True beauty lies within- especially if you’re a twinky. Let’s be honest twinky, everybody’s in it for the filling. Don’t feel bad though, we all know that you wouldn’t be the same without your little pastry overcoat, but you’re no ho-ho.
An eye for an eye- makes cyclops completely blind and far more likely to cause some serious destruction. Next time you come up against cyclops you think about that.
Say what you mean and mean what you say- unless you are prone to being brutally honest. There is a time and a place for honesty and sometimes those little white lies do the world some little white good. Like that time you forgot your mom’s birthday because there was a marathon of COPS on tv- that’s not something you should bring up with her. Also, don’t bring up that fact that you accidently killed Fluffy in fifth grade. It was a freak mailman accident and we’ll just leave it at that.
Necessity is the mother of invention- but there’s a reason they don’t look the same. You see invention was adopted from an orphanage in the developing world and necessity is holding off on explaining until invention’s 12th birthday. It’s really been the cause of some very awkward situations.
My grandfather turns 80 today. He has lived three and a half times longer than I have… He saw a massive world war, and the Vietnam war- undoubtedly watching many friends leave home and never return. Learning how to say goodbye in a more permanent sense. He married a wonderful woman at the age of nineteen and had three fiesty daughters with whom he fought about first dates, allowances, playing records too loudly. They made him laugh. He’s laughed thousands of times but seldom cried- at least to anyone’s knowledge. He is a tall, skinny, quiet man and he loves dogs. I venture to guess that he has spent over a year of his life caring for his slobbery friends. He was a game warden- he loves nature and he spent his life protecting it. He makes duck decoys for hunters as a hobby now- meticulously painting each feather onto a handcarved wooden specimen- as they appear on the water, line by line. My grandfather believes in rules. He has never put his socks on before his underwear, he wakes up and goes to bed early, and he followed his doctor’s orders to treat his cancer with a great sense of exactitude… And that gave him eighty years. Eighty years of dog loving, duck painting, nature conserving, law respecting life. Eighty years of terrible and wonderful.
It’s easy to forget that you could live that long. And how quickly “that long” passes by… Only so many moments- might be important to live in them.
I will say, however, that I’m planning on living at least that long. I want to live long enough to listen to oldies on the radio and be reminded of a high school dance and to curse myself for not wearing sunscreen. And maybe get a hovercar. And watch google take over the world- let’s be honest they know everything about everyone. Cheers.
Top five people I don’t feel bad not liking:
1. The guy who bought the last 5 maple bars right in front of me this morning. I hope your arteries appreciate that culinary adventure.
2. The stranger who says “terrible” to “how are you doing?” and then doesn’t want to talk about it. Now I feel bad and I don’t know why, that was an unnecessary addition to my day, thank you very much.
3. People who complain about having a) too much money b) too many parties to go to OR c) five maple bars.
4. People who don’t scoop the poop. I hope your hell consists of constantly scraping poop off of other people’s shoes.
5. The talking commuter- no one needs to hear about the ridiculous things you did five drinks in on Saturday night. No one. And no I don’t think Joey will ever call you back but goodluck with that.
Just got back from the gym where every magazine and its mother (they have mothers too you know) has some kind of suggestion for how to love yourself more. I have my own.
1. Wear shirts with pictures of your face on the back so that no one has to miss your face as you walk away
2. Date someone who looks like you and put up lots of mirrors in your bedroom**
3. Write your will- leave everything to yourself in your next life
4. Take yourself out to dinner. Invite someone who wants to pay for you but don’t feel the need to chat- you’ve got the best conversation going on in your own head.
5. Get artsy! Make a photo montage of you in the park, on the lake, skiing… so many great memories! Hang it in your cubicle.
**When dating someone who looks like you- the excuse “it’s not you, it’s me” is not only perfectly valid but probably necessary.
I am in a relationship with my i-Phone. Or was, at least. I know this only because it broke up with me today. I decided to listen to music out loud during the half marathon I was running, got a little too sweaty, and now the little guy is just dead to the world. No words can do this loss any justice. I feel like it just flipped me off with its little middle i-finger and told me to go i-f*ck myself. What do I do with all of these memories? We had so many apps together. And the holidays are coming up- who wants to be without their significant technological device during the holidays? I can’t sleep- because I have no alarm. I can’t eat- because I have no urbanspoon. I can’t even listen to my i-Tunes… it all reminds me of a love lost.
I’m going to give it a few days, and then I think I might just say screw it and go with the upgraded model. I know it’s not right, and I hope my old phone never sees us together on facebook or anything… but the 4G has Skype, and that is something that my old i-Phone could just never do for me. I’m trying to look on the bright side here. I’ll miss you- dear, sweet 3GS. But I’m really glad I thought to backup my photos before you left me high and dry. You may have taken my apps, but you can never take my iTunes library.
I live in Seattle. I recognize more colors of grey than there are excuses for not going to church on Sundays. People get fooled into moving here because they come to visit in the Spring or the Summer, on one of our few sunny days, and they see all of the greens and blues that exist because of this persistent cloud layer. Ninety percent of the year we are just taking it for the environmental team- but that other ten percent of the year Seattle truly does become one of the most beautiful places to live in the world. I have luckily had the good fortune of doing some fairly extensive global traveling- and I can honestly say that on a sunny day, there is nowhere else I would rather be than Seattle.
This is a tricky argument, however, if you think about that ten percent factor. Think about a good-looking young woman for instance. Does good-looking operate as an average? If I am pretty sad, miserable, and unattractive ninety percent of the time that you see me- but the other ten percent I am Gisele Bunchen material with a personality that matches my dimples- am I still worth dating? It’s like living in the worst bipolar relationship you’ve ever had. Oh but then you take a little vacation- you go down to California for a few days. You think about Seattle everyday sure but suddenly, two days in and a couple of beers deep, you find yourself saying, “I could really see myself living here…”
You don’t mean it. You try to cover it up but everyone heard you. You feel terrible, awful- all of your Seattle friends are judging you and you pray that word doesn’t get back to your beloved city. Your first urban love. How could you do this? It was just so sunny, and warm, and ahhh but it’s no excuse! How could you? You get back home and you can hardly look that skyline in the face. It rains for two weeks straight but you know you deserve it. Screw sunshine and Vitamin D- you lost those privileges when you let that California visit go to far. You will be pasty and glued to that parka and you will like it. Now go sit in the corner of your Prius and think about what you did.
The economy is so terrible that I am beginning to take it personally. You know how they joke about things that are so unlikely to happen to you that they’re practically impossible? Like plummeting to your death via a grate on a city street or being hit by a boat while on a ski-doo? Well I have a better chance of those things happening than getting a job right now- ANY job- I have been to graduate school and cannot get a job in retail. I would sell my soul for a part-time hostess position at Red Lobster. The economy did not know, when it decided to render me indefinitely unemployed, that it was dealing with an overachieving sensitive young woman BUT that is no excuse. Dear, sweet, selfish, failing economy- I want my pride back. And I’m suing you for defamation of character on the grounds that I almost agreed to become my friend’s personal assistant for less than minimum wage. I’ll see you in court.
There is no excuse for how bad I am with names. My inability to remember the syllables that mark a person’s identity is not only shameful, but also almost impressive. Your name could be panther- and you could introduce yourself ten times in a row while taking different yoga positions- and the likelihood that I will remember your name is on par with that of me running for President in 2012.
I am not stupid, and not even memory-challenged for that matter. I do very well on tests, I am an expert crammer, and I am excellent at remembering phone numbers- there is just something about names that doesn’t grab me enough to reserve the vacancies in hotel cranium. I blame my parents. Who names their child the Gaelic translation of a Joanna with three silent consonants and two odd vowels? No wonder I want to forget names- I would rather people not butcher mine in the process of meeting me.
On the other hand, I am always impressed by the few and proud who know how to pronounce the Irish monstrosity. They see my name written in front of them and they get this crazy gleam in their eye like they just figured out where Captain Hook put his treasure- and then after they say my name correctly they play it off like they knew how to say it straight out of the womb. It’s okay… it’s weird… I get it. And while yes I am impressed, I am also humored by the strange satisfaction that this accomplishment brings. I respond the same way every time- “wow, cool!” I say cool, like an early nineties teenager- I’m not sure why- but it’s like someone baked a soufflé properly or remembered the capital of South Dakota. Honestly what else can you say? Mazel Tav?
The worst part about not remembering names, however, is that I just recently dated another poor soul who couldn’t remember names either- that makes for some of the most awkward introductions you have ever seen. “Oh hey so this is ummmm wait yeah what did you say you were up to this year? Oh yeah great okay well yeah we gotta run… yeah great to see you, okay bye!” We started creating code words or signals for a few situations: (1) we had just run into someone that he knew but didn’t know the name of- this signal was pretty simple- if he did not offer an introduction within a few minutes of contact it was time for me to interject my name. This does not always work- and often leads to an early exit. (2) we had both just met a stranger and forgotten his or her name immediately. This is a tricky situation. The codeword for this was “grab a drink”- this was created at an evening event and, as you can imagine, was not an appropriate codeword for mornings and early afternoons but at least it made for a few laughs. The idea is that once you have both figured out that neither person knows the stranger’s name- one person has to announce that they are going to grab a drink (no matter what you are actually doing). The other person then “loses” and has to fess up to the stranger that they do not remember their name while the “winner” gets to go grab a drink- whatever that may mean at the time. (3) Neither of you care enough to pull a (2)- this one was my favorite. The codeword is “oh jeez” with a Wisconsin accent. This is when you both start to act far more intoxicated than you actually are- and start calling the person by the wrong name. This is a winner.
I’m not saying that you should implement these strategies- it’s honestly probably a terrible idea. But if you are also struck with nomialdysplasia (yes this exists- great word huh?)- then you might at least want to consider only attending functions with nametags (just don’t forget to take them off when you go out to bars- another great story).
I like to think about board meetings- no pun intended. Especially ones that revolve around creating a product or a commercial. I find advertisements and marketing to be a fascinating world about which I know basically nothing. And I like that I know nothing about it, because it allows my imagination a little bit of wiggle room that it doesn’t have in such areas as, say, seedless vascular plants or centripetal force (a few of my favorites, really). I recommend you try this at home…
So you’re watching tv and a commercial comes on about something COMPLETELY USELESS. Not just mildly useless, like an utterly disgusting waste of materials. Like a canine genealogy kit (that exists- I saw it in a Skymall catalog). Or an oversized, stuffed replica of a church organ. First of all, someone made that product and honestly thought that it would fill a missing niche in the economy. Secondly, a meeting must have ensued to debate the possibilities for advertising said product. There were probably around 8 people there. It was a Friday so it was dress-casual day at the office. Everyone was really excited for this meeting because the older man who created this product, Norman, really likes to bring in those large jugs of popcorn with the three different sections organized by flavor- the popcorn triumvirate if you will- whenever he presents a new product. No one likes the spicy popcorn, that section always goes last. Anyway, they are all sitting around this table and Norman walks in hands full of popcorn jug, stuffed church organ replica, and a briefcase that probably cost him all of what he made on his last product- the oversized, stuffed sitar (of course). Norman is so excited that he is almost hyperventilating. It’s embarrassing for everyone. Especially Linda from HR.
The conversation begins- loaded with the assumption that this product is actually a necessary and desired piece of artistry. Who is the market audience? Well honestly, who isn’t? Harold chimes in with a brilliant plan. (Harold likes to speak with his hands a lot and is usually far too overzealous about allocating funds to the advertisement of Norman’s products). Picture this: You’ve got two little children (with some impossible representation of diversity that magically blossomed out of two Caucasian parents) sitting in the front row at Sunday School. They are laughing and giggling about the Three Wise Men and sheep and such when suddenly, you pop into little Harold’s head (Harold likes to name these characters after himself which is painfully awkward for everyone else at his company) and see that all he can think about is playing the organ. He is accompanied by a gigantic chorus, going Miles Davis on that thing and everyone loves him. Zoom out, zoom out, zoom out and cut. No explanation necessary, the point is- if you have this product, everyone will love you. Norman is pumped. Harold has accomplished his outlandish, slightly narcissistic rant of the day. And everyone else at the table could not care less.
And THAT is how you sell an oversized, stuffed church organ. Copyright silo 2010.
I used to have an actual complex about being 15 years old and not yet having a gold medal. Like the kind of complex that requires you to dismiss yourself awkwardly while watching the semi-finals of figure skating, sob in the bathroom for two minutes, make it look like you weren’t crying, and rejoin your family to watch that tiny Russian girl complete a triple sow-cow. A common complex I’m sure.
I’m fairly certain that this stems simply from my type-A personality (with a dash of B- only truly discernible on weekends). However, I must say that it is truly shocking that by the age of 15, someone could have won a gold medal. It got me thinking about what I had accomplished by the age of 15…
I can say with true pride and certainty that I was potty trained, algebraically able, and hooked on phonics. I was struggling with the beginning of high school, still convinced that the WNBA held a place for my too-short-too-slow-slightly-clumsy-self, and probably figuring out how to get asked to a formal dance. I find it hilarious now that I could have sat in front of my tv screen, as I did this very evening, and watch the Olympics with utter disdain for those youth who had accomplished more than me. They made it look so easy- all those gymnast girls with sparkles like a drag queen who could land a double back flip more reliably than I could actually hit a volleyball over the net. I mean- who doesn’t feel a little bit less than exceptional after watching Olympic performances.
I saw a commercial the other day, however, that made me feel a lot better. A female skier had been filmed going full speed through powdery snow- speaking in the background about the wherewithal required to make it to the Olympics. This line really got me: “I didn’t make it to my high school prom, but I love what I do every day.” I finally felt like I had one up on an Olympic athlete. Take THAT- I DID make it to my high school prom, and I have done a lot of other really normal things too. Things that did not involve me waking up at 5 am everyday from the age of ten to who knows when and having a chance at a piece of gold once every four years. I have never been so proud to be so normal. And if not wearing sparkles all over my body means no medal for me, than I would rather be void of Olympic accolade forever.
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