Scary vs. Stupid

“C’mon, watch Halloween with me,” says Jim. “I know you will like it.”

“Can’t we just watch Young Frankenstein?” I say, knowing that I won’t.

My Suspension of Disbelief is sitting in the corner shaking his ragged little head in warning – still pissed off from the last time Jim convinced us to watch one of his ‘classic’ movies.

I love Jim and all his quirkiness. He is one of the most sweetly nostalgic souls I know – always remembering people and places and things way better than they actually were.

This is particularly true when it comes to movies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Michael?” the parents say as the cherubic boy removes his mask, a dripping dagger in one tiny fist.

Barely ten minutes into this and I glance over to see my Suspension of Disbelief cussing up a blue streak and banging his bloody little head against the wall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can count on one disembodied hand how many times a movie actually scared me.

Nightmare Elm Street. More stupid than scary, yes. But the scene where Freddy’s arms stretch wayyyyy out in an alley and scrape against the walls? That got me. Couldn’t sleep.

Silence of the Lambs. Hannibal's voice haunted my dreams weeks after.

And more recently Ju-on, which is the original (and way better) Japanese version of The Grudge. This movie taught me that there is nothing more frightening than a cold, dead Asian chick under your covers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Stupid walks into a neighbor’s dark house after being stalked by a creepy masked stranger all day.

Stupid doesn’t turn on any of the lights.

Stupid assumes that the creepy masked stranger - who has already killed three of your stupid horny friends - is dead after poking him in the forehead with a knitting needle.

Stupid leaves children alone to barricade herself in a closet.

Stupid assumes that the creepy masked stranger is dead after poking him in the forehead with a bent wire hanger.

Stupid turns her back on creepy masked stranger, who is on the floor pretending to be not dead. Or something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can't remember.

It was after the second or third time Michael is 'dead' when I glance over to see my defeated little Suspension of Disbelief kick the tiny stool out from under his tiny feet, a tiny noose around his tiny snapped neck.

I turn to sweet, nostalgic Jim - oblivious to his complicity in this sad crime - and fight the urge to stab him in the forehead with a knitting needle. Or a wire hanger.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scary isn’t about a well-timed “BOO!” from behind the couch, oh no.

Scary is smart. Scary is psychological.

Scary gets in your head and whispers your worst fear.

Scary never shows you the Really Scary Thing, only its shadow.

Scary slips its cold dead hand around your ankle as you’re crawling into bed alone in the middle of the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The movie ends. Michael is gone.

We’ve been asked to believe that he’s dead from knitting needles and wire hangers, but not dead from falling out of a second story window after taking multiple gunshot wounds to his torso.

Not scary. Stupid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Office noises
I am reading: Winning by Jack Welch
And I am: Irritated

Overheard on the train this morning

"Of course I'll have to put a poncho on the One-Eyed Ranger," he says.

"You're making your penis sound like a super hero," she says.

"He is - he's MY hero!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock - Half Your Age
I am reading: Winning by Jack Welch
And I am: Exhausted

Here's to you, butt sock surfer

There’s this thingy loaded on the blog that tells the search words people use to get here.

And yes, smartass, thingy is in fact the technical term.

To be more specific, it is Thingy Version 3.1 now with Retsin.

The highly anticipated Tourmaline Bionic functionality will be available when I upgrade to Thingy OS Leopard Vista Hoo-Ha X.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For those depraved souls Googling for butt socks, HedyBlog is the #1 site.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.

I just wanna know what these people are really looking for when they’re searching on butt sock.

It’s gotta be some hip new anal exploration tactic that I, a middle-aged married type, will only learn about by watching re-runs of HBO’s Real Sex five years from now.

“Oh lookie there, she’s gonna take that sock and whoa jeez louise I’d a gone with a cotton-poly, that argyle’s gotta burn a bit.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Someone at Enterprise Car Sales in St. Louis did the butt sock search thing yesterday.

So you’re sitting there at work and you think: “Hmmm, butt sock.”

Because that’s what you do when you’re selling used cars in St. Louis.

Of course.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HedyBlog also gets tons of hits from searches for The Rhythm of Your Shoes by O.A.R. – that song I mentioned a while back. These are people from Canada, Ohio and Michigan – all listening to 93.9 The River.

It’s still one of my current favorite songs. If you haven’t downloaded it yet, go here: OARSA.org.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Finally, there is the inexplicable “Britney’s piss flaps” search.

We here at HedyBlog are proud to say we’re #4 when it comes to piss flap searches the world over.

From what I can gather piss flaps are big in Britain. Well, not literally. One can only speculate of course.

But most of the piss flap related hits come from the U.K.

So, for those of you keeping score at home, it’s Butt Socks in the States and Piss Flaps across the pond.

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – All Summer Long
I am reading: Real Simple magazine
And I am: The Baroness of Butt Socks

So hott

You don’t like him. That’s okay.

He's all mine.

And Kid Rock’s new CD Rock N Roll Jesus has turned me into his dirty little disciple.
~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, the first song Rock N Roll Jesus is probably a bit forced but the song grows on you.

Trust me.
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s hard rock. It’s rap. It’s blues. It’s country.

It makes you wanna party hard and fuck harder and forget about everything for a little while.

It's trashy and truthful.

It’s so Michigan and so 70’s and so every single thing I grew up loving about life.
~~~~~~~~~~
Sippin’ whiskey out the bottle
Not thinkin’ bout tomorrow
Singin’ Sweet Home Alabama all summer long
~~~~~~~~~~
It’s an album - yes an album, goddammit - that you’ll listen to all the way through without skipping one song.

And in this sad era of pussy-ass ‘artists’ releasing one or two songs to MySpace or iTunes, Kid Rock is doing it the hard way, the old fashioned way. The right way.
~~~~~~~~~~
You’re so hot
I wanna get you alone
I wanna get you stoned
I don’t wanna be your friend
I wanna fuck you like I’m never gonna see you again
~~~~~~~~~~
Half Your Age is one of the finest, funnest country songs I’ve heard in forever – and I’m a Willie/Waylon/Merle girl goin' way back.
~~~~~~~~~~
I found someone new who treats me better
She don’t bitch about what we ain’t got
When I sing this tune it don’t up set her
She’s half your age; and twice as hot
~~~~~~~~~~
12 songs.

12 disciples.

Jesus Christ this is good.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – Rock N Roll Jesus
I am reading: Not a goddamn thing
And I am: Hot and thirsty

The phrase of the day

Someone said 'balls deep' as I was walking down Jackson to my office this morning.

Of course it has to be The Phrase of the Day.

Try working it into your normal conversations today. And let me know how that goes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Everlast - What It's Like
I am reading: Neil Steinberg
And I am: Quiet

Lose my link

It happens every so often. More lately.

“So and so would like to link to you. Click here to read the message.”

Occasionally it’s someone I actually know/like/respect. Most often it’s folks just looking to make themselves feel better by collecting links.

Linkedin.com.

It’s MySpace for adults.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last week it was different.

Someone from way back. A guy I hadn’t thought about since those crazy college days in Mt. Pleasant.

Apparently he remembers me way more fondly than I remember him.

“Well of course he does.”

Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How many links do you have, Hedy?

87.

I feel very good about myself.

It used to be 103 but I purged a buncha fuck-asses from my previous employer.

That felt very good, too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After a veritable novel of blah blah about traveling the world and having adventures and surviving a particularly nasty divorce, he wrote: “Write back and tell me how the past 20 years have treated you.”

What is it about these situations that make me want to totally fuck with people?

“Life is great since I replaced all my bad habits with one good one. I am married to Christ. Call me Sister Hedy Francis Whatnot.”

“Life is great now that I’m off smack and outta prison. Call me!”

“Life is great now that Hillary is on the road campaigning all the time – gives me and Bill more quality time together, ya know?”

“Life is great now that all my baby daddies are finally caught up on support. It sure was hard tracking down all six of 'em. Except o’ course the one that’s still on smack in prison. Call me!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, life is great.

It's great because it's boring and unstressful (except for the occasional fuck-ass) and mostly uneventful.

And as much as I like writing, I'm not about to put 20 years of my blah blah into an e-mail so that someone I barely knew way back when can feel good about himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Modest Mouse - Missed the Boat
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Holy

Outing Dumbledore

Oil hit $90 a barrel.

Cheney’s telling everyone that Iran won’t be allowed to have nuculer capabilities.

And now Dumbledore’s gay.

I dunno about you but after the weekend, it sure feels like a good time to break out the ol’ tin foil hat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you heard about this?

Dumbledore, the main Yoda-type wizard in the HP series was outed by author J.K. Rowling over the weekend.

Because it’s so important that we know the sexual proclivities of a fictional - not to mention dead - character from the most popular children’s books of all time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Do we care that Dumbledore was gay? Of course not.

It’s like saying someone is black or right-handed or Irish. It just doesn’t matter. It doesn't make the story any better.

Worse, the dude never told anyone he was gay. He never mentioned it in any of the books.

Because IT WASN’T IMPORTANT.

And it isn’t important now, except that the buzz around book seven has died and maybe J.K. Rowling is feeling a little lost because her media juggernaut is finally winding down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Kid Rock – So Hott
I am reading: Wired magazine
And I am: Disappointed

Misery: Exhibit A

Woman A gets on the train and climbs up to the second level.

She greets woman B – someone she obviously knows from work – and then sits down several seats away from her. She opens a book and begins reading.

Woman B begins talking to woman A about woman C who “talked my ear off all day.”

Woman A acknowledges woman B with a smile and a nod, but doesn’t say anything.

Woman A begins reading again.

Woman B gets up and moves to the seat next to woman A and proceeds to talk her ear off all the way home.

Woman A nods and smiles but doesn’t say much, holding her book hopefully in her lap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Metallica - My Friend of Misery
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Not an empty can

Nuculer-ler-ler

Heading to the potty, I pass the TV in the traders' lounge in my office. Bush is yapping about Iran's nuculer something-or-other.

I return from the loo and he's still yapping.

Nuculer. Nuculer. Nuculer.

Twenty minutes later, I pick up something off the printer down the hall.

He's still yapping; his tinny voice echoing through the office because of all the TVs (these traders sure love their CNBC.)

Nuculer. Ler. Nucu. Ler. Ler. Ler.

It's 45 minutes of nuculer.

Bush's inability to pronounce nuclear is just timeless funny.

But the fact that this man is talking World War III scares the living shit out of me.

Bush is a born again Christian. A certain silly set of born agains believe that Israel will be at the center of events that bring about the end of the world as we know it and the return of Christ, our Cuddly Wuddly King.

Here's the money quote that ties all of this together:

"We've got a leader in Iran who has announced that he wants to destroy Israel. So I've told people that, if you're interested in avoiding World War III, it seems like you ought to be interested in preventing them from having the knowledge necessary to make a nuculer weapon."

Not funny.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: R.E.M. - The End of the World as We Know It
I am reading: Stephen Colbert in the New York Times
And I am: Cuddly wuddly

The first guy I slept with

So yesterday I was just a little black rain cloud.

Then I arrive in the office.

“This is BRILLIANT,” says the very first e-mail I open.

It was in response to a small bit of e-mail fluff I wrote targeting a specific group of people already in our database.

Brilliant, Hedy?

Um, no. That was a bit of hyperbole on the part of my co-worker. Of course I’m no Al Gore Nobel Prize winner or anything.

But it made me feel good. It said shaddap to the small part of me that suspects I’m a sham.

That’s the bounce.

Us Pooh types can be feeling rather down and all it takes is a p-p-p-Piglet to stop by and say one nice thing to lift us right back up again.
~~~~~~~~~~
Extra HedyBlog bonus points if you got the ‘little black rain cloud’ reference from yesterday.
~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I’ve had a life long love affair with that silly old bear.

Back in the early seventies, there was a large fake tree in the children’s clothing section of the Sears at Lakeside Mall. It ran from the floor all the way up to the tiled ceiling. It had large fake branches with little fake leaves. And it had a tree house that was not fake. Not fake at all. Maybe you remember it.

Sitting on a little platform outside that tree house was a certain bear of very little brain.

I called him “The Big Winnie the Pooh” because that’s exactly what he was – a huge, stuffed Winnie the Pooh. Three feet tall. A bright red vest stretched over his portly, honey-pot shaped belly. Black shiny eyes and that tiny knowing smile.

I wanted him. Oh, how I wanted him.
~~~~~~~~~~
Extra HedyBlog bonus points if you can tell me Winnie-the-Pooh's real name.
~~~~~~~~~~
We’d be shopping for Garanimals or Toughskins and that beautiful bear would beckon me from the top of that tree.

“Come, Hedy. Climb up into my tree house. Listen to my stories. Eat my honey.”

Our love affair was meant to be. I knew it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Pooh taught me how to deal with bossy know-it-alls like Rabbit and Owl.

Pooh taught me that eating a little smackeral of something sweet always makes you feel better.
~~~~~~~~~~
“What do you want Santa Claus to bring you for Christmas, Hedy?” everyone would ask.

“The Big Winnie the Pooh at Sears.”

I remember being more than a little worried that Santa Claus wasn’t aware of the exact location of The Big Winnie the Pooh. Of course Santa doesn’t need Sears. He has elves. Elves would have no idea how to make a Big Winnie the Pooh. Even if they could, they couldn’t. Of course not.

Because the Big Winnie the Pooh is one of a kind.

And he’s at Sears, goddammit.
~~~~~~~~~~
So Christmas morning comes, and unbelievably, so does The Big Winnie the Pooh.

I hug him thinking God I can’t wait to get you alone.

Well, not really. I was six.

But I did sleep with him. Yes.

He slept in my bed under the covers. With me.

Our affair was short-lived, sadly.

Several reasons: A) His yellow fur had a mildly unpleasant chemical smell to it which made me itch; B) Pooh under the covers created a tent-like effect making it impossible for me to stay warm; and C) At six, I was still wetting the bed on a regular basis so before too long Pooh smelled like pee.

He's still the first guy I ever slept with though.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Little Black Rain Cloud
I am reading: Press kit materials
And I am: In the mood for food

Eeyore moments

Blognonymous is leaving us. He’s giving it up.

It will be a melancholy moment removing his link from the blog list to your right.

But I understand why he’s doing it.

You write practically every day for a year or two and it wears you down a bit. Especially if you’re Blognonymous, always writing about the Really Important Stuff like the economy or Iraq or [insert your favorite governmental cock-up here].

Of course life isn’t all sunshine and honey pots.

But why is it part of the human condition to focus on the negative? Why is it easier to write about everything that’s wrong with our world?

And why, even when things are going exceptionally well, do we seem to anticipate losing it all in some fiery explosion of underpants and embarrassment?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession #1: A very small part of me was actually relieved at being let go last month.

Heh?

Yep. Picture my tiniest toe yelping “Whew! So GLAD that FINALLY happened!”

Because – and this is twisted – I was overdue for something bad to happen.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Most of the time I try to be like Pooh: Wandering through life, eating a little more than I should, visiting friends and having adventures. Pooh-like people tend to be happier although we are more than occasionally clueless when it comes to serious matters such as warding off heffalumps or getting caught in rabbit holes.

Eeyore people always anticipate the worst. They actually believe that nothing good will ever ever happen again. Ever. And on that rare occasion went something actually goes their way, Eeyore types invariably find the One Thing Wrong With It and focus on that until every last bit of joy is sucked out of the occasion.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession #2: In spite of the fact that things seem to be going exceptionally well at my new job, I am anxious. There are small, weak moments when my tiny toe feels like a big fat fraud and is screaming WHY THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE TRUST ME WITH ALL THIS REALLY IMPORTANT STUFF?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, I do believe the world treats you how you expect to be treated. If you’re always anticipating the worst, it colors your view of everything – including the good stuff.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So we’re Poohs with occasional Eeyore moments. Or we’re Eeyores through and through.

Which one are you?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sia – Breathe Me
I am reading: Nothing
And I’m: Just a little black rain cloud

Getting the best of me

First, big thanks to Dave from Rather Than Working for giving me yet another reason to publish this, my all time favorite picture of Our Cuddly Wuddly Savior.

Here's the idea: I read through my previous posts and pick three that I like best. Then I publish them at the bottom of the list of what other bloggers picked as their best. And then I tell two friends. And so on. And so on.

Except I've never been good at passing this stuff along. So here are some posts that Dave published that I liked, with my favorite three at the very bottom:

Cosmic Cat - Just An Ordinary Thursday Night..., Not Gone With The Wind. Just Gone., The "Weekly Thoughtful Reminder" And Other Hazards Of Working

Field Lines - Even MIT Girls Get the Blues, Bye Bye, Friend, Bad Hair Day

Rather Than Working: Tryptophan and Thanksgiving Walls and History The More Things Change

HedyBlog:
A Passel of Jesus - December 20, 2006
I love this country - January 24, 2007
Conversation 101 - August 31, 2006
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If someone asked Jesus to describe his best work, what do you think it would be?

That bit with the fishes and loaves? Walking on water?

Nah.

I'm guessing if that rascal ever makes his Big Comeback, that's when we're gonna see the real serious shit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Not to overburden anyone, part 1: If Pos, Mrs. Pos and Crusty wanna play along, by all means please share your best. And don't feel guilty if you don't have time to do this.

Not to overburden anyone, part 2: You might not agree with the favorites I've chosen for myself. If you'd like to share what topics or entries you liked best, we here at HedyBlog would sure appreciate it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Foo Fighters - Best of You
I am reading: Nothing yet
And I am: Sleepy

Broken people

“Her husband just died, she doesn’t need to be dealing with this shit.”

That was Mom this morning.

They were married for more than 30 years. They tried and tried but couldn’t have kids. They worked their asses off. Her, caring for elderly and severely disabled people. Him, crunching numbers for big steel. He was retiring soon and they wanted to travel a bit and enjoy life.

I don’t think anyone ever heard either of them say an unkind word about anyone. Ever.

They loved each other way more than most married couples do, which is saying a lot these days.

Now he’s dead.

It’s unbelievably heartbreaking.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They had a memorial service for him in Nevada, but he was to be buried next to their infant son in a Michigan cemetery.

Except the Catholic Church only allows one funeral mass per person and when she tried scheduling a second memorial for the family in Michigan, the church said no.

So she went to another Catholic church – didn’t tell them about the Nevada service – and of course they agreed to do it.

Did I mention this woman is a former nun? She’s a good Catholic through and through.

But she had to lie to her own church so her husband could have a second service.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He’s in the hospital dying and a relative asks her for his car.

She’s losing her husband and losing her mind in grief and losing everything that’s been her life for 30 years.

And they’re offering her the fine deal of ‘making payments to her’ for his car.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She wanted two people to speak at the mass: her husband’s college buddy and my father.

Again, the church said no. Only priests are allowed to speak at Catholic funerals within the Archdiocese of Detroit.

Fortunately, all of the regular priests were at a retreat the day of his mass and she got a surprisingly compassionate guest priest who told her “hey, this isn’t my church, of course you need the people who really knew him to say a few words.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another relative criticized her decision to ‘take on the Catholic Church’ by having a second mass.

This is the same woman who paid to have her marriage annulled after nearly 40 years and five kids.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her husband is dead. She’s just been through the worst thing that can happen.

And Broken People somehow manage to make it even worse.

Broken people can’t see beyond their own shit to be compassionate.

Broken people would rather make trouble for someone at the worst time in their life than make a difference.

Broken people can’t say anything nice – they’re constantly picking and criticizing and causing trouble because they feel so terrible about themselves, they can’t possibly feel anything good for anyone else. Even when they need it most.

Someone has died suddenly and unexpectedly. It is a tragedy.

Isn’t that when most people realize that life is short? Isn’t that the best time to be exceptionally kind to each other because you Just Never Know? Isn’t that when you forgive and forget every Bad Thing that’s ever ever happened to you and hug each other like you’re never gonna have to let go?

Broken, small-minded people.

I know these people. They are part of my family. And they disgust me.

[Editorial note: If you’re family and you’re offended by anything here, be sure to read that last part about Broken People over and over and over again until your head finally POPS out of your ASS. Thanks so much.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: U2 - One
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Disgusted

I'd rather be lost with dry pants

“How’s your butt?”

“Heh?”

How's my butt, I think. How's my butt? It's fat and kinda jiggly. And I'm all for experimentation, but if he thinks we're gonna be exploring new realms at this late stage of our marriage, the timing couldn't be worse. Seriously.

“How’s your butt?” Jim asks again, with a sneaky little smile.

“It’s . . . fine,” I say with obvious trepidation. “How’s yours?”

Then I start to feel it. A tiny bit of warmth coming up through the seat.

Feels like I’m peeing my pants.

It was cold out and Jim decided to try out the seat heaters in the new car on the way home from dinner.

Ahhh.

An odd bit of relief and discomfort came over me. Kinda like when you pee your pants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My old car was a ’98 Honda with nearly 200,000 miles on it. It was my all-time favorite because it was the first one that I actually picked out and saved for and bought on my own.

Of course 1998 was before all them fancy schmancy navigation systems that are pretty much standard now.

We thought the map thingy in the dash of the new car was extremely cool until the first time we went for our usual summer night drive on the farm roads and realized that we’d never be able to truly get lost again.

It was more depressing than peeing your pants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Cowboy Junkies – Misguided Angel
I am reading: Nothing – still recovering from Harry Potter
And I am: Missing my Honda

Ions – now with Retsyn!

“Leaves hair frizz-free, shiny and silky smooth.”

“Ball-tipped bristles smooth and detangle without pulling hair.”

Sounds practical enough so far. It’s a hair brush. I wouldn’t expect it to do much beyond that.

But wait, there’s more.

“Tourmaline – 100% crushed gemstones release IONS for intense shine.”

“Use with a blow dryer to increase the benefits of tourmaline-ionic ceramic technology.”

Tourmaline? Ionic? Ceramic?

Who knew hairbrush technology was so advanced? And what rocket scientist discovered this? I wonder if NASA knows.

I toss it into my Target cart half expecting it to explode on impact.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When did they stop calling them lazy Susans? When did they become turn tables? Did someone named Susan complain? Maybe file a lawsuit?

You put records on a turn table. You put a lazy Susan under your Scrabble board to make it spin, dammit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The ions in my new hairbrush remind me of Retsyn.

You remember Certs with Retsyn, don’t you?

A brilliant yet evil marketing campaign in the 80’s.

Certs with a drop of Retsyn was supposed to keep your breath fresher longer.

Nobody actually knew what Retsyn was or what it did.

But everybody bought more Certs because we thought it was something special, something extra powerful that would make our constant battle against ass-breath a little easier.

[Editorial note: The usual Google search turned up nothing but additional sarcastic references to the mysterious Retsyn. If you can find a reliable source that actually knows what it was, please share.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And when did they stop calling them throw pillows? Now they’re toss pillows.

Is toss less violent than throw? Who the hell cares, if it’s a pillow?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course thinking about NASA and Retsyn reminds me of Tang.

Remember Tang? The powdered orange instant breakfast drink favored by astronauts (literally) around the globe?

More amazing, insidious marketing.

Here’s little Hedy, the first (and last) time she tried Tang back in elementary school.

“This is what the astronauts drink! Screw you, Kool-Aid! This will make me feel like an astronaut! Where are my moon boots?”

Sip. Ew. Cringe.

“Fuck those silly piss-drinking astronauts. I’m gonna be in marketing.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Modest Mouse – Missed the Boat
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: A frizzy space cadet with fresh breath

O.A.R.

If you're like me, you heard this song on a radio station in Detroit and loved it.

Download the MP3 for Rhythm of Your Shoes here:

OARSA.ORG

I like the acoustic version best (5.8 MB) - but you decide.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ya know
I am reading: HP7
And I am: Helpful

Swear therapy

“Who’s going to handle marketing after this?”

“Well, that’s the really bad news,” says the guy firing me. “We’re not replacing you so I’m going to be working 80 hour weeks to cover everything you did.”

Wait just a tick there, champ.

The really bad news isn’t that I’m fired with no notice after working tirelessly for you goddamn stinking cock sores; it’s that YOU HAVE TO WORK HARDER?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s what? October 5?

It seems safe to start spilling some of the more silly stuff around suddenly being sacked in September.

Contrary to the whole stinking cock sore thing (isn’t that nice? I made that up today), I’m really not angry any more.

Really.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
More silliness: We’re letting you go for financial reasons. Sales aren’t where they should be and we can no longer afford to keep you.

That’s virtually verbatim from Mr. 80 Hours. And it’s in the termination letter, too.

However, telling everyone that you’re sacking one of their favorite employees for financial reasons isn’t such a good idea. Because if the firm is in fact having financial troubles, then how long will it be before MORE favorite employees are fired and then before you know it, it’ll be dogs and cats looking for new jobs, mass hysteria (with apologies to Bill Murray).

So they let it leak a little that I was let go for performance issues.

I was so shaken by this that I went back to review my last review trying to find something, anything that would indicate a problem.

Because when you’re unhappy with an employee’s performance you say nice things about them and give them a $3k raise, right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The picnic was prolly the biggest pooper.

Again, I'm not angry.

But it sure helps to share some of this silliness after a month of sadness. And isn’t stinking cock sores just so much fun to say?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nina Simone – Feeling Good
I am reading: Complete Idiot’s Guide to Futures and Options
And I am: Grateful

Trading places

“So you’re targeting mostly eye-bee’s, right?” asks the aging tchotchke vendor yesterday afternoon.

We're chatting in my new office, which is nice in spite of smelling like a frat house couch.

“Introducing brokers? No. This show’s all retail,” I say.

“Are you sure?” she asks with no small bit of incredulity.

“Yep. I’m Sure.”

Confession: Like I knew what the fuck an introducing broker was 48 hours ago. But it makes me happy in small ways to be keeping up with this irritating, know-it-all bitch who makes a living pushing cheapie pens and stress balls.

Feeling a tad touchy are we, Hed?

Nah. Not really. I’m meeting tons of great people this week – in an industry that is totally new to me – and nobody save her has captured that oh-so-charming combo of condescension and conceit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cool Thing #1: They got me a flowering plant for my desk (which I will likely kill), plus a huge box of office supplies. A brand new BlackJack. And a nice “Welcome Heather!” note on the white board in my office.

This is the nicest welcome I've ever received in my life. Outside of Wal-Mart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, as they say here in Chicago, "I gotta guy."

I've already got a tchotchke vendor. I've been working with him for years. He's awesome.

And he sure as hell knows better than to show up with 15 catalogs featuring all the same shit only in different colors expecting me to do all the work figuring out what I need.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Which industry, Hed?

Think Trading Places combined with Wall Street, then throw in a little Boiler Room and you’ve got it.

Except these folks are ethical. Super ethical.

You don’t survive in this business for more than 20 years if you’re not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cool Thing #2: First thing outta the shoot on Monday, a co-worker takes me down on the trading floor at the Chicago Board of Trade.

It’s huge and confusing. But apparently more quiet than ever since the advent of electronic trading. Some even say the pits will go away eventually, which is kinda sad, given the history of that place.

So the new gig is going well. It’s a relief to be out of IT services for goddamn good. The people I work with are sharp and fun and interesting. And best of all, they seem to really appreciate what I do. For the first time in 10 years I’m really excited about work again.

And that's a feeling I wouldn't trade for anything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: O.A.R. – The Rhythm of Your Shoes
I am reading: HP7 + The Complete Idiot's Guide to Futures and Options
And I am: In a better position (Get it? A better position? I’m so into this.)