Here at work we're playing a very fun nerdy word game. Basically, we're trying to come up with words that can be both nouns and verbs, but have different meanings in both forms.
For example:
shed
vent
fly
dart
run (in your stockings
force
charm
bait
change
ring
rung
stall
stalk
brood
date
mark
sink
pine
quack
season
toll
stick
jam
interest
Additions?
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
vacational highlights
1. There are many cute guys in Portland. Sadly, they all look like they're 19.
2. People in Portland look you in the eye, and (get this) smile! It took me three days to get used to that, and now that I'm home, I'm scaring the crap out of people by smiling at them. Fun fun fun!
3. I went on a hike with my cousin Brian and he was whistling non-stop the whole time. Finally, we had this conversation:
me: You know that pain center in your brain where screaming and whining children register?
him: Yeah.
me: Well, for me, whistling's right next door.
him: hmmmm.
Then, not ten minutes later, he was whistling again! I kept from punching him for the rest of the hike, but that night, after a glass or two of wine, he started again.
me: YOU'RE KILLING ME WITH THE WHISTLING!
him: What? What do you mean?
me: Do you remember the conversation we had this morning about whistling?
him: Uh, no.
me: (repeating above conversation)
him: Well, you shouldn't have told me when I was suffering from oxygen deprivation on that hard-ass hike!
me: Mrrrrrr.
4. I came home one night after an athletic day and just needed to lay down for a little bit. When I walked in the door, Ella (the 6 year old) ran up to me and shouted "COUSIN LADY! Are you staying for dinner?"
"Yes," I said through my exhaustion, "I'm staying for the rest of the night. But right now, I'm going to go lay down upstairs, so less yelling would be better."
She looked at me, blinked her big eyes, and without missing a beat, screamed the most bloodcurdling scream I've heard in a long time.
Deafened and defeated, I shot daggers at her and muttered, "I'm. Not. Even. Going. To. Deal. With. That. Right. Now." and went upstairs while the nanny gave me the most apologetic since my roommate screwed my ex-boyfriend.
5. Did I mention that Ella has headlice? And that I was sleeping in her bed? Three words: Psychosomatic Itching Sucks.
More to follow. Stay tuned!
2. People in Portland look you in the eye, and (get this) smile! It took me three days to get used to that, and now that I'm home, I'm scaring the crap out of people by smiling at them. Fun fun fun!
3. I went on a hike with my cousin Brian and he was whistling non-stop the whole time. Finally, we had this conversation:
me: You know that pain center in your brain where screaming and whining children register?
him: Yeah.
me: Well, for me, whistling's right next door.
him: hmmmm.
Then, not ten minutes later, he was whistling again! I kept from punching him for the rest of the hike, but that night, after a glass or two of wine, he started again.
me: YOU'RE KILLING ME WITH THE WHISTLING!
him: What? What do you mean?
me: Do you remember the conversation we had this morning about whistling?
him: Uh, no.
me: (repeating above conversation)
him: Well, you shouldn't have told me when I was suffering from oxygen deprivation on that hard-ass hike!
me: Mrrrrrr.
4. I came home one night after an athletic day and just needed to lay down for a little bit. When I walked in the door, Ella (the 6 year old) ran up to me and shouted "COUSIN LADY! Are you staying for dinner?"
"Yes," I said through my exhaustion, "I'm staying for the rest of the night. But right now, I'm going to go lay down upstairs, so less yelling would be better."
She looked at me, blinked her big eyes, and without missing a beat, screamed the most bloodcurdling scream I've heard in a long time.
Deafened and defeated, I shot daggers at her and muttered, "I'm. Not. Even. Going. To. Deal. With. That. Right. Now." and went upstairs while the nanny gave me the most apologetic since my roommate screwed my ex-boyfriend.
5. Did I mention that Ella has headlice? And that I was sleeping in her bed? Three words: Psychosomatic Itching Sucks.
More to follow. Stay tuned!
Monday, July 28, 2008
how not to behave on a train car
We were on the train, in one of those weird four seaters with the table between them. When we first got on, a 13 year old kid sat across from me and my cousin, which was great. We were all friendly, fairly svelte, and we all enjoyed that third empty seat.
Around Tuckwila, Washington, we got our fourth passenger. She was a sizeable lady, making it quite cramped in our quad, but she seemed nice enough. We all rode along in silence, reading our respective books, when all of a sudden, we heard three little voices from the other end of the car.
It sounded like they were... singing? No, it couldn't be.
We looked at each other and each looked like he/she was having his/her own Twilight Zone Moment. But the sound stopped, so we went back to reading.
Thirty seconds later, the sound began again. And this time it sounded distinctly like three little kids singing... in German. And this time, it didn't stop.
After reading the same paragraph seventeen times, I realized that the situation was getting out of hand. I mean, here we were, in a car full of quiet (silent, in fact) adults, being bombarded by drei kleine deutch songspiels.
"I might have to play my Nasty New Yorker card here," I said, and my seatmates all kind of agreed. I walked to the other end of the car, located mom, smiled my biggest and friendliest smile, and said, "Would it be possible for us to not have any singing? Thanks!"
As I walked back to my seat, the crowds erupted in ovations of thanks, and I was hoisted to their shoulders and dropped off at my seat.
Well, ok, no, but the guy sitting directly behind her waved at me and mouthed "thanks!!" so at least it was appreciated.
I got back to my seat and it was so quiet I began reading again in bliss. Minutes passed like like the scenery outside the window (which is to say, in a blur).
Eventually, my cousin went to the vestible to make a phone call (because it was so quiet in the car) and before he returned, one of the little singers walked past me and gave me the big fat stink eye. When Brian came back, he reported that the mom had also been in the vestibule, saying to the little girl, "Well, why don't you ask her why she didn't want you to sing??"
Excellent parenting.
The trip continued pleasantly, until I made the mistake of engaging our fourth seatmate (La Not-So-Svelte) in conversation.
It didn't stop for the next three hours.
Everything in her life was miserable and sad and depressing and yet she was Totally Fine. I discovered to my dismay, that I couldn't get out of the conversation, so I found myself trying to trap her into contradicting herself. She'd say something like, "An addiction is just a one-way ticket to nowhere," and I'd nod, only to return to the point later and say something like, "I find that challenges -- addictions, bad relationships, dissatisfying jobs -- those are really just the best way to find out what you're made of," and she'd go on and on about how nothing in life is a dead end.
The worst part was that she was talking so loudly, I thought for sure that one of the little German kids would come to her, give her a big, friendly smile and say, "Would it be possible for us to not have any more complaining? Thanks!"
Around Tuckwila, Washington, we got our fourth passenger. She was a sizeable lady, making it quite cramped in our quad, but she seemed nice enough. We all rode along in silence, reading our respective books, when all of a sudden, we heard three little voices from the other end of the car.
It sounded like they were... singing? No, it couldn't be.
We looked at each other and each looked like he/she was having his/her own Twilight Zone Moment. But the sound stopped, so we went back to reading.
Thirty seconds later, the sound began again. And this time it sounded distinctly like three little kids singing... in German. And this time, it didn't stop.
After reading the same paragraph seventeen times, I realized that the situation was getting out of hand. I mean, here we were, in a car full of quiet (silent, in fact) adults, being bombarded by drei kleine deutch songspiels.
"I might have to play my Nasty New Yorker card here," I said, and my seatmates all kind of agreed. I walked to the other end of the car, located mom, smiled my biggest and friendliest smile, and said, "Would it be possible for us to not have any singing? Thanks!"
As I walked back to my seat, the crowds erupted in ovations of thanks, and I was hoisted to their shoulders and dropped off at my seat.
Well, ok, no, but the guy sitting directly behind her waved at me and mouthed "thanks!!" so at least it was appreciated.
I got back to my seat and it was so quiet I began reading again in bliss. Minutes passed like like the scenery outside the window (which is to say, in a blur).
Eventually, my cousin went to the vestible to make a phone call (because it was so quiet in the car) and before he returned, one of the little singers walked past me and gave me the big fat stink eye. When Brian came back, he reported that the mom had also been in the vestibule, saying to the little girl, "Well, why don't you ask her why she didn't want you to sing??"
Excellent parenting.
The trip continued pleasantly, until I made the mistake of engaging our fourth seatmate (La Not-So-Svelte) in conversation.
It didn't stop for the next three hours.
Everything in her life was miserable and sad and depressing and yet she was Totally Fine. I discovered to my dismay, that I couldn't get out of the conversation, so I found myself trying to trap her into contradicting herself. She'd say something like, "An addiction is just a one-way ticket to nowhere," and I'd nod, only to return to the point later and say something like, "I find that challenges -- addictions, bad relationships, dissatisfying jobs -- those are really just the best way to find out what you're made of," and she'd go on and on about how nothing in life is a dead end.
The worst part was that she was talking so loudly, I thought for sure that one of the little German kids would come to her, give her a big, friendly smile and say, "Would it be possible for us to not have any more complaining? Thanks!"
hey it's good to be back home again (yes it is)
Today's adventure with American Airlines was one for the books. Or at least the magazines. Maybe just those free periodicals they circulate near the subway stations.
Anyway... My 12:55 flight from O'Hare got pushed back and pushed back and pushed back until I almost missed it because I was in another terminal searching for TCBY. (The maps said it wasn't as far away as it really was. Liars!)
Then I got on the plane and sat there.
After about an hour, they said we had to get off the plane and sit in the terminal. Which was fine, because I never actually tracked down that TCBY, and I was getting hungry.
One panini and seventeen phone calls later, my 12:55 flight is now having a meeting at 4:00 to determine whether or not it will be cancelled. "If it isn't cancelled" said the airline, focusing on the positive, "we'll have a Wheels Up time of 6:20."
They say "Wheels Up" like it's the grand prize of some deranged game show.
Meanwhile... the cute guy at the end of my row? I did a show with him in college. Since he mentioned his fiancee to me in his first sentence, he must know how cute he is. Luckily, remembering who he was caused his cuteness to fade.
Somewhat. (Come on, it was a really long delay.)
Anyway, the plane finally (miraculously) left at 5:20. We were serenaded for the entire flight by a child who had NOT LEARNED TO USE HIS INSIDE VOICE. (My god, why aren't children like that dragged off the plane and shot?) We landed at 8:15 and by 9:15 I had my luggage and was on the Air Train.10:30 saw me walk through my front door, and now it's time for bed.
But isn't it funny how the last leg of your trip is the one that influences how you feel about your whole vacation? That's why I tried to stay positive during this whole thing. Because getting angry wasn't going to get me anywhere, and was likely going to ruin a really terrific vacational memory.
Further updates will follow. AND I THINK I WON'T USE MY INSIDE VOICE TO WRITE THEM!!!!
Anyway... My 12:55 flight from O'Hare got pushed back and pushed back and pushed back until I almost missed it because I was in another terminal searching for TCBY. (The maps said it wasn't as far away as it really was. Liars!)
Then I got on the plane and sat there.
After about an hour, they said we had to get off the plane and sit in the terminal. Which was fine, because I never actually tracked down that TCBY, and I was getting hungry.
One panini and seventeen phone calls later, my 12:55 flight is now having a meeting at 4:00 to determine whether or not it will be cancelled. "If it isn't cancelled" said the airline, focusing on the positive, "we'll have a Wheels Up time of 6:20."
They say "Wheels Up" like it's the grand prize of some deranged game show.
Meanwhile... the cute guy at the end of my row? I did a show with him in college. Since he mentioned his fiancee to me in his first sentence, he must know how cute he is. Luckily, remembering who he was caused his cuteness to fade.
Somewhat. (Come on, it was a really long delay.)
Anyway, the plane finally (miraculously) left at 5:20. We were serenaded for the entire flight by a child who had NOT LEARNED TO USE HIS INSIDE VOICE. (My god, why aren't children like that dragged off the plane and shot?) We landed at 8:15 and by 9:15 I had my luggage and was on the Air Train.10:30 saw me walk through my front door, and now it's time for bed.
But isn't it funny how the last leg of your trip is the one that influences how you feel about your whole vacation? That's why I tried to stay positive during this whole thing. Because getting angry wasn't going to get me anywhere, and was likely going to ruin a really terrific vacational memory.
Further updates will follow. AND I THINK I WON'T USE MY INSIDE VOICE TO WRITE THEM!!!!
Friday, July 18, 2008
i'm ready to go!
I saw this in the subway. I think it adequately sums up how I feel about my pending vacation!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
such stuff as dreams are made on
I had lunch with an old friend recently and we hadn't seen each other in a long time -- essentially since I had gotten my new job as a trainer. I told him all about what I do, how I love teaching, I love being with my students, and I love trying out new techniques in my classes. And how I mostly hate tech, could give a flying leap about computers, and think that there is little on this earth as unsexy as Microsoft Office. (Except maybe ugly goats.)
As I kept talking about the stuff I love about my job, he got this cloudy look on his face and said, "Yeah, but Kate, those are just the processes and procedures of your job. You don't really care about the stuff of your job."
"What do you mean, the 'stuff of my job'?"
"You know, the ideas and energies behind what you do."
"Um, could you be slightly less vague, please?"
"Well, I love politics and policymaking." (He's a lawyer from DC.) "I love the athleticism of the arguments, the negotiations, the science and art of it. I just love it." (And hearing him say this, I am both surprised (since he never talked about it before) and not the least bit surprised, as it suits what I do know about him to a a tee.)
(By the way, what the hell does that saying really mean? I haven't the slightest clue.)
"So the stuff of your job is politics, and lawyering [and by that I mean negotiating deals, arguing points, writing papers, researching statutes, etc.] -- that's the process and procedures of your job?"
"Pretty much."
"Hmmh." I said as contentedly as I could, considering he had just opened a major can of Job Related Worms and there were no fish in sight.
I got to thinking... what is the stuff of my life? What things/ideas/concepts do I really care about, and how would I go about finding a job that addressed those things? My friend encouraged me to pay attention to topics I find interesting -- outside the regular fluff and idiocy that we all enjoy.
("What?" I said, "I can't get a job dating cute guys for the rest of my life??")
So far, what I've managed to come up with is personal -- not personal to me, necessarily, but people-related. Self-esteem, self-regard, confidence, nutrition, lifestyle, attitude and mental state -- these are all things I care about greatly. And I think my friend is right -- while I love teaching, it really is a process or a procedure through which I can pursue something I truly care about.
And I promise I'll do that... right after I get back from vacation!
As I kept talking about the stuff I love about my job, he got this cloudy look on his face and said, "Yeah, but Kate, those are just the processes and procedures of your job. You don't really care about the stuff of your job."
"What do you mean, the 'stuff of my job'?"
"You know, the ideas and energies behind what you do."
"Um, could you be slightly less vague, please?"
"Well, I love politics and policymaking." (He's a lawyer from DC.) "I love the athleticism of the arguments, the negotiations, the science and art of it. I just love it." (And hearing him say this, I am both surprised (since he never talked about it before) and not the least bit surprised, as it suits what I do know about him to a a tee.)
(By the way, what the hell does that saying really mean? I haven't the slightest clue.)
"So the stuff of your job is politics, and lawyering [and by that I mean negotiating deals, arguing points, writing papers, researching statutes, etc.] -- that's the process and procedures of your job?"
"Pretty much."
"Hmmh." I said as contentedly as I could, considering he had just opened a major can of Job Related Worms and there were no fish in sight.
I got to thinking... what is the stuff of my life? What things/ideas/concepts do I really care about, and how would I go about finding a job that addressed those things? My friend encouraged me to pay attention to topics I find interesting -- outside the regular fluff and idiocy that we all enjoy.
("What?" I said, "I can't get a job dating cute guys for the rest of my life??")
So far, what I've managed to come up with is personal -- not personal to me, necessarily, but people-related. Self-esteem, self-regard, confidence, nutrition, lifestyle, attitude and mental state -- these are all things I care about greatly. And I think my friend is right -- while I love teaching, it really is a process or a procedure through which I can pursue something I truly care about.
And I promise I'll do that... right after I get back from vacation!
100 Words on Kisses
Some fellow bloggers do a weekly post based on one word. Theirs are usually insightful, romantic, deep, poetic or some other form of serious.
Here's what I have to contribute:
100 Words on Kisses
And now, a list of bad kissers I may or may not have made out with in my time on this earth.
The Flesh Drill
The Tonsillectomy
Brilloface
The Damp Kleenex
The Gum Swapper
Mr. Stubblypants
The Cud Chewer
The Fillings Inspector
The Bloodhound
Hal. (Hal Itosis)
The Chatterbox
The Dead Fish
The Face Washer
The Vacuum
Mr. No Lips
Mr. All Lips
Ssssssssam the Sssssssssnake
The Teeth Bumper
That guy I dated in Middle School
The Sneak Attacker
The Ear Cleaner
Signor Garlico
The Oral Whack-A-Mole Champion
Sweaty McDripsalot
Anyone from the Book of British Smiles
Here's what I have to contribute:
100 Words on Kisses
And now, a list of bad kissers I may or may not have made out with in my time on this earth.
The Flesh Drill
The Tonsillectomy
Brilloface
The Damp Kleenex
The Gum Swapper
Mr. Stubblypants
The Cud Chewer
The Fillings Inspector
The Bloodhound
Hal. (Hal Itosis)
The Chatterbox
The Dead Fish
The Face Washer
The Vacuum
Mr. No Lips
Mr. All Lips
Ssssssssam the Sssssssssnake
The Teeth Bumper
That guy I dated in Middle School
The Sneak Attacker
The Ear Cleaner
Signor Garlico
The Oral Whack-A-Mole Champion
Sweaty McDripsalot
Anyone from the Book of British Smiles
Monday, July 14, 2008
Saturday, July 12, 2008
a challenge for musical masochists
A fellow blogger posted a request for masochists to list their favorite albums -- one for every year they've been alive. His instructions?
"Pick the most important to you. Pick your favorite. Pick the one you listened to the most. Shit, you can even pick a greatest hits album for all I care."
What I picked are the albums I still listen to and still love today. Did I listen to them then? No. I was busying myself with Terence Trent D'Arby, Wang Chung and Color me Badd. (It's not my fault. I was born in the late '70s.)
It was an interesting project to participate in, mostly because I had no idea that Kylie Minogue had so many albums out, and that Chris Isaak isn't dead. (I thought so, but apparently he also has sixteen million albums out.) And... did you know there's a band called "Anal Cunt" that had more than two albums?? (yikes.)
I really, really tried to keep myself to one album a year, but there were just some years (see 1996) that I just couldn't pick one.
If you have three disposable hours to scroll through Wikipedia (where you can see the albums released in any given year), I recommend doing one yourself. It's nice to get reacquainted with my favorite albums (and to imagine that desert island)...
1976. Desire – Bob Dylan
1977. Rumours - Fleetwood Mac
1978. Blue Valentine – Tom Waits
Baltimore – Nina Simone
1979. A Christmas Together (featuring The Muppets) – John Denver
1980. The River - Bruce Springsteen
1981. Ghost in the Machine - The Police
1982. Nebraska – Bruce Springsteen
1983. Violent Femmes - Violent Femmes
1984. Born in the U.S.A. - Bruce Springsteen
1985. Rain Dogs -- Tom Waits
1986. Graceland - Paul Simon
1987. In My Tribe -- 10,000 Maniacs
1988. The Trinity Session -- Cowboy Junkies
1989. Indigo Girls -- Indigo Girls
1990. Into the Journey – Martin Sexton
1991. The Early Years – Tom Waits
Blood Sugar Sex Magik -- Red Hot Chili Peppers
1992. Little Earthquakes -- Tori Amos
1993. The Juliet Letters -- Elvis Costello and The Brodsky Quartet
Fumbling Towards Ecstasy -- Sarah McLachlan
1994. Out of Range -- Ani DiFranco
1995. Ben Folds Five -- Ben Folds Five
1996. Black Sheep – Martin Sexton
Crash -- Dave Matthews Band
Tidal -- Fiona Apple
1997. Whatever and Ever Amen -- Ben Folds Five
Surfacing -- Sarah McLachlan
1998. Wide Open Spaces -- Dixie Chicks
1999. White Ladder – David Gray
When the Pawn... Fiona Apple
2000. Wonder Bar – Martin Sexton
2001. Room for Squares -- John Mayer
Little Sparrow – Dolly Parton
2002. Come Away with Me -- Norah Jones
2003. Afterglow – Sarah McLachlan
2004. Sufjan Stevens -- Seven Swans
2005. Cherryholmes – Cherryholmes
2006. Stumble Inn – Robbie Gil
Stadium Arcadium – Red Hot Chili Peppers
2007. Cherryholmes – Cherryholmes II Black & White
Robert Plant and Alison Krauss - Raising Sand
Monday, July 7, 2008
this post is predominantly about my bathtub. (don’t say you weren’t warned.)
I'm a clean person.
And by that, I mean I do my dishes every day (or so), and I mop my kitchen floor just moments before it desperately needs it. I vacuum, I sweep, I even wash my windows (annually). So this also means that I clean the bathtub regularly. Or at least I thought I did.
Today, however, I dropped something in the bathroom and got down to pick it up when I discovered, to my horror, that my bathtub was not white, but a dingy grey. Armed with a sponge and some baking soda, I scrubbed a VISIBLE LAYER of ick off of my bathtub. I could have carved my name into it, like a showgirl's makeup or bad bakery frosting.
One tub wall done, I couldn't stand the contrast between it and the others, so I stayed put in my porcelain pieta, cradling the box of baking soda and working my arms so vehemently that I shook my, er, arm-wibble.
Did you know that really clean bathtubs are supposed to be slippery? This is a disturbing development.
Luckily, though, while still in the shower, I said outloud, to no one, "I just want to touch it!" Another one of those days it's a good thing I don't have a roommate.
(I have gone back, repeatedly, to touch it. I'm even considering a bath tonight, although I'm not dirty, just to hang out in a tub so spankin' clean.)
And by that, I mean I do my dishes every day (or so), and I mop my kitchen floor just moments before it desperately needs it. I vacuum, I sweep, I even wash my windows (annually). So this also means that I clean the bathtub regularly. Or at least I thought I did.
Today, however, I dropped something in the bathroom and got down to pick it up when I discovered, to my horror, that my bathtub was not white, but a dingy grey. Armed with a sponge and some baking soda, I scrubbed a VISIBLE LAYER of ick off of my bathtub. I could have carved my name into it, like a showgirl's makeup or bad bakery frosting.
One tub wall done, I couldn't stand the contrast between it and the others, so I stayed put in my porcelain pieta, cradling the box of baking soda and working my arms so vehemently that I shook my, er, arm-wibble.
Did you know that really clean bathtubs are supposed to be slippery? This is a disturbing development.
Luckily, though, while still in the shower, I said outloud, to no one, "I just want to touch it!" Another one of those days it's a good thing I don't have a roommate.
(I have gone back, repeatedly, to touch it. I'm even considering a bath tonight, although I'm not dirty, just to hang out in a tub so spankin' clean.)
Friday, July 4, 2008
today I celebrated my independence... from my clothes!
Yes, that's right, today I declared my right to walk around in considerably less than I would normally wear. I bought a bikini!
Now, it's not my first bikini. I had a wonder woman set back in 1980. And, if I'm fully telling the truth (which I'm trying to make a habit of these days), I own another one. I wore it once, but I had a boyfriend at the time, so it doesn't really count. (If a tree falls in the forest and only someone who really loves the tree is there to hear it, does it make any noise? Depends on what the lover says, now, doesn't it?)
The trick now is to find a time I'd actually wear it. It isn't one of those you can just throw on and spend a day in -- I mean, I don't know for sure yet, but I'm pretty sure it's more of a "bathing" suit and less of a "swimming" suit. (They should provide you with a pool in the dressing room to see how you look in the suit when you're drenched, don't you think?) (On second thought, maybe not, since I'd probably just trip and fall into that pool while trying on a blouse and have to be rescued wearing only said blouse and my grannyish snoopy underwear.) (Sad.)
Problem is, I'm not a sun bunny. I come in three colors: pasty, fake tanned and lobsterish pink. So when am I actually going to wear this bikini? Valid question, friends. Valid question.
But let's just take a moment simply to celebrate the fact of its purchase. It's a really big step for a Recovering Fat Kid like myself, and I look forward to pool party invites and trips to the beach... where I can sit under an umbrella and look cute.
p.s. I was going to post a picture of a bikini with this entry, but when I went to an image search and typed in "bikini" I got pictures of naked women doing it! And they weren't even wearing bikinis! So you'll have to just imagine a bikini, or do the search yourselves!
Now, it's not my first bikini. I had a wonder woman set back in 1980. And, if I'm fully telling the truth (which I'm trying to make a habit of these days), I own another one. I wore it once, but I had a boyfriend at the time, so it doesn't really count. (If a tree falls in the forest and only someone who really loves the tree is there to hear it, does it make any noise? Depends on what the lover says, now, doesn't it?)
The trick now is to find a time I'd actually wear it. It isn't one of those you can just throw on and spend a day in -- I mean, I don't know for sure yet, but I'm pretty sure it's more of a "bathing" suit and less of a "swimming" suit. (They should provide you with a pool in the dressing room to see how you look in the suit when you're drenched, don't you think?) (On second thought, maybe not, since I'd probably just trip and fall into that pool while trying on a blouse and have to be rescued wearing only said blouse and my grannyish snoopy underwear.) (Sad.)
Problem is, I'm not a sun bunny. I come in three colors: pasty, fake tanned and lobsterish pink. So when am I actually going to wear this bikini? Valid question, friends. Valid question.
But let's just take a moment simply to celebrate the fact of its purchase. It's a really big step for a Recovering Fat Kid like myself, and I look forward to pool party invites and trips to the beach... where I can sit under an umbrella and look cute.
p.s. I was going to post a picture of a bikini with this entry, but when I went to an image search and typed in "bikini" I got pictures of naked women doing it! And they weren't even wearing bikinis! So you'll have to just imagine a bikini, or do the search yourselves!
Thursday, July 3, 2008
things I don’t understand (and things I don’t stand under)
Things I don't understand:
A. How exactly does an online dating site calculate the doneness of my profile? One site I'm on claims I am merely "58% complete." Even on my days when I leave my head on the kitchen table I feel more done than that. I've answered all their questions (or enough of them to leave the menfolk feeling good and satisfied), got plenty of cute (and/or sassy) photos, and I've even got a headline. Do I have to do the hula and skywrite my handle?
B. Why is it that when a guy writes to me the first time (on that same dating site), next to his email he gets anywhere between four and five stars, but when he responds to something I've written, invariably, he gets one star? Do they think I have shitty taste in penpals? Are they reading the emails and passing judgment? (Because if they are, I'll tell you, they're missing some off-the-bat one-star-worthy notes!)
C. What makes me so tempting to bugs? Am I made out of the insect equivalent of cake?
D. Why does nobody want to take the classes that I teach at work? Don't they know that's the only part of my job I really like?
E. Why, on god's green earth, have I taken EVERYTHING personally this week? (Don't answer that. It'll probably hurt my feelings.)
Things I don't stand under:
A. Peeing horses
B. New Zealand rugby players doing their hakas
C. Ladders with whistling sailors holding black cats with 666 shaved into their fur while playing Black Sabbath backwards.
D. Tap dancing elephants
E. My desk. (I sit under it.)
A. How exactly does an online dating site calculate the doneness of my profile? One site I'm on claims I am merely "58% complete." Even on my days when I leave my head on the kitchen table I feel more done than that. I've answered all their questions (or enough of them to leave the menfolk feeling good and satisfied), got plenty of cute (and/or sassy) photos, and I've even got a headline. Do I have to do the hula and skywrite my handle?
B. Why is it that when a guy writes to me the first time (on that same dating site), next to his email he gets anywhere between four and five stars, but when he responds to something I've written, invariably, he gets one star? Do they think I have shitty taste in penpals? Are they reading the emails and passing judgment? (Because if they are, I'll tell you, they're missing some off-the-bat one-star-worthy notes!)
C. What makes me so tempting to bugs? Am I made out of the insect equivalent of cake?
D. Why does nobody want to take the classes that I teach at work? Don't they know that's the only part of my job I really like?
E. Why, on god's green earth, have I taken EVERYTHING personally this week? (Don't answer that. It'll probably hurt my feelings.)
Things I don't stand under:
A. Peeing horses
B. New Zealand rugby players doing their hakas
C. Ladders with whistling sailors holding black cats with 666 shaved into their fur while playing Black Sabbath backwards.
D. Tap dancing elephants
E. My desk. (I sit under it.)
excuse me, do you have the time?
Is it 10:27 (as my computer says), 10:25 (as my work phone says), 10:24 (as my cellphone says), or 8:41 (as my watch says)?
And which one do you think got dunked in the pool this weekend?
And which one do you think got dunked in the pool this weekend?
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