"Yes, hello, I'm calling because I'd like to exchange this life for a cooler one. I have my birth certificate, will that suffice as a receipt? I know it's been used but it's just not what the description said it would be. What's that? You want to know if this is an emergency? Uh, yeah, I'm pretty sure it is...I mean, it's my life and all. Excuse me? I am not out of line! I got this life and it did not turn out the way I expected, I believe that means I either get to return it or exchange it for one that doesn't suck...Alright...You know what? I've had about enough of your rude, condescending attitude! I want to speak to your manager!"
Worst. Customer. Service. Ever.
Really.
The people at 9-1-1 are total assholes.
Showing posts with label Utterances. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Utterances. Show all posts
Monday, May 17, 2010
Monday, October 26, 2009
I'm Super Busy and Important...
This title is true if it is opposite day, which it is not.
I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.
It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.
Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.
This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.
In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:
1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:
2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?
3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:
4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."
5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)
6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:
7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)
8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.
9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.
10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!
11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.
12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.
13. Made you look. See #14.
14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.
There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.
I know that the 25 people following this blog, and the three people who actually read it, have been tossing and turning because I have been seemingly absent from my blog for quite awhile now.
It's been 20 days. That's almost three weeks.
Given these numbers, I understand why you might be mad at me, why you might decide to give up on this blog, and why you might want to send me hate mail (I've never received hate mail before, but it seems like something important people tend to get - so, naturally, I'm expecting some very soon.). But before you start fashioning grammatically incorrect protest signs about Quinnterruption, please know that I have every intention to turn this blog around. No, it will not be a 'glob', but it will be more regular, kind of like a bowel movement, only prettier, and less...er, um...smelly.
This new promise of regularity should be taken as seriously as all of my other promises, which I have upheld completely to not at all. So, if you gave up on me, please, come back. If you feel as though I no longer deserve your loyalty as a reader, then I urge you to reconsider your obviously stupid feeling. You can't quit me. You can try, but you won't be able to because that will just make you a quitter at quitting and nobody likes a quitting quitter.
In an effort to suck empathy from you via distraction, I'm sharing a few of the things that have been occupying my productive time over the last 20 days:
1. By browsing this site, I've become an expert in the field of child psychological by identifying why some people (read: serial killers) grow up to hate their parents:
2. I've been attempting to contact my long-lost group of BFFs after finding this picture of our last reunion:
Needless to say, we had a falling out over what constituted as "liquor." Of course, it might have also had something to do with the fact that I was always drunk - but, hey, hindsight is 20/20, am I right?3. As usual, I'm always busy learning about how to call on magical unicorn powers:
4. This sentence: "My passion for you grows like mold: unavoidable due to exposure and neglect."
5. I've been rejoicing over the fact that someone has finally sought revenge on Subway's "Five. Five Dollar. Five Dollar Foot Long." campaign from hell. (Whether it was intentional or not hardly matters.)
6. I'm also very busy increasing my hair-esteem on daily basis:
7. I can't stop listening to people sing the dirty words I type. So neato! (Beware: You may lose hours of your life to this website.)
8. Also cutting into my productive time: Regularly giving into my very large Etsy obsession.
9. Okay, I'll admit it - my latest career kick has also contributed to my lack of posts. Here's the deal: I think I should get a second job as an official wedding guest. Oh come on, not an escort - get your mind out of the gutter! - I'm talking about something I could actually make money doing, like, entertainment in the form of unintentional comedic relief. I've attended nearly a dozen weddings this year and managed to embarrass myself in one way or another at all of them. This usually works in the favor of the bride and groom (I'm like the free side-show circus that came with the band). But last weekend a wedding in Santa Fe proved once again that yes, I can injure myself by tripping on flat surfaces and red wine does in fact stain white wedding dresses. But seriously, most of the time, I'm a big hit at weddings - invite me to yours and I promise I won't bring a gift, but I will embarrass myself for the sake of your entertainment.
10. My camera broke and it wasn't my fault. WIN!
11. I had to stop everything I was doing and read this beautiful insomniac rant.
12. If you want to know the real reason why I haven't blogged, see #13.
13. Made you look. See #14.
14. Ugh. I guess you really want to know. Fine. Let's just say someone built a damn in my writing brain and broke my funny bone. I'm still in the ICU, but the doctors have high hopes and expect me to fully recover in no time, which is really good news considering how I've had my head up my ass for three weeks.
There you have it. All 14 excuses, I mean, valid reasons, for my blogony. I should be a politician; or maybe I should just be David Letterman. Anyway, I hope you'll understand, and stay tuned for more Quinnterruptions.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Luck Is Such An Asshole
Luck is like a bad boyfriend.It comes and goes as it pleases with little concern for your feelings or needs. When luck is around, everything seems wonderful, which causes your mind plays tricks on you and you think that “perfect” really must exist because you are living it (only you’re not because your idea of perfect has morphed into luck’s idea of perfect, which is really more like perfect shit). But then, without warning, it just picks up and leaves. It doesn’t return your phone calls, it doesn’t listen, it cheats on you with your friends, and it makes you think you must be crazy for expecting more. So, WTF luck? Why you got to play me like that?
Much like men, I think luck comes in floods and droughts. Sometimes you’re rolling in it and you have several prospects to entertain, all of which vie for you attention in equally satisfying ways. For instance, I can recall a time four years ago when I was flooded with luck—so much luck, it practically created a mold problem (I’m taking this analogy too far, aren’t I? That’s too bad because I can’t stop now). I turned 21 years old and could finally do what I had been doing for the previous four years legally, I landed an amazing internship I never thought I would get, I started dating a cute guy and had just declared him my official “boyfriend” (after four years of not having a boyfriend at all) and, yes—and, I got a brand new car which happened to be the car of my dreams—this all happened in one week, like a severe luck storm warning that might flash across the television and drown out a crucial part in your favorite show. Or maybe it was more like the pipes had been frozen for years, but then, all of a sudden, they burst and lucky sprayed everywhere, causing irreparable damage in the form of uncontrollable awesomeness. This luck lingered for several months following my one-week of intense flooding; it didn’t die away immediately or get up in the middle of the night to leave while I was sleeping. Instead it was a gradual decline, but I wouldn’t say it led to “bad” luck right away—I was just forced to lower my expectations, much like you do with bad boyfriends. Eventually, you’re expectations are so low you find yourself flushed with joy when you win a dollar playing Powerball—or, rather, you’re flushed with joy because he remembered to call you and tell you he wouldn't be able to hang out tonight because he had to study with that cheerleader from his Stats class.
The drought strikes as soon as you realize you’re too good to be tied down to such a lose-lose (loser) situation. At first you think you’re prepared for the drought, you know you’re going to be in it for the long haul and you brush off the concern of others because you’re completely capable of handling this all on your own, or so you think. But then something bad happens: You find out that your parents had to put your childhood dog down. And then another bad thing happens: You get two speeding tickets in two weeks. And then another bad thing: Your landlord refuses to return your deposit. And then an even worse thing happens: You lose your job. More bad stuff: Your friends move to different, cooler cities. But we aren’t done with the bad yet: You have a constant case of hives that have spread to your face making it so that you can’t leave the house without feeling like people are staring at you and your incessant itching. This is like when you find out that all your used-to-be prospects from the previous flood now have girlfriends and consider you their “pal,” and the only men you seem to attract are the ones with glaring abnormalities—they have horns instead of ears or they have an unusual obsession with madras print shorts.
Once you’ve been living in the drought period for an extended period of time, your thirst is so extreme that you’re willing to drink anything. You look back at that one week of uncontrollably awesome luck with bitterness, nostalgia and chest-searing pain, and wonder if you can create your own luck given that you’ve sort of created your own boyfriend (so what if he lives in a drawer next to your bed, at least he’s there for you when you need him, right?). But luck doesn’t work that way. Like a bad boyfriend, luck makes you ache for something you thought you had but never really did—you think you had something great because now that things are so bad, you can’t help but build up that sort of good, but mostly delusional, part in your own mind. Now you consider yourself “lucky” if you break a mirror and manage to avoid cutting yourself and a trip to the hospital.
Just when you’ve resigned yourself to being the poster child for Murphy’s law, something lucky—not fabricated lucky, but truly lucky—happens to you. So, after months of not calling, your bad boyfriend decides he wants to patch things up with you. He’s sorry about all those times he cheated on you with that whorish cheerleader from Stats class. He can’t stand the thought of not being with you, he needs you, he wants you. He promises to be the boyfriend you always deserved—the kind that buys flowers for no reason, leaves notes on the mirror, showers you with compliments and cooks you dinner because he knows you’re hungry. And luck does the same thing—after months of mourning the loss of luck, wishing for it to come back and then finally accepting the fact that it hasn’t, and may never, come back—you find yourself bombarded with it.
Currently, I think I’m riding out a lucky streak. It took a lot of luck to get the job I now have—so much luck that I can’t help but feel like I stole it from someone. But I’m older and wiser now. I know that luck is a one trick pony, no-talent asshat with nothing to offer but maybe a venereal disease from that whorish cheerleader. So I refuse to get attached. The longest drought in the History of Quinn just ended, and I survived, so I don’t know if I believe in luck anymore. Of course, these summer luck storms might produce flash floods, but I won’t lose my head this time. I know luck is a bad boyfriend that I’m better off without.
(Note: I am not personally familiar with most of the bad boyfriend traits discussed above because I have been fortunate enough to have an extremely awesome boyfriend for the past four years who tolerates my nonsense and understands more about me than I ever intended for one person to understand. Sorry, I don’t mean to brag, but he is really awesome. This doesn’t mean I’m not familiar with the bad boyfriend traits that make this analogy work—I have many girlfriends who have been the unlikely victims of such a bad boyfriend. Oh yeah, and I watch lots of romantic comedies because I just can’t seem to help myself from falling into that all too enticing female-centric demographic. And yes, these things totally make me credible.)
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Sisterly Love
Some of you might remember my sister, Tori (Torruption), from one of my earlier posts. Tori has a lot of opinions, and occasionally, when I have that unsure, yet still mostly excited, feeling about something I’ve written, I will ask her to read it before I post it. Of course, the fact that I continually do this in hopes of getting a positive response, despite how it usually makes me feel, might indicate an unhealthy obsession with harsh criticism and, maybe, insanity. Nevertheless, today I decided to share a post with her in which I wrote about the concept of saving. Below is the conversation that ensued on g-chat after she read it.Tori: Do me a favor, write about something you absolutely love that doesn't have anything to do with you specifically.
Sent at 9:46 AM on Wednesday
Me: Do me a favor, and don't shoot it down when I do.
Tori: You know it’s naive so leave it alone.
Sent at 9:47 AM on Wednesday
Me: Yes, naive, but not everyone reading it has tunnel vision.
Tori: Of all the things that you would be ok with your writing being described as would you ever let it be naive?
Sent at 9:52 AM on Wednesday
Me: Yeah. I'm not so naive as to think my writing would be anything else at this point.
Sent at 9:53 AM on Wednesday
Tori: Please. Stop. Why does everything have to suck?
Me: Um. Did I say it sucked? I don't think being naive is entirely sucky. I think it's truthful, endearing, and will likely be comical at some point in the future.
Sent at 9:55 AM on Wednesday
Tori: No dude, that's just how you are these days. Stop doing that- it's like you’re on auto-suck where your automatic reaction and reasoning to everything is that you and everything you do just sucks. STOP! IT’S SO OBNOXIOUS! Don't willingly post something that you know makes you seem amateur and ignorant- it's really just that simple. Naive is only endearing when you're 12, not when your 25 talking about finances. Please, please, please for the love of god just write about something you like for once, no more self deprecation for a week alright, Sylvia Plath? Give it a rest. I want to read something that will make me laugh, and not at your expense for once.
Sent at 9:58 AM on Wednesday
Me: Ah, there it is. That wonderfully encouraging and always constructive feedback I've come to know and love.
I hope you never have children because they will die trying to live up to your impossible standards.
Tori: Well I'm glad that you aren't blowing this out of proportion and making it out to be something that it's not.
Me: Right, because that would be unreasonable.
Tori: Bringing up the ruined lives of my hypothetical children is not only relevant but totally constructive- bravo.
I'm trying to be honest with you - open your eyes.
Me: I’m just trying to spread the love.
Tori: Your blog is sinking because of this. Remember the dandelion post? Remember the Bear post? Bring me something original and light hearted- I have at least three more melancholic female literary references I can throw at you if not...
Just kidding- I can't read.
Me: Alright, Tori - back to you being the only audience that matters.
Tori: That was the most hurtful thing you've said to me on g-chat.
Me: Tell me you're kidding.
Tori: The serious joking is what makes it funny, dumbass - try to keep up!
Sent at 10:07 AM on Wednesday
Me: Right, lessons on how to be funny from the biggest bitch I know...where can I sign up?
Tori: You already have – ZING!
Okay, but really, making this about me isn't going to make that post any better so come off it…
Sent at 10:08 AM on Wednesday
Me: I just so happen to disagree with you.
Sent at 10:10 AM on Wednesday
Tori: I think you like fighting with me when you know something you write isn't very good because you know that whatever criticism you have to say about me is true and you just like being right about something.
Sent at 10:12 AM on Wednesday
Me: No, I thought that piece was good. I still think it's good. It might need a different context, and maybe a freshening of the jokes, but it's still good writing and concepting…that is, in my ever-humble opinion. But I appreciate your opinion, and I do plan to write more posts that have less to do with me…just to make you laugh.
Sent at 10:15 AM on Wednesday
Tori: Alright, let me read it again in a little bit.
Me: Yeah, I mean, I think you missed the point of the piece. It wasn't about finances.
Tori: So don’t talk about them.
Me: Um. You're not as smart as you say you are.
Tori: Neither are you- clearly
Me: Yes, clearly.
Sent at 10:21 AM on Wednesday
Tori: I gotta go run an errand. Sometimes I pretend like I'm a really cool investigative news reporter when I throw the bag you gave me over my shoulder.
Me: Okay. Have fun, News Reporter Barbie.
So now that my blog is apparently sinking under the weight of my self-deprecating words, I am going to try some new stuff over the next few weeks. Don’t worry, I’m not going go all perky-positive style on you and talk about smiles, sunshine and sparkles, but maybe I’ll try something like magic tricks—everyone loves a rabbit when it’s pulled out of a hat, right? In any case, I’ve started a list to help guide me.
Thing That Don’t Have To Do With Me [Sucking]:
1. Scrabble
2. Coasters
3. The Today Show
4. Throw Pillows
5. Pleather
And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the list, but I’m confident (dare I say positive) that there is more to add.
Monday, June 22, 2009
On Being Gracefully Challenged
I’ve never been anything but clumsy. My childhood was spent with skinned knees, broken limbs and an occasionally obscure wound—like the time I scratched my cornea and had to wear an eye patch for the whole summer. I can recount 25 years of clumsiness by mapping out my scars: the one that looks like the state of Florida is from falling on a gravel playground when I was eight, the one next to it is from college when I tripped down the stairs at the The Wheel, the line across my index finger is from the time I sliced it while chopping vegetables, and the one on my hip that looks like a thumb is from an unfortunate incident involving a Slip ‘n Slide.
It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with any injuries as a result of my clumsiness. This might be because my level of activity has significantly decreased in recent months, so there are fewer opportunities for me to inadvertently hurt myself. But last Friday, in a rare moment of motivation, I decided to go for a long bike ride—the first of a new daily biking routine I planned to implement. Feeling confident despite looking like a complete dork in my helmet, bike shorts and fanny pack, I headed out, determined to get worthwhile exercise.
I followed the bike path near my house for a couple miles but I wanted to challenge myself with some hills, so I veered off the path when I spotted a narrow sidewalk that would lead me up a big hill. Huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top, I paused to make sure I didn't pop a lung, and to gaze at the down hill coast that would be my reward after climbing what felt like Mount Kilimanjaro. As I tried to catch my breath, I thought of the time my dad taught me to ride a bike without training wheels.
I was about six years old and as I watched my dad take the training wheels off of my purple polka-dot banana seat bike, I wondered if there was a way to take one off at a time because going from four wheels to two wheels seemed unreasonable in my opinion. Shaking and unbalanced, dad pushed me up our long, winding driveway. When we reached the top, I remember looking down the hill and thinking it would be easy—all I had to do was coast. “Ready?” dad asked me. He gave me a push and ran next to me, occasionally reaching out to grab the back of my bike and steady me. I heard him yelling, “Go, Quinnie, go! You got it—!” When I realized he was no longer behind me and I was riding my bike, with no training wheels, like a big girl, I got excited and lost control, which caused me to leap from my bike like it was on fire. It took awhile, several skinned knees and a few tears, but I eventually learned how to ride my bike without training wheels.
Once I was done reminiscing, I took a swig of water and started downhill, relishing the wind against my face. I spotted a large puddle ahead—a mix of water, grass, moss and algae—and I figured I could just coast right through it, as long as I didn’t hit my breaks it would be okay, I thought. But I was wrong. As soon as I hit the puddle my bike slipped out from under me and, lacking any real balance to begin with, I ended up skidding down the remainder of the hill on my knees. The moment between acknowledging the danger of falling and then actually falling always seems to happen in slow motion for me and I usually surrender to the fall instead of fighting it, resigning myself to injury. I stood up, covered in mossy, grassy, puddle poison and looked around to see if anyone saw me wipe out—there were a few people, but it didn't appear as though they saw me fall (or they did and were just pretending not to). So I brushed myself off and acted like nothing happened as I got back on my bike and rode the ten blocks home covered in puddle poison and blood.
When I got home I called Steve, my boyfriend, looking for sympathy.
Perhaps there's a class, a pill or some sort of remedy for my inherent clumsiness that I just don't know about...? In any case, I need to look into it because I think I'm getting too old to be this damn clumsy. And at the rate I'm going, the inscription on my gravestone will read: "She could trip over flat surfaces."
It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with any injuries as a result of my clumsiness. This might be because my level of activity has significantly decreased in recent months, so there are fewer opportunities for me to inadvertently hurt myself. But last Friday, in a rare moment of motivation, I decided to go for a long bike ride—the first of a new daily biking routine I planned to implement. Feeling confident despite looking like a complete dork in my helmet, bike shorts and fanny pack, I headed out, determined to get worthwhile exercise.
I followed the bike path near my house for a couple miles but I wanted to challenge myself with some hills, so I veered off the path when I spotted a narrow sidewalk that would lead me up a big hill. Huffing and puffing by the time I reached the top, I paused to make sure I didn't pop a lung, and to gaze at the down hill coast that would be my reward after climbing what felt like Mount Kilimanjaro. As I tried to catch my breath, I thought of the time my dad taught me to ride a bike without training wheels.
I was about six years old and as I watched my dad take the training wheels off of my purple polka-dot banana seat bike, I wondered if there was a way to take one off at a time because going from four wheels to two wheels seemed unreasonable in my opinion. Shaking and unbalanced, dad pushed me up our long, winding driveway. When we reached the top, I remember looking down the hill and thinking it would be easy—all I had to do was coast. “Ready?” dad asked me. He gave me a push and ran next to me, occasionally reaching out to grab the back of my bike and steady me. I heard him yelling, “Go, Quinnie, go! You got it—!” When I realized he was no longer behind me and I was riding my bike, with no training wheels, like a big girl, I got excited and lost control, which caused me to leap from my bike like it was on fire. It took awhile, several skinned knees and a few tears, but I eventually learned how to ride my bike without training wheels.
Once I was done reminiscing, I took a swig of water and started downhill, relishing the wind against my face. I spotted a large puddle ahead—a mix of water, grass, moss and algae—and I figured I could just coast right through it, as long as I didn’t hit my breaks it would be okay, I thought. But I was wrong. As soon as I hit the puddle my bike slipped out from under me and, lacking any real balance to begin with, I ended up skidding down the remainder of the hill on my knees. The moment between acknowledging the danger of falling and then actually falling always seems to happen in slow motion for me and I usually surrender to the fall instead of fighting it, resigning myself to injury. I stood up, covered in mossy, grassy, puddle poison and looked around to see if anyone saw me wipe out—there were a few people, but it didn't appear as though they saw me fall (or they did and were just pretending not to). So I brushed myself off and acted like nothing happened as I got back on my bike and rode the ten blocks home covered in puddle poison and blood.
When I got home I called Steve, my boyfriend, looking for sympathy.
“I fell off my bike and hurt myself!”I probably would have laughed at him if he fell off of his bike—falling is funny, I don’t care who you are, how you do it, or how hurt you get. And since I’m known for my clumsiness, I am used to being laughed at. You can always count on me to be the one to run into the sliding glass door because I didn’t realize it was closed, fall down the stairs while wearing a dress, or drop a tray full of drinks because my feet got in the way of my walking, again. On any given day, I have a fresh bump, bruise or cut to serve as evidence of my clumsiness and remind me of my painful lack of grace.
“What? Are you okay? Where are you?” Steve seemed flushed with concern, at first.
“I’m at home now but I am not okay. I think I’m going to have to amputate my knees…”
“Baby, it can’t be that bad.”
“It is! I can hardly move! And I fell in a puddle of crap that’s probably infecting my cuts now!”
“Hahahaha…I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh, it’s just that…well, the thought of you falling off your bike is funny.”
“I know. Shut up.”
After the fall, I sent my sister this picture of myself to which her response was: “AHAHAHAHAHA! YOU ARE SO CLUMSY! YOU FELL OFF YOUR BIKE?! THAT’S HILARIOUS! HAHAHAHA!”It’s been three days since my biking accident and I’m still hobbling around. I really can’t remember the last time I was in so much uncomfortable pain. Every time I bend my knees it feels like I’m falling all over again and I’m beginning to see the bruises under the cuts, which makes me look like the pariah of the produce aisle—the bad apple no one will buy because it’s bruised, discolored and covered in flesh wounds. As I said, I used to skin my knees all the time as a kid—sure, it hurt, but I would be picking at the scabs a few days later. Clearly my bounce-back ability is not what it used to be, which makes me feel old.
Perhaps there's a class, a pill or some sort of remedy for my inherent clumsiness that I just don't know about...? In any case, I need to look into it because I think I'm getting too old to be this damn clumsy. And at the rate I'm going, the inscription on my gravestone will read: "She could trip over flat surfaces."
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Facebook Quizzes & Daily Horoscopes: A New Path to Self Awareness
I’ve stayed away from Facebook quizzes for many reasons, but to name a few:
1.) I’m too cool.
2.) The people who take Facebook quizzes are either 12 or 35.
3.) I don’t give a sh*t what animal you were in your past life, what color your aura is, or what dog breed you are—sorry.
But yesterday I surrendered to a quiz titled “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” I’m not sure what hooked me, but I think it was the possibility of being told that someone extremely likable, like Jennifer Aniston, or someone really hardcore, like Angelina Jolie, would play me in a movie. So I proceeded to take the quiz, which asked discerning personal questions like, “Would you go after another woman’s man?” and “Do you believe in true love?” and “How high maintenance are you on a scale of 1 to 10?”
My result was Debra Messing and this was the rationalization:
You are the class clown. Always trying to make others laugh. You have a genuiness about you that is obvious to all. You are the girl men leave their "arm trophies" for and are glad of it.
First of all, I don’t like Debra Messing. I put her in the same category as Hillary Swank: she is annoying, attractive only if you squint your eyes, and avoiding her only makes her appear more often. If you do see one of her movies it’s probably on accident because of a non-stop run on TBS, and even then you don’t really admit to actually watching the entire movie, only "parts of it." I mean, did anyone else see The Wedding Date? Enough said. But I am glad to know that I have a “genuiness” about me, that’s good, especially since I didn’t know “genuiness” was a word.
After “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” another quiz popped up called “What are you born to do?” and, given my current situation, it seemed wrong to not take this quiz. I was given seven questions—yes, just seven questions—to answer, which I assumed would then result in a solution to my ongoing question: what will I be now that I am a grown up? Here was the result:
I won’t even go into the countless spelling and punctuation errors in this quiz result—clearly the people creating these quizzes never passed an English class—but what the hell does this mean? This isn’t an answer to “what are you born to do?” I’m more lost after reading this than I was before I took the damn quiz! But at least it validates my ability to “make just about anyone like [me].” Obviously I don’t choose to utilize this skill on a regular basis, but it’s good to know that I have the ability.
I could see myself becoming addicted to Facebook quizzes the same way I used to be addicted to reading my daily horoscope. If you turn off the half of your brain that is meant for logical reasoning, then things like Facebook quizzes and horoscopes can be seen as ways to gather information about yourself; they are like insights into the future, ways to ease the pain of the unknown.
I used to read my horoscope everyday and it always ended up being true, except for when it wasn't. For instance, here is my horoscope for today, courtesy of yahoo.com:
I think I’m just going to go buy a t-shirt that says, “Everything I learned about myself I got from a Facebook quiz and my daily horoscope.” At least then people will know that I am a self-aware individual.
1.) I’m too cool.
2.) The people who take Facebook quizzes are either 12 or 35.
3.) I don’t give a sh*t what animal you were in your past life, what color your aura is, or what dog breed you are—sorry.
But yesterday I surrendered to a quiz titled “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” I’m not sure what hooked me, but I think it was the possibility of being told that someone extremely likable, like Jennifer Aniston, or someone really hardcore, like Angelina Jolie, would play me in a movie. So I proceeded to take the quiz, which asked discerning personal questions like, “Would you go after another woman’s man?” and “Do you believe in true love?” and “How high maintenance are you on a scale of 1 to 10?”
My result was Debra Messing and this was the rationalization:
You are the class clown. Always trying to make others laugh. You have a genuiness about you that is obvious to all. You are the girl men leave their "arm trophies" for and are glad of it.
First of all, I don’t like Debra Messing. I put her in the same category as Hillary Swank: she is annoying, attractive only if you squint your eyes, and avoiding her only makes her appear more often. If you do see one of her movies it’s probably on accident because of a non-stop run on TBS, and even then you don’t really admit to actually watching the entire movie, only "parts of it." I mean, did anyone else see The Wedding Date? Enough said. But I am glad to know that I have a “genuiness” about me, that’s good, especially since I didn’t know “genuiness” was a word.
After “Which celebrity would play you in a movie of your life?” another quiz popped up called “What are you born to do?” and, given my current situation, it seemed wrong to not take this quiz. I was given seven questions—yes, just seven questions—to answer, which I assumed would then result in a solution to my ongoing question: what will I be now that I am a grown up? Here was the result:
I won’t even go into the countless spelling and punctuation errors in this quiz result—clearly the people creating these quizzes never passed an English class—but what the hell does this mean? This isn’t an answer to “what are you born to do?” I’m more lost after reading this than I was before I took the damn quiz! But at least it validates my ability to “make just about anyone like [me].” Obviously I don’t choose to utilize this skill on a regular basis, but it’s good to know that I have the ability.I could see myself becoming addicted to Facebook quizzes the same way I used to be addicted to reading my daily horoscope. If you turn off the half of your brain that is meant for logical reasoning, then things like Facebook quizzes and horoscopes can be seen as ways to gather information about yourself; they are like insights into the future, ways to ease the pain of the unknown.
I used to read my horoscope everyday and it always ended up being true, except for when it wasn't. For instance, here is my horoscope for today, courtesy of yahoo.com:
Daily Extended Horoscope for June 16, 2009 (Today)Right, so I guess this means I shouldn't post today...?
Libra: 9/23 – 10/22
Weigh your words carefully, as if they were diamonds. While it might be tempting to blurt out any ol' opinion that crosses your mind, erring on the side of caution is definitely the best measure at this time. That goes double for emails and any other written communications -- right now, it's all too easy for someone to misconstrue even the simplest statement and get hot under the collar about it.
I think I’m just going to go buy a t-shirt that says, “Everything I learned about myself I got from a Facebook quiz and my daily horoscope.” At least then people will know that I am a self-aware individual.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
My Reflection is Stalking Me
I’ve been really busy avoiding mirrors after realizing that my reflection doesn’t do anything to inspire me, in fact, it has the opposite effect because what I see is everything I don’t want to be (unemployed, unhappy, malnourished, out of shape, and desperate – the last one is what did me in). But apparently avoiding mirrors only causes your reflection to appear more often. From the sliding glass doors at the grocery store to the tinted car windows in the parking lot to the ceiling-to-floor windows of an office building to extra shiny silverware to the rain puddles on a sidewalk—everywhere I go my reflection follows.
I used to be one of those people who couldn’t help but gaze at their reflection as they walked past a storefront window. Call it vain, but it was more about catching a glimpse of how other people saw me, how I looked to the rest of the world. When I get dressed and stand in front of a mirror at home, I know what I see is different from what other people see because I have a mirror pose: I purse my lips, bite the insides of my cheeks, suck in my gut, jut out my right hip and put my hands on my waist. This pose is something I only do when I am alone and standing in front of a mirror, I never look like this in real life. As a result, catching a reflection of myself doing something other than my mirror pose used to be interesting (back when the reality of my appearance wasn’t so…so…sad?) because it gave me a more realistic vision of myself.
But given the current devastating nature of this realistic vision, I find accidental reflections torturous. The worst is when the dark outside turns the windows into mirrors inside—I can’t see beyond my reflection, but in the darkness outside I imagine someone starring in at me and wondering if I am aware of just how unattractive I look when I make that scowling face. Now I scurry around the house right after the sun sets to make sure all of the blinds are closed so that my house isn’t full of mirrors that people can look in through. It’s become clear that I could throw away every mirror in my house and still never go a day without seeing myself. Whether I am walking the dog, running errands or eating dinner, I end up face to face with my reflection, which always reminds me of some weird combination of Eeyore and Britney Spears during her (on-going) “rough phase.”
I suppose I could attempt to drag this post out into some snarky, pseudo-philosophical observation on how my path to self discovery led me to run away from myself, but I made a promise having to do with brevity, so...I won't. Instead, I'm just going to say that when you feel like shit, you’re going to look like shit. I am working on feeling less like shit so that I can stop running from my reflection (because continuing to run from my reflection might make me more vain than if I were to linger in front of it lovingly...plus, I hate running). That being said, don’t be surprised if the next time you see me I am wearing a blindfold and being led by a seeing-eye dog.
I used to be one of those people who couldn’t help but gaze at their reflection as they walked past a storefront window. Call it vain, but it was more about catching a glimpse of how other people saw me, how I looked to the rest of the world. When I get dressed and stand in front of a mirror at home, I know what I see is different from what other people see because I have a mirror pose: I purse my lips, bite the insides of my cheeks, suck in my gut, jut out my right hip and put my hands on my waist. This pose is something I only do when I am alone and standing in front of a mirror, I never look like this in real life. As a result, catching a reflection of myself doing something other than my mirror pose used to be interesting (back when the reality of my appearance wasn’t so…so…sad?) because it gave me a more realistic vision of myself.
But given the current devastating nature of this realistic vision, I find accidental reflections torturous. The worst is when the dark outside turns the windows into mirrors inside—I can’t see beyond my reflection, but in the darkness outside I imagine someone starring in at me and wondering if I am aware of just how unattractive I look when I make that scowling face. Now I scurry around the house right after the sun sets to make sure all of the blinds are closed so that my house isn’t full of mirrors that people can look in through. It’s become clear that I could throw away every mirror in my house and still never go a day without seeing myself. Whether I am walking the dog, running errands or eating dinner, I end up face to face with my reflection, which always reminds me of some weird combination of Eeyore and Britney Spears during her (on-going) “rough phase.”
I suppose I could attempt to drag this post out into some snarky, pseudo-philosophical observation on how my path to self discovery led me to run away from myself, but I made a promise having to do with brevity, so...I won't. Instead, I'm just going to say that when you feel like shit, you’re going to look like shit. I am working on feeling less like shit so that I can stop running from my reflection (because continuing to run from my reflection might make me more vain than if I were to linger in front of it lovingly...plus, I hate running). That being said, don’t be surprised if the next time you see me I am wearing a blindfold and being led by a seeing-eye dog.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
I'm Always Missing Out
When I was little, I never wanted to go to bed because I was afraid that I would miss out on something really exciting or important. This was especially the case when my parents would have parties or entertain guests. Knowing that other people were awake in my house while I was supposed to be asleep made me certain that something awesome was going to happen because I knew the most awesome stuff happened after the kids went to bed (R rated movies, card games, dancing, singing). Most of the time I would lie awake, imagining conversations and all the fun things that must be going on as I obeyed a bedtime, and it usually went something like this:
Adult 1: Which kid do you like the most?
Adult 2: Well, which one would you sell to the gypsies if you had to?
Adult 3: We should go hang out at the secret princess castle.
Adult 4: I heard the princess castle has a water slide.
Adult 1: I heard it has a giant bowl of candy that you can swim in!
Adult 2: Well, what are we waiting for? The kids are in bed!
Adult 3: Yeah! Let’s sell all of the kids to the gypsies go to the secret princess castle!
As a teenager, my curfew was a constant topic of debate. Eventually, I started to hear the phrase, “nothing good happens at that hour,” which infuriated me, because of course good things happened at that hour! My parents just didn't understand that my popularity was totally contingent on the things happening at that hour which I was missing out on because of a ridiculously early curfew, ugh!
In college, I watched the roles switch a little when my friend’s parents would come visit for a weekend. On more than one occasion, I helped a friend coax their drunk parent out of a bar and back to their hotel room, where the parent would then say something along the lines of “I don’t wanna go to bed—let’s go to the next party!” My friend and I would have to pretend that we were calling it a night so that the parent wouldn’t feel like they were missing out.
Now that I don’t have a bedtime, a curfew, or a parent reliving the glory days to babysit, I lie awake thinking about all the things I need to do in order to not miss out on anything, which usually goes like this:
Me: Maybe I should just get up and make a list or something.
Voices In My Head: No, you’ll be worthless tomorrow if you don’t get any sleep.
Me: It’s not like I have a lot going on tomorrow anyway.
Voices: Just try to close your eyes and see if you fall asleep.
Me: But my eyes won’t close.
Voices: Try harder.
Me: I think I am going to get up and write.
Voices: Nothing you write at this hour will be any good.
Me: Fine, then I am going to read.
Voices: But then you’ll just be reading about all of the stuff you’re missing out on because you're sleeping.
Me: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Voices: Keep searching for the cool side of your pillow...
I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never stop feeling like I’m missing out on something, which might mean that I’m never content with the immediate, and also that I don't get enough sleep. But really, what's so great about contentment and good sleeping habits anyway? I’d rather be plagued with exhaustion and the notion that I’m missing out, because maybe one day it will lead me to that secret princess castle with the water slide and bowl of candy you can swim in.
Adult 1: Which kid do you like the most?
Adult 2: Well, which one would you sell to the gypsies if you had to?
Adult 3: We should go hang out at the secret princess castle.
Adult 4: I heard the princess castle has a water slide.
Adult 1: I heard it has a giant bowl of candy that you can swim in!
Adult 2: Well, what are we waiting for? The kids are in bed!
Adult 3: Yeah! Let’s sell all of the kids to the gypsies go to the secret princess castle!
As a teenager, my curfew was a constant topic of debate. Eventually, I started to hear the phrase, “nothing good happens at that hour,” which infuriated me, because of course good things happened at that hour! My parents just didn't understand that my popularity was totally contingent on the things happening at that hour which I was missing out on because of a ridiculously early curfew, ugh!
In college, I watched the roles switch a little when my friend’s parents would come visit for a weekend. On more than one occasion, I helped a friend coax their drunk parent out of a bar and back to their hotel room, where the parent would then say something along the lines of “I don’t wanna go to bed—let’s go to the next party!” My friend and I would have to pretend that we were calling it a night so that the parent wouldn’t feel like they were missing out.
Now that I don’t have a bedtime, a curfew, or a parent reliving the glory days to babysit, I lie awake thinking about all the things I need to do in order to not miss out on anything, which usually goes like this:
Me: Maybe I should just get up and make a list or something.
Voices In My Head: No, you’ll be worthless tomorrow if you don’t get any sleep.
Me: It’s not like I have a lot going on tomorrow anyway.
Voices: Just try to close your eyes and see if you fall asleep.
Me: But my eyes won’t close.
Voices: Try harder.
Me: I think I am going to get up and write.
Voices: Nothing you write at this hour will be any good.
Me: Fine, then I am going to read.
Voices: But then you’ll just be reading about all of the stuff you’re missing out on because you're sleeping.
Me: Well, what am I supposed to do?
Voices: Keep searching for the cool side of your pillow...
I've come to terms with the fact that I'll never stop feeling like I’m missing out on something, which might mean that I’m never content with the immediate, and also that I don't get enough sleep. But really, what's so great about contentment and good sleeping habits anyway? I’d rather be plagued with exhaustion and the notion that I’m missing out, because maybe one day it will lead me to that secret princess castle with the water slide and bowl of candy you can swim in.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Unemployment: It Does a Body Bad
Horrific Unemployment Realization #1,525: My professional, interview-worthy clothes do not fit because unemployment has made me fat.
So I've gained some weight since I lost my job, but what is most disturbing about it is that since I’ve been unemployed (going on 90 days now), I’ve been expecting to lose weight. Right after I was laid-off, I made a list of all the pros and cons of losing my job. One of the items on the pro list was that being jobless might inadvertently make me skinny (less money = less to spend on food, drinking, etc.), sort of the same way getting mono can make you skinny (although I gained weight when I had mono, so I should have known better). Needless to say, the pro side of the list was depressingly short so I had to reach a little. But now I have to remove “unintentional weight loss” from the pro side and add “unemployed weight gain” to the con side.
Since unemployment hit (sometimes I find it comforting to refer to it as a natural disaster akin to a tornado or hurricane), my wardrobe has been reduced to three or four things: pajamas, skirts with elastic waistbands, dresses without waists and pajamas with tennis shoes (i.e., workout clothes). Pro: there is no dress code for unemployment. Con: elastic waistbands nurture denial when your middle starts to get thicker.
I don’t know how much weight I’ve gained since I’ve been unemployed. I don’t own a scale because I don’t care about a number I care about feeling good. And right now I feel like a McDonald’s Big Mac—heavy, off-balance, sloppy, over-indulgent and oozing cholesterol. But when I consider the way I’ve been living the past 90 days, this makes sense—actually, it makes me feel lucky I haven’t been hospitalized.
There are things I wouldn’t do while I was employed that being unemployed has granted me the freedom to not only do, but also not care about later. For instance, I ate ten tacos in 30 minutes on Cinco de Mayo because they were .75 cents and someone bet me that I couldn’t do it. I also find myself wandering through Quick Trip, picking up a Snickers or maybe a Krispy Kreme on my way out, because apparently I think a glazed donut will fill the void of not having a job.
I have also determined that this weight gain, which I will continue to think of as a gift I don’t yet understand, is directly related to my lack of daily exercise. When I had a job, there was structure and far less time to waste, so exercise was part of a daily routine. Now I sit at my computer for ten hours everyday dressed in workout clothes (the real kind, not just pajamas plus sneakers) and when Steve gets home he says, “looks like you worked out today” and I have to say, “I didn't, but I thought about it,” which I kind of think almost counts.
While this extra weight has been a comfort to me over the past 90 days, I am physically ready to say goodbye to the Unemployed Quinn and become Employable Quinn—job or no job. I’m ready to embrace exercise and a healthier lifestyle so that I feel less like a Big Mac and more like a celery stick - yeah physical fitness! So I'll get started just as soon as I finish eating this giant chocolate chip cookie...
So I've gained some weight since I lost my job, but what is most disturbing about it is that since I’ve been unemployed (going on 90 days now), I’ve been expecting to lose weight. Right after I was laid-off, I made a list of all the pros and cons of losing my job. One of the items on the pro list was that being jobless might inadvertently make me skinny (less money = less to spend on food, drinking, etc.), sort of the same way getting mono can make you skinny (although I gained weight when I had mono, so I should have known better). Needless to say, the pro side of the list was depressingly short so I had to reach a little. But now I have to remove “unintentional weight loss” from the pro side and add “unemployed weight gain” to the con side.
Since unemployment hit (sometimes I find it comforting to refer to it as a natural disaster akin to a tornado or hurricane), my wardrobe has been reduced to three or four things: pajamas, skirts with elastic waistbands, dresses without waists and pajamas with tennis shoes (i.e., workout clothes). Pro: there is no dress code for unemployment. Con: elastic waistbands nurture denial when your middle starts to get thicker.
I don’t know how much weight I’ve gained since I’ve been unemployed. I don’t own a scale because I don’t care about a number I care about feeling good. And right now I feel like a McDonald’s Big Mac—heavy, off-balance, sloppy, over-indulgent and oozing cholesterol. But when I consider the way I’ve been living the past 90 days, this makes sense—actually, it makes me feel lucky I haven’t been hospitalized.
There are things I wouldn’t do while I was employed that being unemployed has granted me the freedom to not only do, but also not care about later. For instance, I ate ten tacos in 30 minutes on Cinco de Mayo because they were .75 cents and someone bet me that I couldn’t do it. I also find myself wandering through Quick Trip, picking up a Snickers or maybe a Krispy Kreme on my way out, because apparently I think a glazed donut will fill the void of not having a job.
I have also determined that this weight gain, which I will continue to think of as a gift I don’t yet understand, is directly related to my lack of daily exercise. When I had a job, there was structure and far less time to waste, so exercise was part of a daily routine. Now I sit at my computer for ten hours everyday dressed in workout clothes (the real kind, not just pajamas plus sneakers) and when Steve gets home he says, “looks like you worked out today” and I have to say, “I didn't, but I thought about it,” which I kind of think almost counts.
While this extra weight has been a comfort to me over the past 90 days, I am physically ready to say goodbye to the Unemployed Quinn and become Employable Quinn—job or no job. I’m ready to embrace exercise and a healthier lifestyle so that I feel less like a Big Mac and more like a celery stick - yeah physical fitness! So I'll get started just as soon as I finish eating this giant chocolate chip cookie...
Friday, May 15, 2009
I'll Never Leave Your Pizzas Burning
I love music, but I am not a lyrics person. This might seem unusual given that my life revolves around words, but I could care less about what the song is actually saying because I’m more concerned with whether or not it’s fun to sing. However, I am pathetically ignorant when it comes to tone, rhythm and pitch. Growing up, I always ignored my sister who would tell me to be quiet because my singing was ruining the song for her. After years of her telling me this I eventually began to wonder if she was right, so I decided to record myself singing. I set up my tape recorder, locked my door, grabbed a microphone, I mean a hairbrush, and then belted out my best version of “Can’t Hurry Love.” I remember thinking that I sounded pretty damn good, but then I played the recording and I was devastated; what I heard sounded more like a cat in heat than an actual person singing. Since this realization, I turn down every invitation to play Rock Band because I’m afraid that my lack of musical ability will result in a loss of friendships.
Back to not being a lyrics person…I am known for misinterpreting song lyrics and I often sing along to my own version until someone kindly corrects me. For instance, I recently realized that I have been singing the wrong lyrics to the well-known song “Beast of Burden.” It didn’t occur to me until I was with a friend and the song came on the radio. After the first verse, my friend suddenly turned the volume down, “hold on, what do you think the words are?” she asked. I thought for a moment and then told her: “I’ll never leave your pizzas burning?” The song is called “Beast of Burden,” she said, as if this should have been enough for me to realize my mistake. When I failed to make the connection she said, “it’s I’ll never be your beast of burden, not—I’ll never leave your pizzas burning!”
Then there’s Widespread Panic’s song “Climb To Safety;” but what I always heard was “come and save me”—another instance in which I butcher the lyric that has the song’s title in it.
Manfred Mann’s “Blinded by the Light” is one that I will always mess up. I don’t know how anyone can listen to this song and not think it’s “wrapped up like a douche, another rumor in the night.” (The real, less cool, lyrics are: “revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”)
Less offensive is my interpretation of Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know,” the chorus of which I always heard as: “It’s not fair to deny me of the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me.” And Toto’s “Africa” I heard as “I left the grains down in Africa…I left the grains!” Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” has a tricky first verse, which I now mumble after learning that it is not “as I, turned up the column door, my faded winter coat, the springs blow in my mind” (the real lyrics are “as I, turn up the collar on my favorite winter coat, this wind is blowin' my mind”).
It never occurs to me that what I am singing doesn’t make sense because there’s no room for reason when you’re busy screaming out the wrong lyrics at the top of your lungs while driving down the highway. I’ve learned that I offend people with my singing, and now I am learning that I also offend people with my lack of concern for correct lyrics. It’s happened several times where someone corrects me, I acknowledge that I am wrong, but then I continue to sing my version. The people who care about lyrics really find this annoying. But whatever, I think my lyrics—“I’ll never leave your pizzas burning”—sound better, even if I sound like a cat in heat as I sing along.
Back to not being a lyrics person…I am known for misinterpreting song lyrics and I often sing along to my own version until someone kindly corrects me. For instance, I recently realized that I have been singing the wrong lyrics to the well-known song “Beast of Burden.” It didn’t occur to me until I was with a friend and the song came on the radio. After the first verse, my friend suddenly turned the volume down, “hold on, what do you think the words are?” she asked. I thought for a moment and then told her: “I’ll never leave your pizzas burning?” The song is called “Beast of Burden,” she said, as if this should have been enough for me to realize my mistake. When I failed to make the connection she said, “it’s I’ll never be your beast of burden, not—I’ll never leave your pizzas burning!”
Then there’s Widespread Panic’s song “Climb To Safety;” but what I always heard was “come and save me”—another instance in which I butcher the lyric that has the song’s title in it.
Manfred Mann’s “Blinded by the Light” is one that I will always mess up. I don’t know how anyone can listen to this song and not think it’s “wrapped up like a douche, another rumor in the night.” (The real, less cool, lyrics are: “revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night.”)
Less offensive is my interpretation of Alanis Morrissette’s “You Oughta Know,” the chorus of which I always heard as: “It’s not fair to deny me of the cross-eyed bear that you gave to me.” And Toto’s “Africa” I heard as “I left the grains down in Africa…I left the grains!” Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror” has a tricky first verse, which I now mumble after learning that it is not “as I, turned up the column door, my faded winter coat, the springs blow in my mind” (the real lyrics are “as I, turn up the collar on my favorite winter coat, this wind is blowin' my mind”).
It never occurs to me that what I am singing doesn’t make sense because there’s no room for reason when you’re busy screaming out the wrong lyrics at the top of your lungs while driving down the highway. I’ve learned that I offend people with my singing, and now I am learning that I also offend people with my lack of concern for correct lyrics. It’s happened several times where someone corrects me, I acknowledge that I am wrong, but then I continue to sing my version. The people who care about lyrics really find this annoying. But whatever, I think my lyrics—“I’ll never leave your pizzas burning”—sound better, even if I sound like a cat in heat as I sing along.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Positive Thinking: "I'm in the midst of a career change." (Translation: I got laid-off.)
It's been 60 days since I last had a job.
Typically, I like to acknowledge these unemployment milestones with a big bottle of wine and a self-loathing séance. But today I’m dedicating a blog post to it instead since a passive aggressive rant doesn’t lead to hangover hell (well, it doesn’t have to).
As part of my severance package, I was given the option to attend what was defined as "employment consultation." Once I reached the 30 days unemployed mark and had no leads to a job or any clue what I wanted to do with my future, I decided to take advantage of my former employer’s generous offer and seek help.
Upon arrival, I was directed to a room with about 15 people sitting around a conference table. We all had binders and nametags. Not only was I was the only person under the age of 40, but I was also the only one who did not have a career history with Sprint. (Although, I do have a phone history with Sprint. It was a torrid six years, full of dropped calls and roaming charges, which ended the day I called and said: your service sucks, I'm switching providers. So, I pretty much fired Sprint. For a brief moment I thought about sharing this with the group of former Sprint employees as a “funny how the world works” kind of story, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be received well so I kept it to myself.)
The consultant let us know that “let go” and “laid-off” were not positive terms, instead we were to say things like, “during my career change” or “I’m in a transition period.” Apparently using these positive terms would enable positive thinking, which would then, eventually, lead to a job. I wanted to raise my hand and ask if “terminated” was also considered a negative term but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.
After two hours I was still attempting to keep an open mind but I was losing patience with the approach the career services group was promoting. Then the consultant put a slide up on the screen that was a line graph titled: "Coping with a Change in Employment: The Range of Emotions" and I knew it was over for me. Keep in mind that 30 days prior to this I had been handed a small Xerox box to pack up my personal items and vacate the premises, so having someone show me my range of negative emotions as compared to my levels of productivity in the format of a line graph in a PowerPoint slide was not my idea of helpful at this point. As I contemplated this, I was sure that my emotion line was plummeting further into the Anger, Worry and Depression danger zone where productivity does not exist.
Looking at myself now, I think I’m somewhere between Resistance and Ambivalence on the Range of Emotions line graph. I think the positive side is that I’m getting really good at handling rejection, which is keeping me from getting to the ‘I’m Going to Punch You in Your Asshat Face’* point on the line graph. So, yeah, needless to say I’m still working on the power of positive thinking...
*Note: ‘I’m Going to Punch You in Your Asshat Face’ is not a real point on the Coping with a Change in Employment: The Range of Emotions line graph, although it should be.
Typically, I like to acknowledge these unemployment milestones with a big bottle of wine and a self-loathing séance. But today I’m dedicating a blog post to it instead since a passive aggressive rant doesn’t lead to hangover hell (well, it doesn’t have to).
As part of my severance package, I was given the option to attend what was defined as "employment consultation." Once I reached the 30 days unemployed mark and had no leads to a job or any clue what I wanted to do with my future, I decided to take advantage of my former employer’s generous offer and seek help.
Upon arrival, I was directed to a room with about 15 people sitting around a conference table. We all had binders and nametags. Not only was I was the only person under the age of 40, but I was also the only one who did not have a career history with Sprint. (Although, I do have a phone history with Sprint. It was a torrid six years, full of dropped calls and roaming charges, which ended the day I called and said: your service sucks, I'm switching providers. So, I pretty much fired Sprint. For a brief moment I thought about sharing this with the group of former Sprint employees as a “funny how the world works” kind of story, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be received well so I kept it to myself.)
The consultant let us know that “let go” and “laid-off” were not positive terms, instead we were to say things like, “during my career change” or “I’m in a transition period.” Apparently using these positive terms would enable positive thinking, which would then, eventually, lead to a job. I wanted to raise my hand and ask if “terminated” was also considered a negative term but I was pretty sure I already knew the answer.
After two hours I was still attempting to keep an open mind but I was losing patience with the approach the career services group was promoting. Then the consultant put a slide up on the screen that was a line graph titled: "Coping with a Change in Employment: The Range of Emotions" and I knew it was over for me. Keep in mind that 30 days prior to this I had been handed a small Xerox box to pack up my personal items and vacate the premises, so having someone show me my range of negative emotions as compared to my levels of productivity in the format of a line graph in a PowerPoint slide was not my idea of helpful at this point. As I contemplated this, I was sure that my emotion line was plummeting further into the Anger, Worry and Depression danger zone where productivity does not exist.
Looking at myself now, I think I’m somewhere between Resistance and Ambivalence on the Range of Emotions line graph. I think the positive side is that I’m getting really good at handling rejection, which is keeping me from getting to the ‘I’m Going to Punch You in Your Asshat Face’* point on the line graph. So, yeah, needless to say I’m still working on the power of positive thinking...
*Note: ‘I’m Going to Punch You in Your Asshat Face’ is not a real point on the Coping with a Change in Employment: The Range of Emotions line graph, although it should be.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Dandelion Wishes
Dandelions are attacking my yard; the yellow ones and the fuzzy ones. The latter is most concerning since these are the seed-bearing parachutes that enable Dandelion Domination. As I turned to Google for appropriate dandelion killing methods and contemplated the most lethal approach, I felt a little evil, as if I was killing part of my remaining childlike wonder. When an ad, escaping the death grips of my Popup Blocker (much like a dandelion), appeared on my screen that said "Kill Weeds Dead" I decided I needed to go outside and assess the situation with childlike wonder rather than adult annoyance.
I remember dandelions as a staple in every bouquet I assembled as a kid. Growing up, our house was surrounded by open land and during the summertime it looked like a sea of green interrupted by bursts of yellow. In my mind, the dandelions gave the grass character and dimension.
When I was very young, someone taught me how to pick a fuzzy dandelion and make a wish as you blew the cottony parachutes into the wind. This fascinated me. Every time I came across one of these feathery lollipops I couldn’t resist the chance to make a wish and watch as the seeds gently left the stem. I started coming up with elaborate, multilayered wishes, thinking each snowflake-like seed deserved its own wish to float away on. But the older I got the more this favorite childhood pastime became a nuisance to garden-weary adults: "Don't do that! Now we are going to have dandelion weeds everywhere!" So I became more cautious, still making dandelion wishes when no one was looking.
I walked out into the backyard, surveying the awkwardly long stems with their parachutes of seeds and the yellow clusters, wanting to feel something other than annoyance. I reached for a snowcapped dandelion and studied the pattern, gathered my breath and made a wish, watching the seeds scatter throughout the yard and into the neighbor’s yard. I picked a few yellow blossoms, tied them together in a ring and admired the arrangement.
At the risk of sounding trite, I think there’s something we can learn from dandelions. In a way, they are nature’s interpretation of that laid-back, go-with-the-flow person we all claim to be—they aspire to float through air, letting the wind blow them to a new place where they will happily make a home; meanwhile, I get annoyed when the wind blows my hair out of place. There’s something admirable about the resilience of dandelions and their determination to prosper in the face of chemical death traps like “Kill Weeds Dead.”
Dandelions are brave interruptions that no one under the age of ten remembers how to appreciate. But today my childlike wonder was restored, rescued from the heartless dungeon of adult annoyances, and all it took was a dandelion wish.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Blogony - From The Real Quinn
For months I've been agonizing over this blog: What will it be? What should I call it? What is the theme? Purpose? Direction?
I still can't really answer these questions. But I am okay with that. 'Quinnterruption' doesn't need to have an end goal, all it needs in order to exist are interruptions.
There will be a series of characters who will post on this blog. Of course, these characters are essentially me. These are the people who roam around in my head and interrupt my thoughts and scream at me to put them down on paper. (I realize this makes me sound schizophrenic, but I'm not. I'm just a writer. I think the two are commonly confused.)
Here are my momentary goals for Quinnterruption:
1.) Expect nothing (don't conform).
2.) Learn to see it for what it is (i.e., a place to write, freely).
3.) Write everyday (no excuses).
4.) Don't be serious (because, seriously, everyone else is).
5.) Enjoy it, you interrupting cow--Mooooooo!
Okay so there are five, well really four since number five was just filler, noncommittal, uncompromising goals that I can live with, at least until tomorrow.
I still can't really answer these questions. But I am okay with that. 'Quinnterruption' doesn't need to have an end goal, all it needs in order to exist are interruptions.
There will be a series of characters who will post on this blog. Of course, these characters are essentially me. These are the people who roam around in my head and interrupt my thoughts and scream at me to put them down on paper. (I realize this makes me sound schizophrenic, but I'm not. I'm just a writer. I think the two are commonly confused.)
Here are my momentary goals for Quinnterruption:
1.) Expect nothing (don't conform).
2.) Learn to see it for what it is (i.e., a place to write, freely).
3.) Write everyday (no excuses).
4.) Don't be serious (because, seriously, everyone else is).
5.) Enjoy it, you interrupting cow--Mooooooo!
Okay so there are five, well really four since number five was just filler, noncommittal, uncompromising goals that I can live with, at least until tomorrow.
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