I think I might give up on talking on the phone for a while. I feel like I would get more done and be less irritated. Honestly, how many five minute phone calls do you get during the day that are four minutes too long. Sometimes I get 30 minute phone calls at work that are 29 minutes too long. I go through this all the time (mostly with women). You just end up on the phone talking about NOTHING. And not in the cool, fun way like when you talk to the person you love about nothing for hours... really I'm on the phone with people and nothing is really being discussed.
Example: Someone will call me at work to inform me of some information that has changed about an event. They call me so I can change the announcements. This should take 30 seconds. "Hey, I was just calling to say that the event will be 4PM instead of 3:59PM." "Okay, I will make the change." click.
But what really happens is they take me on the 15 minute journey of why they made that decision. "Well I woke up and after talking it over with Becky... oh by the way Becky had this really funny joke... oh I can't remember it... we laughed really hard... anyway, so we were thinking about the time the event started and... oh I almost remembered what she said... Oh, it was right there... oh well... so" At this point I am flipping a coin to decide if I should hang myself with the phone chord or simply bang my head against the desk until I blackout.
Today, I pull up to the gym I go to and my mom calls on the phone. "Hey are you at work?" "No, I'm at the gym." "Oh, I'm trying to get a hold of Patti (my secretary)... she isn't with you?" "No mom, Patti didn't come with me to the gym (sigh)." "Oh right... well I was just going to get a pedicure and I thought that if Patti was a work..." I cut her off "Mom, I'm AT THE GYM. Are you going to tell me a narration of your thoughts on why you want to get a hold of my secretary of whom I have no idea of her whereabouts and your line up for the rest of your night?" "(laugh) yes" "I love you mom, but" click.
I find myself on the phone almost all day screaming inside "i don't care. I don't care. I DON"T care. I DON'T CARE! GET TO THE POINT!"
So I think if I just decide that I don't take phone calls I can stop this. People can just leave a message with the information, no story needed. It's funny, I don't have this reaction when people are there in the flesh, just on the phone.
May become itchy and irritated...
On being kissable...
I had a bad experience when I was sixteen and again when I was nineteen. I probably should have known better the second time around. But I really don't understand why it still goes on probably millions of times a day around the world.
Just two days ago, my roommate and I were in the gym and I see this guy working out, and this guy is flipping huge, but he had this weird look on his face. I kept pretending to watch the TV on the wall and sneaking glances (because you can get killed for staring at another guy at the gym). Finally I saw the spit cub on the ground. I put two and two together. Sour look + lip bulge + spit cup = Chewing Tobacco. When I figured it out I was really surprised. Do people really still do that? In the suburbs of Chicago? In a gym?
Sure enough, on my way to work I stopped at the BP and went inside to pay because I know the lady that works there. Three out of four of the people in front of me in line bought either chew or cigarettes (at like $6 a pack no less). I really don't get it! It makes me so confused that I'm angry about it.
For just about as long as the tobacco and alcohol industry has been in business they lean on the fact that 1. Their product is addictive. 2. Sex appeal. Every cigarette and beer add is aimed at telling people that being drunk and dragging a cigarette will make you look sophisticated and sexy. This has not been my experience. How is putting tobacco in your lip and spitting out what looks like mud into a cup every 30 seconds sexy? How is making your clothes and my clothes and your hair smell bad sexy? When I lived in MO, the first time I saw a girl spit tobacco juice out of her mouth, a shiver ran down my spine and I vomited in my mouth a little.
See when I was 16 I kissed a girl that was smoking. Don't judge me. I was at a dance club. I didn't know her, I didn't expect it. It was not hot. I almost threw up in her mouth. Again, when I was 19 the date I was with smoked a cigarette two hours ago, chewed gum, and put on perfume. When I kissed her all I could taste and smell was cigarette.
So I don't understand. In the Chicagoland area they are making it illegal to smoke in restaurants, city parks, your car, and get this... bars. Tobacco prices are through the roof. You get cancer from chew and cigarettes (or fags as the British call them). They make girls smell and taste like campfire ashes.
WHY IS THIS STILL GOING ON?
Things are more awkward when they are closer.
I made a post September 21st entitled "Wash, Rinse, Repeat." It was given 8 out of 10 stars on the "is this post gay" meter but it is true none the less. I was saying how I went to Hair Cuttery to get a cheaper hair cut and I felt like I was cheating on my "stylist" Joy. The girl that cut my hair's name was Laura. (Not the same girl from the post about Taco Bell)
This is going somewhere I promise.
So yesterday I went back to Hair Cuttery for a quick clip and some lady I don't know says "Sure I can take a walk-in. Come on back. Do you care who does your hair?" "No" I reply as she sits me down in a chair next to a small boy getting his hair cut by Laura. So not only did I cheat on my stylist with Laura, I'm now getting my hair cut by yet another lady sitting right next to Laura.
I try to convince myself that she doesn't recognize me. But then the lady cutting my hair starts asking me questions. Do you live around here? What do you do for a living? Well, there goes that plan. So I'm giving these one word answers and trying to time my responses with Laura leaving to go get things from the back.
After it was all said and done, I had to wonder "What the *&^) is going on in my head!"
Maybe I'm destined to be weird. Maybe I'm destined to be at odds with girls named Laura.
You could always work in advertising...
I just saw a commercial for birth control pills.
The background song playing was "We're not going to take it."
I think it's time to fire someone.
Adventures with the Next Blog button
The problem with blogging on a regular basis is... well, frankly... that no one else does. I don't mean no one, just very few. Many people today would rather post a picture with a caption, or a link that says "check this out."
For a while I stopped blogging and then it was just once a month. I was chided for my neglect, and so I have resumed. But now I log in with expectations to read comments and check out updates on other blogs, only to find less and less each month. I've tried to cheer myself up by making smiley faces with the ":" and ")" keys. After about twelve pages of that, I decided to seek out new opportunities. I pressed the "Next Blog" button located at the top of the page.
Here are my observations.
- Many people don't blog in English. I wonder if this adds to the experience. I also wonder what Swedish people call their literature/grammar class. "Yeah, have fun in gym I'll see you in Swedish."
- The porn industry has blogs. I guess they have feelings to share... it gets boring after awhile. Everyone just keeps talking about how good everything feels.
- Pictures posted without captions are more mysterious.
- Many people are boring.
- Most boring people believe themselves to be interesting.
- If you are boring, you should post pictures with no captions... or don't post.
- There is a whole subculture of bloggers that are posting pictures of their children in sports team apparel and discussing which team they are going to force them to like. Many of these blogs are written by women. I want to visit these blogs repeatedly to see how quickly the child rebels and joins the school musical.
- Most good blogs go unappreciated, unnoticed, and are few and far between. Only 1 out of every 31 blogs is good. I can assume this because after pushing the button thirty times I have yet to find one worth reading. I will keep the hope alive though.
- People who devote their blog to creating discussion about politics have no need for comment sections. No one will.
So in closing, push at your own risk.
Way to die and ruin MY day...
Is this your life?
After I battled two construction zones, one stripped road, and traffic being rerouted because of an arrest I finally made it to Lew St. This time of year Lew St. is a breath of fresh air. There is no construction, no heavy traffic. It is about a quarter mile stretch of road that gently curves and becomes Rock Creek Rd. This is the last two minutes of my drive to work. It is quiet and pretty as the leaves are changing. Sometimes they litter the road and it is like being in a leaf tunnel with the trees stretching above and the fallen leaves covering the road below making it more reminiscent of a forest floor than a paved road.
Yesterday morning as I was turning the corner, smoothly transitioning in the limbo somewhere between Lee and Rock Creek I spotted a squirrel in the road. He obviously wass running about trying to store up nuts for the coming winter. And by some will of fate, his travels brought him to stand on the dotted yellow line in the middle of Rock Creek Rd. Although his tail was a bit mangy, he was slightly cute the way all animals that wiggle there noses rapidly are, so I veered right and give him a wide berth.
I'm not quite sure what happened next. Even though there were no other cars, even though I was steering the car away from him, even though he was facing away from my side of the street... when my car came within five feet of the squirrel, he turned suddenly and ran in front of my car. He started to dart across the road and then stopped. I swerved to try and angle the car so it would pass under the middle and not under a tire. Just before he left my line of sight over my hood, I see him turn and leap. I felt the bump. I heard the thud. I looked in my rear view mirror to see his body twitching on the road.
I did everything I could. He had every opportunity not to be in that situation. I don't get it.
Home Sweet Home
Just when you think your town is actually becoming somewhat sophisticated... you drive into town and are greeted by a sign that says,
Oktoberfest
September 28-29
Located on Main Street
Wash, Rinse, Repeat
Do you have a "stylist"? That's what hair dressers call themselves. Much like stewardesses prefer to be called "flight attendants". It makes being a waitress on an airplane seem more important.
Well I have a stylist, and let me tell you sometimes it feels like a bigger commitment than I signed up for. I mean... I already have a girlfriend. However, every time I see Joy (my stylist) at the gym or at Jewel she is like, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while. You haven't stopped by or called me." And the whole time she isn't looking me in the eye, she is looking at my hair to make sure it is the accurate length for the lapse in time I have been to see her. I just keep praying my hat is covering enough and that she doesn't notice the proverbial lipstick on my collar. That's right. I cheat on my stylist. And everyday of my life I try not to get caught.
It's a dangerous thing. When I go to see Joy, it is at a very nice "day spa"/"salon". You know, where everyone wears black and all the girls that cut hair wouldn't know their natural hair color if they saw it on a color chart. She knows my life story and I feel comfortable asking her opinion on my hair style. It's an all around good experience. But then I go to pay and it costs about thirty dollars once you put in the tip. So I don't feel I can sustain this relationship all the time. So I go slumming.
It feels so cheap when I do it. I go to the Hair Cuttery, and I don't care what girl I get. They all tell me to come back and give me their card, but I throw it away. They give me a ten dollar hair cut, and mostly I just want a trim. They try and make chit chat... "So what do you do for a living? Have you lived here long?" Yes! Yes! I've lived here all my life, just cut my hair and please, please don't tell anyone that I was here. Don't tell my stylist... I'll do anything.
And then when I go back to Joy there is awkwardness...
"So where have you been."
"Nowhere."
"Wow your neck line looks really good, did you do this yourself?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
She has to know. I don't know why she continues to see me. It's probably just for my money.
I got the weirdest girl yesterday at Hair Cuttery. I sat down and she asks, "Have you been swimming a lot this summer?" "No, not really." I reply. She says, "Oh, cause I can smell it in your hair." I didn't say anything. I didn't tell her I thought it was weird that her mutant power was to tell where a person has been by smelling their hair. I didn't tell her it was weird that she smelled my hair. I didn't tell her I was offended because I shampoo and condition everyday. And I didn't tell here that I hadn't showered yet that day. I just got my cheap cut, paid the lady and went on my way.
I have to break the cycle.
Multicultural
I never knew what mulicultural really meant until now. But sitting in my living room with Omar (a 31 year old man from Peru) watching him play along to the Pink Floyd DVD and chat in spanich online... I understand.
No I don't. This is kind of unnerving. We have very little to talk about.
Blues Not Like Jazz
This past weekend was the Chicago Jazz feastival. So my girlfriend wanted to go into the city because there was a certain big band she wanted to hear play. And I think to myself... that's awesome I love Jazz. Turns out I just forgot that I don't.
The word "Jazz" has been thrown around alot to discribe a lot of music that might be better described as "Jazzy". About ten minutes into the feastivus for the rest of us, I realized that what I meant to say is "I like Blues music." Blues music is the first steps to rock and roll. Jazz is people taking turns soloing. I forgot that Jazz music is kind of like what you hear when you go to a church that speaks in tongues. One person starts a prayer and then there are random people shouting jibberish really fast and sometimes they bleed over into someone elses jibberish.
Or maybe a better word picture would be when my friends and I used to go dancing in college. We would go to a bar called "Rocky's" for "Bad Music Thursdays". Since the music was funny 80's and early 90's music my friend's Adam, Matt, and I would stand in a triangle and we would all start out doing the same non-commital head bob dance that is popular with all white guys who can't dance. Then out of nowhere Adam would do the running man, then point to Matt who would do the sprinkler, then point to me who would do the shopping cart, then point to Adam who would do the worm, then point to Matt who would do the robot, then point to me who would pull my shirt over my head and run around the bar screaming.... actually I take it back. That is not a good picture at all.
And once the madness stopped you would hear a deep voice coming from the general direction of a bowling shirt saying, "That was our hit single Transgender cosmic pink constilation sandwich... Thank You."