I was best friends with Chris in kindergarten.
Chris was older than me by several months, but I was several times his size. I probably could have pounded him to a pulp with one chubby fist if I wanted to, but Chris was my best buddy. I knew him from church. He was sweet and unassuming, and I liked to boss. We were a good team.
Our parents would alternate driving us to school. I always looked forward to the days when it was Chris' parents turn to drive because his dad would take us to school on his mo-ped. I'm surprised now that my parents would let us ride that thing. I don't remember a trip during which some piece of the bike didn't fall off midway.
I was in the highest reading group in our class. I don't say that to brag. Being a high reader in kindergarten only means we read three-word sentences rather than two. I mention it because while I was reading stories titled "The Dog Ran," Chris wasn't reading at all.
He had ADD, as it was called then, and a few other learning disabilities that prevented him acting like the rest of us. I was only five, and I knew there was something not quite right about Chris. But I loved him, I really did. If I'd have had to pick a future mate right there on the playground, I would have chosen Chris no questions asked. (While, incidentally, my actual future mate was peeking up little girls skirts just few swing sets away.)
We had an evil teacher, Ms. Clark. She was middle-aged and unmarried, which was probably to blame for her evilness. I could never understand how you could be evil when you led a classroom full of adorable, big-eyed five-year-olds, but somehow she managed. She looked a bit like a witch, tall and dark-headed and olive-skinned. (My gosh, I just described myself! Do I scare little children?!?)
The assignments in kindergarten are fairly simple. Write the letter H. Color the horse pink. Spell "he."
We had an imaginary astronaut that delivered a special assignment to our classroom every day while we were gone to recess. "Artie," like most astronauts, cared about the education of Yesterday's youth, and more specifically he cared that we learned our numbers 1-10. Each day, we had an exciting new mission from Artie. Write the number 3! And write it again!
Similarly, grading in kindergarten is not that difficult. Most of the time our assignments were returned to us with a smiley face. Good job, says the Witch. Or occasionally you got a check mark. That'll do, she snivels. I almost always got smiley faces. A check mark would have sent me into convulsions.
One day, I was sitting next to Chris when our assignments were returned. Lots of smiley faces and check marks around the room, no surprises there. I glanced over at my buddy's paper. Right there, on the top of sweet little Chris' mission from Artie to write Q, was a big, fat, red "F."
And Chris was crying.
There were no letter grades in kindergarten. Even I knew that! Our report cards were a series of pluses and minuses. Just a sad face on a assignment would have crushed our little souls and were therefore given out sparingly.
Yet horrible Ms. Clark, with her apparent vendetta against big-eared, scrawny, already-behind-and-its-only-kindergarten kids, had taken it upon herself to administer the first blow to Chris' already tiny self-confidence.
I hated her for it, and it's still the most vivid memory I have from that year of my life.
It continued to be rough for Chris from there on out. His disability and difficult home life didn't bode well for him through adolescence. He was picked on enough that he finally managed to make himself disappear. Though we had a very small class of 82 students, I barely remember noticing Chris in high school.
He graduated and got married and now has an adorable baby named Ireland. He's done okay for himself and certainly seems happy enough when I see him in passing every few months, but I have to wonder what would have become of Chris if he hadn't been told, as a five-year-old boy, that he was already a failure.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Decisions, decisions
I am facing a very difficult decision. I can't exactly discuss it in such a public forum (I'm kidding myself. No one reads this thing), but I hate to take the chance and have this particular decision that I'm trying to make made for me.
It's a tough enough decision that I know I will probably face some serious moments of regret after I make it, and I will definitely face some serious public disapproval. So that being said, I need some advice and hopefully you can wade through the vagueness that I'm about to embark on, and give me some help. Please.
Let's say I have this car. It's a nice car and people are always telling me how lucky I am to have such a good car. And it is reliable and safe and provides me with the wonderful benefits that go along with having a nice car.
But, since the first day I had this car, I felt discontented with it. I felt that maybe God was calling me to get rid of it. I hadn't really wanted such a fancy car in the the first place but getting it just fell into place. Now, though, I feel that every time I drive that car I lose all feelings of happiness. My brain begins to numb and my will to live wanes. It's a terrible feeling, but it goes away as soon as get out of the car.
So, now I feel that perhaps I should get rid of the car, but I do not plan on getting another car in its place. I would instead do other things I enjoyed doing that I could never do when I was saddled to that awful car. Like umm...(I don't know to fit this in my allegory so I'll just say it)volunteer.
My husband's car is good enough that we would be okay without mine. Some days it might be difficult (or more difficult than it has been) but other days I just sense how marvelous it would be to be car-free.
I realize this allegory is very one-sided, obviously I want people to tell me to ditch the car and do what I think God might be telling me to do. So I'll throw this out there: If I ditch the car now, I lose many marvelous benefits that it entails...like air conditioning. And that air-conditioning my come in very, very handy down the road.
So I don't think you should ask God to give you signs, but in this case I did. I asked God for a specific thing to happen so I would know that yes, I'm hearing him right. He wants me to ditch the car and do something a bit more risky. Anyhow, He obviously didn't like my choice of sign and didn't dignify it with an answer.
So now I turn to my two readers. If you made it through that ridiculous allegory, please tell me what you think. Otherwise I am never posting again. Then you'll be sorry! Ha!
It's a tough enough decision that I know I will probably face some serious moments of regret after I make it, and I will definitely face some serious public disapproval. So that being said, I need some advice and hopefully you can wade through the vagueness that I'm about to embark on, and give me some help. Please.
Let's say I have this car. It's a nice car and people are always telling me how lucky I am to have such a good car. And it is reliable and safe and provides me with the wonderful benefits that go along with having a nice car.
But, since the first day I had this car, I felt discontented with it. I felt that maybe God was calling me to get rid of it. I hadn't really wanted such a fancy car in the the first place but getting it just fell into place. Now, though, I feel that every time I drive that car I lose all feelings of happiness. My brain begins to numb and my will to live wanes. It's a terrible feeling, but it goes away as soon as get out of the car.
So, now I feel that perhaps I should get rid of the car, but I do not plan on getting another car in its place. I would instead do other things I enjoyed doing that I could never do when I was saddled to that awful car. Like umm...(I don't know to fit this in my allegory so I'll just say it)volunteer.
My husband's car is good enough that we would be okay without mine. Some days it might be difficult (or more difficult than it has been) but other days I just sense how marvelous it would be to be car-free.
I realize this allegory is very one-sided, obviously I want people to tell me to ditch the car and do what I think God might be telling me to do. So I'll throw this out there: If I ditch the car now, I lose many marvelous benefits that it entails...like air conditioning. And that air-conditioning my come in very, very handy down the road.
So I don't think you should ask God to give you signs, but in this case I did. I asked God for a specific thing to happen so I would know that yes, I'm hearing him right. He wants me to ditch the car and do something a bit more risky. Anyhow, He obviously didn't like my choice of sign and didn't dignify it with an answer.
So now I turn to my two readers. If you made it through that ridiculous allegory, please tell me what you think. Otherwise I am never posting again. Then you'll be sorry! Ha!
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
La mujer es muy estupida.
I'm taking a Spanish Class.
I've always wanted to learn a second language, and I have absolutely nothing going on in my life right now, so I determined this would be as good a time as any to start. I found a Beginner's Conversational Spanish class that was starting soon, and I weaseled my employer into paying for it for me. Perfecto!
I've been taking the class about eight weeks now. I know several useful phrases (Cual is su direcion?), about 20 verbs that will eventually come in handy, and several not so useful phrases about babies crying and men eating apples.
The point of all this, from my employer's perspective, is to have someone in the office who can actually communicate with our ever-expanding Hispanic customer base.
The point of all this, from my perspective, is to know a real-life secret code. Excellente!
So we have a new girl at work. She's answering and transferring all the phone calls that come into the office. She has a particularly perky voice, but hasn't quite got the hang of in-office call-transfer etiquette.
For example, when transferring a fairly unusual type of call to a person who doesn't usually receive unusual-type calls, 'tis customary to warn the intended recipient that said call is coming.
Case in point: I received a (surprise!) transferred call a few mornings ago with a Spanish-speaking customer on the other end. He rattled off a very fast very-espanol-filled explanation of his situation, during which I deduced that he had a question regarding something involving the word "the" several times.
After the initial panic (apparently New Girl didn't know that I was only 2 months in to speaking my new language), I girded up my Spanish prowess and started in slowly.
Hola, Senor.
Pause.
Esotoy aprendiendo espanol. (I am learning Spanish.)
Therefore.
Habla despacio, por favor. (Please, I beg of you, slow it the frick down.)
Apparently, he understood because he started in again even faster than before.
After another looong explanation that sounded so convoluted I doubt I would have even been able to understand it in English, I answered in slow, broken Spanish, "Would you like to pay your bill?"
Pause.
I tried to salvage my dignity. Lo siento, mi espanol es muy mal.
I'm dually talented because meanwhile I was thinking, "Curse you, New Girl! A plague on both your houses!"
I racked my brain for something, anything that could make this slow and painful death come a little faster.
Alas! I remembered that we use can our customer's phone numbers to access their accounts and, sure enough, I know how to ask what someone's telephone number is in Spanish. Suddenly I felt good. My confidence was restored.
With fresh spanish gusto I delievered the deadly blow. Cuando es su numero del telefono?
Loose translation: When is your telephone number?
Score one for Team Idiot.
Surpisingly, the man did not laugh. Instead, he gave me his phone number and then asked, quite politly and in quite in my native tongue, "Would it be better if we spoke in English?"
I've always wanted to learn a second language, and I have absolutely nothing going on in my life right now, so I determined this would be as good a time as any to start. I found a Beginner's Conversational Spanish class that was starting soon, and I weaseled my employer into paying for it for me. Perfecto!
I've been taking the class about eight weeks now. I know several useful phrases (Cual is su direcion?), about 20 verbs that will eventually come in handy, and several not so useful phrases about babies crying and men eating apples.
The point of all this, from my employer's perspective, is to have someone in the office who can actually communicate with our ever-expanding Hispanic customer base.
The point of all this, from my perspective, is to know a real-life secret code. Excellente!
So we have a new girl at work. She's answering and transferring all the phone calls that come into the office. She has a particularly perky voice, but hasn't quite got the hang of in-office call-transfer etiquette.
For example, when transferring a fairly unusual type of call to a person who doesn't usually receive unusual-type calls, 'tis customary to warn the intended recipient that said call is coming.
Case in point: I received a (surprise!) transferred call a few mornings ago with a Spanish-speaking customer on the other end. He rattled off a very fast very-espanol-filled explanation of his situation, during which I deduced that he had a question regarding something involving the word "the" several times.
After the initial panic (apparently New Girl didn't know that I was only 2 months in to speaking my new language), I girded up my Spanish prowess and started in slowly.
Hola, Senor.
Pause.
Esotoy aprendiendo espanol. (I am learning Spanish.)
Therefore.
Habla despacio, por favor. (Please, I beg of you, slow it the frick down.)
Apparently, he understood because he started in again even faster than before.
After another looong explanation that sounded so convoluted I doubt I would have even been able to understand it in English, I answered in slow, broken Spanish, "Would you like to pay your bill?"
Pause.
I tried to salvage my dignity. Lo siento, mi espanol es muy mal.
I'm dually talented because meanwhile I was thinking, "Curse you, New Girl! A plague on both your houses!"
I racked my brain for something, anything that could make this slow and painful death come a little faster.
Alas! I remembered that we use can our customer's phone numbers to access their accounts and, sure enough, I know how to ask what someone's telephone number is in Spanish. Suddenly I felt good. My confidence was restored.
With fresh spanish gusto I delievered the deadly blow. Cuando es su numero del telefono?
Loose translation: When is your telephone number?
Score one for Team Idiot.
Surpisingly, the man did not laugh. Instead, he gave me his phone number and then asked, quite politly and in quite in my native tongue, "Would it be better if we spoke in English?"
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
There is a woman out there who hates me.
I don't know why. I'm perfectly lovable and terribly endearing, but something about me just makes her stew.
I came to know her through a mutual acquaintance several years ago. Perhaps it's a bit misleading to present her like this, since she technically surpassed the realm of just being an "acquaintance" about 2 1/2 years ago, but this is how I have her labeled in my mind. I simply cannot bring her any closer to me than that without some serious personal risk.
I met her on a good day, and I didn't think much about her. She must have been in a normal mood because she certainly didn't make any impressions that stick out as particularly good or bad. She just was.
Years past, and I found that I gradually changed her label from "Normal" in my subconscious file cabinet to "Nutso."
She disliked me, obviously. But, like I said, for no good reason. I tried my darndest to make buddies with her, but her moods were so ever changing and menopausal that my attempts were futile.
One of the first times I noticed her refusal to accept me as a now-constant in her life and therefore at least a friend by obligation was last Thanksgiving.
I was very nervous about my part in her Thanksgiving dinner. I didn't know how to make homemade rolls, yet I was assigned to that task. I slaved over the yeast, and fretted nervously that they wouldn't rise. I double-checked with her quite frequently to make sure we wouldn't be starting dinner until 2 o'clock. My rolls would not be ready before then, and I wanted them to be perfect.
When we arrived with my risen rolls that were ready to bake, she announced that dinner would begin right away. No, we could not wait until 2:00. Her food was ready now. Never mind that I slaved over those stupid rolls. Just stick 'em in and deal with it.
I sucked it up and ate several half-baked rolls in spite of her.
And then it was Christmas.
I was nervous about her gift as she is notoriously hard to shop for. I finally found something. A CD of a band I knew she liked. A wrapped it up nicely and crossed my fingers. She opened it without much flourish and said her thank-you's half-heartedly. (Okay, it wasn't that great of a gift, but I really tried.)
But, honestly, what I was supposed to do when I received her gift?
Other people in the room received large items: power tools, mp3 players, books.
I unwrapped a very small container that resembled something purchased at a jewelry counter(!) Instead, I found that I was the proud new owner of my husband's baby teeth. Saved all these years, in order that I might enjoy them.
And before you blame her crappiness on holiday stress, hear me out:
She called Josh some time last February and asked where she could return the CD to because she "didn't really want that one." (She did the same thing a year before with a pair of yoga pants, but I foolishly thought it was isolated incident).
I guess I have to acknowledge at this point that she is a member of the family otherwise the rest of the story wouldn't make sense.
This February an entirely paid-for-by-grandpa family reunion is taking place in Hawaii. Dates have been confirmed, tickets have (nearly) been bought, and the happy travelers were practically packing their bags.
And yet, Josh and I didn't know about it.
Very simply put: We weren't invited.
Yes, we are accredited members of the family. We've been around for a while. We participate in all other family events, but apparently, we didn't make the cut on this one.
An embarrassed innocent bystander stuck their rather large foot in their mouth when they said to me, "So, I don't know about you, but I am ready for Hawaii."
What? Hawaii? Who's going to Hawaii?!?
Well, apparently, everyone but us.
If I couldn't tell already from the blatant disregard for my feelings (the rolls) or the obvious annoyance and indifference at gift giving time (CD, yoga pants), she made pretty well clear her feelings with this one.
Hannah = Enemy
I came to know her through a mutual acquaintance several years ago. Perhaps it's a bit misleading to present her like this, since she technically surpassed the realm of just being an "acquaintance" about 2 1/2 years ago, but this is how I have her labeled in my mind. I simply cannot bring her any closer to me than that without some serious personal risk.
I met her on a good day, and I didn't think much about her. She must have been in a normal mood because she certainly didn't make any impressions that stick out as particularly good or bad. She just was.
Years past, and I found that I gradually changed her label from "Normal" in my subconscious file cabinet to "Nutso."
She disliked me, obviously. But, like I said, for no good reason. I tried my darndest to make buddies with her, but her moods were so ever changing and menopausal that my attempts were futile.
One of the first times I noticed her refusal to accept me as a now-constant in her life and therefore at least a friend by obligation was last Thanksgiving.
I was very nervous about my part in her Thanksgiving dinner. I didn't know how to make homemade rolls, yet I was assigned to that task. I slaved over the yeast, and fretted nervously that they wouldn't rise. I double-checked with her quite frequently to make sure we wouldn't be starting dinner until 2 o'clock. My rolls would not be ready before then, and I wanted them to be perfect.
When we arrived with my risen rolls that were ready to bake, she announced that dinner would begin right away. No, we could not wait until 2:00. Her food was ready now. Never mind that I slaved over those stupid rolls. Just stick 'em in and deal with it.
I sucked it up and ate several half-baked rolls in spite of her.
And then it was Christmas.
I was nervous about her gift as she is notoriously hard to shop for. I finally found something. A CD of a band I knew she liked. A wrapped it up nicely and crossed my fingers. She opened it without much flourish and said her thank-you's half-heartedly. (Okay, it wasn't that great of a gift, but I really tried.)
But, honestly, what I was supposed to do when I received her gift?
Other people in the room received large items: power tools, mp3 players, books.
I unwrapped a very small container that resembled something purchased at a jewelry counter(!) Instead, I found that I was the proud new owner of my husband's baby teeth. Saved all these years, in order that I might enjoy them.
And before you blame her crappiness on holiday stress, hear me out:
She called Josh some time last February and asked where she could return the CD to because she "didn't really want that one." (She did the same thing a year before with a pair of yoga pants, but I foolishly thought it was isolated incident).
I guess I have to acknowledge at this point that she is a member of the family otherwise the rest of the story wouldn't make sense.
This February an entirely paid-for-by-grandpa family reunion is taking place in Hawaii. Dates have been confirmed, tickets have (nearly) been bought, and the happy travelers were practically packing their bags.
And yet, Josh and I didn't know about it.
Very simply put: We weren't invited.
Yes, we are accredited members of the family. We've been around for a while. We participate in all other family events, but apparently, we didn't make the cut on this one.
An embarrassed innocent bystander stuck their rather large foot in their mouth when they said to me, "So, I don't know about you, but I am ready for Hawaii."
What? Hawaii? Who's going to Hawaii?!?
Well, apparently, everyone but us.
If I couldn't tell already from the blatant disregard for my feelings (the rolls) or the obvious annoyance and indifference at gift giving time (CD, yoga pants), she made pretty well clear her feelings with this one.
Hannah = Enemy
Monday, November 13, 2006
My Friend the Insurance Company
Polite Insurance Client (played by myself): So, I'm interested in finding out if my policy covers certain vaccinations.
Bored Insurance Angent: What vaccinations would you be referring to, ma'm?
Curious Client: Well, my husband and I are traveling to India over Christmas break, and we need to get Hepatitis A and B, Polio and Tetanus before we go. I was just wondering if you cover those.
Bored Agent: No ma'm, we will only cover routine childhood vaccinations and vaccinations for any illnesses you contract while overseas.
Incredulous, but amused, Client: So if I come back from India with Polio then you'll pay for my shot?
Bored Agent: Yes.
Gee, thanks.
Bored Insurance Angent: What vaccinations would you be referring to, ma'm?
Curious Client: Well, my husband and I are traveling to India over Christmas break, and we need to get Hepatitis A and B, Polio and Tetanus before we go. I was just wondering if you cover those.
Bored Agent: No ma'm, we will only cover routine childhood vaccinations and vaccinations for any illnesses you contract while overseas.
Incredulous, but amused, Client: So if I come back from India with Polio then you'll pay for my shot?
Bored Agent: Yes.
Gee, thanks.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Biology...and Other Health Hazards
I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my memories to get me through.
One of my favorites:
It was deep in the midst of my Freshman year at college. I was the taking the hardest class I'd ever been stupid enough to take. Honors Biology. It was Jessica's fault that I took it in the first place, and someday I'll seek my revenge on her for that, but at that point I was focused only on surviving.
Biology had never been my strong suit. As much as I daydreamed about being a doctor, I knew my fantasies were slightly unrealistic. I didn't want to be a doctor for the constant excitement, or the satisfaction of saving a life or even the paycheck. Rather, I wanted to be a doctor because they got to wear scrubs every day. Not needing to worry about my daily wardrobe was of great appeal to my disastrous sense of fashion, and I honestly considered the medical field for just this reason. But honors Biology was enough to whip some sense into me.
So, it was the end of the semester, and Finals were looming. I absolutely, positively had to make a good grade on the Biology final. It wasn't likely I was going to fail the class or anything, but the idea of marring my transcript with a C in a stupid Honors class I hadn't needed to take was too much for my fragile self esteem. I needed an A.
I couldn't study in my dorm. The half-girl/half-elephant-stomper that lived upstairs was particularly restless around Finals, and her friend, a chick with knack for coordinating her bongo playing with my studying/napping, was at it again. So I headed to the park.
I laid on my stomach in the grass away from the playground. It was a beautiful day, and the park was busy. Kids sailed off the swings, couples walked their dogs, ducks floated by and gobbled bits of bread, and I freaking studied for that dumb test.
Life was seeming unfair.
I was deep in DNA and RNA and chromosomes when a pug wandered my way. He wasn't on a leash and there was no owner in sight so I petted him for a few minutes and sent him on his way (so anxious I was to get back to my studies, you know.)
It was several minutes later, I was again deep in thought, when something happened that (seriously) may have changed my life.
The little pug ran up beside me (I didn't notice him that time) and for no good or logical reason at all, ran at me, planted his little front paws on my scalp and catapulted over my head.
I have no idea why he did it. I wasn't in his way. There wasn't any reason he couldn't just go around me. I wasn't laying in the path of anything he could have wanted. He just did it for the pure fun of it. I can imagine the look of hopeless and happy abandon he must of had on his face as he flew over me. Boy, this sure is fun, he probably thought.
When he landed on my other side, he trotted off and didn't come back. I don't know where he went or if someone was hiding in the bushes laughing at my expense, but I didn't care. I laughed, and laughed and laughed at my own expense.
It was ridiculous. And I got an A on that test.
One of my favorites:
It was deep in the midst of my Freshman year at college. I was the taking the hardest class I'd ever been stupid enough to take. Honors Biology. It was Jessica's fault that I took it in the first place, and someday I'll seek my revenge on her for that, but at that point I was focused only on surviving.
Biology had never been my strong suit. As much as I daydreamed about being a doctor, I knew my fantasies were slightly unrealistic. I didn't want to be a doctor for the constant excitement, or the satisfaction of saving a life or even the paycheck. Rather, I wanted to be a doctor because they got to wear scrubs every day. Not needing to worry about my daily wardrobe was of great appeal to my disastrous sense of fashion, and I honestly considered the medical field for just this reason. But honors Biology was enough to whip some sense into me.
So, it was the end of the semester, and Finals were looming. I absolutely, positively had to make a good grade on the Biology final. It wasn't likely I was going to fail the class or anything, but the idea of marring my transcript with a C in a stupid Honors class I hadn't needed to take was too much for my fragile self esteem. I needed an A.
I couldn't study in my dorm. The half-girl/half-elephant-stomper that lived upstairs was particularly restless around Finals, and her friend, a chick with knack for coordinating her bongo playing with my studying/napping, was at it again. So I headed to the park.
I laid on my stomach in the grass away from the playground. It was a beautiful day, and the park was busy. Kids sailed off the swings, couples walked their dogs, ducks floated by and gobbled bits of bread, and I freaking studied for that dumb test.
Life was seeming unfair.
I was deep in DNA and RNA and chromosomes when a pug wandered my way. He wasn't on a leash and there was no owner in sight so I petted him for a few minutes and sent him on his way (so anxious I was to get back to my studies, you know.)
It was several minutes later, I was again deep in thought, when something happened that (seriously) may have changed my life.
The little pug ran up beside me (I didn't notice him that time) and for no good or logical reason at all, ran at me, planted his little front paws on my scalp and catapulted over my head.
I have no idea why he did it. I wasn't in his way. There wasn't any reason he couldn't just go around me. I wasn't laying in the path of anything he could have wanted. He just did it for the pure fun of it. I can imagine the look of hopeless and happy abandon he must of had on his face as he flew over me. Boy, this sure is fun, he probably thought.
When he landed on my other side, he trotted off and didn't come back. I don't know where he went or if someone was hiding in the bushes laughing at my expense, but I didn't care. I laughed, and laughed and laughed at my own expense.
It was ridiculous. And I got an A on that test.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Musings of an Underworked Mind
So I started a new position at my job this week. I guess it means I'll be posting less since I now have a boss who actually requires that I accomplish something. I really don't post all that much as it is, but for you 1.5 people who are actually reading this, I'm afraid you're just going to have to lighten up and stop expecting so much from me.
Josh is in Orlando this week on a business trip. He claims via phone that he misses me terribly, but I suspect that he is very much enjoying smoozing with the rich people. He's manning a booth at a surfwear trade show where he talks business with companies the likes of Bilabong and Speedo and Body Glove (which I laughed at, and he quickly informed me that they no longer make the neon pink and green shorts my brothers used to wear, but have instead very wisely focused on producing wet suits.)
He challenges other businessmen to rounds of ping-pong at a nearby booth during his breaks, and goes out for Lobster and Sushi with clients in the evening. They talk about things like Rip Stop and purchase orders and the new board short design. He swims in the hotel pool later to exercise his poor, overworked muscles, and then relaxes in front of his cable television and complimentary mini bar. It has been a tiring but satisfying day, and tomorrow he must go back and do it all over again.
Meanwhile...
I start to drool at my desk as I have lost all touch with reality.
The Boredom has come again, spurred on by concepts like Cable Pairs and Drop Sites and CILI Codes (pronounced "Silly" Codes, and has something to do with the location of a telephone line in relation to the main office and, incidentally, is about as silly as my work gets.) I have a brief fantasy about fighting off a masked gunman who hijacks our office. I perform marvelously in my fantasy and disarm him even after sustaining a major gunshot wound to the arm. I may never use that appendage again, but darn it, it was a good way to go.
When I return from my 15-year-old-boy-like daydream, I am morbidly disappointed to see that my arm is still functioning, and therefore I have no good excuse for going home early today. I am depressed and have only Silly Codes to entertain me.
But really... honestly... I have to think positively.
Josh's hotel roommate snores. And I have the bed to myself.
Life is good.
Josh is in Orlando this week on a business trip. He claims via phone that he misses me terribly, but I suspect that he is very much enjoying smoozing with the rich people. He's manning a booth at a surfwear trade show where he talks business with companies the likes of Bilabong and Speedo and Body Glove (which I laughed at, and he quickly informed me that they no longer make the neon pink and green shorts my brothers used to wear, but have instead very wisely focused on producing wet suits.)
He challenges other businessmen to rounds of ping-pong at a nearby booth during his breaks, and goes out for Lobster and Sushi with clients in the evening. They talk about things like Rip Stop and purchase orders and the new board short design. He swims in the hotel pool later to exercise his poor, overworked muscles, and then relaxes in front of his cable television and complimentary mini bar. It has been a tiring but satisfying day, and tomorrow he must go back and do it all over again.
Meanwhile...
I start to drool at my desk as I have lost all touch with reality.
The Boredom has come again, spurred on by concepts like Cable Pairs and Drop Sites and CILI Codes (pronounced "Silly" Codes, and has something to do with the location of a telephone line in relation to the main office and, incidentally, is about as silly as my work gets.) I have a brief fantasy about fighting off a masked gunman who hijacks our office. I perform marvelously in my fantasy and disarm him even after sustaining a major gunshot wound to the arm. I may never use that appendage again, but darn it, it was a good way to go.
When I return from my 15-year-old-boy-like daydream, I am morbidly disappointed to see that my arm is still functioning, and therefore I have no good excuse for going home early today. I am depressed and have only Silly Codes to entertain me.
But really... honestly... I have to think positively.
Josh's hotel roommate snores. And I have the bed to myself.
Life is good.
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