redneck used car salesman, a low-rent security guard with a penchant for inappropriate masturbation or a 20 year old virgin. I wouldn't describe my track record as hopeful either.
Making more money where I am is impossible. I will never be promoted, there's no chance to move anywhere else within the organization, and my most recent request to slightly shift my role and responsibilities in another direction was denied.
I've hit the wall.
Athletes talk about hitting the wall all the time, and having always had the good sense to stop participating in athletic activity when I'm tired, I never knew what they were talking about.
Now I do.
I just don't want to work anymore. This doesn't make me unique - most people would retire this afternoon if they could. I'm no different, but I realize my current financial and personal situation won't allow me to stop working until I'm at least 97. Particularly if my love life doesn't change, I'll need any extra income I can find to cover the cost of cat food and kitty litter.
Thankfully, I've started planning for retirement. I'm a grown-up with RRSPs and a Retirement Savings Account. According to the banks calculations based on my contributions, by the time I'm 97 I should have just enough money put away for a week long all-inclusive vacation - providing there's a seat sale.
After my holiday, I'll be ready for the career that will keep me comfortable well into my nursing home years. Porn. I read recently that there's a growing niche market for porn starring really freaking old people. By the time I'm that age, I'm not going to care whether the treatment for chlamydia interacts badly with my arthritis medication.
When I say I don't want to work anymore, I still recognize that I need to. It's more that lately I don't want to work the way I've always worked. My career doesn't matter or mean as much to me as it once did.
For years now, my only goals have been a better position, a better title and a better salary. I wanted respect, I wanted glowing performance appraisals and a job that I could base my entire identity and self-worth upon.
I worked so hard for all of those things, and now that I've come as far as I can go and I still find myself here - I don't care any more.
Basing my happiness in life on an activity so easily derailed by your average CEO believing he's a warlock, or a president and CEO who once described women's equality in the workforce as an "interesting concept," was never going to bode well.
So.
If I no longer care about the only goals I've ever cared about, if my current work situation is unsustainable and may actually be making me ill, if I can't afford to back away from my current work situation until I find a better opportunity, if there are no better opportunities, if my focus is shifting away from my career and onto the gaping holes in my personal life, if I don't want to go but can't stay here, if I cried during an episode of Say Yes to the Dress for no apparent reason, if what has always worked no longer works and if I have absolutely no idea what to do next...what then?
It's a real pickle.
Frankly, I've never understood why this phrase would ever be used to denote something negative. Pickles are phallic shaped, crunchy salty goodness. If I had more pickle in my life I might actually be getting somewhere.
Crunchy salty goodness was not what she was referring to though. I have a job I can't stand, and to be fair, the job hates me back hard, so we're even. The best course of action would be to find another job, which wouldn't be a problem if there were other jobs available.
It's true it wouldn't be impossible to land a job at the lower-end of the pay scale, but I have a mortgage to pay, shoes to buy, and an inability to walk by Sephora without spending my grocery money on eyeliner.
Mostly it's the mortgage that's the problem, and I truly can't afford to make any less than I already do, even if I went back to the cheap eyeliner that smudges.
Surprisingly enough, my salary would be considered by most to be decent, and yet I need to work a second job anyway.
I live in a city filled with old people who bought their houses for $1500 two years before the discovery of fire, and now that their homes are worth 1.5 million they can't understand what's wrong with all the young people these days who won't stop whining about the crazy cost of living in our chosen city.
My cost of living would be less if I had a partner who also made a decent salary, but according to at least one friend of mine, I can't ever hope to "get" a guy who makes anywhere close to decent money.
Even though I may want to start reconsidering my friendships on top of everything else, that friend is probably correct. So far, the last six months have demonstrated I can't land a redneck used car salesman, a low-rent security guard with a penchant for inappropriate masturbation or a 20 year old virgin. I wouldn't describe my track record as hopeful either.
Making more money where I am is impossible. I will never be promoted, there's no chance to move anywhere else within the organization, and my most recent request to slightly shift my role and responsibilities in another direction was denied.
I've hit the wall.
Athletes talk about hitting the wall all the time, and having always had the good sense to stop participating in athletic activity when I'm tired, I never knew what they were talking about.
Now I do.
I just don't want to work anymore. This doesn't make me unique - most people would retire this afternoon if they could. I'm no different, but I realize my current financial and personal situation won't allow me to stop working until I'm at least 97. Particularly if my love life doesn't change, I'll need any extra income I can find to cover the cost of cat food and kitty litter.
Thankfully, I've started planning for retirement. I'm a grown-up with RRSPs and a Retirement Savings Account. According to the banks calculations based on my contributions, by the time I'm 97 I should have just enough money put away for a week long all-inclusive vacation - providing there's a seat sale.
After my holiday, I'll be ready for the career that will keep me comfortable well into my nursing home years. Porn. I read recently that there's a growing niche market for porn starring really freaking old people. By the time I'm that age, I'm not going to care whether the treatment for chlamydia interacts badly with my arthritis medication.
When I say I don't want to work anymore, I still recognize that I need to. It's more that lately I don't want to work the way I've always worked. My career doesn't matter or mean as much to me as it once did.
For years now, my only goals have been a better position, a better title and a better salary. I wanted respect, I wanted glowing performance appraisals and a job that I could base my entire identity and self-worth upon.
I worked so hard for all of those things, and now that I've come as far as I can go and I still find myself here - I don't care any more.
Basing my happiness in life on an activity so easily derailed by your average CEO believing he's a warlock, or a president and CEO who once described women's equality in the workforce as an "interesting concept," was never going to bode well.
So.
If I no longer care about the only goals I've ever cared about, if my current work situation is unsustainable and may actually be making me ill, if I can't afford to back away from my current work situation until I find a better opportunity, if there are no better opportunities, if my focus is shifting away from my career and onto the gaping holes in my personal life, if I don't want to go but can't stay here, if I cried during an episode of Say Yes to the Dress for no apparent reason, if what has always worked no longer works and if I have absolutely no idea what to do next...what then?
It's a real pickle.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Further consultation required.
Ah consultants. Where would my organization be without them? Besides in the black that is.
Over the years, I've met with a virtual parade of people, all of them boasting entire alphabets after their names and possessing a driving passion for leveraging synergy, making sure we're all on the same page, drilling down, and suggesting that certain nouns and verbs can and should be "unpacked."
As in, "That's an interesting observation Bambi - let's unpack that."
In other words, I've met with a large contingent of people who make me want to chew my own ear.
My favorite new thing to do when sitting across the table from any new consultant is to tell the absolute truth, just to see what happens. This may be the clearest sign that I have simply run out of fucks to give.
I recently shared during an interview with a consultant how the five year strategy for my current department first went off the rails. The issue was staffing, and the question was why I had none.
A brief time ago there had been a plan in place to remedy this situation, and the consultant wanted to know what had happened to the plan to hire for position X. I told the absolute truth.
"There was definitely a plan in place to hire for position X. An interview panel was convened, interviews took place and a preferred candidate was chosen. The offer was to have been made over the weekend, but CEO #1 intervened before the offer could be made, and the position was awarded to somebody else. That person accepted the position, but resigned less than three months later."
Naturally, the consultant wanted to drill down and unpack.
"CEO #1 had a dream or what he considered a vision regarding another candidate, and he intervened to hire the candidate who appeared in his dream. When I expressed concern regarding this course of action to the managing director, I was told that although this may seem unusual, CEO #1 considered himself a warlock, had reached a heightened state of enlightenment, and was very, very intuitive as a result."
(This happened by the way. Seriously.)
So far, no consultant has had the Texas sized balls necessary to include the continued employment of a CEO who considers himself a warlock as a possible reason the $50 million project said warlock was responsible for never got off the ground.
To do so would be to question how in the hell that was allowed to happen, and to ask such a question would mean pissing off the asshole who signs off on their contracts. Coincidentally, the same asshole who signed off on the warlock.
(Some may say I have no pride in my company, but that's not true. We had a pants-shittingly crazy bastard wasting millions and calling himself a warlock on our payroll, long before Charlie Sheen ever lost his mind. Suck it Charlie. We're the real innovators.)
Consultants bring a unique, outside perspective. This outsider perspective allows them to spot roadblocks and potential issues so much more quickly than those of us working within the system.
After all, we were all hired because our organization is an Equal Opportunity employer, with a soft spot for the deaf and the blind.
The semi-annual re-organization of all company departments can cause a considerable amount of anxiety. It's true that not knowing who you report to or where your desk might be located from day to day can be stressful, which is why an army of new consultants are brought on board every year.
(Sadly, the consultants are all hired at different times throughout the year. I think it would be amazing if they could all gather in the same place at the same time, on one special day.)
(Instead of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, we could have the Running of the Contracted Consultants. It would be glorious, and really, really crowded. Anybody too slow to jump over fences and out of their way gets to meet with them first.)
If employees haven't learned to embrace change after their 8th re-organization in a year, then clearly they need some one-on-one time with a consultant who can produce an org-chart with clearly defined arrows.
A really good consultant offers so much more than arrows however. This type of consultant really gets on the same page with people, and drills down to the heart of the matter so that synergy can occur.
In fact, I was fully synergized just this morning.
It seems, and let's keep in mind that this is from an outsider perspective, that the external communications my department is responsible for are important. I needed a moment to take that in, as I'd never before considered communicating to have any real purpose until the outsider consultant said it out loud.
Once I was on the same page, it became time to work together to create a new org-chart with new arrows, because as it turns out, my writing is unprofessional and inappropriate for use in any external communications.
Let it be known, this was not a criticism. Writing is a skill that very few can master, and it does not come easily to everybody.
Just so we're on the same page, let's reference the latest article I uploaded to the online corporate newsletter, as I've done monthly for the last four years. The posting appeared to have a more casual tone. Yes, casual.
It's true that nobody has complained, and it may very well be true that some people say they enjoy reading that column particularly for the more casual tone, but I need to embrace change.
If there was to be an approval process in place of no less than three people for anything I write that may be published anywhere, and or read outside of the organization, and if my writing showed improvement, there might be a chance that I could apply for some professional development funding to take a non-credit course at a local college in basic writing.
Wouldn't that be nice?
It sure would be nice. The xeroxed certificate of participation I might earn from taking a non-credit basic writing course sure would look great next to my BFA and Degree in Writing I've got hanging on my wall from the University of Victoria. The UVic program only accepts 10 people a year, so clearly it can't be that sustainable.
But because I've run out of fucks to give, I didn't tell a consultant she could unpack my ass or synergize my fist through her face this morning. That would have been a clear sign I wasn't embracing change, and if we were to drill down any further I might have murdered something.
Instead of murder, maybe I'll just publish a book already. Casual, inappropriate and unprofessional would make a pretty awesome tag line.
Over the years, I've met with a virtual parade of people, all of them boasting entire alphabets after their names and possessing a driving passion for leveraging synergy, making sure we're all on the same page, drilling down, and suggesting that certain nouns and verbs can and should be "unpacked."
As in, "That's an interesting observation Bambi - let's unpack that."
In other words, I've met with a large contingent of people who make me want to chew my own ear.
My favorite new thing to do when sitting across the table from any new consultant is to tell the absolute truth, just to see what happens. This may be the clearest sign that I have simply run out of fucks to give.
I recently shared during an interview with a consultant how the five year strategy for my current department first went off the rails. The issue was staffing, and the question was why I had none.
A brief time ago there had been a plan in place to remedy this situation, and the consultant wanted to know what had happened to the plan to hire for position X. I told the absolute truth.
"There was definitely a plan in place to hire for position X. An interview panel was convened, interviews took place and a preferred candidate was chosen. The offer was to have been made over the weekend, but CEO #1 intervened before the offer could be made, and the position was awarded to somebody else. That person accepted the position, but resigned less than three months later."
Naturally, the consultant wanted to drill down and unpack.
"CEO #1 had a dream or what he considered a vision regarding another candidate, and he intervened to hire the candidate who appeared in his dream. When I expressed concern regarding this course of action to the managing director, I was told that although this may seem unusual, CEO #1 considered himself a warlock, had reached a heightened state of enlightenment, and was very, very intuitive as a result."
(This happened by the way. Seriously.)
So far, no consultant has had the Texas sized balls necessary to include the continued employment of a CEO who considers himself a warlock as a possible reason the $50 million project said warlock was responsible for never got off the ground.
To do so would be to question how in the hell that was allowed to happen, and to ask such a question would mean pissing off the asshole who signs off on their contracts. Coincidentally, the same asshole who signed off on the warlock.
(Some may say I have no pride in my company, but that's not true. We had a pants-shittingly crazy bastard wasting millions and calling himself a warlock on our payroll, long before Charlie Sheen ever lost his mind. Suck it Charlie. We're the real innovators.)
Consultants bring a unique, outside perspective. This outsider perspective allows them to spot roadblocks and potential issues so much more quickly than those of us working within the system.
After all, we were all hired because our organization is an Equal Opportunity employer, with a soft spot for the deaf and the blind.
The semi-annual re-organization of all company departments can cause a considerable amount of anxiety. It's true that not knowing who you report to or where your desk might be located from day to day can be stressful, which is why an army of new consultants are brought on board every year.
(Sadly, the consultants are all hired at different times throughout the year. I think it would be amazing if they could all gather in the same place at the same time, on one special day.)
(Instead of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, we could have the Running of the Contracted Consultants. It would be glorious, and really, really crowded. Anybody too slow to jump over fences and out of their way gets to meet with them first.)
If employees haven't learned to embrace change after their 8th re-organization in a year, then clearly they need some one-on-one time with a consultant who can produce an org-chart with clearly defined arrows.
A really good consultant offers so much more than arrows however. This type of consultant really gets on the same page with people, and drills down to the heart of the matter so that synergy can occur.
In fact, I was fully synergized just this morning.
It seems, and let's keep in mind that this is from an outsider perspective, that the external communications my department is responsible for are important. I needed a moment to take that in, as I'd never before considered communicating to have any real purpose until the outsider consultant said it out loud.
Once I was on the same page, it became time to work together to create a new org-chart with new arrows, because as it turns out, my writing is unprofessional and inappropriate for use in any external communications.
Let it be known, this was not a criticism. Writing is a skill that very few can master, and it does not come easily to everybody.
Just so we're on the same page, let's reference the latest article I uploaded to the online corporate newsletter, as I've done monthly for the last four years. The posting appeared to have a more casual tone. Yes, casual.
It's true that nobody has complained, and it may very well be true that some people say they enjoy reading that column particularly for the more casual tone, but I need to embrace change.
If there was to be an approval process in place of no less than three people for anything I write that may be published anywhere, and or read outside of the organization, and if my writing showed improvement, there might be a chance that I could apply for some professional development funding to take a non-credit course at a local college in basic writing.
Wouldn't that be nice?
It sure would be nice. The xeroxed certificate of participation I might earn from taking a non-credit basic writing course sure would look great next to my BFA and Degree in Writing I've got hanging on my wall from the University of Victoria. The UVic program only accepts 10 people a year, so clearly it can't be that sustainable.
But because I've run out of fucks to give, I didn't tell a consultant she could unpack my ass or synergize my fist through her face this morning. That would have been a clear sign I wasn't embracing change, and if we were to drill down any further I might have murdered something.
Instead of murder, maybe I'll just publish a book already. Casual, inappropriate and unprofessional would make a pretty awesome tag line.
Friday, April 1, 2011
If it's finally puberty, I'm hoping I'll grow boobs.
I'm going through a weird phase right now, and I'm not sure what to chalk it up to. I'm just not myself. For example, I had lunch with a very good friend recently, who I don't get to see very often but who is one of my ten faithful readers.
She seemed hopeful that I hadn't done anything ridiculous in quite a while, primarily because I hadn't updated my blog. I wish I could say my lack of posting is a sign of unquestionably good behaviour on my part, but that wouldn't be true. Not writing is part of my weird phase.
Describing how I literally fell out of my stupidly high heels while exiting a night club at closing time where 200+ people were milling about and can now testify as to whether I bounced at all after hitting the payment could have made for a good story for my blog.
Even though I hadn't been drinking enough to fall over, stepping off the curb onto uneven pavement was all I needed to gain an entirely new appreciation for how fast gravity can work.
As I lay sprawled and suddenly barefoot in the street, I had time to think to myself that 34 years old is entirely too old to be laying in the street in front of a night club at closing time, and yet here we are.
The gathered crowd was kind enough to find my shoes for me, seeing as my shoes had got even better air time than I did. I'm grateful for these drunken good Samaritans. At least being able to walk away wearing my shoes again afforded some kind of dignity to the situation.
Then there was the twenty year old virgin I picked up while out dancing last weekend. Oh calm yourselves - he's still a virgin as far as I know.
I didn't start talking to him because I had any idea that doing so could violate both gay math and whatever passes for Madonna's moral code, so I was as shocked as anybody.
There was just something about him that was so shy and sweet, he appeared a completely different species than the guys that would normally attract me. For this reason we ended up talking and dancing, and then we went for coffee after the club where we talked for another two hours.
It was somewhere in this conversation he let slip that despite being twenty and in the military, he's still a virgin. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have scalding hot Tim Horton's tea go down the wrong pipe all of a sudden, and then try to recover gracefully while reacting like everything is completely normal? Do you??
It's really hard.
You'd think being ever so slightly older, wiser and more experienced than this guy would have given me an edge, but I was still SO crazy nervous about calling him afterward.
Telling myself he was so young I could have given birth to him (providing I was a raging whore in middle school) just made it exponentially worse.
Cougars are supposed to be confident, but I must be more of a hybrid jungle cat - about as dangerous as a Build-a-Bear grizzly.
This could have made a good story for the blog, although a bit anti-climactic. After breathing into a paper bag for a while I finally phoned him two days later, and we had a pretty good conversation - mostly about how he was leaving the next day for three weeks at sea.
I suppose I'll be happy for our Canadian Navy's rigorous training schedule should I ever need rescue from Somali pirates, but right then it really pissed me off. He said he'll call me when he's back on dry land, but I'm not holding my breath it'll cross his mind again. Kids have such short attention spans these days.
Overall, it's not as though there's nothing in my life that wouldn't make my readers feel so much better about their own. I'm still ridiculous. I could be writing. I probably should be writing. Instead, I'm going through a weird phase.
Although we can safely rule out mood altering conditions such as pregnancy or vegetarianism, I'll be sure to let you know if I figure out what the hell it is and what it all means.
Until then, I'll try to stay in my shoes and share more stories. Good advice for anybody.
She seemed hopeful that I hadn't done anything ridiculous in quite a while, primarily because I hadn't updated my blog. I wish I could say my lack of posting is a sign of unquestionably good behaviour on my part, but that wouldn't be true. Not writing is part of my weird phase.
Describing how I literally fell out of my stupidly high heels while exiting a night club at closing time where 200+ people were milling about and can now testify as to whether I bounced at all after hitting the payment could have made for a good story for my blog.
Even though I hadn't been drinking enough to fall over, stepping off the curb onto uneven pavement was all I needed to gain an entirely new appreciation for how fast gravity can work.
As I lay sprawled and suddenly barefoot in the street, I had time to think to myself that 34 years old is entirely too old to be laying in the street in front of a night club at closing time, and yet here we are.
The gathered crowd was kind enough to find my shoes for me, seeing as my shoes had got even better air time than I did. I'm grateful for these drunken good Samaritans. At least being able to walk away wearing my shoes again afforded some kind of dignity to the situation.
Then there was the twenty year old virgin I picked up while out dancing last weekend. Oh calm yourselves - he's still a virgin as far as I know.
I didn't start talking to him because I had any idea that doing so could violate both gay math and whatever passes for Madonna's moral code, so I was as shocked as anybody.
There was just something about him that was so shy and sweet, he appeared a completely different species than the guys that would normally attract me. For this reason we ended up talking and dancing, and then we went for coffee after the club where we talked for another two hours.
It was somewhere in this conversation he let slip that despite being twenty and in the military, he's still a virgin. Do you have any idea how hard it is to have scalding hot Tim Horton's tea go down the wrong pipe all of a sudden, and then try to recover gracefully while reacting like everything is completely normal? Do you??
It's really hard.
You'd think being ever so slightly older, wiser and more experienced than this guy would have given me an edge, but I was still SO crazy nervous about calling him afterward.
Telling myself he was so young I could have given birth to him (providing I was a raging whore in middle school) just made it exponentially worse.
Cougars are supposed to be confident, but I must be more of a hybrid jungle cat - about as dangerous as a Build-a-Bear grizzly.
This could have made a good story for the blog, although a bit anti-climactic. After breathing into a paper bag for a while I finally phoned him two days later, and we had a pretty good conversation - mostly about how he was leaving the next day for three weeks at sea.
I suppose I'll be happy for our Canadian Navy's rigorous training schedule should I ever need rescue from Somali pirates, but right then it really pissed me off. He said he'll call me when he's back on dry land, but I'm not holding my breath it'll cross his mind again. Kids have such short attention spans these days.
Overall, it's not as though there's nothing in my life that wouldn't make my readers feel so much better about their own. I'm still ridiculous. I could be writing. I probably should be writing. Instead, I'm going through a weird phase.
Although we can safely rule out mood altering conditions such as pregnancy or vegetarianism, I'll be sure to let you know if I figure out what the hell it is and what it all means.
Until then, I'll try to stay in my shoes and share more stories. Good advice for anybody.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Actually, this is cruelty-free spandex.
Are you blogging this? My work-out buddy asks me this question every Tuesday night, usually in the empty high school parking lot where our running group meets for the warm-up.
We are both back in training to successfully complete an inexplicably popular 10k race in April. Success to us means not dying, peeing, puking our shitting our pants during the effort.
We're at risk of doing all four of these things, although perhaps not in that order. Her and I are not natural athletes. I can barely be referred to as natural anything. Proof that our bodies are not built for long or short bursts of running lies in our stomachs.
The aching shins and hips are to be expected, but complaining that a hip hurts or a knee feels out of whack actually helps us feel athletic. We have sports injuries! From actual sports! No, really!
We know that to remedy these aches and pains we need to focus on strengthening something in our bodies called "a core." Apparently this would be the middle section of my body that has always given me problems. The top half of this section I'm always wishing to grow bigger, but it's the lower half that keeps expanding.
There are classes just for core training, and exercises we could do at home. We know this because we've discussed doing both, and these conversations are exhausting enough.
Besides, core training won't do much to help our stomach situations. If I say the word 'running' to my friend she has to poo. Just like that. Prior to actually going for a run, she's been known to poo up to four separate times in anticipation. I've proposed that she doesn't need running to lose weight. We just have to talk about it and the pounds will fall right off of her.
My problem is of the more liquid variety. My bladder shrinks accordingly with every running step forward. Should I ever run a marathon, that organ might just shrivel and vanish from my body completely.
The problem isn't actually shrinkage, it's bouncing. In some runners, the colon and bladder can "jostle." I would have thought internal organs would be somehow better anchored, but it seems there's a lot more free floating going on in there than I would have believed.
Nevertheless, my friend and I joined a running group, and that group may already be sorry.
Every Tuesday we're divided into three smaller groups. One group is a handful of crazy people who head out for a casual 15k every Tuesday night, and a second group are runners who are considerably more advanced in their training for the big race. My friend and I belong to the third group, who are baby stepping our way through a beginners run/walk interval program.
We're supposed to do our warm-up exercises segmented within the larger group, and every Tuesday evening my friend and I confuse where we're supposed to be, and in the process confuse at least a dozen other people. One would think we'd recognize other members of our beginners group by now, but my excuse is that it's dark out by the time we get there.
Every Tuesday the warm-up is halted at some point so that the confusion caused by my friend and I can be sorted out. It happens when we argue over what section of the parking lot we're supposed to be in, causing dozens of eavesdroppers to doubt themselves.
I'll instinctively join a group because they're doing arm circles which I like, but another group is doing leg lunges, which I really don't. My friend likes walking on her toes, so she'll go over with that group. By the time everything is halted because we're still publicly arguing whether we're supposed to be here or over there, half the members in every group changed places.
We've both been very sick for the past few weeks, but I'm proud of ourselves because we've kept up our running schedule. It's not so much perseverance, but the knowledge that there's no way in hell we'll persevere if we stop now.
This has made for some really awful runs recently. I have a cold that has lingered so long, I can honestly say that as of today it's outlasted the majority of my relationships.
Although I seem to be on the mend (this isn't a scientific determination, but I no longer sound like James Earl Jones so that should count for something), I've been barking like a seal when I try to breathe deeply. My friend has had the stomach flu, and has been in serious danger of something spectacular happening out of one or both ends the last few times we've been out.
Neither of us have ever been in danger of landing in a Gatorade commercial at the best of times. Rather, we've considered producing our own line of at at home work-out DVDs that stick a little closer to reality.
Instead of hard-bodied women who've never known the pleasures of carbohydrates smiling like beauty queens the entire way through an hour long work-out, there would be us; four steps behind the routine, substituting the eff word for every happy cheer raised by the cardio-bots and tripping over our coffee tables. It will retail for $9.99.
We're upfront about our suffering. During our Tuesday practice runs, the official "run leaders" will occasionally take a moment to stop and yell encouragement to us beginner runners who are slogging by. There are actually people who respond to all of the, "Good jobs!" and "You're doing greats!" with happy cheering noises.
We are not those people. This past Tuesday, a run leader made the mistake of hollering out a hearty, "How are ya doing?" as we passed. My friend yelled back that she was going to puke and wanted to die.
She lived, and I'm so glad. Without her I might quit, and it's incredible how much worse a sense of failure can feel than a feeling of actually wanting to die due to lactic acid build-up.
She helps see me through, and so this Tuesday, I'm happy my answer will finally be,"Yes. I am blogging this."
We are both back in training to successfully complete an inexplicably popular 10k race in April. Success to us means not dying, peeing, puking our shitting our pants during the effort.
We're at risk of doing all four of these things, although perhaps not in that order. Her and I are not natural athletes. I can barely be referred to as natural anything. Proof that our bodies are not built for long or short bursts of running lies in our stomachs.
The aching shins and hips are to be expected, but complaining that a hip hurts or a knee feels out of whack actually helps us feel athletic. We have sports injuries! From actual sports! No, really!
We know that to remedy these aches and pains we need to focus on strengthening something in our bodies called "a core." Apparently this would be the middle section of my body that has always given me problems. The top half of this section I'm always wishing to grow bigger, but it's the lower half that keeps expanding.
There are classes just for core training, and exercises we could do at home. We know this because we've discussed doing both, and these conversations are exhausting enough.
Besides, core training won't do much to help our stomach situations. If I say the word 'running' to my friend she has to poo. Just like that. Prior to actually going for a run, she's been known to poo up to four separate times in anticipation. I've proposed that she doesn't need running to lose weight. We just have to talk about it and the pounds will fall right off of her.
My problem is of the more liquid variety. My bladder shrinks accordingly with every running step forward. Should I ever run a marathon, that organ might just shrivel and vanish from my body completely.
The problem isn't actually shrinkage, it's bouncing. In some runners, the colon and bladder can "jostle." I would have thought internal organs would be somehow better anchored, but it seems there's a lot more free floating going on in there than I would have believed.
Nevertheless, my friend and I joined a running group, and that group may already be sorry.
Every Tuesday we're divided into three smaller groups. One group is a handful of crazy people who head out for a casual 15k every Tuesday night, and a second group are runners who are considerably more advanced in their training for the big race. My friend and I belong to the third group, who are baby stepping our way through a beginners run/walk interval program.
We're supposed to do our warm-up exercises segmented within the larger group, and every Tuesday evening my friend and I confuse where we're supposed to be, and in the process confuse at least a dozen other people. One would think we'd recognize other members of our beginners group by now, but my excuse is that it's dark out by the time we get there.
Every Tuesday the warm-up is halted at some point so that the confusion caused by my friend and I can be sorted out. It happens when we argue over what section of the parking lot we're supposed to be in, causing dozens of eavesdroppers to doubt themselves.
I'll instinctively join a group because they're doing arm circles which I like, but another group is doing leg lunges, which I really don't. My friend likes walking on her toes, so she'll go over with that group. By the time everything is halted because we're still publicly arguing whether we're supposed to be here or over there, half the members in every group changed places.
We've both been very sick for the past few weeks, but I'm proud of ourselves because we've kept up our running schedule. It's not so much perseverance, but the knowledge that there's no way in hell we'll persevere if we stop now.
This has made for some really awful runs recently. I have a cold that has lingered so long, I can honestly say that as of today it's outlasted the majority of my relationships.
Although I seem to be on the mend (this isn't a scientific determination, but I no longer sound like James Earl Jones so that should count for something), I've been barking like a seal when I try to breathe deeply. My friend has had the stomach flu, and has been in serious danger of something spectacular happening out of one or both ends the last few times we've been out.
Neither of us have ever been in danger of landing in a Gatorade commercial at the best of times. Rather, we've considered producing our own line of at at home work-out DVDs that stick a little closer to reality.
Instead of hard-bodied women who've never known the pleasures of carbohydrates smiling like beauty queens the entire way through an hour long work-out, there would be us; four steps behind the routine, substituting the eff word for every happy cheer raised by the cardio-bots and tripping over our coffee tables. It will retail for $9.99.
We're upfront about our suffering. During our Tuesday practice runs, the official "run leaders" will occasionally take a moment to stop and yell encouragement to us beginner runners who are slogging by. There are actually people who respond to all of the, "Good jobs!" and "You're doing greats!" with happy cheering noises.
We are not those people. This past Tuesday, a run leader made the mistake of hollering out a hearty, "How are ya doing?" as we passed. My friend yelled back that she was going to puke and wanted to die.
She lived, and I'm so glad. Without her I might quit, and it's incredible how much worse a sense of failure can feel than a feeling of actually wanting to die due to lactic acid build-up.
She helps see me through, and so this Tuesday, I'm happy my answer will finally be,"Yes. I am blogging this."
Monday, February 21, 2011
Anal glands now no longer allowed on planes.
You know your career is probably off the rails when a large amount of hard work can be undone by anal glands. Particularly, anal glands belonging to a cat. Anal glands belonging to a cat that ruptured. The anal glands that is. The cat didn't rupture and presumably is fine, or as fine as any creature can be whose ass somehow exploded over the weekend.
I should back up for a moment. First of all, it's important to know that my friends and colleagues within my organization love me, are very supportive, and I love them to pieces in return. Our receptionist even suggested that should we win the lottery jackpot my office area regularly pools our money for, I should get a larger share of the winnings. It's the only way she feels I'll get a man.
Yes, I love my work friends and colleagues, even though they're assholes. The c-level and VP crowd however, would rather I not exist. The reasons for this are many, ranging from my refusal to just shut up and be the scapegoat they reuire me to be, to my utter refusal to kiss posterior or say yes when the answer should clearly be no.
I've also been known to express concerns regarding policies that could possibly be misconstrued by lesser people without a VP title or $800,000 a year salary as being technically criminal.
Also, I once ate a yogurt parfait reserved for the president just prior to a breakfast meeting. How was I supposed to know it was a specially reserved presidential parfait? I can not resist a parfait, and it was unfair to be put in that position.
I'm not counting on a raise this year is what I'm saying. In case I ever wonder whether it's my own insecurities that make me think my boss's bosses are not fond, I have the memories of the president calling me incompetent...in eight different meetings spanning multiple years.
My last boss told me I wouldn't be getting any resources come budget time because I have a bad attitude and I've been referred to in an email no less, as the "dirt in
Don't worry, the cat's ass explosion is coming up shortly. Several weeks ago I was tasked with planning two large events, taking place within 24 hours of one another.
If either event experiences any glitches whatsoever, I've been told my position will likely be "reconsidered." I was provided with an online registration software system, two teams of volunteers, and an administrative assistant to manage logistics. What could possibly go wrong?
The online registration system crashed, which is to be expected. Within moments, our IT department informed me it would not be functional again in time for either event, as it's not on their list of projects or priorities for the year.
What followed was a Seinfeld-esque conversation in which I tried to find out how a project can expected to be on a list when it's not expected to break. I'm not sure anything was settled, but if it were an argument, I think I may have lost.
One team of volunteers are fighting amongst themselves over who gets to call themselves the leader of the team of volunteers, and two out of the five volunteers are threatening to quit this team of volunteers and start a new team of volunteers without the other three, because that would sure show...somebody.
The second team of volunteers have written angry letters to the president of my organization, the same one who went without his specially reserved yogurt parfait because of me, that the online registration software failure can only be my fault, and my inability to fix it is a black-eye to the entire organization.
This would probably be something I would feel shame over, if my position and background were in computer programming. They are not. I am in public relations, which means I have no idea how to fix software, but I should be able to explain how it's broken in a way that will make the failure sound like a resounding success.
While I do have some technical skills, they are too highly specialized to waste on computer coding. If only the same technical skills that allow me to remove the muffin crumbs from my keyboard through vigorous shaking could be more transferable.
Finally, my administrative support, the person I designated to manage registration for both events, will be away from the office indefinitely, because her cat's ass exploded. The technical term would be a ruptured anal gland, which I had been blissfully unaware was even a possibility until this morning.
The cat's ass has to be monitored every 20 minutes, and a warm compress applied every four hours.
Sweet Christ on a cracker. Despite warring parties of volunteers, low registrations and my job hanging in the balance...I actually feel better after writing the sentence above. Right now, my poor administrative assistant is monitoring a cat's exploded ass like it's under suicide watch.
Apparently...there are worse jobs than mine in the world, and for that I should be grateful.
I should back up for a moment. First of all, it's important to know that my friends and colleagues within my organization love me, are very supportive, and I love them to pieces in return. Our receptionist even suggested that should we win the lottery jackpot my office area regularly pools our money for, I should get a larger share of the winnings. It's the only way she feels I'll get a man.
Yes, I love my work friends and colleagues, even though they're assholes. The c-level and VP crowd however, would rather I not exist. The reasons for this are many, ranging from my refusal to just shut up and be the scapegoat they reuire me to be, to my utter refusal to kiss posterior or say yes when the answer should clearly be no.
I've also been known to express concerns regarding policies that could possibly be misconstrued by lesser people without a VP title or $800,000 a year salary as being technically criminal.
Also, I once ate a yogurt parfait reserved for the president just prior to a breakfast meeting. How was I supposed to know it was a specially reserved presidential parfait? I can not resist a parfait, and it was unfair to be put in that position.
I'm not counting on a raise this year is what I'm saying. In case I ever wonder whether it's my own insecurities that make me think my boss's bosses are not fond, I have the memories of the president calling me incompetent...in eight different meetings spanning multiple years.
My last boss told me I wouldn't be getting any resources come budget time because I have a bad attitude and I've been referred to in an email no less, as the "dirt in
Don't worry, the cat's ass explosion is coming up shortly. Several weeks ago I was tasked with planning two large events, taking place within 24 hours of one another.
If either event experiences any glitches whatsoever, I've been told my position will likely be "reconsidered." I was provided with an online registration software system, two teams of volunteers, and an administrative assistant to manage logistics. What could possibly go wrong?
The online registration system crashed, which is to be expected. Within moments, our IT department informed me it would not be functional again in time for either event, as it's not on their list of projects or priorities for the year.
What followed was a Seinfeld-esque conversation in which I tried to find out how a project can expected to be on a list when it's not expected to break. I'm not sure anything was settled, but if it were an argument, I think I may have lost.
One team of volunteers are fighting amongst themselves over who gets to call themselves the leader of the team of volunteers, and two out of the five volunteers are threatening to quit this team of volunteers and start a new team of volunteers without the other three, because that would sure show...somebody.
The second team of volunteers have written angry letters to the president of my organization, the same one who went without his specially reserved yogurt parfait because of me, that the online registration software failure can only be my fault, and my inability to fix it is a black-eye to the entire organization.
This would probably be something I would feel shame over, if my position and background were in computer programming. They are not. I am in public relations, which means I have no idea how to fix software, but I should be able to explain how it's broken in a way that will make the failure sound like a resounding success.
While I do have some technical skills, they are too highly specialized to waste on computer coding. If only the same technical skills that allow me to remove the muffin crumbs from my keyboard through vigorous shaking could be more transferable.
Finally, my administrative support, the person I designated to manage registration for both events, will be away from the office indefinitely, because her cat's ass exploded. The technical term would be a ruptured anal gland, which I had been blissfully unaware was even a possibility until this morning.
The cat's ass has to be monitored every 20 minutes, and a warm compress applied every four hours.
Sweet Christ on a cracker. Despite warring parties of volunteers, low registrations and my job hanging in the balance...I actually feel better after writing the sentence above. Right now, my poor administrative assistant is monitoring a cat's exploded ass like it's under suicide watch.
Apparently...there are worse jobs than mine in the world, and for that I should be grateful.
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