It's kind of a strange thing to be an adult an realize you have an ear infection. No longer do I spend hours being a mermaid in a swimming pool, and really how else do you get an ear infection if you're not swimming all the time or not five years old? Regardless, I had an ear infection recently, and I'm pretty sure it was Brad's fault.
It started with him complaining that he had a "squishy ear." I still don't really know what that means, but I think maybe he had water in his ear and couldn't get it out. He refused to elaborate or even tell me if it hurt; he just kept saying "I don't know, it's just squishy." Then, when I told him that was a gross term and to please not use "squishy" and " ear" together, he insisted on using it constantly.
The SE, as I referred to it, was a source of much debate. What was it? How did he get it? What should be done about it? Since Brad refused to stop talking about it and using its full name, I decided it needed to be eradicated.
Google instructed me to pour drops of hydrogen peroxide into the ear to evaporate any water, but since we're fake adults and not real adults, we didn't have any hydrogen peroxide or even rubbing alcohol. So, I forced him to lay down and let me drip contact solution into his ear.
I can tell you from this experience that for ear water eradication, and probably many other things, contact solution can not be substituted for hydrogen peroxide. The SE remained.
Undeterred, the next day I purchased some peroxide to cure the SE. I also bought some rubbing alcohol, Band-Aids, Neosporin, Benadryl and an Ace bandage because these are all things responsible adults need. No longer must the we resort to super glue or tape and a Kleenex when we are cut. Hurrah!
Thankfully, the peroxide worked and the ear no longer squished. Quite proud of myself, I decided that while all this ear maintenance was happening I should probably have some peroxide poured into my ear just in case. It was out and all, and as long as we were cleaning ears, we might as well.
Here's the problem, there was nothing wrong with my ear, and after it had its hydrogen bath I started to worry that we didn't get all the hydrogen peroxide out. Oh God, what if I got a Sqidhy Ear?!? The only solution was to use five to seven Q-Tips and clear out as much of the peroxide as possible. This was obviously what any medical professional would have had me do, I didn't even have to look it up on the interwebs.
The next day, there was a ringing in my right ear. The day after that, it still rang and it started to hurt. I called one of my friends, who is a nurse, and gave her the bare bones details. I told her my ear was ringing and that it was starting to hurt, and maybe could it be allergies or should I go to the doctor?
I did not say that my husband gave me his Squishy Ear, or that I poured hydrogen peroxide in it when it was probably just fine, or that I then jammed multiple Q-Tips in it probably way too far or that now I was going to go deaf.
I also didn't mention that I heard a story on NPR just that afternoon about how far hearing aids have come (it was fascinating really), and was already through the stages of grief about my impending hearing loss and had accepted that I would just buy a very expensive hearing aid. I would not be ashamed or self conscious, and I would retain full hearing in my left ear, which was a blessing. I would manage just fine, thank you.
"Are you somewhere you can put your head between your knees and then sit up real fast?" asked my nurse friend.
I wasn't, I was driving, but I immediately pulled over and maneuvered myself so that I could put my head between my knees and then sit up really fast without hitting the back of my head on the steering wheel.
"Ok, I did it" I said.
"Did you get dizzy?" she asked.
"No."
"Okay, well then it's probably not a full blown ear infection or sinus infection, but if it still hurts in a few days you should go to the doctor."
Three days later, I went to the doctor. Turns out I did have an ear infection because (and this is gross, sorry), the Q-Tip episode had jammed ear wax way far into my ear and now it was infected. How they got it out is a whole other gross, embarrassing story for another day, but I will say it is surprising how big a deal a very small amount of wax pushed very far into the ear can be to a person.
So, that's how Brad gave me his Squishy Ear, made me go through this horrible ear ordeal and I how I almost went deaf because of him. It's also how we got Band-Aids though, so I guess it wasn't all bad.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
The Wait List
We're having a baby! Woot! Super pumped, so excited, lalala! This has, of course, prompted a whole new world of neurosis for me, and (while I know it's not), I've been tackling this as a project. Albeit a project that will last the rest of my life, but a project nonetheless.
A project that requires a vast amount of research (did you know it's actually okay to eat sushi when pregnant, but not garden?) and study (when babies are born, they eat every two to three hours- around the clock).
But whatever, the research is kind of fun, and really, you just have to make a decision. It's controllable. I get to pick, um I mean Brad and I jointly get to pick, which stroller we get, our pediatrician, our birth plan, yadda yadda. So, when it was time to decide on childcare, I approached it with the same level of study. I'd pick a school, sign up, and that would be it.
Nope. That is not how it works, and if you have kids you're laughing right now. If you don't have kids, here's what you need to know, and it's the God's honest truth: Daycare is the new college.
For some color, I grew up in a very small town of 7,000 people. There were, as far as I know, two or three daycare options. I attended the prestigious Kinderhaus (it was a very German community). I assume that when my mom was ready to send me to the Haus, she called up Mrs. Nester, the proprietor, and said something like "We'll be bringing Stella by on Monday. Please charge us the $35 a week that is your rate. Thank you." And that was it.
A project that requires a vast amount of research (did you know it's actually okay to eat sushi when pregnant, but not garden?) and study (when babies are born, they eat every two to three hours- around the clock).
But whatever, the research is kind of fun, and really, you just have to make a decision. It's controllable. I get to pick, um I mean Brad and I jointly get to pick, which stroller we get, our pediatrician, our birth plan, yadda yadda. So, when it was time to decide on childcare, I approached it with the same level of study. I'd pick a school, sign up, and that would be it.
Nope. That is not how it works, and if you have kids you're laughing right now. If you don't have kids, here's what you need to know, and it's the God's honest truth: Daycare is the new college.
For some color, I grew up in a very small town of 7,000 people. There were, as far as I know, two or three daycare options. I attended the prestigious Kinderhaus (it was a very German community). I assume that when my mom was ready to send me to the Haus, she called up Mrs. Nester, the proprietor, and said something like "We'll be bringing Stella by on Monday. Please charge us the $35 a week that is your rate. Thank you." And that was it.
I assume this because when I told my mom I was looking at pre-schools (no longer called daycares) for when our baby is ONE YEAR OLD (we're also trying to find someone to come to the house for the first year, which is a whole other issue), my mother said "Oh honey, don't stress about that. When the baby's big enough you'll just find a place."
No. It does not work like that anymore, at least not in a city, which is where we live. In a city, in 2014, you have to go through a process.
What this process entails, at the minimum, is a school visit, during which "you" interview the school, but really the school interviews you. If you pass this, then you are put on a waiting list to get in. How long is the waiting list? When will you know if you got in? Depends on the school, but most of the time the answer is never or close to never or when the child is 14.
There is one place that helpfully and optimistically says on their website "Just put your name down- who knows, anything can happen!" For another one, I can't get on the waiting list because I have to tour the school first. I can't tour the school yet because there is a wait list...for the tour. That's right, double wait list. F!
The worst that I've heard though, isn't my story, but happened/is happening to one of my dear friends in another large city. In this city THE pre-school is called Mickey's Mouse House. How Disney has not found them and sued for copyright infringement I do not know.
Anyway, Mickey's, as it is called, is so exclusive, so special, so amazing, that is is a secret. They have no website, there is no listed phone number. The only way you know about Mickey's is if you are a legacy Mouse or if a current Mouse family informs you about it and deems you worthy enough to give you their phone number.
Mickey's Mouse House was founded in the 60s by a lady named Miss Natalie who is now about 85 years old. The reason they are so exclusive is because if your child goes to Mickey's, they are guaranteed to get into the feeder elementary, for the feeder middle school that feeds into the best private high school in the city, which has something like a 99% Ivy League college acceptance rate.
No. It does not work like that anymore, at least not in a city, which is where we live. In a city, in 2014, you have to go through a process.
What this process entails, at the minimum, is a school visit, during which "you" interview the school, but really the school interviews you. If you pass this, then you are put on a waiting list to get in. How long is the waiting list? When will you know if you got in? Depends on the school, but most of the time the answer is never or close to never or when the child is 14.
There is one place that helpfully and optimistically says on their website "Just put your name down- who knows, anything can happen!" For another one, I can't get on the waiting list because I have to tour the school first. I can't tour the school yet because there is a wait list...for the tour. That's right, double wait list. F!
The worst that I've heard though, isn't my story, but happened/is happening to one of my dear friends in another large city. In this city THE pre-school is called Mickey's Mouse House. How Disney has not found them and sued for copyright infringement I do not know.
Anyway, Mickey's, as it is called, is so exclusive, so special, so amazing, that is is a secret. They have no website, there is no listed phone number. The only way you know about Mickey's is if you are a legacy Mouse or if a current Mouse family informs you about it and deems you worthy enough to give you their phone number.
Mickey's Mouse House was founded in the 60s by a lady named Miss Natalie who is now about 85 years old. The reason they are so exclusive is because if your child goes to Mickey's, they are guaranteed to get into the feeder elementary, for the feeder middle school that feeds into the best private high school in the city, which has something like a 99% Ivy League college acceptance rate.
So basically, if you don't get into Mickey's you might as well kiss your Yale aspirations goodbye and also your child will most likely be a homeless criminal- or so everyone is told by everyone else who is trying to get into Mickey's.
Anyway, once you are given the super secret number, you have to call Miss Natalie from the hospital, preferably the day the baby is born, to let her know that yes, you would like to join the Mouse Club. My friend did this when their baby was born on a Sunday, and was curtly told by Miss Natalie that even educators need a day off with their families and could she please call back Monday. They still don't know if this has hurt their chances.
Once the call is made, about a week later, the baby will receive a handwritten note from Miss Natalie on Mickey stationary that says something like:
"Dear Miss Kimberly Brown,
Thank you so much for your interest in Mickey's Mouse House. We so look forward to meeting you in two and a half year's time. Please have your parents hold on to this letter as proof of your interest, and six months prior to your third birthday, have them contact us by phone again. At that point, we will assess our availability to accept new pupils.
Sincerely,
Miss Natalie"
Apparently, there are safety deposit boxes all over the city with these letters.
My friend has applied to other schools just in case as they are most certainly not getting in. There are people who are now third generation Mice who might not get in. Nonetheless, they want to have options, and they want to make sure there isn't anything they didn't do- just in case.
Anyway, once you are given the super secret number, you have to call Miss Natalie from the hospital, preferably the day the baby is born, to let her know that yes, you would like to join the Mouse Club. My friend did this when their baby was born on a Sunday, and was curtly told by Miss Natalie that even educators need a day off with their families and could she please call back Monday. They still don't know if this has hurt their chances.
Once the call is made, about a week later, the baby will receive a handwritten note from Miss Natalie on Mickey stationary that says something like:
"Dear Miss Kimberly Brown,
Thank you so much for your interest in Mickey's Mouse House. We so look forward to meeting you in two and a half year's time. Please have your parents hold on to this letter as proof of your interest, and six months prior to your third birthday, have them contact us by phone again. At that point, we will assess our availability to accept new pupils.
Sincerely,
Miss Natalie"
Apparently, there are safety deposit boxes all over the city with these letters.
My friend has applied to other schools just in case as they are most certainly not getting in. There are people who are now third generation Mice who might not get in. Nonetheless, they want to have options, and they want to make sure there isn't anything they didn't do- just in case.
And who doesn't want to make sure they do everything in their power to give their kid the best chance at life? Even if that means a having safety deposit box with a letter written in old lady handwriting.
So, at least we don't have to do that. I do fear that this is the beginning of something that Brad and I (both from small towns) are ill-equipped to face. We don't have legacies of family members in these schools, we don't come from money, and I don't even know that we want our children in this world of competitive private schools. We want a diverse group of students and families to interact with our kids. We want them to know that not everyone is the same and that's okay. At the same time, like my friend, I don't want them to miss out on opportunities because we weren't on the right list at the right time.
In the end, I think we'll apply to a few places that seem like our kid would have fun there, and that are willing to take us. Which, I guess is also a good first lesson in being a parent. Don't freak out. You do the best you can, with the information and resources you have, and you hope for the best. And then you wait. Who knows- anything can happen!
So, at least we don't have to do that. I do fear that this is the beginning of something that Brad and I (both from small towns) are ill-equipped to face. We don't have legacies of family members in these schools, we don't come from money, and I don't even know that we want our children in this world of competitive private schools. We want a diverse group of students and families to interact with our kids. We want them to know that not everyone is the same and that's okay. At the same time, like my friend, I don't want them to miss out on opportunities because we weren't on the right list at the right time.
In the end, I think we'll apply to a few places that seem like our kid would have fun there, and that are willing to take us. Which, I guess is also a good first lesson in being a parent. Don't freak out. You do the best you can, with the information and resources you have, and you hope for the best. And then you wait. Who knows- anything can happen!
Monday, March 31, 2014
The CCO
Working from home has been an adjustment, but I can honestly say that I really enjoy it. I have a three second commute, I wear yoga pants almost exclusively, and I really think I get more done.
All that being said, there is one downside for an extrovert like me- there is very little social interaction. I am used to being around coworkers, and, with my last job at least, pretty funny coworkers. To fill the void, I have started relying on my new coworkers for entertainment and camaraderie. I'm talking about Itsy and Saber, our two cats.
Look, I know this sounds weird and like I'm becoming a cat lady, but you have to believe me, they are so cute and hilarious! Itsy is a tuxedo rescue, and she is a little more reserved. Basically, she doesn't like anyone but me and sometimes Brad, which is a lot of responsibility. She was our first pet, and now hates her life because she can't understand why she wasn't enough for us. So, when the dogs are outside and there are no other humans around, she takes full advantage of cuddling with me.
Saber is an exotic Snow Leopard Bengal. He looks just like a snow leopard- he's only four generations away from an actual snow leopard. He can fetch! Before you think that we spent $4,000 on him, he was also a stray; we just got a very exotic stray.
So, while Itsy has the cuddling down, Saber- oh boy! The funny things he does! Like, this one time, he sat on my computer! Ahahahaha! And this other time, he ran to the window when I opened it and then laid on the sill- for like 20 minutes!
I have been sending Brad pictures of these high jinx with captions like "King of the Jungle" and "Cuddle Monster," and- my personal favorite- "The CCO (Chief Cat Officer)." Itsy is the CPO (Chief Purr Officer). For some reason, Brad is not as amused as I am with these hilarious pictures.
Don't get me wrong, my day isn't all cat pictures and cuddling, I do a lot of work- really I do. Just think of it as water cooler time. Don't judge me. I know you watch at least one YouTube video on your phone every single day, so don't pretend like you're all nose to the grindstone from 8:00 to 5:00.
If you were around this hilarious cuteness 40 hours a week, you too would begin to feel the need to document via smartphone. I recognized that this is probably not that normal...so I have started to incorporate the dogs into the photo shoots. Molly and Jake are now the co-CDOs.
They're hilarious too! OMG, the other day, Molly was sleeping and she had all her little paws curled up and it was just so cute!
...I'm also working on getting out of the house more.
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| Saber- the original CCO Picture. He's sitting on my computer! SO hilarious! |
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| The CCO and CPO on the one of the CDO's beds. OMG! SO HILARIOUS! Right?! |
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| Molly, sleeping with her little legs all curled up like a mouse! AHAHAHAHA! |
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| Saber, taking over Jake's bed and forcing him to cuddle with Molly. Now really, come on, that's HILARIOUS! |
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| I mean, come on. You are laughing at this, I know you are! You are! Sigh. |
Monday, March 24, 2014
Dear BJ Novak, Thank you for reading my blog
Dear BJ Novak,
About two weeks ago you were in town signing your new hilarious book, "One More Thing," and we met. To be fair, you met a lot of other people that night too, when you were also signing their books, but what made me unique was the fact that I gave you a card for my blog and now you're reading it!
(Side note: These cards may or may not have been purchased for the explicit purpose of giving one to BJ Novak at his book signing. I may or may not have 499 of them left to give out. Why would you buy 10 for $10 when you can buy 500 for $14.99? Yes please, upgrade!)
I meant to post this post thanking you for reading the blog immediately, but right after the book signing I was pretty tired. Then I decided that really I should give you enough time to peruse the blog like a normal person so you could decide if you liked it or not on its own merit; not on the fact that you were getting a personal shout out for reading it.
Then work got really busy, and I was out of town for a few days, but anyway, I digress. The important thing is that you're here now and that you obviously love the blog or you wouldn't have come back.
Now we can begin our collaboration. Hooray!
First, I think we're going to work really well together because I can relate to you and to the life I imagine you have, based on no facts and only my imagination.
You have achieved the exact level of fame to which I aspire. Which is to say, that most people have no idea or just a vague idea of who you are. Please don't be offended by this. Moderate fame is the best kind. You can still probably go get a beer without being overcome by paparazzi, but you've been in A list movies and were nominated for an Emmy! Fantastic!
Also, you'll probably get more famous now that your amazing book, "One More Thing," is out. Plus, you've still got the whole paperback circuit to go, so there's lots more publicity for this thing.
I really don't know if we're going to be great writing partners yet, but I imagine we're going to find each other incredibly funny, and will enjoy bouncing ideas off of each other. In fact, if you're working on anything and want me to take a look, just let me know. You know, just shoot it over. I'll be waiting.
Look, I know we just met, and when we did you were signing something for me and then I awkwardly thrust a sweaty, half crumpled Vistaprint card at you (thank you for taking it by the way, that was very nice), but I really think there's some synergy here.
I realize that right now, I have everything to gain from this relationship, and you are basically extending your good graces for a total unknown. But, someday Ryan, I mean BJ, after your extremely well written and witty commentary on our generation, "One More Thing," is in its 25th edition; when you have introduced me to Lena Dunham, Steve Carell, Quentin Tarantino, Ira Glass and Tom Hanks and they are all my friends too; when I have my own book tour for my hilarious and equally poignant and witty commentary on our shared generation, you will look at me and be so glad you took that card.
I don't exactly know why yet, and I don't exactly know how, but I do know without a doubt, you will be very glad you got that card. That card that changed your life.
And if not, whatever dude. I don't need you anyway.
Next week's post: Dear Mindy Kahling, You are so pretty and funny! That's probably why everyone likes you way more than BJ Novak!
About two weeks ago you were in town signing your new hilarious book, "One More Thing," and we met. To be fair, you met a lot of other people that night too, when you were also signing their books, but what made me unique was the fact that I gave you a card for my blog and now you're reading it!
(Side note: These cards may or may not have been purchased for the explicit purpose of giving one to BJ Novak at his book signing. I may or may not have 499 of them left to give out. Why would you buy 10 for $10 when you can buy 500 for $14.99? Yes please, upgrade!)
I meant to post this post thanking you for reading the blog immediately, but right after the book signing I was pretty tired. Then I decided that really I should give you enough time to peruse the blog like a normal person so you could decide if you liked it or not on its own merit; not on the fact that you were getting a personal shout out for reading it.
Then work got really busy, and I was out of town for a few days, but anyway, I digress. The important thing is that you're here now and that you obviously love the blog or you wouldn't have come back.
Now we can begin our collaboration. Hooray!
First, I think we're going to work really well together because I can relate to you and to the life I imagine you have, based on no facts and only my imagination.
You have achieved the exact level of fame to which I aspire. Which is to say, that most people have no idea or just a vague idea of who you are. Please don't be offended by this. Moderate fame is the best kind. You can still probably go get a beer without being overcome by paparazzi, but you've been in A list movies and were nominated for an Emmy! Fantastic!
Also, you'll probably get more famous now that your amazing book, "One More Thing," is out. Plus, you've still got the whole paperback circuit to go, so there's lots more publicity for this thing.
I really don't know if we're going to be great writing partners yet, but I imagine we're going to find each other incredibly funny, and will enjoy bouncing ideas off of each other. In fact, if you're working on anything and want me to take a look, just let me know. You know, just shoot it over. I'll be waiting.
Look, I know we just met, and when we did you were signing something for me and then I awkwardly thrust a sweaty, half crumpled Vistaprint card at you (thank you for taking it by the way, that was very nice), but I really think there's some synergy here.
I realize that right now, I have everything to gain from this relationship, and you are basically extending your good graces for a total unknown. But, someday Ryan, I mean BJ, after your extremely well written and witty commentary on our generation, "One More Thing," is in its 25th edition; when you have introduced me to Lena Dunham, Steve Carell, Quentin Tarantino, Ira Glass and Tom Hanks and they are all my friends too; when I have my own book tour for my hilarious and equally poignant and witty commentary on our shared generation, you will look at me and be so glad you took that card.
I don't exactly know why yet, and I don't exactly know how, but I do know without a doubt, you will be very glad you got that card. That card that changed your life.
And if not, whatever dude. I don't need you anyway.
Next week's post: Dear Mindy Kahling, You are so pretty and funny! That's probably why everyone likes you way more than BJ Novak!
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Dude! Use your phone for that!
The following is 100% true; however, names of people and places have been changed.
A while back when I was on the job hunt, I was asked to go on a ride-along interview. In sales, a ride-along is when you basically shadow someone who is currently doing the job for which you are interviewing so that you can decide if you can "see yourself" doing the job every day. It's also a chance for them to weed out the weirdos by spending an extended period of time with you. Anywho, I agreed to go on this ride-along.
My perspective territory was vacant, obviously, so another rep, Jared, set a few appointments in "my" territory, and flew down to run them. On the ride-along day, I met him at our first appointment, and it went really well. He was obviously very knowledgable about the products and services, and gave a good impression to both the client and me.
After that, we went to our second appointment. Unlike at the first appointment where we used the client's computer to demonstrate the web-based product, this second client had a projector for Jared to plug into his computer. Jared's screen was then projected onto a giant screen in this tiny room filled intimately with Jared, the client and me.
The demonstration was going well. Jared had the website pulled up and was going through the features and benefits. I was paying attention, taking some notes, la la, no biggie. Then, my eyes wandered up to the top right corner of the screen where the Google search bar lives.
If you're on your computer right now, you'll see what I mean. It's that blank bar that says "Google" in gray letters. Only, it wasn't blank and it didn't say "Google."
Instead, in fairly large type, due to the fact that it was blown up on a projector screen, were the words:
"South Dallas Gentlemen's Club"
It took a tick for my brain to catch up to my eyeballs, and then HOLY SHIT! DOES THAT SAY WHAT I THINK IT SAYS? YES! YES IT DOES!?!
I immediately began to internally freak out and melt down. Was I the only one to see this??? Did Jared see it? Did the client see it? Surely they did. Right?
But neither one of them were acting like they had. The fact that Jared was calmly going through his presentation made me believe that he hadn't seen it. If it were me, and something terrible like that were in the search bar, I would fake a coughing spasm and "accidentally" pull the plug out of the computer, or just slam the computer lid down and act like I didn't know why I had just done that. Anything!
The client, a lovely man who I would later learn was originally from Armenia, was also acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. He wasn't treating Jared any differently than he had at the start of the demo, and was actively engaged and asking questions.
Then, Jared turned to me. "Stella, would you mind driving for a minute? I just want to walk up here and make a few points." "Uh, sure," I said.
So then, I took the mouse, as Jared stood up to point at things while the words "South Dallas Gentlemen's Club" loomed literally inches from his eyeballs.
Now that I was in control, what should I do? If I casually tried to scroll over it to delete it, I would have to highlight it to do that and I would risk actually clicking on it causing Google to search. Plus, they were looking at my mouse when Jared told me where to point, so there was no way they wouldn't watch me do the whole thing.
I thought about faking the coughing fit, but that clearly was a bad idea because then I'd have to simultaneously find, highlight and delete, without clicking, while having a coughing fit.
When Jared took back over, I returned to my seat to stare and contemplate. Every now and then I would look away and then look back, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming and that it was still there. It was. It was there the whole time. For one hour.
This definitely changed my mind about Jared. Not that I care if someone goes to a strip club. Whatever, you're a grown ass man, do what you want on your own time, but seriously, you used your work computer to Google strip clubs?
Plus, he was only in town for one night. So that meant he had to land, find a WiFi connection and search for strip clubs- that were conveniently located- so that he could go there, by himself, on a random Wednesday night, on a work trip. It was a lot of effort, executed very poorly, to do something pretty creepy.
For the rest of the call, I tuned in and out thinking about what I should do when this was over. Should I say something to him, should I say something to my prospective boss? What would that accomplish though? He'd probably get fired, or at least reprimanded, and in the course of the day I had decided that I did not want this job anyway, so what did I care? No need in getting this perv canned and having that on my conscience.
Also, if he's Googing Gentlemen's Clubs at work, no doubt there was other incriminating evidence that would sooner or later come to light. Or maybe the Armenian would say something later. Maybe he was too embarrassed to say anything during the call. Either way, they could can him then.
Was it the right choice? The feminist choice? I don't know, but it was the choice I chose, and it gave me relief. Once I made it, the entire situation because hilarious and I couldn't wait to get out of there so that I could share this miracle with everyone I knew.
After the meeting was over, in the elevator he said "Well, too bad I have to catch a flight or I'd buy you a drink."
In my head I thought, "At a strip club!" and busted out laughing. Which was awkward because then I was just laughing at him.
"Oh, uh, sorry," I said. "It's funny because, I don't drink." Which wasn't that funny, but was all I could come up with.
Then the elevator opened and Jared the Creepo and I parted ways; me with a greater appreciation for clearing Google search history and he with fewer dollar bills and probably a mild skin rash.
A while back when I was on the job hunt, I was asked to go on a ride-along interview. In sales, a ride-along is when you basically shadow someone who is currently doing the job for which you are interviewing so that you can decide if you can "see yourself" doing the job every day. It's also a chance for them to weed out the weirdos by spending an extended period of time with you. Anywho, I agreed to go on this ride-along.
My perspective territory was vacant, obviously, so another rep, Jared, set a few appointments in "my" territory, and flew down to run them. On the ride-along day, I met him at our first appointment, and it went really well. He was obviously very knowledgable about the products and services, and gave a good impression to both the client and me.
After that, we went to our second appointment. Unlike at the first appointment where we used the client's computer to demonstrate the web-based product, this second client had a projector for Jared to plug into his computer. Jared's screen was then projected onto a giant screen in this tiny room filled intimately with Jared, the client and me.
The demonstration was going well. Jared had the website pulled up and was going through the features and benefits. I was paying attention, taking some notes, la la, no biggie. Then, my eyes wandered up to the top right corner of the screen where the Google search bar lives.
If you're on your computer right now, you'll see what I mean. It's that blank bar that says "Google" in gray letters. Only, it wasn't blank and it didn't say "Google."
Instead, in fairly large type, due to the fact that it was blown up on a projector screen, were the words:
"South Dallas Gentlemen's Club"
It took a tick for my brain to catch up to my eyeballs, and then HOLY SHIT! DOES THAT SAY WHAT I THINK IT SAYS? YES! YES IT DOES!?!
I immediately began to internally freak out and melt down. Was I the only one to see this??? Did Jared see it? Did the client see it? Surely they did. Right?
But neither one of them were acting like they had. The fact that Jared was calmly going through his presentation made me believe that he hadn't seen it. If it were me, and something terrible like that were in the search bar, I would fake a coughing spasm and "accidentally" pull the plug out of the computer, or just slam the computer lid down and act like I didn't know why I had just done that. Anything!
The client, a lovely man who I would later learn was originally from Armenia, was also acting like nothing was out of the ordinary. He wasn't treating Jared any differently than he had at the start of the demo, and was actively engaged and asking questions.
Then, Jared turned to me. "Stella, would you mind driving for a minute? I just want to walk up here and make a few points." "Uh, sure," I said.
So then, I took the mouse, as Jared stood up to point at things while the words "South Dallas Gentlemen's Club" loomed literally inches from his eyeballs.
Now that I was in control, what should I do? If I casually tried to scroll over it to delete it, I would have to highlight it to do that and I would risk actually clicking on it causing Google to search. Plus, they were looking at my mouse when Jared told me where to point, so there was no way they wouldn't watch me do the whole thing.
I thought about faking the coughing fit, but that clearly was a bad idea because then I'd have to simultaneously find, highlight and delete, without clicking, while having a coughing fit.
When Jared took back over, I returned to my seat to stare and contemplate. Every now and then I would look away and then look back, just to make sure I wasn't dreaming and that it was still there. It was. It was there the whole time. For one hour.
This definitely changed my mind about Jared. Not that I care if someone goes to a strip club. Whatever, you're a grown ass man, do what you want on your own time, but seriously, you used your work computer to Google strip clubs?
Plus, he was only in town for one night. So that meant he had to land, find a WiFi connection and search for strip clubs- that were conveniently located- so that he could go there, by himself, on a random Wednesday night, on a work trip. It was a lot of effort, executed very poorly, to do something pretty creepy.
For the rest of the call, I tuned in and out thinking about what I should do when this was over. Should I say something to him, should I say something to my prospective boss? What would that accomplish though? He'd probably get fired, or at least reprimanded, and in the course of the day I had decided that I did not want this job anyway, so what did I care? No need in getting this perv canned and having that on my conscience.
Also, if he's Googing Gentlemen's Clubs at work, no doubt there was other incriminating evidence that would sooner or later come to light. Or maybe the Armenian would say something later. Maybe he was too embarrassed to say anything during the call. Either way, they could can him then.
Was it the right choice? The feminist choice? I don't know, but it was the choice I chose, and it gave me relief. Once I made it, the entire situation because hilarious and I couldn't wait to get out of there so that I could share this miracle with everyone I knew.
After the meeting was over, in the elevator he said "Well, too bad I have to catch a flight or I'd buy you a drink."
In my head I thought, "At a strip club!" and busted out laughing. Which was awkward because then I was just laughing at him.
"Oh, uh, sorry," I said. "It's funny because, I don't drink." Which wasn't that funny, but was all I could come up with.
Then the elevator opened and Jared the Creepo and I parted ways; me with a greater appreciation for clearing Google search history and he with fewer dollar bills and probably a mild skin rash.
Monday, March 3, 2014
Truly Outrageous
Let's discuss Jem and the Holograms. If you're unfamiliar with Jem, I implore you to take a moment to watch this YouTube video (and hopefully explore others on your own). If you are familiar, of course you will watch. Jem Intro
The intro does a good job of hitting the highlights, but let us dive a bit
deeper into the mystery that is Jem.
Jem ran
from 1985-1988, and was wildly popular, at least with Pippy and me. The
story centers around Jem, a fabulous rock 'n roll diva with pink
hair and a kind heart. What you quickly learn, is that Jem is
actually Jerrica Benton (no relation), a mild mannered record executive and
owner of "Starlight Music." Jerrica is blonde, that's how you
know the difference.
The way
Jerrica turns into Jem is through the help of a giant hologram-making machine
named Synergy. Jerrica's genius father (who is dead) made Synergy for Jem
and her sister, Kimber, but really only Jerrica gets to use her.
All
Jerrica has to do is press her hot pink star earrings and say "It's showtime
Synergy!" and she turns into Jem. She now has pink hair and is the
lead singer of the Holograms. (Kimber is part of the Holograms too, but is
constantly pissed that Jem gets all the attention. Which is a fair
complaint.)
Jerrica
also fosters 12 kids, known collectively as The Starlight Kids. We don't
really know why she does this, but we assume it is because she is the greatest person on earth.
The best part about the Starlight Kids is that instead of drawing
children, the animators just drew shorter adults, which is perfect.
Every
episode Jem's efforts at good doing and awesome singing are tested by another,
rival, band (you'll remember them from the intro), The Misfits. They are
the arch nemesi of The Holograms, and you know they are bad because they have
much worse make-up. They claim their songs are better, but we know the
truth.
Okay, so
you're with me so far, right? Everything makes perfect 80's sense.
You've got two rival bands, a lead singer whose persona is really a
hologram, foster children. No biggie.
Enter Rio
Pacheco. Rio is Jerrica's boyfriend, and he has purplish hair. The
thing is, Rio is dating Jerrica AND Jem, and he doesn't know they are the same
person!
He's
always hitting on Jem and making out with her, and then he'll go over to
Starlight Records and make out with Jerrica. This obviously makes him a
scumbag, but here's the deal, Jerrica/Jem knows she is the same
person, so she is basically condoning her boyfriend cheating on her...with
herself.
Why does
she allow this? Jem/Jerrica- you are an international pop icon/record
producer! You deserve better!
Every
episode she tries to tell Rio that Jem and Jerrica are one and the same (Lord
knows how that would go over), but something always happens. Like one of
the Misfits pushes a gargoyle from the top of a church onto their heads (they
get away) or there's an avalanche (they get away) or a flash flood (they get
away). So, frustratingly, the secret is never revealed.
Then there's a final song by Jem, and the theme of the episode (usually something about saving poor people or the planet) is driven home. Then Jerrica just goes on about her life knowing that Rio is a cheating doucher. Why? Why?
Sigh. That is the mystery of Jem. I'll tell you what though, it doesn't matter. Jem is pretty much the best thing that ever happened to Saturday morning. They just don't make 'em like that anymore. The closest thing to hit the airwaves was Hannah Montana, and that was a poor excuse for confusing plot lines for children.
Jem was truly outrageous. Truly, truly, truly it was.
Monday, February 24, 2014
Old Enough for a "Fargo" Poster
Cherry was in town last weekend, and we were casually reminiscing about college days. We were talking about how it doesn't seem like that long ago, and how we really don't feel that much older. Then she dropped the bomb.
"You know," she said, "we're older now than the Buena Vista Moms were when we babysat for them." This was shocking.
"The Buena Vista Moms" collectively refers to a group of families that Cherry, our friend, Ava, and I all babysat for while in school. Cherry and Ava definitely had more interactions with them, but I had a family for whom I would "sit" about once a month.
Buena Vista was a super swanky neighborhood and every single house was a newly built McMansion. They were all fun, pretty and had come from California where their husbands had made their money.
They had fancy, fancy things. In fact, Cherry, on occasion, would go through one of the mom's closets and try on her designer gowns. And sometimes drink the fancy wine they left for her while wearing those gowns around the house (after the kids were asleep, of course). That's Cherry though. I mostly just looked at all their furniture and giant bathtubs.
To now be told that I am OLDER than they were?! This was shocking. There's no way. I don't own enough jewelry.
So I started thinking, what about my real babysitting families whom I used to see every week? Am I older than those moms were too? Again, the issue is not even that I think I'm old now or that they are old/were old then. It's that if I'm now the same age as they were, I have some things to do!
For example, one mom was way cooler than I am now. They had a giant "Fargo" poster hanging in their dining room (which was painted red), and a picture of Drew Barrymore when she was 13, smoking, in their guest bathroom. They had books in Russian. They knew about indie bands and had "Rolling Stone" delivered. They introduced me to "The Daily Show."
The other mom of the other family is a doctor. A doctor.
Okay, I'm not going to be a doctor, but she made her own yogurt and kombucha (which I didn't even know about until then- and still don't drink because it grosses me out). They had things from Whole Foods. They used cloth diapers, they had amazing homemade beer and they had chickens in their backyard. They got "Rolling Stone" delivered too.
I guess what I'm saying is that I need to start preparing my life to impress a 19 year old college girl. Wait, no that's not what I'm saying.
What I'm saying is that it gave me pause to think about my life now compared to the lives of those whom I found so fascinating, and wonder if I'm measuring up. Am I rich enough, cool enough, good enough?
I decided that I don't think I want to be a Buena Vista mom. They had their kids very young, some of them didn't go to college, only one of them worked, and at least one got a divorce.
Also, although I would like to be a little cooler and maybe I could be a little more earthy, I don't need a red dining room or chickens.
It may prompt some changes. At the very least, I'm subscribing to "Rolling Stone," since that seems to be a common theme of success. Ultimately though, I'm pretty happy with my life, and I'm not sad about where I've been or where I'm going. I'm just going to keep on going there.
Then, maybe one day I'll look up and some college sophomore will walk around my house and look at my stuff and think I'm so "old" and "cool". Maybe I'll think I'm old and cool then too. Maybe not, who knows. I just hope she doesn't try on my clothes.
"You know," she said, "we're older now than the Buena Vista Moms were when we babysat for them." This was shocking.
"The Buena Vista Moms" collectively refers to a group of families that Cherry, our friend, Ava, and I all babysat for while in school. Cherry and Ava definitely had more interactions with them, but I had a family for whom I would "sit" about once a month.
Buena Vista was a super swanky neighborhood and every single house was a newly built McMansion. They were all fun, pretty and had come from California where their husbands had made their money.
They had fancy, fancy things. In fact, Cherry, on occasion, would go through one of the mom's closets and try on her designer gowns. And sometimes drink the fancy wine they left for her while wearing those gowns around the house (after the kids were asleep, of course). That's Cherry though. I mostly just looked at all their furniture and giant bathtubs.
To now be told that I am OLDER than they were?! This was shocking. There's no way. I don't own enough jewelry.
So I started thinking, what about my real babysitting families whom I used to see every week? Am I older than those moms were too? Again, the issue is not even that I think I'm old now or that they are old/were old then. It's that if I'm now the same age as they were, I have some things to do!
For example, one mom was way cooler than I am now. They had a giant "Fargo" poster hanging in their dining room (which was painted red), and a picture of Drew Barrymore when she was 13, smoking, in their guest bathroom. They had books in Russian. They knew about indie bands and had "Rolling Stone" delivered. They introduced me to "The Daily Show."
The other mom of the other family is a doctor. A doctor.
Okay, I'm not going to be a doctor, but she made her own yogurt and kombucha (which I didn't even know about until then- and still don't drink because it grosses me out). They had things from Whole Foods. They used cloth diapers, they had amazing homemade beer and they had chickens in their backyard. They got "Rolling Stone" delivered too.
I guess what I'm saying is that I need to start preparing my life to impress a 19 year old college girl. Wait, no that's not what I'm saying.
What I'm saying is that it gave me pause to think about my life now compared to the lives of those whom I found so fascinating, and wonder if I'm measuring up. Am I rich enough, cool enough, good enough?
I decided that I don't think I want to be a Buena Vista mom. They had their kids very young, some of them didn't go to college, only one of them worked, and at least one got a divorce.
Also, although I would like to be a little cooler and maybe I could be a little more earthy, I don't need a red dining room or chickens.
It may prompt some changes. At the very least, I'm subscribing to "Rolling Stone," since that seems to be a common theme of success. Ultimately though, I'm pretty happy with my life, and I'm not sad about where I've been or where I'm going. I'm just going to keep on going there.
Then, maybe one day I'll look up and some college sophomore will walk around my house and look at my stuff and think I'm so "old" and "cool". Maybe I'll think I'm old and cool then too. Maybe not, who knows. I just hope she doesn't try on my clothes.
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