While talking to my mother during our customary Sunday-at-two phone call last week, she asked me what I wanted for Christmas. So I listed a few things: pants, a black hooded jacket, tennis shoes, a tool box, a better set of small screwdrivers (for the next time I have to rewire a digital thermometer).
According to Sears, however, I should "Wish Big." (Granted, this marketing campaign is preferable to JC Penney's' last year, which featured Pete Townshend's "Let My Love Open the Door" every fifteen minutes. It's an okay song, but I really don't need to hear it every time I turn on the TV.) To them, apparently, "wishing big" means dreaming of oversized drills too large to ever be practical.
***We interrupt my usual cynicism/pessimism for a moment of uncharacteristic idealism***
Once I got past my annual disggust at the capitalist reinterpretation of Christmas, I considered the ad campaign in a more imaginative way. If there were no limits, and I was truly to "Wish Big," this is what I would ask for. (Note the complete absence of enormous power tools.)
1. World Peace. It's cliche, I know, but I'm not trying to win any pageants here. In order for this wish to materialize, I think I would have to tack on a few sub-wishes:
a. World leaders who are open-minded, intelligent, and genuinely concerned for the welfare of their constituents. (Yes,
this would require impeaching Bush.)
b. A redistribution of the world's wealth (e.g., natural and intellectual resources, technology, food supplies)
2. A job that doesn't make me feel like my soul dies a little bit each time I put in an 8-hour shift (preferably in English education, research, information science, or publishing. Possibly overseas.)
3. A Bluffton College Meeting of the Minds Alumni reunion (with all four members), to take place at either a resurrected Brumbys' or Ho Chi Minh City (I would say Long Xuyen, but I'm willing to make an allowance for Amy's fear of giant bugs).
4. An all-expense-paid trip to China and Vietnam to visit Erin and R. Eric
5. An all-expense-paid trp to go backpacking through Europe with...anyone who wants to go with me. Any takers?
6. Two weeks' paid vacation over Christmas to go to Florida with Keene AND visit my parents
7. A puppy
***We now return to my usual cynicism/pessimism.***
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Time for Some Pictures
The giant boob hanging from the ceiling in my bathroom:
Yeah. Apparently the genius two floors up decided to crack his toilet bowl, not do anything about it, and leave for the night. Brilliant. So what was a drip when I went to bed was a leaky breast when I woke up this morning. And being in my apartment was like being subjected to Chinese water torture. Drip. Drip. Drip. Not to mention the lake on the floor (the source of the drip changed location during the night, rendering my carefully positioned bucket pointless) and the fact that I couldn't pee without being dripped on from above (a rather bizarre situation if you think about it...water flowing above and below you simultaneously...).
And, while I'm at it, I might as well add some pictures from Halloween. Yeah, I know it's a month late and that the focus is now on Christmas, but I painstakingly created my own Leeloo costume (including her weird suspender-like-things out of felt), and I think I deserve some props for it. So, in the name of shameless self-promotion:
Note that I'm standing next to Jess, the Lady of the Night, who had a very kickass costume. Definitely sexier than mine, and certainly less geeky as well, but, well, I'm a nerd. I freely admit it.
Here's me with Keene, or as I liked to call him that night, Korben Dallas. Actually, he was going for Random Army Guy, but hey, Korben's a military man. And Keene has about as much hair as Bruce Willis.
Note that I always have a Rolling Rock in my hand. R. Eric, you should be proud. And I pretty much had to have alcohol that night just to get past the fact that my midsection was hanging out. Not to mention that I was wearing spandex. There's a reason no one wears it anymore.
Of course, not everyone is as intimately familiar with The Fifth Element as I am. So I got a lot of "Hey, you're that one chick from that one movie." Other interpretations ranged from Construction Worker (okay, I get the orange suspenders...but wouldn't I be wearing a hard had or something?) to Stripper (no clue. That actually came from a random chick walking past on the sidewalk while talking on her cell phone. She had to interrupt her conversation to say, drunkenly, "Hey, yeah, that's awesome!" quite loudly and then explain to the person on the other end that there was this girl dressed up all sexy like a stripper. What strip club would feature dancers dressed up like sci fi characters? Wait, maybe there's a market for that...)
Yeah. Apparently the genius two floors up decided to crack his toilet bowl, not do anything about it, and leave for the night. Brilliant. So what was a drip when I went to bed was a leaky breast when I woke up this morning. And being in my apartment was like being subjected to Chinese water torture. Drip. Drip. Drip. Not to mention the lake on the floor (the source of the drip changed location during the night, rendering my carefully positioned bucket pointless) and the fact that I couldn't pee without being dripped on from above (a rather bizarre situation if you think about it...water flowing above and below you simultaneously...).
And, while I'm at it, I might as well add some pictures from Halloween. Yeah, I know it's a month late and that the focus is now on Christmas, but I painstakingly created my own Leeloo costume (including her weird suspender-like-things out of felt), and I think I deserve some props for it. So, in the name of shameless self-promotion:
Note that I'm standing next to Jess, the Lady of the Night, who had a very kickass costume. Definitely sexier than mine, and certainly less geeky as well, but, well, I'm a nerd. I freely admit it.
Here's me with Keene, or as I liked to call him that night, Korben Dallas. Actually, he was going for Random Army Guy, but hey, Korben's a military man. And Keene has about as much hair as Bruce Willis.
Note that I always have a Rolling Rock in my hand. R. Eric, you should be proud. And I pretty much had to have alcohol that night just to get past the fact that my midsection was hanging out. Not to mention that I was wearing spandex. There's a reason no one wears it anymore.
Of course, not everyone is as intimately familiar with The Fifth Element as I am. So I got a lot of "Hey, you're that one chick from that one movie." Other interpretations ranged from Construction Worker (okay, I get the orange suspenders...but wouldn't I be wearing a hard had or something?) to Stripper (no clue. That actually came from a random chick walking past on the sidewalk while talking on her cell phone. She had to interrupt her conversation to say, drunkenly, "Hey, yeah, that's awesome!" quite loudly and then explain to the person on the other end that there was this girl dressed up all sexy like a stripper. What strip club would feature dancers dressed up like sci fi characters? Wait, maybe there's a market for that...)
Monday, November 28, 2005
What color Sharpie am I?
Not sure I agree with this. I would have thought black, except that it's so normal and standard. Maybe Aqua is as good as anything.
Aqua Sharpie
Also didn't know Sharpies came in Aqua.
Thursday, November 17, 2005
To Bitch Or Not To Bitch?
Lame title, I know, but it was the first thing that popped into my head. Apologies to Bill.
I don't like myself when I get all passive aggressive. I withdraw, I roll my eyes, I snap at the people I care about without giving them an explanation so they can remedy the situation or at least have some clue why the normally easygoing chica they know and love has suddenly turned into the uberbitch. Then I realize I'm doing it, get pissed at myself, and get more bitchy. It's a vicious cycle.
And also, largely, a female thing, from my observations. I don't like to generalize people, and there are naturally exceptions to every rule, but there is a reason Deborah Tannen was able to turn her geeky career as a linguist into a series of bestselling books read by the public at large (look her up on Amazon if you don't know who I'm talking about - she's well worth reading). The majority of women communicate differently from the majority of men.
Women often try to hide their feelings. They're used to the role of nurturer, tending to the happiness and well-being of those they love. Thus, when something is bothering them, they don't want to burden others (i.e., their significant others, and since I'm dealing with the gender gap here, I'll limit myself to heterosexual relationships - I wouldn't know how communication generally works in lesbian relationships anyway) with their troubles. They want their men to be happy. And they know that if their men know they aren't happy, their men won't be happy. It's pathetic but true. This is what society has instilled in us.
Unfortunately, unexpressed emotions work in much the same way as an experiment to prove Boyle's Law (I hope this makes sense to someone other than me...I'm still a science geek at heart). If you don't regulate and/or let off a little steam once in a while, something's probably going to explode. In practice, the gender role is flawed. You can't be completely subservient to the happiness of others forever. The bitchiness will come out in one way or another, and you can bet it will be far worse than it would have been if you'd just said something about it when it first started bothering you.
Which is what a lot of men tend to do. They don't care so much about saving face or how others will react or think of them if they say what's on their minds. They get it out in the open and deal with it, and then it's over. Unfortunately, that often means violence, but I've seen guys throw a few punches and then play a round of pool as if nothing ever happened.
I've made these observations, and I know the modes of operation of the genders. I recognize my own stereotypically female cattiness when it happens, and yet sometimes I can't just transcend it. I intellectually know that I'd probably be better off if I would just tell a bitch to back the hell off, but I have this annoying habit of finding something likeable in people that makes it harder to be mean. And the small part of me that really doesn't want to be perceived as a drama queen is at odds with the part of me that doesn't give a shit what people think. I know what I should do, but I can't make myself do it. I could blame the social construct of gender, but that just seems too damn easy. One of these days I'll learn to wear my ovaries on the outside.
I don't like myself when I get all passive aggressive. I withdraw, I roll my eyes, I snap at the people I care about without giving them an explanation so they can remedy the situation or at least have some clue why the normally easygoing chica they know and love has suddenly turned into the uberbitch. Then I realize I'm doing it, get pissed at myself, and get more bitchy. It's a vicious cycle.
And also, largely, a female thing, from my observations. I don't like to generalize people, and there are naturally exceptions to every rule, but there is a reason Deborah Tannen was able to turn her geeky career as a linguist into a series of bestselling books read by the public at large (look her up on Amazon if you don't know who I'm talking about - she's well worth reading). The majority of women communicate differently from the majority of men.
Women often try to hide their feelings. They're used to the role of nurturer, tending to the happiness and well-being of those they love. Thus, when something is bothering them, they don't want to burden others (i.e., their significant others, and since I'm dealing with the gender gap here, I'll limit myself to heterosexual relationships - I wouldn't know how communication generally works in lesbian relationships anyway) with their troubles. They want their men to be happy. And they know that if their men know they aren't happy, their men won't be happy. It's pathetic but true. This is what society has instilled in us.
Unfortunately, unexpressed emotions work in much the same way as an experiment to prove Boyle's Law (I hope this makes sense to someone other than me...I'm still a science geek at heart). If you don't regulate and/or let off a little steam once in a while, something's probably going to explode. In practice, the gender role is flawed. You can't be completely subservient to the happiness of others forever. The bitchiness will come out in one way or another, and you can bet it will be far worse than it would have been if you'd just said something about it when it first started bothering you.
Which is what a lot of men tend to do. They don't care so much about saving face or how others will react or think of them if they say what's on their minds. They get it out in the open and deal with it, and then it's over. Unfortunately, that often means violence, but I've seen guys throw a few punches and then play a round of pool as if nothing ever happened.
I've made these observations, and I know the modes of operation of the genders. I recognize my own stereotypically female cattiness when it happens, and yet sometimes I can't just transcend it. I intellectually know that I'd probably be better off if I would just tell a bitch to back the hell off, but I have this annoying habit of finding something likeable in people that makes it harder to be mean. And the small part of me that really doesn't want to be perceived as a drama queen is at odds with the part of me that doesn't give a shit what people think. I know what I should do, but I can't make myself do it. I could blame the social construct of gender, but that just seems too damn easy. One of these days I'll learn to wear my ovaries on the outside.
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Sexual Harassment in the Workplace
I will now attempt to recreate my mysteriously deleted post. If I were more paranoid...
So there's this guy at work who's an asshole. I was warned about him when I started, but at first the only contact I had with him was when I needed to tell someone I was going on break. "Okay" was all he said to me the first half dozen times I spoke to him.
And then there was the night of the floor strip (which is basically taking everything off the floor that isn't bolted down so the floor can be waxed).
I was done in floral way ahead of time and quite bored. This was before I got smart and started taking my thesis with me to work on behind the floral counter. So I asked the people in produce if they needed help with anything. The asshole started to say I could stack some salad, then took it back. "Don't tease me," I said good-naturedly. (There was a time in my life when I would have never said anything that could so easily be taken out of context and posted in the hallway of my dorm. I have since let my guard down.) The asshole gave me a lecherous look and said, "That's what the last one said."
That kind of remark among friends is fine. I certainly had such moments of perversion in college. But in the workplace, between people of opposite gender who've exchanged a vocabluary of perhaps ten words, it's sexual harassment, pure and simple.
My immediate reaction was to roll my eyes and walk away. The incident pissed me off, but I didn't let it get to me at first. Then a girl I work with came back from the break room to tell me he was back there bragging about how he lost his virginity at 11.
Right. This from the kid who claims to be able to "please" a woman for eight hours at a time. Which I'm pretty sure is a biological impossibility, unless perhaps he's taking Viagra. Not to mention that I have serious doubts that this woman he speaks of is actually experiencing pleasure for all eight hours.
Then I went on break and noted the asshole talking to my coworker again from across the store. When I returned from break, she informed me that he'd been asking her if she'd told anyone about his prepubescent deflowering. At first she said no, but when pressed, she admitted to mentioning it to me. At which point he threatened to cut her tongue out if she told anyone else. Because his mom, who works in the deli, thinks he's a good kid.
Did I mention that this asshole is seventeen years old?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
So, either he's a pathological liar or his mom is completely delusional.
He's also threatened to beat up several of the guys who work there. Including a bagger who is about half my size. Apparently no one is safe.
The HR manager has assured me that I don't have to put up with harassment from customers. She assured me of this after my first encounter with an androgynous pervert who frequents the store. He hasn't said anything out of line to me yet, but his antics are legendary. Upon being told that his just-purchased frozen meat couldn't be warmed up for him, he told the woman behind the meat counter that she would warm it up for him even if she had to hold it between her legs. Her assurance, though, made me wonder if I have to put up with harassment from coworkers. She's been apprised of the situation and heard accounts from others who have had run-ins with him. She's supposedly compiled all the evidence and passed it on to the general manager. The male general manager. The asshole is still employed. He seems quiet, for now. Maybe he's learned his lesson. But if he's like this at seventeen, I shudder to think what he might be like as an adult.
So there's this guy at work who's an asshole. I was warned about him when I started, but at first the only contact I had with him was when I needed to tell someone I was going on break. "Okay" was all he said to me the first half dozen times I spoke to him.
And then there was the night of the floor strip (which is basically taking everything off the floor that isn't bolted down so the floor can be waxed).
I was done in floral way ahead of time and quite bored. This was before I got smart and started taking my thesis with me to work on behind the floral counter. So I asked the people in produce if they needed help with anything. The asshole started to say I could stack some salad, then took it back. "Don't tease me," I said good-naturedly. (There was a time in my life when I would have never said anything that could so easily be taken out of context and posted in the hallway of my dorm. I have since let my guard down.) The asshole gave me a lecherous look and said, "That's what the last one said."
That kind of remark among friends is fine. I certainly had such moments of perversion in college. But in the workplace, between people of opposite gender who've exchanged a vocabluary of perhaps ten words, it's sexual harassment, pure and simple.
My immediate reaction was to roll my eyes and walk away. The incident pissed me off, but I didn't let it get to me at first. Then a girl I work with came back from the break room to tell me he was back there bragging about how he lost his virginity at 11.
Right. This from the kid who claims to be able to "please" a woman for eight hours at a time. Which I'm pretty sure is a biological impossibility, unless perhaps he's taking Viagra. Not to mention that I have serious doubts that this woman he speaks of is actually experiencing pleasure for all eight hours.
Then I went on break and noted the asshole talking to my coworker again from across the store. When I returned from break, she informed me that he'd been asking her if she'd told anyone about his prepubescent deflowering. At first she said no, but when pressed, she admitted to mentioning it to me. At which point he threatened to cut her tongue out if she told anyone else. Because his mom, who works in the deli, thinks he's a good kid.
Did I mention that this asshole is seventeen years old?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
So, either he's a pathological liar or his mom is completely delusional.
He's also threatened to beat up several of the guys who work there. Including a bagger who is about half my size. Apparently no one is safe.
The HR manager has assured me that I don't have to put up with harassment from customers. She assured me of this after my first encounter with an androgynous pervert who frequents the store. He hasn't said anything out of line to me yet, but his antics are legendary. Upon being told that his just-purchased frozen meat couldn't be warmed up for him, he told the woman behind the meat counter that she would warm it up for him even if she had to hold it between her legs. Her assurance, though, made me wonder if I have to put up with harassment from coworkers. She's been apprised of the situation and heard accounts from others who have had run-ins with him. She's supposedly compiled all the evidence and passed it on to the general manager. The male general manager. The asshole is still employed. He seems quiet, for now. Maybe he's learned his lesson. But if he's like this at seventeen, I shudder to think what he might be like as an adult.
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