I've been skirting around this for a while...it's just silly of me to have (or try to update) three blogs. Especially when two of them have the exact same handle and kind of deal with the same stuff. Doh! It's just not cool to ask people to read/track two sites with the same voice.
So, I'm gonna to put this one into a drug induced coma. I may come back to it at some point (and I'll keep track of the vox folks that I read now, but I'm just going to post on my other site.)
This is no reflection of vox. I think it's a great blog site. It's more like the VHS vs. BETA debate of the 80's. While BETA may have been of a somewhat higher quality, VHS was king in the market and easier to interact with.
So, for the time being, you'll find me over here...
And once we get the documentary back on schedule (oh...it's coming) I'll be posting at the Wry Potato blog.
Hope you'll make the jump!
My friend wrote,
>>I am sort of troubled by the fact that I didn't make any mention of September 11th - the DAY, The Anniversary - in my post.
I responded,
I did the same thing.
Just can't seem to write about it.
On the drive to work, listening to NPR, they told a story of folks visiting the memorial site of Flight 93 and while there, a family member of one of the passengers was also there and spoke with them.
Even though nobody was crying or sounding distraught throughout the peice, I started crying.
And I'm thinking to myself. MAN UP. If these folks aren't crying and can remain composed, freaking MAN UP and stop it!
I cried the rest of the drive to work.
Since I've been here, it's been...work. I think one person has sidelongways mentioned 9-11.
Bah.
I'm sure I'll cry myself home tonight. And that's my memorial.
I think I've found my mantra.
I like turtles. Me too, kid. Me too.
My right heel is killing me. I'm not sure when it started, but it's been less than a week. The last couple of days, I went from "Man, my foot really hurts when I get out of bed," to completely turning into a hobbled creature who limps from chair to chair throughout the day.
In the last few days, I've developed a pronouced limp, which comes and goes. The last couple of nights, when I got home, instead of taking Olive around the block, I've been crashing in our courtyard, tossing the ball until she poops. I know I'm totally cheating her out of her daily dose of neighborhood smells and the locals showing her some love, but my heel will have none of it.
When I walk on it, it feels like I stepped on a nail. Most likely, what I have is a bad case of Plantar fasciitis. Two of the main causes of PF is bad footwear and being a fattie. Two for two.
That's what I get for wearing flip-flops and flats all summer. Bah! I need to shoe shop this weekend and get better supporting footwear to start. Bah. On the Top Ten List of things that are the most Un-Girlish of Me...Shoe shopping/Love of Shoes is number one with a bullet. Don't get me wrong, I have that girl-gene that can appreciate a really good bag or pair of shoes. I agree that heels make a woman's legs look kickass. But, I've never understood the orgasmic way some women get about footwear. Honest. I don't get it.
If I'm still hobbling next week, I'll make plans to see the doctor. I'm so not excited about that prospect. One, we changed our insurance last spring. I'm now on one of those CHDP (or some anagram of You're Own Your Fucking Own, Good Fucking Luck!) accounts. And we just started it, so there's not a whole lot "in" the account yet. Also, the guy I had down as my primary has changed. Also, with the new program, I literally have to take a form letter to the doctor's office in regards of how they should bill me and submit invoices for payment. It's a glorious day for red tape! Of course, now that I actually have a health issue that requires service...hell if I know where I put that letter.
Two, I'm highly aware of my status as "fattie" and how that may be impacting both my foot pain and my health in general. I'm really not in the mood to take time off of work just to have someone tell me I need to lose weight. I know I need to lose weight. I get it. My brain's just not quite in gear with my will to get on the workout bandwagon.
But, not being able to walk? That might do the trick. It's one thing for folks to stare at your sizable ass. It's a whole 'notha issue when they stare at you while your sizable ass is limping down the hall like Quasimodo.
As I was hobbling down the hall, a co-workered parried with,
You're limping.
[look directly at co-worker] I know. (continue to limp down the hall)
What's the matter?
[deadpan] All the stress I usually carring in my back is now being stored entirely in my right heel.
That sucks. You know, if you did that here you can apply for worker's comp.
Oof.
Over the years one of my responsiblities at the office has kept me in fairly constant contact withour 250+ person national sales force. Most of that contact is via the phone and email. Now and then, I work an event or attend a meeting and interact with them live and in person. Now, if you've ever worked with salesmen, you know that most of them possess that certain strand of DNA which compels them to try to charm their way into your good graces. Even if they don't need anything from you at this moment in time, the day will come when they will need something from you, so the groundwork never stops being laid. I call them the "charming schemers."
Years back, I had one salesperson* that, whenever he had to mail me something, (usually every 3-4 months), he'd slip in a dollar bill with a note that said, "Your bagel's on me!" Which, I'll admit - out of the 200+ sales force - I knew that guy's name, phone and might actually go above and beyond my usual herculean efforts (yeah. I said it.) to help a brotha out. Yes. The 20-something version of me could be bought...and my going rate was the cost of a bagel. I'm not ashamed. I love carbs.
Most of them though, try to get by on their charm and sweet-talking abilities alone. "How are you?!! How are things in Chicago? How is [insert one personal peice of information they've stored on me and ask me the same irrelevant question over and over for years and years.]? Still, while I'm rarely swayed by said charm, I do prefer it to the small percentage of the other kind of sales person. The "irate shitwagons."
Those are the guys (and they are always men) that call you up, all business at first, and within two minutes are either screaming at you or screaming and threatening that they'll lose the customer/business if you don't cut the fucking red wire in five seconds! No. WAIT. The BLUE wire! Goddammit! CUT THE WIRE!!!
One thing I've learned is that no matter which umbrella they fall under, it's good to keep all the sales folk at arm's length. I'm here to make their work as smooth, seamless and productive as possible, but I'm also not a doormat nor their personal assistant. Basically, I keep my cool (at least until I'm off the phone) and try to put the fire out as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Last week, I completely blew my granite facade. One of the newer salesmen was at the office - I've worked a couple events with him. He's one of those guys who always greets folks with a hug (file under friendly and not creepy.) Which is fine. Hugging doesn't scare me...although, at our office, it's a little odd. But, whatever. Anyway, it was near the end of the day, I was walking around another dept, trying to get a signature that I needed a week ago and trying to deal with a situation that was about to blow into 3-alarm fire. I turned the corner and ran smack into Sales Guy.
- Heeeeeeeeeey.
- Hey. How are you? (looking around, trying to suss out which cubicle is the one I'm searching for)
- How ya been? (arms extended walking toward me)
- Good. Busy. Same old. (sighs and goes in for the quick hug)
- Good to see you! (while hugging)
- Yeah. You too. (hug complete.) Man. You smell good. (beat) Uh, see ya. (walks away with purpose.)
I have to say, I've been at this job for a loooong time. I've said plenty of quasi-inappropriate things. And while I didn't mean for that comment to come off as inappropriate (the dude smelled amazingly good), I was just giving my honest reaction. He smelled good. I didn't say it in any kind of creepy way (I don't think), but a day or so later, it occurs to me that, really, telling someone that you have a working relationship with that they smell good is automatically Creepy. No two ways about it.
So, I've officially become that guy at the office. The creepy guy. Who tells you when you smell good.
Sigh. Just don't let me become the guy who makes...horrible puns. I would have to eat a .357, if that happened. Dude. I can live with being creepy. I can't live with...puns.
The horror.
*This salesperson was promoted some years ago...he doesn't send me bagel money anymore. Still, I appreciate the former effort.
As long as I've had Olive, I've had friends wax about their desire to have a dog.
When I first got her, I was pretty encouraging to folks. After a while though, I became extremely sober about folks jumping on the bandwagon. I felt awful whenever I had to leave Olive on her own at home. Alone while I was at work, stuck at home if I had a rehearsal or a show or just plans with friends. I had her with me as much as possible the rest of the time. As anyone in WNEP would tell you, she was a staple at the theater and meetings and shows (for which I thank everyone involved for putting up with all those years.)
I grew up with two dogs and for a long time I considered getting a second dog. I knew that another dog would be great for Olive's need to socialize...but everything I read about Jack Russells made me hesitate in bringing another dog on board. Also, I was concerned about the cost, to be honest. Time passed and Olive (now 9) is pretty set in her ways and unabashedly territorial. While she gets along with most other pooches, the window of bringing another one into the household has long since closed.
Recently, a friend talked about adopting a dog. During the period when Olive was missing, I resolved to adopt a dog from Animal Control after some time had passed. Looking at those poor animals caged up would break my heart every time I went there in search of Olive. So, I really encourage folks to check out Animal Control's adoptable dogs and not just Chicago's famous Anti-Cruelty Society. The main reason being that AC will euthanize if a dog is not adopted within (I believe) 14 days of being available for adoption. A very short window to find a home.
In 2003, AC received 26,000 animals. Out of that massive number, 3,000 were adopted directly to a home, 4,000 were transferred to rescue groups (who hopefully found homes for them), 1200 were returned to their owners (hoorah!)...and 18,000 were euthanized. This is mainly due to irresponsible pet ownership. Failing to spay/neuter pets is a big part of that. Individuals or families that buy animals from pet stores (or mills) on a whim, but fail to realise/meet the responsibility of ownership add to it.
I sent her the links to both agencies. And since I was on the sites, I perused the adoptable pooches. Because, I'm a glutton for heartache.
This is Ryan at Animal Control. He's a JRT like Olive. And man...I know that look. He's four years old and weighs the same as O. But his legs look a bit longer, so I'm thinking he's a mite taller.
My mom once introduced me to a couple that had like 8 or 9 JRTs. They traveled like a hive of bees. It was crazy! I could never bring another JRT into the house...and the funny thing is that I keep telling myself that I'd never want another terrier...because they are, in many ways, terrors themselves.
But, then I look at that face and that lean and muscled body and think, "Man. Terriers freaking KICK ASS. He's so bad ass! I bet he's not afraid of the rain or cats!"
Another reason I am so adamant about adopting from AC is the one of our dogs (as a kid) was adopted from a similar facility. The story goes that my parents walked up and down the aisle of cages and this one little wire-haired mutt was jumping up and down like a pogo stick trying to get their attention.
The minute they opened the cage and picked her up, she collapsed from sheer exhaustion in my dad's arms and was as still as a church mouse all the way home. Turns out it was to be her last day "on the block" and she was scheduled to be euthanised the following morning if she was not adopted by the end of the day.
My parents brought home Charlie and she was, well, a dumb, but extremely loveable mutt who was fixture in our family for the next decade plus.
I also checked out Anti-Cruelty and saw this beastie.
His name is Spot and he's a 7-8 yr old shepard mix. Back when Olive was missing and I would walk through Animal Control every other day in search of her, I promised myself that when I was ready to bring another dog home, it would be an older dog.
I look at Spot and my heart just melts.
Good news! Spot was adopted today! Woot!
Yay! You gotta love a happy ending!
I'm not sure why I blogged about adopting pets. Especially when I'm trying to convince my friend not to adopt right now (her future plans are a bit up in the air.) And I'm not looking (or even considering adoption.)
But, if anyone reading this IS considering adopting a cat or a dog, please consider going to your local animal control facility. Yes, there are a lot of great no-kill shelters out there, but at animal control you might find a match that is not only ready to be your faithful buddy, who'll reduce your stresses and add years onto your life....but maybe you can add years onto his as well.
No cake this year.
Heather, my co-worker who made last year's creation (and who is the closest thing to Ace of Cakes in my reality), recently took another job and moved to Maryland. It was too devestating to find another person to trade cakes with, so I am sans cake this year.
Instead, I stopped at the Walgreens to purchase some much needed TP and an umbrella that isn't the size of my car. I found myself in the candy aisle, but nothing was really calling out to me as a cake substitue worthy of this day.
Until I saw....TOFFIFAY!
Mmmmm! Toffifay! For me, there are few things that take me back to the experience of my 70's style childhood, like Toffifay.
It always seemed like such a "fancy" treat compared to licorace or a candy bar.
So, I just ate way too much Toffifay...but my day does feel 43% fancier.
Except for my belly...which is feeling...Toffinotsogreat.
It's 2:02 pm. Cafeteria closes at 1:30 pm.
I just realized that I completely forgot to have lunch.
I've got 3 singles and almost 3 bucks in change.
Now I get to do the walk of shame to the break room and find out what kind of vending machine lunch is in store for me.
If only our machine was so full! It was half empty!
$3.70 later and I'm dining on Snyder's Olde Tyme Pretzels, Crunchy Cheetos, a pack of Vanilla Zingers, some Starburst and a Diet Coke. I was hoping for some instant ramen or Chef Boy-ar-dee (for reals), but no luck.
I have no one but myself to blame.
..... (speechless response)
"When Pop References Go Wrong"
There is a longer version that has Chewbacca dancing to Footloose...but even I can't subject people to that.
