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Dinner Conversations to
Whet the Appetite
01-30-06
I was having dinner with
Pam this weekend and, as we sat sipping
our wine, I noticed that a birthday was underway near the bar. Shots
were being poured all around, so I suspected that this was a birthday
of the 21st variety.
"I've never been a huge shot fan," I told Pam who was browsing through
the entree portion of her menu, "but I'd really like to find a good
shot that you light on fire before drinking."
"Why on Earth would you want to drink that?" she asked.
"Because you have two of mankind’s greatest inventions, fire and
alcohol, packed into one little shot glass. It's like those old
Reese's Peanut Butter Cups commercials where one guy dropped his
chocolate into someone else's peanut butter and an incredibly tasty
snack food was born."
"How would you even drink something like that? The alcohol would all
burn off."
"You're supposed to drink it while it's still blazing away," I told
her.
"That’s ridiculous!" she said. "Besides, your nose hair would probably
catch on fire the minute you tipped the glass back. It would look like
a smoldering Brillo pad stuffed up your nose!"
“If your nose hair is so long that a flaming shot is going to create a
brushfire,” I responded, “then it's probably a sign that you should
have trimmed up there long ago."
A few minutes after this, I excused myself and headed to the bathroom. Worried
that Pam was perhaps trying to tell me that I had an excessive amount
of nose hair, I did a thorough examination of my nostril area in the
mirror above the sinks.
Thumbing my nose at my reflection, I carefully checked to make sure no
stray wisps were evident.
Satisfied that I had my nose hair growth under control, I did a quick
hand wash and headed back to our table...but made a mental note that,
if I ever did try a flaming shot of alcohol, I would definitely trim
prior to downing the concoction. Because while I don't have a flowing
mane cascading out of my nostrils, I'd still rather be safe than
sorry. Besides, who wants to spend an evening with the smell of burnt
hair lingering up your nose.
Overpriced Bottled Water
01-25-06
I left work this afternoon
to find that over an inch of snow had fallen throughout the day. The
fact that my office contains no windows eliminates all weather related
knowledge from seeping into my consciousness. I knew, before I had
even turned the key in the ignition to begin the windshield defrosting
process, that this would be a very long, slow ride home.
To make matters all the more unpleasant, I’ve been fighting a cold
since last weekend and, as I inched along in traffic, my sniffles
turned stuffy. Soon after, my nose was rendered useless. Luckily, I had
thought to bring along some DayQuil pills with me that day. And as I sat amidst the sea of red glowing tail
lights, I ripped open the packet and popped the pill into my mouth.
To the eye, the pill seemed very small. Once swallowed, however, this
pill that looked so tiny suddenly grew to the size of a grape and
quickly lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed a few more times, but
the stubborn pill, which now felt more like a golf ball than a grape,
refused to budge.
As I sat there, not being able to breathe out of my nose and now being
unable to breathe too well out of my mouth, I realized that some type
of beverage was desperately needed to coax the pill down. With nothing
to drink in the car, and being stuck in the middle of the expressway
with no 7-11 nearby, I rolled down my window, scraped off a few inches
of snow from my roof, and quickly began sucking down the snowball that
I had made.
Unfortunately, I found that several inches of snow on your car only
equate to a few drops of water once melted inside your mouth. And a
few drops were not nearly enough to get this tennis ball sized pill
out of my throat. Unsure of what to do next, I happened to notice that
the red headed lady in the car next to me was drinking some bottled
water.
Normally, a red headed, middle aged woman drinking bottled water would
not register high on my second glance list. But at this moment, with a
bowling ball sized DayQuil wedged in my throat, she was the best thing I had ever seen.
With traffic at a standstill on the highway, I opened my door and knocked on
her window.
Her response was much the same as anyone’s would be when someone
knocks on their car window in the middle of the road. She looked
startled, then suspicious, but finally opened her passenger side
window a fraction of an inch.
“This will probably sound like a very odd request,” I croaked, “but I
have a DayQuil pill stuck in my throat and would really appreciate it
if you’d give me that bottle of water you’re drinking.”
"No," she told me, "I'm
very thirsty. Now please get away from my car."
She rolled up her window,
but not to be deterred from my quest for oxygen, I began pounding on
the glass.
She rolled the window back
down and said, "Look, if you don't leave me alone I'm going to call
the police!"
"Lady, look around
you...we're in the middle of a traffic jam. There's no way a police car is
going to get here anytime soon...especially after you explain that you need
them to escort a guy who's asking for water back to his vehicle.
Here," I said as I fumbled through my pockets for some change, "I'll give you a dollar for
you're half-empty bottle of Aquafina."
She seemed to consider this, then shrugged and rolled down her window a few more inches…enough to take
my money and hand me the bottle…then quickly rolled it right back up.
I got back in my car and vigorously wiped off the mouth of the bottle,
because even though I was suffocating, I refused to die with some
stranger's germs floating around in my dead body.
Once I was certain that the last of the germs had been rubbed off, I
took several gulps. The pill washed down, my near death experience was
over, and…according to the promise on the medication package…my nose
would be working again in less than 10 minutes.
Breathing easy, I started realizing how stupid I had been…because, had
I tried, I
probably could have talked that lady down to fifty cents.
The Reason
01-23-06
I work across the hall
from a lady named Bettie Jo. Bettie is in her mid-thirties and has
been with the company for 15 years. Granted, she knows her job well,
but this is where my praise for her ends. She’s one of those people
who feel they know everything. She also
loves to complain…about the weather, her kids, her extremely wide
hips, and how she ‘always has to do everything around here!’
She works as our Delinquent Accounts Manager and takes over the
billing process from me when a client's bill becomes past due by
over 30 days. Bettie Jo spends a large part of her day in her friend’s
office right next to hers. “Can I tell you something…?” I’ll hear from
where I sit behind my desk, certain that a 30 minute story is about to
ensue.
Often these stories involve her husband, who she calls on the phone
several times each day. I know exactly when she’s talking to him
because she’ll yell, “you’re such an ass!” or “I can’t stand you!” or
“don’t be an idiot!” followed by the sound of a telephone being
slammed down.
My current position in the billing department has made me the fourth
person to hold this job in the past 16 months. And it now appears that
Bettie Jo has decided that a new and improved fifth person should
resume the post behind my desk.
Bettie Jo is good friends with my supervisor, which is unfortunate for
me. She emails reports about me to my boss with the same frequency that the kindergarten
tattletale runs up to the teacher's desk with new information
regarding her classmates. Billy was coloring outside the lines, or
Sally ate a cracker that fell on the floor.
In the past week, I’ve had to meet with my boss twice; once because
Bettie Jo ‘overheard’ me tell a client that the billing process begins
on the 15th of each month, when it should have been clear to anyone
with a brain that the billing process does NOT begin on the
15th of each month, because those months that have five weeks in them
have two billing cycles. And once because I was incorrectly putting
the payment due date in the lower right hand corner when it clearly
should have been written in BOTH the upper left hand corner and
again in the lower right hand corner.
The higher-ups have been wondering why they have such a hard time
keeping someone in my current position. And while I’m really no
smarter than the next person, I think that the answer is quite
obvious.
It’s Bettie Jo.
Some Things Are Tastier
Than Others
01-21-06
For Christmas, my boss
gave me a $10 gift card to one of the many malls that populate the
city. And, as any mall shopper knows, ten dollars is only enough to
purchase a cup of coffee and a cookie. This is exactly what I was
buying yesterday when I ventured out.
As I was waiting in line to order my dinner plate-sized cookie and
large coffee from a Mrs. Field’s store in the food court, I noticed
two mothers, both with young children, seated at a nearby table. The
moms were involved in conversation, their kids, both of which looked
to be about two, were sitting in booster seats beside them.
The dark haired mother's boy was busy eating the remains of a hot dog,
ketchup smeared around his mouth and
trailing up his cheek. The blond haired mother's boy was busy digging
through her purse which was wedged in between them. His mom, deeply
engrossed in what was surely a juicy tidbit of gossip, was only
peripherally aware that her son was digging through her purse. After
some searching, he pulled out what looked to be a white, sugar coated
pretzel stick, stuck it in his mouth and started sucking.
Unfamiliar with the store that sold sugar coated pretzel sticks, I
scanned the food court to see where this delicacy could have been purchased.
But not finding any store that fit this description, I returned my
attention to the task of waiting in line. Shortly after, I
heard a muffled shriek from the blond mother at the sugar coated
pretzel boy’s table. She said, in one of those loud-hushed tones that
mothers use so well, "Travis! Put that back in mommy’s purse! You
shouldn't be sucking on that!"
And it dawned on me that little Travis wasn't sucking on a pretzel at
all. What he had pulled out of his mom's purse was a tampon.
Maybe, thinking that underneath the plastic wrapper some wonderful
sugar confection would be found, Travis decided that further
exploration was in order. I, on the other hand, with many more years
of dessert knowledge than Travis had, turned back around, certain that
my chocolate chip cookie would be more satisfying than a soggy tampon.
Without A Trace
01-18-06
Our inventory clerk Lori
has suddenly vanished into thin air. She left no message, letter, or
email to explain her disappearance. She simply stopped showing up for
work.
As people around the office began scrambling to fill the void and seal
the cracks that were left behind, it started becoming clear that Lori
hasn’t placed any inventory orders for well over a month...which means
that our company's 'just in time' inventory system has now turned into
a 'not in time' system, and is headed for a 'don't bet your life on
receiving your orders anytime in the near future' system.
With no supplies in stock, we are soon going to have many unhappy
clients sending me many unhappy emails regarding their bill for items
that they never received. And, as is the motto of stellar employees
such as myself, 'when the going gets tough, the tough get going’...the
'get going' part meaning that this is the time when I would normally
start using my vacation days.
Unfortunately, I haven't earned enough days yet to ride out the
storm...thus, I'm stuck in the middle of it. Lori's position needs
filled quickly.
The receptionist, Sondra, mentioned to me that she would much prefer
doing inventory rather than answering the phones.
"Why don't you talk to the President and ask him about moving up in
the company," I told her.
Sondra rolled her eyes at me and said, "every job in this place is
just as crappy as the next one...you know that. The only 'moving up'
I'd be doing is moving from my desk on the ground floor and into
Lori's office upstairs."
She's right, of course. But still, I've always wondered how it would
be at the top. Even if the top is only one flight up.
A Sure Sign that the
Holidays are Over
01-12-06
Pam got herself a pet
kitten last week. This was part of her ‘new year’s resolution’ plan to
create a more ‘homey’ home. And, naturally, homes without pets simply
aren’t homey. “Besides,” she told me, “I read somewhere that it was
good to have at least two heartbeats in your house.”
When I asked where she read this, she just sort of coughed and mumbled
‘Cosmo’. “But it makes a lot of sense,” she told me…though she failed
to list the reasons outlining why this heartbeat theory was
scientifically sound.
However, even after only two months of dating, I know better than to
mention this.
Last night, as I was about to head off to bed, I got a frantic call
from Pam. “OH MY GOD!” was the first thing she said when I picked up
the phone. “You have to come over here, NOW! It’s my cat, Frisk…I
don’t know what to do! Please hurry!”
And this was about the time that she screamed and dropped the phone.
So I put some shoes on and headed out to my car. As I rushed over,
images of her kitten, high on cat nip and holding a knife to her
throat, crossed through my mind.
The first thing you notice when entering Pam’s apartment is her
Christmas tree…which is still up even weeks after the actual holiday
has come and gone. “I like to keep the holiday feeling around as long
as possible,” she told me when I asked about it last weekend. And this
tree, which is now more of a “Martin Luther King Jr. Day” tree than it
is a “Christmas” tree, was still standing tall.
“Pam, just calm down and tell me what’s wrong,” I said as I was being
grabbed through the open doorway and into her apartment.
“The cat,” she told me in a wavering voice, “just look at the cat!”
So I looked at the cat. And the cat looked back at me.
“She’s a very cute little kitten, Pam.” I said, still not sure what I
was supposed to be looking at but feeling that this was a safe
response.
“Not that end,” she said, “the other end. You know, spin Frisk
around!”
So I spun Frisk around and was greeted with a strand of tinsel
sticking out of Frisk’s rear end.
“I sort of thought that she might have been eating some of the tinsel
off of the lower branches of the tree, but I wasn’t sure,” Pam told
me.
“Well, I don’t think there’s any doubt now,” I said as I walked into
the kitchen to grab a paper towel.
I came back, grabbed the end of the tinsel with the paper towel and
pulled. To be honest, I was secretly hoping that there would be a
popping noise as I yanked the tinsel from Frisk’s butt, much like
those little party poppers that they used to sell. Unfortunately, no
‘popping’ sound, or any other festivities ensued.
As I headed back to the kitchen to dispose of the towel and tinsel, I
told her, “you realize, this gives a whole new meaning to the term
‘Sparkle Season’.”
“The Season is more than welcome to ‘Sparkle’ all it wants,” she
replied, “but there will be no more sparkling from my cat’s ass! From
this day on, I am declaring this a non-tinsel zone. And the tree is
coming down tomorrow!”
The holidays are now officially over. Of course, depending on how many
tinsel strands Frisk ate, they may be making a brief reappearance in
another day or two.
A Pocket Full of Sweetner
01-10-06
Coffee is my one true
vice. I live for that morning cup of coffee. And the second cup later
in the morning. And the four other cups throughout the remainder of the day. And while
Starbucks remains my favorite of all the coffee pushers, once that
initial cup is drained, I'm forced to survive on the swill that is
offered at work.
Partially because I enjoy my coffee sweet, and partially to kill the
taste, I use quite a bit of sugar in the coffee at the office. Though, in an
attempt at a healthier, more fit me...especially since my dearly
departed step counting odometer taught me that I barely move
throughout the day...I simply cannot justify the caloric intake from
the massive amount of sugar used in my coffee.
Thus, I turn to artificial sweeteners.
Unfortunately, the only artificial sweetener available at my place of
employment is Sweet 'N Low. The fact that Sweet 'N Low warns, on the
side of each little packet, that it 'may cause cancer in rats' is
encouragement enough for me to find alternative artificial sweetening
means.
So, once again, I turn to Starbucks. While I love their coffee, I
realize that it is overpriced. Therefore, in true economic spirit, I
partake freely in their assortment of artificial sweeteners on the
coffee preparation counter, all the tiny blue, pink and yellow packets
forming a rainbow of sugary sweetness.
Though, perhaps because most of the donut shops in the area have gone
out of business, the local police amass at Starbucks early every
morning. And because of the cops, who sit strategically close to the
sweetening station, my sweetner smuggling has become a tricky affair.
As I place my coffee cup down to doctor it up, I carefully align the
'half and half' container and the 'whole milk' container to form a
barrier around the sweetener bins. With quick glances toward the
police sitting close by, I stuff my left coat pocket full of blue
and yellow packets while stirring with my right hand...the stirring a clever
diversionary tactic.
Once my pocket is full, I quickly cap the coffee, slink out the front
door, and cast glances over my shoulder all the way to my car. So far,
my black market, underground sweetener ring has flourished. But I fear
that one day the whole operation will cave in around me when a
sweetener S.W.A.T. team encircles the Starbucks and I'll be hand
cuffed in midstir.
Newspaper headlines will reveal every little sordid detail of my
illegal doings, and my mother will most likely die of humiliation.
But, worse yet, I probably won't even be allowed to take my last cup
of Starbucks coffee with me in the police car as I'm driven to the
station.
Finding the Perfect Gift
01-05-06
I’ve been dating a girl
named Pam for about two months, and the hardest part of any new
relationship is the first Christmas gift. This is an incredibly
painstaking and delicate process, because gift implications are
critical at this stage.
Two months into a relationship, the gift of jewelry sends a message
that I don’t want to send. Jewelry implies a promise of ‘commitment’, and
this isn’t an offer that I’m willing to extend at the two month mark.
Likewise, gifts of chocolate imply that I really don’t care if she
starts a regimen of massive eating. This is also a message that I
don’t want to send.
So I had the dilemma of trying to find that perfect gift. One that
says ‘I like you, and possibly, maybe, might be considering a future
beyond two months with you’ but that doesn’t say ‘we're soul mates and
I want to be with you forever’. After
careful consideration, and much searching, I felt that I had found the
ideal gift for Pam. One that she would not only enjoy, but would also
show that I care for her…but not in a marriage caring kind of way.
I bought her some Lava Bun foot warmers.
She’s constantly telling me that I keep my bedroom too cold and that,
if I continue to maintain this current temperature, I’m going to have
very little chance of actually getting her into the bed.
I’ve tried to explain that by slightly reducing the temperature, I
increase the snuggling factor and promote a cozy warmth that can only
be achieved under mountainous amounts of blankets. She tells me,
however, that in the arctic condition of my bedroom, the only snuggling
that will take place will be done with penguins.
Thus, I felt that the Lava Buns were the perfect gift. She would get
toasty warmth, and I would get her into bed.
She opened her gift and gave me a very skeptical look. Granted, the
Lava Bun foot warmer is not all that exciting at first glance,
especially considering that it resembles a beige-ish looking worm
stuffed full of rice.
But I told her that this would truly be a gift that she would come to
love and, after much convincing, I finally persuaded her to try it
out. She climbed into my bed while I followed the directions on the
Lava Buns, which instructed me to microwave them for two minutes and
then place them under the covers at the foot of the bed.
About one minute into the microwave process, the distinct smell of
oatmeal began to fill the kitchen. And, while I’m sure that Lava Buns
aren’t filled with oatmeal, they are most definitely filled with some
sort of oatmeal smelling substance.
I strode into the bedroom, Lava Buns held out before me, and amidst
the lingering scent of oatmeal, Pam gave me a sourly look.
“You’ve got a lot of work to do come Valentine’s Day,” she told me.
Which means that my plan of getting her a matching seat warmer set
probably isn’t going to be a good idea.
Good Advice From My Radio
01-04-06
As I sat in traffic this
morning on my way to work, a commercial on the radio caught my
attention. "Are you tired of your job?" it asked.
I nodded my head in agreement, impressed that my radio knew me so
well.
"Are you sick of your boss?"
"Yes," I said aloud.
"Is it time to start a business of your own? With no one to answer to
and no one looking over your shoulder?"
"Yes," I shouted inside my empty car, holding up a fist as a display
of solidarity that my radio and I shared.
"If you answered 'yes' to any of these questions," my radio told me,
"then it's time to join a multi-billion dollar industry...the
'work-at-home' industry."
Still nodding in agreement, I thought to myself, 'Gee, I didn't even
know my home was hiring…because, had I known, surely I would have sent
myself a resume long ago.'
The thought was abruptly cut short, however, when 'real' testimonials
from 'real' people...people that my radio told me were 'just like
myself'...began. Heather, from Miami, loved the job because she got to
work with her friends. Steve loved the job because he could set his
own hours. Martin loved the job because he was making more money and
doing less work.
These were all things that would easily lead me to love a job as well.
My radio instructed me to visit a website which would help me begin my
new, fruitful career as an at-home professional. Sitting in my car,
inching along the highway, I didn't have a pen nearby to jot the site
down. So I repeated, then re-repeated, the site to myself. Again and
again, over and over. A mantra which would lead to my
self-sufficiency, far away from idiot bosses and mindless work.
Though, shortly after the commercial ended, I realized that nothing
had been said regarding what the actual job was in this multi-billion
dollar work-at-home industry.
Of course, no matter what the job entailed, needless to say it would
be done sitting on my couch in my pajamas while watching television.
Resolutions
01-02-06
I have no resolve
when it comes to resolutions. I have tried them in the past, only to
find that resolutions take actual work...work which I have no will
power to do, resolutions or not. And with no resolve, no will power,
and no firm commitment toward the completion of things I resolved to
accomplish, it takes about a week until the whole ‘new me for a new
year’ idea goes up in smoke.
Therefore, this year, rather than making resolutions, I instead have
decided to make new year wishes. Wishes take much less work…and with
no work involved, I won’t so easily give up on them.
So this year I have compiled a list of wishes that I’d like to see
occur during 2006.
I’d like a new, higher paying job that I
actually enjoy and I’d like Sarah Michelle Gellar to finally realize
that I'm the man she should be married to.
I’d like to be taller, darker, and more handsome. I’d like my eyes to
suddenly revert back to their original 20/20 vision so that I can toss
out my contacts, and I’d like a new, sporty little car. Plus, knowing full
well what women think of men who drive sporty little cars, I’d also
like another couple inches of penis length too.
I want a checkbook that is always balanced, I want a bathroom that
cleans itself, and I’d like to discover that I’m secretly the love
child of Paul McCartney, who, upon finding out that he has neglected
me for so long, sets up a trust fund in my name.
And, in the event that these things don’t happen, I simply wish that I
could be happy with who I am and be able to accept my life for what it
is.
Though, a better job would still be nice.
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