No, I don't suddenly have a daughter. This is a guest post from my friend, Blay. Last time we heard from her she was making inappropriate holiday dinner conversation via her baby's monitor. Now that baby is talking on her own! (I can't believe it. But I am glad to see the direction in which her education is being steered.)
Little story from yesterday:
I took Annabella to the mall and this older lady (probably in her 70s) stopped to talk to her. She was saying things like “you’re too little to be walking,” “oh, you must have baby dolls the same size as you.” and “you’re just a little baby doll yourself.” All the while, Annabella was politely smiling at her and replying with “hi,” and “baby doll!” when she heard the woman say baby doll. So, then the lady says “well, have a nice day, bye bye!” to which Annabella replied “bye, yoda! Bye-bye yoda! BYE YODA!” she kept saying bye yoda louder and louder since the woman wasn’t really responding after that and I was mortified! (and also trying my best not to laugh) I don’t think the woman understood what she was saying but it was clear as day to me! After we went around the corner, I was tearing up with laughter because I guess the lady did kind of look like yoda with a big nose and big ears. Argh – YODA!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
why I don't tell my mother anything
Once upon a time not so many years ago, Dolly and I were living in our swingin' bachelorette pad together, when we had a conversation about our extreme difference in one opinion: when and what we would tell our parents regarding boys.
You see Dolly and I had both started dating (different) guys at the same time, and Dolly did not understand why I wouldn't tell my parents about each and every time I would see mine. In fact, months into it, they knew nothing about him at all. Dolly's philosophy, on the other hand, went like this: "Every time I have a date I call my parents and make an announcement so that they don't think I'm a lesbian!"
You see, Dolly's dad had once sat her down and had a talk with her about her singleness. It seemed he thought that because she had never had a boyfriend (she used to refer to herself as "the three date wonder", that she must be gay. I think this was a slightly traumatic conversation for Dolly.)
And now let me give you an example of why I think it's best not to give my mom too much to think about:
This past Sunday afternoon I went over to my parents house, and when my mom asked me what I had been doing, I ignored my instinct and answered her honestly, "I just had lunch with my friend, Hermes*."
Upon hearing a new male name, my mom's head whips all the way around, and she stares at me, with her eyebrows up so high they seem to be attempting to climb off her forehead.
"Oh?", she says, "Who's that?"
"He's a friend. I've known him for a while. I've just gotten to know him better lately."
And this is all she needs to launch into the dozens of questions I was hoping to avoid. She fires them off one after the other, and as my brother would say about shopping at the GAP, it sucks the life out of me.
Among these questions (in addition to many others) are: What does he do? (he's in school) What for? (getting a masters in Divinity) and What does he intend on doing with that? (He's considering becoming an Episcopal priest. yeah, go ahead, Splanny, laugh.)
When I give this last answer, she puts her head in her hands and looks like she's suffering from great pain.
"Oh, Jennifer.." she mumbles through the pain.
"What?"
"I guess that's ok.... it's just that the ministry is a tough life."
Did I say that it is my life? No. Did I say that I am about to elope with a future minister? Noo. Did I say he was my boyfriend? That we were on a date? No and no.
So from there she talks for a few minutes about her day, and just when I think that maybe I'm safe (but only for a while - I'm not so foolish to think there won't be a follow up), she sighs and says,
(with heavy-hearted southern accent)
"You know, I had a cousin who married an Episcopal priest. He had an affair with one of his parishioners. (heavy pause.) She's all alone now."
And THAT is why I keep my silence. Can you blame me?
She knows I have a couple of weddings coming up, and tonight she tried to casually ask me if I was bringing a date. Actually, it wasn't so casual. I told her I had gone to buy make-up after work, and she pointedly asked me how soon a wedding was and if I was bringing a date. I think when I said "I bought make-up" (I was replacing powder) she heard, "I just got a makeover and a new wardrobe is next - I have a future priest to seduce!"
*Hermes is not actually his name of course, but it is one he chose from myself. While he hasn't actually seen the blog (If I told everyone, how would I write about them?) he does know it exists, thanks to someone I will call... let's see... what would a good name for him be... Devil Man. (You know who you are.) Anyway, he had the best reaction possible when he said, "What's my code name going to be? I like either Hermes or Fabio." And Fabio's just not my type.
(And mom, if you are reading this, I put in that last part just to make you worry more - stop it! Also, would you read my diary if you found it sitting out? For shame!)
You see Dolly and I had both started dating (different) guys at the same time, and Dolly did not understand why I wouldn't tell my parents about each and every time I would see mine. In fact, months into it, they knew nothing about him at all. Dolly's philosophy, on the other hand, went like this: "Every time I have a date I call my parents and make an announcement so that they don't think I'm a lesbian!"
You see, Dolly's dad had once sat her down and had a talk with her about her singleness. It seemed he thought that because she had never had a boyfriend (she used to refer to herself as "the three date wonder", that she must be gay. I think this was a slightly traumatic conversation for Dolly.)
And now let me give you an example of why I think it's best not to give my mom too much to think about:
This past Sunday afternoon I went over to my parents house, and when my mom asked me what I had been doing, I ignored my instinct and answered her honestly, "I just had lunch with my friend, Hermes*."
Upon hearing a new male name, my mom's head whips all the way around, and she stares at me, with her eyebrows up so high they seem to be attempting to climb off her forehead.
"Oh?", she says, "Who's that?"
"He's a friend. I've known him for a while. I've just gotten to know him better lately."
And this is all she needs to launch into the dozens of questions I was hoping to avoid. She fires them off one after the other, and as my brother would say about shopping at the GAP, it sucks the life out of me.
Among these questions (in addition to many others) are: What does he do? (he's in school) What for? (getting a masters in Divinity) and What does he intend on doing with that? (He's considering becoming an Episcopal priest. yeah, go ahead, Splanny, laugh.)
When I give this last answer, she puts her head in her hands and looks like she's suffering from great pain.
"Oh, Jennifer.." she mumbles through the pain.
"What?"
"I guess that's ok.... it's just that the ministry is a tough life."
Did I say that it is my life? No. Did I say that I am about to elope with a future minister? Noo. Did I say he was my boyfriend? That we were on a date? No and no.
So from there she talks for a few minutes about her day, and just when I think that maybe I'm safe (but only for a while - I'm not so foolish to think there won't be a follow up), she sighs and says,
(with heavy-hearted southern accent)
"You know, I had a cousin who married an Episcopal priest. He had an affair with one of his parishioners. (heavy pause.) She's all alone now."
And THAT is why I keep my silence. Can you blame me?
She knows I have a couple of weddings coming up, and tonight she tried to casually ask me if I was bringing a date. Actually, it wasn't so casual. I told her I had gone to buy make-up after work, and she pointedly asked me how soon a wedding was and if I was bringing a date. I think when I said "I bought make-up" (I was replacing powder) she heard, "I just got a makeover and a new wardrobe is next - I have a future priest to seduce!"
*Hermes is not actually his name of course, but it is one he chose from myself. While he hasn't actually seen the blog (If I told everyone, how would I write about them?) he does know it exists, thanks to someone I will call... let's see... what would a good name for him be... Devil Man. (You know who you are.) Anyway, he had the best reaction possible when he said, "What's my code name going to be? I like either Hermes or Fabio." And Fabio's just not my type.
(And mom, if you are reading this, I put in that last part just to make you worry more - stop it! Also, would you read my diary if you found it sitting out? For shame!)
Thursday, September 18, 2008
how to not make a good first impression at work
Marc's comment on my last post got me thinking about the old days when he and I worked together. It was our first job out of college, an abrupt awakening to the real world, and those of us that started together formed a bond that comes from working many, many long hours together. ah, not so good times.
Somehow, my thoughts strayed to this one particular coworker, Toby. (His name wasn't really Toby, but he kind of looked like he should have been a Toby.) Once we finished our first year at the firm, a new crop of bright-eyed newly graduated employees came in. As people who had been molded and hammered down into the image of the firm for the past year, we were each assigned a new person to share an office with. You know, so we could keep an eye on them and make sure they were also on their way to fitting the mold.
I was lucky enough to be assigned Toby.
Toby's problem was that he couldn't stop talking. And I had work to do, people. It wasn't like at the lab, where I could spend hours at a time finding ways to amuse myself. Here, I would be trying to keep my nose to the grindstone (you know, literally not look up, because the work was never ending and in speedy demand)and Toby would sit across me me and drone on and on and on. About nothing. I mean, really nothing. And he wasn't content to just talk to himself, he wanted a response from me. I really can't convey to you how frustrating this was - I couldn't convey it to my coworkers at the time, either. I mean, sure, they understood Toby wasn't exactly a social smoothy, and they got that he talked a lot. But did they get the kinds of things he talked about and the length of time he talked about them? No. And that is why I had to do what I did. I would call Marc, two offices down, on the speaker phone. He would answer silently on the speaker phone. And then all three of us (Marc had an office mate, too) would listen to Toby talk. And then finally, at last, they understood.
Here's an example:
"Hey Jennifer. What if one day you woke up and your thumb was on the other side of your hand??!!! What if that happened, Jennifer? What if you woke up and your thumb was on the other side of your hand?! Wouldn't that be weird? If your thumb was on the other side of your hand? Hey Jennifer! Jenn! Look! Look - I'm showing what it would be like if your thumb was on the other side of your hand! How would you write?? Wouldn't that be weird? Wouldn't it? Hey Jenn, wouldn't it? Jenn? Jenn?"
and so on for the next 45 minutes. I do not exaggerate.
Now, this all happened a bit after Toby technically started, because for about the first month or so, they sent him out traveling. So the poor kid had started his job, but knew none of us at the office. But he was brought back in town for our annual firm retreat, and that's where the fun begins. When we all really got to know Toby.
Maybe Toby was nervous. That would be understandable. And maybe that's why he chose to get really really drunk at the lake with his new coworkers - who were meeting him for the first time. And then he told the same joke over and over again - which was really only calling us all by our email addresses, since that was how he knew us. Ok, new drunk man, we get it. Ok. And then he drank more, and got ridiculous, and I think I kind of remember him running out the door.
Well, later on that night, my friend Kathy was ready to go to sleep. But Kathy was sleeping in "the party house" - meaning the house where all the food and drinks were kept (we were all in a bunch of big nice houses on a lake in the mountains - that part was nice), so it was not as quiet as she would have liked for it to have been. So Kathy went on a mission to clear out that house and get herself to bed. And it was almost easy... It seemed that everyone was gone - yes, there were a few skinny-dippers out back, but as long as they stayed out, she was ok. One little peek into her bathroom and then she would be going to bed. But instead of the peace she was looking for, all Kathy found in that bathroom was Toby, pants down, passed out, on toilet. After having used the toilet, because man, that room stank.
But Kathy knew how to take charge of a situation (she was the office manager for a reason) and immediately began to yell, as louldly as possible, "JON CHARETTE! JON CHARETTE!!" Then, running to the back door, flinging it open, and screaming again, "JON CHARETTE!!!!"
(I changed Toby's nake to protect his identiy, but Jon Charette's is real, because I have nothing bad to say about Jon Charette. And if he should google himself and find this, then, hi Jon! What are you up to these days? Remember when I interviewed you at Georgetown and I called you Jean Sharé? All those people before you with the difficult names in your international business program - it was their fault.)
Poor, poor Jon was our intern, and the nicest guy ever. Kathy took advantage of her authority (yes, Kathy, you know you did!" and ordered
our intern to take away a strange, stinking, pants-less man. And Jon did. Because again, he was that nice.
I don't think Kathy cared where he put Toby, as long as he was out of her house. Yes, in fact, I think I remember her yelling something about "out of my house!" now that I think about it...
I'm sure he made it to some shelter, though. Our intern wouldn't have left him exposed outside. After all, I picked out our intern, so he must have been good, right?
And that was how Toby introduced himself to his new office.
I think he lasted less than a year. Farewell, Toby. I really really hope that none of us ever have to go through that again.
Somehow, my thoughts strayed to this one particular coworker, Toby. (His name wasn't really Toby, but he kind of looked like he should have been a Toby.) Once we finished our first year at the firm, a new crop of bright-eyed newly graduated employees came in. As people who had been molded and hammered down into the image of the firm for the past year, we were each assigned a new person to share an office with. You know, so we could keep an eye on them and make sure they were also on their way to fitting the mold.
I was lucky enough to be assigned Toby.
Toby's problem was that he couldn't stop talking. And I had work to do, people. It wasn't like at the lab, where I could spend hours at a time finding ways to amuse myself. Here, I would be trying to keep my nose to the grindstone (you know, literally not look up, because the work was never ending and in speedy demand)and Toby would sit across me me and drone on and on and on. About nothing. I mean, really nothing. And he wasn't content to just talk to himself, he wanted a response from me. I really can't convey to you how frustrating this was - I couldn't convey it to my coworkers at the time, either. I mean, sure, they understood Toby wasn't exactly a social smoothy, and they got that he talked a lot. But did they get the kinds of things he talked about and the length of time he talked about them? No. And that is why I had to do what I did. I would call Marc, two offices down, on the speaker phone. He would answer silently on the speaker phone. And then all three of us (Marc had an office mate, too) would listen to Toby talk. And then finally, at last, they understood.
Here's an example:
"Hey Jennifer. What if one day you woke up and your thumb was on the other side of your hand??!!! What if that happened, Jennifer? What if you woke up and your thumb was on the other side of your hand?! Wouldn't that be weird? If your thumb was on the other side of your hand? Hey Jennifer! Jenn! Look! Look - I'm showing what it would be like if your thumb was on the other side of your hand! How would you write?? Wouldn't that be weird? Wouldn't it? Hey Jenn, wouldn't it? Jenn? Jenn?"
and so on for the next 45 minutes. I do not exaggerate.
Now, this all happened a bit after Toby technically started, because for about the first month or so, they sent him out traveling. So the poor kid had started his job, but knew none of us at the office. But he was brought back in town for our annual firm retreat, and that's where the fun begins. When we all really got to know Toby.
Maybe Toby was nervous. That would be understandable. And maybe that's why he chose to get really really drunk at the lake with his new coworkers - who were meeting him for the first time. And then he told the same joke over and over again - which was really only calling us all by our email addresses, since that was how he knew us. Ok, new drunk man, we get it. Ok. And then he drank more, and got ridiculous, and I think I kind of remember him running out the door.
Well, later on that night, my friend Kathy was ready to go to sleep. But Kathy was sleeping in "the party house" - meaning the house where all the food and drinks were kept (we were all in a bunch of big nice houses on a lake in the mountains - that part was nice), so it was not as quiet as she would have liked for it to have been. So Kathy went on a mission to clear out that house and get herself to bed. And it was almost easy... It seemed that everyone was gone - yes, there were a few skinny-dippers out back, but as long as they stayed out, she was ok. One little peek into her bathroom and then she would be going to bed. But instead of the peace she was looking for, all Kathy found in that bathroom was Toby, pants down, passed out, on toilet. After having used the toilet, because man, that room stank.
But Kathy knew how to take charge of a situation (she was the office manager for a reason) and immediately began to yell, as louldly as possible, "JON CHARETTE! JON CHARETTE!!" Then, running to the back door, flinging it open, and screaming again, "JON CHARETTE!!!!"
(I changed Toby's nake to protect his identiy, but Jon Charette's is real, because I have nothing bad to say about Jon Charette. And if he should google himself and find this, then, hi Jon! What are you up to these days? Remember when I interviewed you at Georgetown and I called you Jean Sharé? All those people before you with the difficult names in your international business program - it was their fault.)
Poor, poor Jon was our intern, and the nicest guy ever. Kathy took advantage of her authority (yes, Kathy, you know you did!" and ordered
our intern to take away a strange, stinking, pants-less man. And Jon did. Because again, he was that nice.
I don't think Kathy cared where he put Toby, as long as he was out of her house. Yes, in fact, I think I remember her yelling something about "out of my house!" now that I think about it...
I'm sure he made it to some shelter, though. Our intern wouldn't have left him exposed outside. After all, I picked out our intern, so he must have been good, right?
And that was how Toby introduced himself to his new office.
I think he lasted less than a year. Farewell, Toby. I really really hope that none of us ever have to go through that again.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
On the phone with my Dad:
With the purpose of discussing airfares, in relation to an upcoming trip to my college town…
Dad: "Who are you going to stay with? Brock?" (that would be my brother)
Me: "No, he has cats. Two of them." (I would be very allergic.)
D: "oh yeah… I forgot about that. Why does he have cats?"
J: "Because Emily had cats." (That would be his wife – I almost explained the process of how then the animals live in the same house as the owners, but I didn't.)
D: "hmmm… I don't know about cats… You're probably going to marry somebody weird. (Does this mean he thinks cats are weird? I don't know.) Are you? Are you going to marry somebody weird?"
J: (rubbing face in pain) "I don't know."
D: "You probably will. Do you want me to pick out somebody for you? ….Hello?"
J: "…I'm still here…"
D: "You trust my taste, don't you? I have good taste. Don't you think I have good taste?"
J: "I think I have to go now."
And a few minutes later…
D: "You know your mother, always looking for an excuse to complain about (other family member.) Not like me. You're fortunate I'm so tolerant. I'm on the Wall of Tolerance, you know. …hello? You know I'm on the Wall of Tolerance, right?"
He's serious, too. He showed me his Wall of Tolerance certificate. I have no idea what this wall is, but he really likes to throw the name around. I wonder if the keepers of the wall know his feelings on cats…
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