Tag Archives: life

The Mystical Properties of the Shamrock Shake

20 Feb

It’s Shamrock Shake season.

I passed a McDonald’s today that had some generic nonsense on their sign about a new burger.  This is unacceptable.  The only thing that McDonald’s signs should advertise during Shamrock Shake season is the fact that it’s Shamrock Shake season.  I don’t care if Justin Bieber has offered to do a live concert inside the PlayPlace ball pit – Shamrock Shakes trump all.

Even the Bieber.

Perhaps they don’t advertise them too much because they’re already so popular.    I mean let’s face it – a milkshake made out of leprechauns practically sells itself.    And leprechauns are magical so there’s a good chance that imbibing as many Shamrock Shakes as humanly possible during each season will yield some sort of magical effect on your body.  Which is why I think we’re all buying so many.

At least that’s what I’m holding out for.  Is it just me?

Unfortunately, my body is getting older, slower, and fatter.   And as I make my graceful transition from Princess Leia to Jabba the Hut, I have to start paying attention to things like cholesterol and fat calories and stop eating foods that are only one molecule away from plastic.   And since it has recently come to my attention that a leprechaun milkshake clocks in at about 500 calories for a small, I have been forced to face a harsh reality:  I must either drink far fewer than would allow me to glean their magical properties, or I must only drink Shamrock Shakes and nothing else throughout the Shamrock Shake season.

I think I’m gonna go for the latter.

If I get a little exercise, I can rock 4 Shamrock Shakes a day, which I think might be enough to at least get a slight supernatural sensation in my fingertips and toes.  I know my body will get absolutely no nutrients from such a diet (perhaps a miniscule amount of calcium), but I think that if I start to develop magical powers, it will be a fair trade.   And I’m taking my super-awesome-take-2-a-day-horse-pill-vitamins so maybe that will give me enough nutrient goodness to keep me alive.  Because it would be a shame if I put in all this dedication only to have a slight glow emit from my casket upon my too-soon death.

So if the posts stop coming at some point between now and St. Patrick’s Day, google me.  There’s a solid chance you’ll find an article about a girl who died too young and some speculation about the supernatural state of her body upon death.   I will be suspect to a variety of investigations, but none will reveal the source of my never-before-seen powers.

Only my loyal subscribers will know the truth. ♣

My sparkling future.

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I Think My Dad Is a Drug Lord

19 Feb

My dad. Basically.

I think my parents are selling drugs.

Now I know what you’re thinking: didn’t I just do a post exploring the hunch that I might be a drug mule for Marge, the cleaning lady at work?   The answer is yes, I did.  I won’t deny that this is perhaps too  much fascination with drug running in too little time.  But I have ample evidence and I’d like to make my case.

I’m visiting home this weekend for the first time since Christmas and have found a number of interesting additions to the household.  There’s a new, fancy garbage can that lets itself down easily,  an authentic, antique sewing machine, which hides away in a desktop (complete with paperwork), and a freezer chest.

Apparently my parents have such a constant superfluity of meat that they require a freezer chest to hold it all. 

There are only two of them and they still have enough meat to warrant this purchase, so that gives you a sense of how much meat I was eating while I was growing up.   That may have something to do with why my weight hit triple digits in 6th grade.    I haven’t seen a single digit pant size since.  I can’t help it – I was raised on delicious animal carcass.

There is no way they can afford these things without my dad being a drug lord.   My family has been poor my entire life.   Don’t get me wrong – we were blessed with a number of lovely half-houses and I never went to bed hungry (though the same couldn’t be said for my parents).   Growing up, my brothers and I used to joke about how awesome it would be to have milk and cereal in the house at the same time.

I remember this ridiculous attempt my parents once made to help cut down on grocery bills.  Their plan was to allot each child a grocery allowance and we could only eat the food that we bought throughout the day.  Dinner was covered by them. 

My brothers were 3 and 7 years older than I, and at the time I think I was 8.    So naturally I bought bread, peanut butter, and jelly.   One of my brothers brought home three loaves of bread and an enormous pack of deli meat.   He ate nothing but ham sandwiches for two weeks before my parents noticed the inherent flaw and cancelled the grocery allowance strategy.  It’s one of my fondest memories of childhood.

So you can imagine my concern today as I step into my parents’ home to find all these newly acquired conveniences.    My mind cannot compute how they can possibly afford this unless they’re involved in dirty, grimy drug money.

I imagine my father would be the brains of the operation; my mother is far from intimidating.   Suddenly it’s all starting to make sense that my dad is so antisocial and refuses to use ample lighting in the house when he’s home.  He’s a hulk of a man and has fists that could pound a tunnel through a mountain.   These are all clear marks of a drug lord.  Then again, as I sit here writing this I notice that he has also spent this alleged drug money on a new stack of Wii games and is currently playing Epic Mickey.

I’m not so sure that being into a Nintendo game featuring a Disney mouse setting things right in the world with a magical paintbrush quite fits the profile. ♣

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Please Stop Talking With Your Mouth Open

18 Feb

I yelled at my car radio today.  I yelled right in its face.  I even went to honk my horn until logic kicked in and I realized that doing so was even less effective than screaming at it.

Nothing in this world makes me want to tear off my skin, pick up a shovel, and beat the tar out of someone quite like blatant displays of ignorance.   Far worse is the crime when it’s done in mass media.

Local radio  is the worst.

If someone wants to post some undeveloped, overly confident thought through a media outlet online, that post is subject to a great deal of public criticism.  I have the ability to repost it with mockery attached, comment on it, or to even contact the writer and give them a piece of my mind.

If someone wants to state something similarly moronic on television, it’s heard around the world and not only will it damage the network’s ratings and credibility (Fox News, anyone?), but it will also be fodder for late night television hosts for weeks to come.

However.  If a local radio show gets some hot shot in the seat who thinks they understand the way the world and people work and wants to use the microphone as a soapbox for his personal (and might I say infantile) opinion, it is just not as easy as I would prefer to hold that moron accountable for the uneducated poo he spews all over society.

My peeve of the moment is with a local radio station, which featured a talk show host who was discussing the concept of the right to life.  His argument was essentially that those who dwell in the world solely with the purpose of extinguishing others should not be awarded the right to life.  And though I think there are a few misguided principles imbedded within that perspective, I respect where he was coming from.

Until he kept talking and I realized the context in which he was speaking: The Christian / Muslim debate.

Ugh I hate the Christian / Muslim debate.  I shouldn’t say hate.  Hate is a strong word.  I strongly dislike the Christian / Muslim debate because it’s usually being had by some extremist Christian who doesn’t actually have any concept of Islam.

This was the case inside the intangible world of my car radio.

Unfortunately, this gentleman was questioning the basic right of life in the case of Muslims based on the fact that all Muslims want to kill us.  They want to kill us all until we’re dead and eat our babies and bomb our playgrounds and things.

And try as I might, all the screaming I could do was not enough to make him stop spewing his uneducated poo all over the radio.  People could actually hear what he was saying. People heard him!  Heaven forbid he actually might have swayed someone to his perspective.  The idea of that really keeps me up at night.   Somewhere out there is someone who isn’t very bright and is very easily swayed by entities that are seemingly well-informed and reputable.  And somewhere out there, that person might have just turned his ignorant little heart against any practicing Muslim he meets in the future.

Muslims who set out in their lives solely to kill Christians are a lot like, I don’t know – “Christians” who try to sell magical vials of holy water in infomercials.   Just because a portion of a population with a labeled identity do a certain thing does not mean it informs the identity of the group as a whole.   To make a sweeping statement as violent as the concept of not having a right to life and apply it to the entire population within that belief system is a sort of ignorance that really just gets up my butt, makes nest, and keeps me in a downright foul mood.

So I screamed at my car radio.  Because there was no dislike button, no comment section, no reposting, and no ability to publicly mock  him.    And since I was unable to call in and give him a piece of my mind (because after all, I’m driving), I felt helpless to save easily-swayed minds from his moronic grasp.

So here’s to you, idiotic radio shot host: may you be blessed to have an experience with a peaceful, practicing Muslim (shouldn’t be hard since they make up 1/5 of the world population) who makes you feel like a complete imbecile for your poo spewing.

And when you do, please air a narrative of your enlightenment. ♣

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A Series of Unfortunate Events: An Interview Tale

17 Feb

Job interview

I almost walked out on an interview yesterday.

Believe me that when I say “almost,”  I’m referring to the necessity for me to calm my nerves and firey rage and remind myself that I am a child of God and that He loves me and doesn’t want me to morph into a tornado of fury.

Allow me to gently caress your brain up to speed.

A few days ago, I received a phone call from a friend/colleague of mine from the other universe in which I dwell : theater and film.   Let’s call him Fink.  He works for a production company and mentioned to me that they were hiring producers and were specifically looking for females or homosexuals.

I happen to be the former, but after a bit more prodding, he revealed that it was most likely temporary and during the day, so I told him I wasn’t interested, had a day job, and was thankful for the call.    5 minutes later, he sent me an email telling me that he was going to put in my name anyway.

This is how it began.

By the time I got home from work, I got a phone call asking me if I was interested in coming in to interview with Fink’s company.   I can’t help but take a moment to note that this receptionist did not give me an address, the position they were hiring for, parking or arrival instructions, or any other pertinent details.   I blame my failure to notice this on a) the fact that I already knew where Fink worked and didn’t think to ask, b) It was something like 5:17 and my brain had already turned off and c) because I take for granted that people are competent in the roles assigned to them.

Isn’t this just one big mistake parade?  This is fun.  We should do this more often.

Over the next few days, I was a big blob of confusion and panic.  I was out of my element and had no experience whatsoever in the field.  I wanted to cancel the interview, but didn’t want to make Fink look bad, and didn’t want to burn a bridge with the company.  In addition, every single person I talked to told me to go and just use it as an opportunity to just meet them.  Tell the truth they said.  Interview THEM! they said. At least it’ll be good blog fodder they said.

Actually, that last one was me, and it’s becoming quite a hindrance to my decision-making skills.

So I went.  The front of the building had a key pad and a locked door, which was not discussed in my call with the receptionist.  Luckily, I was let in by an employee who was also stuck outside.

After being led to a conference room with 3 interviewers, I am given absolutely no new information.  I am simply asked what I’m looking for there today.

I explained that neither Fink nor the receptionist gave much detail so I just know I’m here on a referral and that they’re looking to hire for a position.

After I opened the floor for explanation, there was silence.  Absolute, stone-cold silence.

So I decided to hand them the resumes I prepared for such an occasion – the first my work resume and the second my “production” resume, which was really just a resume with 1 film, and a ton of theater credits.   (Read: absolutely unrelated).

I told them my story, and explained in what I would like to think was a genuine, friendly, and lighthearted manner the situation in which I found myself at their office, noting again that I still wasn’t sure what they were looking for but that I thought it would be silly to not come in just to meet them and see why they called.

My implied question was again unanswered.  Instead, I was asked where I saw myself in 3-5 years.

After realizing that I had absolutely nothing to do with anything, all three got up and left, two of which left my resume on the table.

Which is no small gesture.

On their way out, they mentioned something about someone else potentially stopping in.   I wasn’t sure what that meant, so I sat and stared at the resumes returned to me, and decided to gather my things.

And then Smee came in.   I made a comment that I was abandoned.  Smee said it was 5pm and what did I expect.   I wanted to tell Smee to go put something somewhere uncomfortable or get a receptionist that’s competent enough to not schedule me if I can’t be seen, but I didn’t.  That’s when Smee asked me to tell him why I was there.  I told him he missed that speech already.

He was not amused.

That’s when I thought hey.. whatever.  Let’s do this.  A few short days ago i was trying to sexily hang by my ankles from a pole – I can handle this. So I did the shpeal again, gave him one of the returned resumes, and ended it with jazz hands.    That’s when he asked what I thought they did there.  I said that Fink mentioned commercials.

Smee went out of his way to assure me that commercials were only 10% of what they did.  And that they actually did marketing and recruitment videos and that I could have gotten online and checked out their stuff.  Smee made sure to let me know that I didn’t do my research (using those exact words, actually) and that maybe after I did, I could come back and let them know I did and maybe if they’re hiring interns sometime, I could work my way up to something after slinging coffee for a few years.

This is when the tornado of fury started gathering momentum.

I’m not sure why these people were all not under the understanding that they called me. I’m not sure why every single one of them failed to mention what the position they were hiring was.

Smee said some off-handed comment about how he didn’t really know what they were looking for, but probably something more like production and squeezed in that note about doing my research on the company again.  And then said he guessed he was the last to see me and have a good evening.

So I went to the elevator, absolutely enraged.    Every little BOOP!! that it spit at me on the way down tapped on the too-thin layer separating my body from completely being consumed by angry hellfire.

I skipped lunch to make it to this interview.  I decided to be fearless and turn it  into a meeting opportunity.   I thought that maybe I should just stop being a cynic and just show up and see what happens.   That for once in my life, I should just relax and not prep for 5 hours, especially when I did not seek this opportunity on my own.    I went out against my own cynical nature and thought that maybe there was a hidden prize in all this nonsense.

I’ll tell you what: there is a prize.  It’s a big fat whack in themetaphorical testicles and a good healthy dose of degradation.

Turns out cynicism has its perks. ♣

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Stop Sucking: A Brief Guide to Hiding Your Incompetency in the Workplace

16 Feb

Dilbert.com

If one more person at work asks me if the email address I am giving them is in “uppercase or lowercase” I will put down the phone, walk to their place of business, smack them across the face, and then report their blatant incompetence to whomever is their immediate manager.

In fact, this repeated incident along with a myriad of other office snafus worthy of a good handspanking has inspired me to compile a list.  It’s called

“Stop Sucking: A Brief Guide to Hiding Your Incompetency in the Workplace”

1.) Your signature line is not a carnival. There are few things that can damage your credibility as a professional more quickly than a long, annoying signature line.  There is no need to include a favorite quotation, a customized background, a large, brightly colored font, buttons with links, a disclaimer or confidentiality notice, and pictures of things that make you smile.   Every time that email is forwarded or replied to, all of those things come with it.  It’s long, and it’s annoying.  So just stick to your contact information and titles and anything required by your company.  The more concise, the better.

2.) Before you forward an email to someone, review its contents. This also counts for hitting “reply” and changing the recipient.  I once received an email from the assistant to a very distinguished woman in the community inquiring as to the instructions for her arrival at an event that evening.  After scrolling down to see which event he was referring to, I saw the email from his boss that prompted him to email me, asking him to inquire because she “didn’t want no crap at the door.”  Protect your colleagues and protect yourself – read, edit, then forward.

3.) Bcc and Cc: Know the power, know the difference. It seems simple, but it is a common mistake.  Cc stands for Carbon Copy and is intended for those whom you want to be aware of information, but who are not required to take any action on it.  These persons will be visible to anyone who receives the message.  Bcc means Blind Carbon Copy, and will result in those persons receiving the message without anyone being able to see that you shared it with them.  Carbon Copy is a great way to keep assistants informed on things that you are sending to the person whom they support; Blind Carbon Copy is a great way to get people in trouble.

4.) Seriously.  Understand the power of Bcc. If you have an enormous distribution list for an email, do everyone a favor and stick the recipients in the Bcc line.  Doing so will eliminate that 50-line-long chunk of text that prefaces your message.  In addition, it will protect others from copying and pasting those emails into their own contacts.   If you are still confused about how this works and want to start to reestablish your credibility as a non-moron, do yourself and everyone you email a favor and check out this explanation.

5.) If you’re going to be out of office, put up a freaking message saying so. We all understand that there is a world outside the corporate jungle with children and trees and puppies and sprinkles and that sometimes you’re going to want to bust out and explore that magical land.  When you finally do, do others the courtesy of listed an Out of Office reply, so that they are made aware of your absence, your return date, and any contacts you can provide for questions requiring an immediate response.

6.) Learn how to leave a voicemail. Absolutely nothing should come out of your mouth before list your name, your position and company, and a number at which you can be reached.  I repeat – Absolutely nothing should come out of your mouth before you list your name, your position and company, and a number at which you can be reached. Doing so will save the other person from listening to 3 minutes of your flustered gobbledygook over and over until they are sure the number they wrote is correct.

7.) Master phone number rhythm. 1-2-3/ 4-5-6 / 7-8-9-10.  If you have any confusion about this whatsoever, please refer to this 3-minute tutorial provided by Kevin James.  He also covers my peeve in number 6.

8.) Do not answer the phone for your place of business with “Hello?” When you order pizza, you expect to hear a confirmation of the business name when you order.  Or a thank you for calling them.  Or perhaps even the name of the person to whom you are speaking.  I suggest working all three into one.  An efficient, concise greeting like “Thank you for calling ______, this is ________; how may I help you?”  In addition, allow me to add that unless you are prepared to answer your cell phone in a similar fashion, you should not have it associated with your place of business either.

9.) Dont be a grumplepuss. People can hear whether or not you are smiling on the phone and they can read tone in an email.  They may not always be accurate, but that will never matter.  What will matter is that you have made them grumpy and defensive and that in the close quartered corporate jungle, that grumpiness is likely to reverberate with anyone they meet throughout the day.  So be nice.  Fake it if you have to.  Because I don’t want your grumplepuss ‘tude.

and finally…

10.) Don’t ask if an email someone is giving you is in uppercase or lowercase. It doesn’t matter.  And if you don’t believe me, please send yourself an email with “I’m an idiot” in the subject line – once to your “correct” email and once to your correct email with a letter capitalized.  Enjoy your double affirmation.   ♣


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My Pole Name is Jasper Highland

15 Feb

Ladies and Gentlemen, Happy Pole-Dancing Lollipop Tuesday.

What? Pole Dancing!?

Yeah, I thought if I just threw it in there unexpectedly it wouldn’t hurt so bad.  Are you all right?

In order to understand how incredibly awkward an experience this was for me, you have to first understand that I, Jackie, am not a sexual being.   Perhaps somewhere deep, deep within me, there is a ferocious, sexy monster just waiting to be unleashed from years of pent-up frustration.

And if you look real hard in that same place, you might also find a unicorn.

So suffice it to say that when I answered the phone with a proposition on the other end that I join a group of ladies for a birthday party at a pole-dancing lesson and I actually said yes, I was instantly paralyzed with fear.

Paralyzed.  With.  Fear.

The problem is that there are two different Jackies at work here.    There is the first Jackie – the hermit, the antisocial, the I-refuse-to-change-because-I-don’t-like-the-smell-of-it Jackie.  The one who would never, ever even consider something like pole-dancing.  And then there is the other Jackie, who knows that it’s good for the first one to get out and try new things.

So one day the “other Jackie” was like hey! I know! I’ll start a 365 blog!! And every single Tuesday of every single week, I’ll do something that’s foreign and uncomfortable to me.  And maybe after a whole year, I’ll be a more open, more fearless person!!

And quite frankly, if the first Jackie could go back in time, she would strangle the living daylights out of the second Jackie.  Because thanks to her, I found myself in the dark with a group of eager, scantily clad women and a couple of poles.   And an overbearing drill instructor with 7 inch platforms.

I should note here that I was not scantily clad.

I was not scantily clad because when you’re someone who doesn’t try new things, you are always sure to look up said new thing on the Interwebz before the actual attempt.  And it was there, on the magical Interwebz, that I found the class website, which suggested an attire of “Workout clothes and bare feet.”

For future reference, if you are ever going to take a pole-dancing lesson, do not, I repeat do not listen to the website.  You want to look like the sluttiest little slut in all the land.  In fact, if you can find a slutty little crown that says those exact words on it, buy it immediately.  Because when you’re in the dark with a strobe light and a pole, those little slut accessories are all you have to help you muster all your sexual prowess to avoid looking like a complete sexless imbecile.

My t-shirt and basketball shorts weren’t sexy.   And though I had bare feet, I was instructed to walk as if I had heels on so logic dictates that I should have just worn heels.   And after a while, I was told that if I was going to spin properly, I had to hike my shorts up as high as I could.

So you can either hike and pull everything so tiny that you look like a hooker, or you can just show up looking like a hooker.  I suggest the latter – it’s much more efficient.

The first thing she made us do was get in a line and do our “sexy walk” in front of the class.   Then there was some Sir Mix-A-Lot and something about a booty shaking butt contest.  And then there was some walking and spinning around poles and things.

Forgive me if my memory is just a bit fuzzy, but you have to understand that I was so opposed to this experience that my mind literally blocked it out as it was happening.  I do remember that somewhere in the middle she had us put our forehead at the bottom of the pole and thrust our legs up and backward to link around it and land in a headstand.  But after watching me struggle to hook the pole with my foot, she came over to give me a hand – which I, in turn, hooked around in a flurry of confusion and fear and squeezed tightly between my foot and the pole until she yelled for me to let go.

I’ll bet that was hot.

It took me a while to realize she was yelling at me because, well, she was always yelling at me.   I tried to tell her that once, but she labeled me as a problem student and tried to mock me in front of the class.

It’s hard to feel mocked by someone in spanx and 7 inch platform boots, but I admired the attempt.

She won in the end – because I’m second-day sore in places I didn’t know I had muscles to squeeze.   My legs haven’t been this bruised since I was a tomboy in elementary school and lifting my toothbrush this morning was truly a remarkable feat.

So here’s to new experiences, I guess.

Man, growing hurts. ♣

pole-bruise-map

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Crazy Girl Taco

14 Feb

I think the world knows I’m trying to lose weight and is in full support.

I’m not sure if this is a good thing for me or if I should be offended that the world thinks I’m so overweight that it needs to aid my success.

All I know is that yesterday I took a trip to my favorite ice cream parlor in the city – gelato, to be exact – only to find it out of business.   Out of business! I went across town just for a tiny little cup of homemade double chocolate award-winning gelato and I came back empty.

The look of absolute despair was so evident on my face that a passerby stopped to tell me she understood and had the same reaction.  Turns out the landlord was a jerk or something and even though they had great business, they decided to close their doors.  Rumor is they may open elsewhere, but there was no evidence on the shop window.   Just a sign that said:

“Coming Soon:  Chica Loca Taco!”

Chica Loca Taco?  It’s been a while since Spanish 4, but I’m pretty certain that means crazy girl taco and without a logo or any appropriate signage, I have no way to know if this is going to be a food joint or a … scantily clad ladies joint.

I’m sorry to go there, but it’s true.

And to complicate matters even more, the page they put up on Facebook to keep locals informed of its grand opening features this picture:

 

Chica Loca taco

This is no recompense for taking my delicious, award-winning gelato.  You can’t take something wholesome like a local business with homemade ice cream and replace it with a taco joint  (which kind, we don’t know) that features a fully-costumed female skeleton as its pictorial respresentation.

My stomach is empty, my heart saddened, and my brain confused.

If this is what the world must do to lead me to success in weight loss, so be it.    But if I go to Jimmy John’s tomorrow and it’s replaced with a confusing phrase in a foreign tongue and some nonsensical picture like Christopher Columbus wrestling an alligator, I will rage. ♣

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My Nest of Rebellion

13 Feb

Yesterday I rebelled against adulthood.

Perched on the couch with a delivery pizza and a 2-liter bottle of soda, I slowly whittled away at the last season of Arrested Development.  …and the entire 2-liter bottle of soda.

It’s not my fault that they changed the 2-liter bottles to look just like the 1-liter bottles.   My eyes deceive me.

In an attempt to squelch the voice of reason and responsibility within me, I rose from my cocoon of worthlessness every 2 hours to accomplish something – like clean a dish.   It was a cheap trick, but it worked.  By the time Dave arrived to the apartment, I had managed to clean the entire house and tend to a few of my to-dos.  And watch the entire last season of Arrested Development from beginning to end.

My day-long celebration of laziness was not the peak of my rebellion, however.  That’s actually just something I do on a regular basis when released from the dungeon of the corporate jungle.  My true rebellion was in its planning stages as soon as Dave got home from rehearsal at about 11:45pm  At that moment, he sat down on the couch and one of us made the suggestion to start a movie.  Which wouldnt have been a terrible decision in itself, but then after the movie, we stayed up and talked.

And then somehow, without warning, it was 3:30 in the morning.

3:30 in the morning! I can’t just go around staying up until 3:30 inthe morning! I’m a respectable adult and have work Monday and I can’t just go around messing with my sleep schedule because it will make me miserable and ineffective for the rest of the week and I will have to deal with fighting my boycott of Starbucks every single afternoon while my head nods off to dreamland.

But I don’t like being an adult.  And I don’t like restrictions.  And I don’t like work.

The dangerous thing is that Dave doesn’t either.  So if I’m not feeling responsible and he’s not feeling responsible, then it will be 3:30 in the morning and he’ll say something like “Do you want to stay up and watch the sunrise?”

And I will say yes and ask him if he wants to watch another movie.

And in this way, my small window of a weekend turned into a rather large escape from reality.   I am huddling there still in its warmth.

And here I might just stay. ♣

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I’m Just Not Getting It

12 Feb

I think there is a problem with the way I see things.

There are a multitude of examples of things that I just didn’t get the first time around.    It hit me last week in the midst of what I called “adult grilled cheese and tomato soup.”  Which basically just meant that it was the kid version, but with fresh-baked bread the size of my face and organic tomato soup from a fancy carton, not a can.

It’s my way of justifying a ridiculous dinner.

I was saying something exclamatory about the size of the bread in the cheese sandwich when Dave mentioned how he grew up on tomato soup with spaghettios.

And my brain did this thing it does when something is not what I had always believed.  It’s a bit of a jolt, followed by a swift heap of rejection.

“Spaghettios is not made with tomato soup!!” I exclaimed, unable to stop my mouth from spewing 25 years of ignorance.   Dave, in his signature calm challenged, “What’s it made with, Jackie?”

“Marinar…..a    …no.  No, it’s not made with marinara sauce.  WHY DID MY BRAIN RETAIN THE CONCEPT OF MARINARA SAUCE WHEN IT IS CLEARLY NOT MARINARA SAUCE?”

It was the meatballs that threw me off, you see.  Meatballs + red sauce = meatballs in marinara sauce.

This is a too-common occurrence: I think something is a certain way and store it as such until proven otherwise.  Examples:

As you already know from a previous post, the day I found out that Washington D.C. isn’t in Washington State.

Or the day I was watching a Kay Jewelers commercial on T.V. and said “Oh – it’s like a kiss begins with Kay Jewelers jewelry, and the word kiss literally begins with a “k”.  That’s clever!”  My brother sat across the room, miffed that I had just now put together the pieces from an ad campaign that was several years past its conception.

Or the day that I finally gave up and asked my mom (a lifelong postal service employee) what the United States Postal Service logo was supposed to be.  “It’s an eagle, Jackie.  What do you think it is?”

For your information, I thought it was a man in a fashionable hat.

(he's in left profile)

I have had a multitude of startling experiences just like these with song lyrics I thought I knew my whole life, logos my brain never interpreted correctly, and general world facts that didn’t sink in.  It makes me incredibly uneasy to think of what my next realization might be.  Right now, as I type this, I harbor a gross misunderstanding about something the rest of society easily grasped the first time around.  I like to think that it means I’m creative.  I’d like to get all metaphorical on you and talk about the deeper meaning behind the way I see the world.  But the truth is,
 

sometimes I just don’t get it. ♣

 

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Dog Wonder, the Office Assistant

10 Feb

Today I witnessed something truly amazing.

I went to the mail room in an attempt to snag my boss’s mail before someone on my floor could go get it, give it to me, and act like I never check the mail (which is how things typically pan out).  While there, I was greeted my a woman in a wheelchair who seemed to have difficulty using her arms for some physical reason or other.  She had a dog beside her, who was wearing a very fashionable vest stating his position as her assistant.

She was lovely and let me pet him (dogs are always a “him” until it’s proven otherwise) and given my absolute need to have interaction with dogs every once in a while, I was convinced that this petting session was the highlight of my day.

Until.

Until the amazing dog in the amazing dog vest was told to “get the mail.”  He then reached up, stuck his front paws on the ledge of the shelving unit and proceeded to dig the mail out of her slot with one paw.  Once it had reached the edge, he gingerly bit down on it with his mouth, pulled it out, and brought it down to the woman in the wheelchair.

I stood there, jaw hanging open, and said “that’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She smiled and continued to the elevator as I stood there wondering if it was insensitive of me to compliment her assistant dog.   I’m not really sure what etiquette dictates when one witnesses something extraordinary performed only out of necessity for a disabled person.   We’ve somehow reached a time where instead of acknowledging people’s differences and celebrating them, we’re quietly urged by society to pretend differences don’t exist.

I think a superhero dog is cause for celebration.

Was I suppose to pretend that I didn’t just see him perform a breathtaking act of accuracy and dexterity?  Because I did, and it was.

Of course, after a mere elevator ride’s time back up to my floor, I had dismissed my social etiquette conundrum to make room in my brain for the master plan I had for a fleet of capable hounds, trained and ready to do my bidding.

What would my bidding be? What are they capable of?  Is this the secret to my taking over the world?

But then I remembered Up, and how those talking dogs annoyed the hell out of me, and how the old guy with a herd of them didn’t win in the end.

Back to the drawing board, I suppose. ♣

Hey! You still have until tonight at midnight to submit an idea for Lollipop Tuesday and win a free t-shirt!  If you missed the details, you can check them out at the bottom half of this post.

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