Wednesday, June 06, 2007

‘Expert’ follow up

So yesterday morning was the first of two Great Big Hoo Ha events planned by the aforementioned marketing ‘expert’.

Did I mention the ‘expert’ decided at the last minute to not fly in from Denver for this event?

Did I mention we agreed to pay this ‘expert’ $4,000 to develop, launch and manage this campaign?

I got my ass outta bed at 4 a.m. to be on the 5:25 train to arrive at the Sears Tower at 6:30 to set up for the 14 registrants arriving between 7:30 and 8:00.

Got that?

Yes, 14 people. More on that later.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Up until last week, my responsibility on this whole project was limited to securing the venues in Chicago and Minneapolis, which I delegated to our Lovely Assistant.

That was it.

Last week I offered to help by sending out e-mails and make reminder phone calls to the 14 registrants.

Yes, 14 people. More on that later.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The reminders amount to a fairly simple administrative task.

We put Everything You Need to Know about the event in an e-mail: Agenda, location, parking, etc. All the way down to the bring-your-photo-ID-security-is-a-bitch-at-the-Sears-Tower level of detail.

Anything we can do to make it easy on these people to show up. It’s not a big deal, but it helps.

I send out these reminders to the contact information provided by the ‘expert’ for these 14 registrants. Yes, 14.

Six of my messages immediately bounce back. Bad addresses.

This is one of those times when What the Fuck is entirely appropriate.

I contact the ‘expert’ and her assistant to find out WTF is with the bad e-mail addresses. I am provided new data.

Again with the bounced e-mails. Again with the Bad Swears.

I give up on the e-mail and decide to make phone calls.

The first number dialed is a fax number. The next one is wrong. And so on.

Again with the bad data and even Badder Swears.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Typically after sending out reminder e-mails, we get a percentage of Thank you’s and See You Tomorrow’s. We also always, always get a fair amount of Sorry, Can’t Make Its. This is normal.

From the eight e-mails that managed (I’m assuming) to get through to the 14 registrants, I got nothing. No response whatsoever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Two. Three? Two,” I think to myself, setting up for the event. “Two people, tops, will show up for this.”

Then I feel guilty for being so pessimistic about this event.

Turns out two, in this case, qualifies as optimistic.

14 people registered.

NOT ONE PERSON SHOWED UP.

17 years of marketing and never, ever an event with no attendees.

Never.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“We had no-shows,” says my boss to the ‘expert’ on speakerphone later yesterday morning. “And by ‘no-shows’ I mean, no one showed up. No. One.”

You know that scene in Pulp Fiction when John Travolta shoots that black dude in the face and his brains spatter all over the car?

That is what my head felt like when I heard her response:

“Heather was handling the reminders, did you check with her to make sure she did that?” replies the ‘expert’.

Throw me under the bus? Blame me for the fact that out of 14 fucking registrants NOT ONE PERSON SHOWED UP?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Later yesterday, we discovered that 95% of the registrants for both Chicago and Minneapolis were completely fabricated.

The ‘expert’ said she had 14 people registered for Chicago, all of which were bogus. She claimed to have 27 people registered for Minneapolis and 20 of them were fabricated as well.

So if this silly twat is an expert, what the fuck does that make me?

A Marketing Goddess?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Three Days Grace - Pain
I am reading: Bleh, nothing
And I am: A goddess

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

Apologizing for the rain

I’m sorry for no blog yesterday.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

Irritating, yes?

It’s because I’m an Apologizer. You know the type.

We apologize for every goddamn thing – even the stuff that isn’t our fault.

It’s what we do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I asked Jim the IT Guy to lunch one day last fall.

After the standard where do you wanna go I dunno where do you wanna go bullshit, we looked outside and realized it was raining. Hard.

Having invited him to lunch, I felt bad for dragging him out into the cold wet city.

“I’m sorry it’s raining,” I said, as we walked through sidewalk puddles to the food court at Ogilvy train station one block away.

“Are you apologizing…for the RAIN?” he asked with no small amount of sarcasm and incredulity.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today I am sorry for:

Not getting an anniversary card for my parents (their 41st anniversary was yesterday)
Not going to Palm Springs with my friend Nelson for Memorial weekend
Not starting my detox fast yesterday as planned
Not answering your e-mails quickly enough
Not being there for you when you needed me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
First thought: It’s guilt. I apologize all the time because of a guilty conscience.

Maybe. But it’s gotta be more than that.

Perhaps I apologize because I want everyone to be so goddamn yippee-skippy joyful in my presence that if there’s something getting in the way of it, I feel…sorry.

Maybe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There are some people who never, ever apologize. They see it as a sign of weakness.

Or if they do apologize, it’s one of those weak-ass “I’m sorry if you’re offended” sorries that isn’t really much of a sorry at all but a veiled, passive-aggressive You’re an Idiot accusation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Got it: The answer is a Continuum of Sorry.

On one end, there are those of us who feel responsible for Everything.

Global warming. The price of gas. Your bad haircut.

On the other end, there are them that take responsibility for Nothing.

Ironically, these are usually the people most responsible for things like global warming, the price of gas, and your head, which looks like it was attacked by an angry and/or horny ferret.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: R.E.M. – So. Central Rain (I’m Sorry)
I am reading: Not much lately
And I am: Soaked

Friday, June 01, 2007

"Experts"

About two months ago, the company I work for hired an outside marketing firm to help us navigate the maze that is the Microsoft partner site – an overwhelmingly complicated web portal with literally thousands of pages on how to market and sell Microsoft’s business solutions.

We hired “experts” who could help us “maximize” our Microsoft marketing dollars.

I was perfectly okay with this.

In fact, I thought it was a fabulous idea because a) I honestly didn’t know how to make sure that Microsoft would match the money we spent on events and b) Even though I’ve been doing this for 17+ years, I’m always, always open to the opportunity to learn new things from “experts”.

Well fuck that. Hard. And with much hatred.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve said it before: Marketing is not rocket science. By any stretch of the imagination.

It’s a field for people like me – with average intelligence and perhaps above average creativity. Of course, big tits and a good personality will more than compensate for those pesky intelligence/creativity requirements in a pinch.

Marketing people are NOT the folks you want leading the charge in blood-all-over-the-dashboard situations.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unfortunately, before too long, it became apparent that even the simplest, menial tasks were challenging for these marketing “experts”:
  • Numerous typos on the snail-mail invitation delayed printing until less than three weeks before the events were to be hosted in Chicago and Minneapolis
  • A typo in the e-mail version of the invitation sent Minnesota contacts to a registration link for the Chicago event
  • Half way through the registration process, the “experts” questioned whether or not registrants were receiving confirmation e-mails automatically (even though when we met during the planning phase this concept was confirmed repeatedly)
  • Nearly 50% of the registration data gathered by the “experts” hired to make follow up calls was incomplete and/or inaccurate
  • After spending $12,000 on two events (nearly quadruple what we typically spend) there were a whopping SEVEN PEOPLE registered for each event
  • And finally, the people registered for these events were mostly from car dealerships and community churches – not the type of organizations that would ever, ever need or use my company’s services.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Guess what?” I ask my boss, the VP of Sales & Marketing. “Bill Hybels is coming to our event. Do you know who he is?”

The founder of Willow Creek Church?” he says, with a bewildered look on his face.

“Yep,” I say. “Maybe we can get him to pray for more registrations.”

Bill Hybels is not only the founder of Willow Creek Church, he’s the inventor of the McChurch concept. He's like Oprah Winfrey for born-agains.

He’s NOT attending a breakfast seminar to learn how to use software to help manage his financials.

How do I know this? God told me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy! You've never made a mistake?

Of course. I've made some whoppers over the years.

But never, ever this many on one project. And certainly not when someone was paying me $12k for my "expertise".
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The last event I hosted – sans experts, mind you – had 40 people in the room. This is an entirely respectable number given the yawn of a topic we covered.

And the event before that? More than 170 people attended. In two cities.

This is still small-time marketing for sure. Again with the tits and personality.

But I can fill a room goddammit. I can fill a fucking room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’ve never been a big fan of “experts.”

And I’m especially wary of the self-proclaimed ones who want you to pay them thousands of dollars for stuff you could readily do yourself.

What pisses me off most?

I honestly thought I’d learn something from these incompetent fuckwits.

Maybe I should start calling myself an expert.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Eels – Mr. E’s Beautiful Blues
I am reading: Bleh, sorry, Three Cups still
And I am: Looking forward to the weekend

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

The new project

It was 1990.

I was heading east on Diversey behind a bright red pick up truck on a beautiful summer day in Chicago.

Four kids, sitting in the bed of that truck with their backs against the cab. Four kids, smiling back at me. Four kids - white, Hispanic, black - enjoying the ride.

My brain took a snapshot of those boys in that truck and I've been saving it ever since.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Babysitting for a family in Warrenville in the early 90's.

The daughter, Ashley, was all of six with bright red hair and freckles and a missing front tooth. She was standing in front of the neighbor's red horse barn in a red polka-dot sun dress.

Again, my brain registered this perfect moment picture.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For as long as I can remember, I've wanted to learn how to take photos. Now, no more 'if I only had a camera' moments.

For my birthday, Jim got me a special fancy schmancy hoo-ha camera.

And I'm learning to use it.

So hopefully you'll see some of my progress over the coming months via the link to the right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Ataris - The Boys of Summer
I am reading: Dynamics GP registration list
And I am: Okay

So this is how it was

Get this. Within an hour of being home last night, I:
  1. Drop a packing tape dispenser on my foot. That nifty little serrated edge for cutting the tape? Lands on my big toe. It doesn’t bleed as much as you’d think, but stings like a motherfucker in the shower.

  2. Fall down the stairs. On my ass. Fortunately near the bottom, I only bounce down three steps before landing safely in the foyer.

    Jim, hearing the now familiar sound of me falling on my ass, runs over and asks: “What the hell was THAT?”

    "Ta-DA!" I say, leaping up off the floor with all the energy of a damaged 40 year old.

  3. Stub my toe (the serrated motherfucker) on the bed.
Conveniently close to the bed, I jump in, put the covers over my head, and stay there.

And laugh maniacally until I finally fall asleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jim’s New Cruise Mix
I am reading: Three Cups (still, sorry)
And I am: Nervous

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

So this is how it’s going to be

I dropped the cap for my Mary Kay face cleanser in the shower this morning.

“So this is how it’s going to be today,” I thought.

Then I dropped a fresh tampon in the toilet. (I know: Ew.)

Next, my mobile phone died in the middle of Mom even though it was on the charger all night.

Then I got stuck behind three giant orange Asplundh tree-eating trucks doing 30 mph all the way to train.

It’s not a bad day by any stretch.

But it’s 8 a.m. and it’s way too early to be this irritated.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At least I’m not alone.

Mom said she’s having the same kind of day.

Small, silly, irritating things that signal nothing will go smoothly today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Even now, on the last express into the city, nothing feels quite right.

I am sitting up top alone. It’s quiet, now that the professional douchebag with the tattoo on the back of his neck who calls everyone “brother” has stopped talking on his phone.

But the seat is uncomfortable and the skirt is bunched up under my ass and the train is rocking a little more than usual and one of my contacts is fogged up for no good reason and all I can think is: Please let me make it to my desk without my skirt flying up or tripping on the stairs or something like that.

Please.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, everything should be going well. I’ve made good decisions so far. I was outta bed like a shot at 4:30 a.m. to work out. Doing that is supposed to virtually guarantee a good day.

And yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Plus, the weekend was perfect.

In spite of it being nothing like originally planned (I was supposed to be in Palm Springs with Nelson & Chris), it was exactly how Memorial weekend should be: Plenty of friends, sunshine, Jack Daniels, bratwurst, yard work, Scrabble, cheeseburgers, tequila, cream cheese brownies (thank you, Ms. Moo!), and walkies.

And yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay. Whew. I made it to the desk without skirt blowage or trippage.

But when I got here, the Mac couldn’t find the wireless mouse or keyboard. It could see my neighbor’s keyboard and mouse. But not mine, sitting right here on the desk.

So I had to reboot (which never, ever happens with a Mac) and wait while it finally got its shit together.

Then, I was IM’ing two friends and got the conversations mixed up and ended up saying some rather Bad Swears to a person who is not accustomed to hearing them this early in the morning.

And so it goes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you had days like this? Where, in spite of your best efforts, nothing seems to go right or well?

And no, I won’t blame it on the Universe or that silly Mercury retrograde thing this time.

I won’t blame it on anything except that’s how things go some times.

Now the mouse is telling me that its battery is low. And I think I'm catching a cold.

Again, this is not a bad day by any standard.

But damn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ozzy – I Don’t Wanna Stop
I am reading: Three Cups
And I am: Saying Bad Swears

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Conversation 101 - Revisited

Editorial note: Before you go complainin' about recycled blog material, do me a favor. Read this again. All the way through. A refresher can't hurt.

And you have a HedyBlog Promise this won't become a habit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some people just give good conversation.

Maybe it’s your best friend. Your mom. Or if you’re really lucky, your spouse.

Time flies when you’re with them. You usually learn something new – an easier way to do something or a different way of looking at your world. Sometimes you even learn a little bit about yourself.

The good conversationalist you know is genuinely interested in what you have to say and asks questions about what’s going on in your life.

And they make it easy for you to do the same in return.

It’s a cool and equal exchange of ideas and information – what a conversation is truly meant to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Then there are those folks you go out of your way to avoid talking with – people who wouldn’t know a good conversation if it sat on their face, spun around three times, and shouted hallelujah.

These people are the Conversationally Impaired. Chances are they fit into one or a even a few of the following categories:

The Historian – A simple yes or no answer would suffice, but this guy has a story to tell. It usually involves his wife or kids or dog (sometimes all three) and takes a minimum of 30 minutes to tell. By which point you’ve both forgotten why he’s telling the story in the first place.

The Bitch – Male or female. Loves ranting (with no interruptions please) about how wrong it is and who’s responsible for it. Usually accompanied by much finger pointing and hand waving. Expects the worst out of the world and usually gets it given their attitude and disposition.

The One-Upper – Ironically, conversations with this person rarely go anywhere and they usually go something like this:

“We went to Brazil last year and it was great.”

Instead of asking a question like “How long were you there?” or “How was the food?” the One-Upper responds:

“Oh yeah? Well when we went to the South of France…”

It’s never a conversation with One-Uppers, just a verbal volley – a boring competition to see who’s done or seen or spent the most.

The Close-Talker – Violates your personal space by getting thisclose to your face. The more you back up, the more they move in. Unless you can maneuver yourself to the edge of a convenient cliff, it’s tough getting away from the classic CT.

Deadly Phone Yapper – You’ve said “I really gotta go” five times in the past 20 minutes and the DPY is still talking. You put the phone down, visit the bathroom, fold some laundry, do your taxes and mow the lawn and the DPY is still going strong when you pick it back up. Caller ID is proof that God loves us (apologies to B. Franklin) and is kryptonite to the DPY.

The Know It All – The self-appointed Smartest Person in the Room. Enjoys hearing the sound of her own voice and is an expert on Everything including topics with which she has little knowledge or experience. Always, always right. Unless you’re into self-flagellation, arguing with her is an exercise in futility.

The Interrupter – Never lets anyone finish a sentence. A classic conversation killer when combined with a One-Upper or Know It All. Too busy thinking about what they’re gonna say next to listen to what you’re talking about.

The Egomaniacal Babbler – Doesn’t actually need others to have a conversation. Talks incessantly to anyone within earshot and doesn’t wait for or even expect a response. Tells you every single thing that’s going on in their lives without taking a breath. Often wonders why they never know what’s going on with anyone else but is usually too self-absorbed to ask. Add a phone and the EB easily transforms into a DPY.

The Drunk – Says the same thing over and over again regardless of how you respond. Usually bossy, weepy or angry – sometimes all three. Often combined with the Close Talker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Recognize someone you know? How about yourself?

C’mon, you know you do it.

I’ll be the first to admit that I am an Interrupter and can be a Know It All on occasion.

And when I’m The Drunk I tend to repeat Really Bad Swears at the top of my lungs in public places.

Very charming. That’s why I don’t drink so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You need escape tactics for when you’re trapped yapping with the Conversationally Impaired. Here they are, in no particular order of importance or effectiveness:

Self-Extrication Maneuver #1: Drink heavily.

But Heather, you just said alcohol is bad.

Right.

Alcohol seldom makes any situation better. But this is one of those rare occasions when getting completely hammered actually helps.

Here’s why: An empty glass is always the perfect excuse to duck out of a bad conversation. If you get roped into a yap fest with the Conversationally Impaired and you have a drink in your hand, you are in complete control. Your conversation will only last as long as it takes to quaff that convenient can of beer. Plus, if you’re drinking a lot you usually have to hit the bathroom more often – another great excuse to get the hell outta there.

Tip: Always position yourself far away from the bar or kitchen or keg so you have to leave to re-fill your glass.

Bonus: This tactic actually works in the office with non-alcoholic beverages. Getting up to get a glass of water or hit the john works well in virtually any environment.

Caveat: Drinking heavily when dealing with The Drunk doesn’t work because he usually follows you to the bar or bathroom. The good news is that if you’re trapped by a Drunk, you can just keep drinking until you stop caring about the quality of the conversation and become a bossy, weepy, angry repeater yourself.

SEM #2: If you’re sitting down, stand up. This is a signal that you’re going somewhere and it is time for that person to leave. Works great in an office.

SEM #3: Instant messenger is your friend. If you get trapped in a long conversation with a Deadly Phone Yapper, IM someone you trust and have them call you. Turns out, you’ve “been expecting this Really Important Call” and can extricate yourself safely.

SEM #4: Give them something. There’s a psychology to this and I’m not sure why it works, but if you hand something to someone it is a signal for them to leave. I learned this from working high tech trade shows. The easiest way to end a conversation is to give ‘em a piece of candy or a cheap pen. Works like a charm every time.

SEM #5: Fart. Loudly, frequently, and fragrantly. Belching works, too. But watch out: This tactic could literally blow up in your face if you’re dealing with a Drunk One-Upper.

Tip: I find that combining several Self-Extrication Maneuvers is most effective. The Stand Up, Get a Drink, Hand ‘em Something combo is very nice in an office situation. The Drink Heavily maneuver usually leads to unintentional Fart maneuvers, especially when draft beer is involved.

Of course, the Drink Heavily, Fart, Fall Down and Shit Your Pants maneuver has the highest degree of effectiveness but is extremely difficult and shouldn’t be attempted by amateurs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So we’ve learned who they are and how to avoid them, but what if like me, you’re guilty of being Conversationally Impaired on occasion? How can all of us make the world a better place by working harder to have great conversations?

Here’s the secret to being a good conversationalist: Shut the Fuck Up.

A conversation is usually give and take between two or more people. If you’re doing most of the talking, it’s not a conversation. It’s a lecture. And lectures suck.

If you work hard at becoming a good listener first, you’re more than halfway there. Focus and really listen to what the other person is saying. Maintain eye contact.

Ask questions based on what the other person tells you. I ask questions for two reasons: 1) It gets me out of “It’s all about me” mode and 2) I learn a lot.

Here’s another tip: Read up on current events so that you have something new or interesting to share with your friends. Try reading a good book once in a while, not just the latest James “I need to use TV commercials to sell books” Patterson crap.

Like I’ve said before, it all comes down to self-awareness.

Be aware of your tendencies to be Conversationally Impaired, shut the fuck up once in a while, and above all, listen.

And if all else fails, Drink Heavily.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: You
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Tired of listening

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

In the spirit of Rather Than Working. . .

A special edition mid-day post in honor of a discovery that made me spit Diet Pepsi all over the Mac: HedyBlog is the #1 Google hit for "my ass is getting so big."

Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The printer printing seminar survey sheets
I am reading: Three Cups
And I am: So proud

Three Cups of Tea

It is 9:01 a.m. on Wednesday.

I have nothing for the blog today because I read Three Cups of Tea on the train ride home. And I talked with my train buddies on the ride in to the city this morning.

So I have nothing. But I'm not sorry.

Because the book is amazing. It's about Greg Mortenson, a man who works and lives out of his car to save money for building schools in Pakistan.

Of course I'm not doing it justice. And maybe you won't want to read about an American who has done more to promote peace in the Middle East than any of our silly, bombastic politicians.

Please give it a try. It is heartwarming and exciting and interesting -- and I'm only half way through.

Trust me, you won't regret one minute of the time you spend reading this amazing book.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Third Eye Blind - Semi-Charmed Life
I am reading: Three Cups
And I am: Happy

Tuesday, May 22, 2007

Cialis interruptus

Have you seen the latest Cialis commercial?

The prototypical older, yet attractive couple is at dinner – snoogling like teenagers.

He pops a pill (Cialis: When the Moment is Right or some shit like that) in anticipation of a night of Hot Monkey Sex with the ol’ lady.

But fate is a cold, cruel mistress.

The car breaks down on the way home to the love nest and -- get this -- the Hot Monkey Sex (HMS) is delayed.

Heh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When you're safe at home tonight on the computer you use primarily for porn, do a search on "Cialis".

Whew.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Keep in mind these are supposed to be people who grew up in the Happy Days era of drive-ins and cruise nights and making out in your ’57 Bel Air , for Pete’s sake. You did everything in your car back then. And who can forget when Richie/Potsie/Ralph Malph found his thrill by pretending to run outta gas?

And these people call a tow truck rather than seeing it as an opportunity for HMS in the BMW?

There are a lotta reasons to really hate those commercials, but c’mon people.

Know your audience.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And finally: A great big Happy Birthday to you, Bill. Love you, miss you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Lesley Gore - You Don't Own Me
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea
And I am: Great

Monday, May 21, 2007

Michael Moore: One sicko fuck

Let’s say I find out you are in serious debt because your wife has been in and out of hospitals this past year.

It’s bad. The healthcare bills are taking over everything, including your ability to keep your job.

Being of ‘generous spirit’, I send you a check for $12,000.

Anonymously.

In this crazy age of ID theft and whathaveyou, you are somewhat suspicious of this anonymous gift. You do a little investigating to verify that, by cashing the check, you are not plunging yourself further into debt.

Good news: The check checks out. You cash it. Life is good again.

Or so you think.

Once you’ve cashed the check, I write about the whole thing in my blog, mentioning you by name.

I call and leave you a voice mail letting you know about it after the fact.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nice, huh?

Actually, that is exactly what Michael Moore did to a man named Jim Kenefick.

Kenefick’s wife was sick and he was struggling to pay for her healthcare. Moore gave Kenefick $12k ‘anonymously’ and then used it in his new film ‘Sicko’ which debuted at the Cannes Film Festival on Saturday.

He called and left a voice-mail for Kenefick letting him know what he'd done after more than 2000 people saw the movie.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I dunno.

I thought the whole idea of making an anonymous donation was to stay, um, anonymous.

You do it because you can and because it’s the right thing to do. You do it because it makes a difference.

You don’t do a generous thing and then use it to make a point or to make yourself look good, as Michael Moore does in his most recent film.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Full disclosure: Kenefick publishes a blog that is highly critical of Michael Moore. It’s called Moorewatch.

Today, it’s obvious that Moore gave that money to Kenefick with no intention of remaining anonymous and with every intention of using it in his film.

Ass-hats are calling Kenefick an ungrateful prick among other things.

They’re saying he’s ungrateful because when he found out what Moore had done, he wrote about it in his blog.

He also thanked Moore repeatedly, but the press isn’t mentioning that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know next to nothing about Kenefick but I do know he’s in a tough spot. The best option for him is to find some way to give the money back to Moore.

I would make a donation to help that cause.

Anonymously, of course.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Sopranos
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea
And I am: Disgusted

Friday, May 18, 2007

Pure really stinks

"How come you never wear the perfume I got you for Christmas?" asks Jim last night.

"Because. . . sometimes it gives me a headache," I say.

"It's better than that other stuff you wear," he says.

"You mean the stuff that makes me smell like your mom?"

"Right."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The last two Christmases, I've asked Jim to buy me perfume -- something he likes and picks out himself.

I was more than a little nervous because perfume is extremely personal. And, not that Jim has bad taste, but there was a slight chance I could've ended up smelling like a $2 whore.

Thankfully the experiment was successful and I smelled like Calvin Klein Euphoria that year.

Not so much this year.

It's called Pure by Eddie Bauer. Its stinky sweet smell gives me a mild headache Right There between my eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Pure?"

Yes. Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"$2 whore?"

Please. Seriously.

I charge WAY MORE than that these days. Especially after the boob job.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Pure options:

1) I could spray it in the toilet every morning until it's gone.
2) I could wear it once a week and take Advil.
3) I could accidentally on purpose drop the bottle on the bathroom tile and take lots of Advil.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And finally: Happy Birthday to our good friend "I'm so glad you're not a woman" Chris.

Best wishes, buddy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Candy - Iggy Pop & Kate Pierson
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea
And I am: Smelly

Thursday, May 17, 2007

The cosmic joke

There’s been a bit of a tiff on the morning train.

I won’t go into details and name names – it wouldn’t be right – but it has involved no small amount of anger/hurt feelings and several rather silly avoidance maneuvers.

However.

The stars aligned this morning and all of us were together once again on the 7:42.

Planted between the two tiffees, I could feel the tension.

But civility was the order of the day and just like the train, the conversation moved along smoothly with only a few to-be-expected stops.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“My wife’s birthday is this Sunday,” says one of us. “Any ideas?”

This launches into the standard questions: Does she have any hobbies, does she like jewelry, blah yadda blah.

“When is your birthday?” I ask the tiffee to my left.

“August,” he says. “August 27.”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” says the tiffee to my right, with eyes full of incredulity. "WHEN IS YOUR BIRTHDAY?"

“August 27,” he repeats.

“Unbelievable,” she says. “That’s my birthday.”

And all of a sudden I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe.

A cosmic joke.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For you hard-hearted pragmatists, I’m sure the birthday thing is just a silly coincidence.

But for those of us who believe the Universe has an excellent sense of humor, it was the best cosmic joke I’ve heard in years.

Cosmic jokes – have you ever experienced one? The Universe reminding you in no small or subtle way that we’re all connected and we need to love each other and lighten up a bit?

It will take some heavy thinkery on my part to even remember the last time it’s happened.

So when it does, it’s a cause for great joy.

As is the idea that two of my good train buddies were born on the same day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The one-song saxophone player on the Madison Street bridge
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea
And I am: Laughing

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

Jerry Falwell goes to hell

“Um, it’s a little warm in here,” says Jerry Falwell, loosening the tie around his fat white neck. “When do I get to meet Jesus?”

“Jesus? Great guy. He stops by every Thursday for bread pudding and bowling,” says Lucifer, laughing. “He can’t bowl for shit, but he’s always got the best jokes. Last week he…have you heard the one about the nun, the priest and the dildo?”

“Bowling? Bread pudding? Where in hell am I?” asks Falwell.

“Well, you’re on Level One for processing but we’ll be shipping you off to Level Nine before you can say God Hates Fags.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jerry Falwell is the reason why I don’t call myself a Christian.

Of course he’s not the only reason – not believing in the whole He Died for Our Sins thing is a biggie – but Falwell is definitely #2 on Hedy’s little pagan laundry list.

I don’t call myself a Christian because the last thing I want is to be lumped in with hate-spewing idiots like Falwell who have perverted and defiled Christ’s profound yet simple message of love and acceptance.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bowling? Bread pudding?

Of course. What? Did you think hell would be all brownies and blowjobs?

That’s heaven.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With Falwell finally dead the world is a less hateful place.

And hell? I’m sure they’re all too happy to welcome him into the fold.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Train – When I Look to the Sky
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea by Mortenson/Relin
And I am: Heading to Level Two

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Unplugged

As hard as I tried, the Mac just wouldn’t fit in the tiny overnight bag needed for the Top Secret Mother’s Day Mission on Saturday.

Stuffing it in there would have rendered Mom’s ‘I hope you got me something good’ present into something somewhat less than good and that was simply not acceptable.

So the laptop – like a well worn woobie except I rarely wipe my nose on it – was left behind with Much Anxiety and Stomping of the Feet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One of my stories – and we all have ‘em – is that I don’t have any addictions.

“I don’t drink too much, I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke, blah blah,” I’d claim proudly whilst irritating the piss outta anyone within earshot.

Guess what? It’s not true.

I’m addicted to on-line. I need need NEED to be connected.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
How many hours would you say you spend on-line each day?

This is painful.

Between instant messenger, e-mail and the Internet I am plugged in all day at work – eight hours. Plus two or three hours at home in the evenings sitting in front of the TV.

Plugged in 12 hours a day? Jesus. No wonder my ass is getting so big.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They say admitting your problem is the first step to recovery. They also say that you need to hit Rock Bottom before you can begin to get better.

They are usually right. But sometimes I wish They would just shut the fuck up, ya know?

Anyhoo.

That brief and ill-fated foray into Second Life was probably rock bottom for me. How sad, pathetic and obsessed do you have to be to create a fake on-line persona so you can ‘live’ on-line?

It was twisted for sure. And it made me realize I’m missing out on too much by being tied to this goddamn Mac all the time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Well, look at you!” said Jim, sitting next to me on the couch last night. “You’re actually reading the paper! What’s going on?”

“I have an addiction,” I reply, giving him Very Serious Hedy Face. “I’m not sure if it’s genetic, but your support would be appreciated during my recovery from this disease.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It turns out I didn’t miss the Mac over the weekend. And I didn’t miss it too much last night.

It turns out being unplugged is easier than I thought.

So I can go back to irritating everyone with my addiction-free lifestyle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Somewhere Over the Rainbow – Israel K
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson & David O. Relin
And I am: Skipping step two for sure

Monday, May 14, 2007

Greetings

"You look like a breath of fresh air today!" says Sir Richard with a sparkly blue-eyed smile as I step down from the train this morning.

It's those kinds of greetings -- completely spontaneous and utterly sincere -- that can totally make your day.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Hello, slut!" says one of my favorite co-workers, stopping by my desk to share stories from the weekend.

Again with the spontaneous sincerity.

Love, love, love it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Mother's Day Update: Made a Top Secret Mission to Michigan Saturday morning. Mom was surprised. We cried. She kept calling me Heather Joy. And You Little Shit.

You know you're doing something right when people call you names.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Arcade Fire - Keep the Car Running
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson & David O. Relin (Excellent!)
And I am: Joyful

Friday, May 11, 2007

Not just another day

“I thought about coming for Mother’s Day, but with Jim gone the last two weeks…” I say, trailing off with no small amount of guilt this morning on the way to the train.

“It’s okay,” Mom says, as I know she will. “It’s just another day.”

“It’s NOT just another day!”

“Well then I sure hope you got me something good,” she says, laughing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today’s call started with a song:

Good morning, good morn-ing
You’ve slept the whole night through
Good morning, good morning to you!

Sometimes we sing. It’s what we do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There’s no Hallmark card on the planet that could capture what I’d say about my Mom for Mother’s Day.

But all of my best memories are of Mom making everything better. Everything.

Small, sick and miserable, sheets soaked with sweat -- Mom cleans me up, putting fresh sheets on the bed and fresh PJs on me.

Nervous and freaked out over a new job -- Mom reminds me of my first job at McDonald's and the shake machine spraying all over the front of my uniform, and what a bad day THAT was.

In the hospital after a car accident -- Mom dead-heads all the flower arrangements, straightens up the room, making me laugh so hard it hurts.

Post knee surgery -- Mom comes again, waking up with me during the night to feed me crackers and meds, making sure I'm comfortable.

She's the biggest blessing of my life.

And she always, always makes everything all better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am reading: National Geographic (still)
I am listening to: Mother’s Day Mix for Mom
And I am: Blessed

Thursday, May 10, 2007

Shit breath avoidance revisited

My mouth has been at DEFCON 1 since January when I was due for my last cleaning.

The old dentist was five minutes from my old office. So for the past two years I’ve been driving 45 minutes one way, out of my way, to see him. He was a good dentist. But damn.

So on a cold day in the middle of winter, I decided to blow off the cleaning and find a new dentist.

Yesterday I finally made it to the new dentist, right next to my dry cleaner and across the parking lot from my chiropractor and the tanning place.

If a gynecologist moves into that strip mall, I’m golden.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So where do you floss?” asks Sue the oral hygienist.

Heh?

“Between. My teeth. All of them?” I respond, cocking my head like Gromit when he hears me whisper ‘bye-bye?’

“No, I mean where in your house do you floss?” she clarifies.

“Oh. In the bathroom,” I respond and then start giggling uncontrollably – never a good thing when you’re prone in a dentist chair with your mouth wide open.

“Start flossing in your car,” she explained. “While you’re driving home from work. It’s a good habit.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I like the concept of flossing in my car. Using the drive home from the train station to take care of my gums makes sense.

But the thought of flinging little bits of sammich all over the place is just gross. I did take the opportunity to buy some neato-skeeto Buzz Lightyear disposable flossers.

Who the hell am I kidding? I’m gonna do what I’ve always done: I’ll floss only after eating corn on the cob. Or strawberries. For sure when I’m overdue for a cleaning.

And where will I floss? In between my teeth. All of them. In my bathroom, as God intended.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Everlast – What It’s Like
I am reading: The May issue of National Geographic – an article about Native Americans
And I am: Squeaky clean

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

Say no more

Can we all just step away from the ledge on this Winking at the Queen incident please?

I understand the need to show respect for visiting dignitaries and whathaveyou.

But this is America, folks.

We wink. When we fuck up. To show affection. When we're caught with a finger full of frosting.

Etiquette schmetiquette.

The Queen was on our turf visiting our biggest fool, what the hell did she expect?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sleeping dog breathing
I am reading: Neil
And I am: A sport

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

The Finger of God

Confession: We watch the movie Twister every Spring. It's pretty much five levels of awful but we love it.

Pop it in on a night when there's a Tornado Watch in Effect in Your Area until 10 p.m. (CDT), I guarantee you'll enjoy it.

Plus, it's got flying cows. You gotta love a movie with flying cows.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At one point in Twister, Bill Paxton's scrappy team of tornado chasers is talking about the Fujita scale for measuring what a tornado 'eats'.

Melissa, the naive outsider asks: Is there an F-5? What would that be like?

[Insert dramatic-cinematic-tornadic pause]

And Jason 'Preacher' Rowe responds: The Finger of God.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question: When the hell did tornadic become a word? Have your local Weather Wizards started using this yet? Are their jobs so difficult that they needed to invent an adjective to make it easier?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oh yeah, we also watch that other famous tornado movie, The Wizard of Oz.

Like a kid, I still get chills every time the monkeys fly. And you gotta love a movie with flying monkeys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On February 13, 2007, the Kansas State Board of Education came to its senses and approved a new curriculum which removed any reference to Intelligent Design as part of science.

On May 4, 2007, an F5 tornado -- The Finger of God -- wiped out 95% of Greensburg, Kansas.

I am shocked and just a little disappointed that the Rev. Jerry "gay pagan abortionists caused 9/11" Falwell hasn't made that connection yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mary J. Blige - Family Affair
I am reading: Not a goddamn thing
And I am: Windy with a slight chance of God

Monday, May 07, 2007

Curious about George

What was he doing? What the HELL was he doing?

I’m talking about George Tenet.

Did you see him on Meet the Press Sunday morning? The following is from the transcripts of NBC News' Meet The Press on May 6:

MR. RUSSERT: But if your president's giving a State of the Union address, and even if you hadn't vetted it, but then it appears in his speech...

MR. TENET: Right.

MR. RUSSERT: ...why wouldn't the next day or the day after...

MR. TENET: Well...

MR. RUSSERT: ...you say, "Please, that's not accurate, you can't say that." Why did you wait six months?

MR. TENET: Well, well, Tim, you know, no one came into me to say it. I didn't watch the speech that night. I didn't go back and read the speech carefully. My fault in not doing that, our fault for not taking it out of the speech. But our position on this was very, very clear from September and October going forward about what we thought about it. This was not--nitro and yellowcake had nothing to do with our judgment that Saddam is reconstituting nuclear weapons. Nothing to do with it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
George Tenet didn’t watch the State of the Union on January 28, 2003 -- arguably one of the most important speeches leading up to the war in Iraq.

As an American citizen, I’m obligated to watch this speech. It’s once a year, for Christ’s sake.

So what the FUCK was he doing that night?

Any ideas?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Office talk
I am reading: SharePoint 2007 notes
And I am: Sneezy

Friday, May 04, 2007

I'm a Know Person

So three witches tell MacBeth that one day he’ll be king.

Rather than kicking back and waiting for this glorious event to transpire (and, let’s face it, goaded by his shrew-bitch of a wife), MacBeth kills the current king and takes the throne.

It is my favorite Shakespeare.

Here’s a question: If the witches hadn’t told him he’d be king, would it have happened? Had he just let events unfold would he still be king? Or were the witches playing him, knowing he’d take matters into his own hands?

Do we have free will? Can we change the future – or will it happen anyway, with or without our best efforts?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some people believe ignorance is bliss. Others need to know.

I’m a know person.

If someone says “Good news, bad news. Which do you want to hear first?”

I always want the bad first.

If there’s information out there that’s gonna help me prepare for what’s coming, I want it. All of it.

I’m not talking about silly psychic stuff, a la MacBeth.

No, I’m talking about everyday knowledge that regular people could share with you about your home, work, and social life.

For example: If your best friend knew for certain that your wife was cheating on you, would you want him to share it? Would you want to know?

Or if your boss knew for certain that you were going to be fired but wasn’t supposed to tell you yet, would you want her to share it with you?

Are we obligated to share knowledge with people who might be negatively affected by it?

And how does that knowledge change future events, if at all?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sales meeting
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortensen
And I am: Ready

Thursday, May 03, 2007

Saving the world, one blowjob at a time

Yesterday my friend Spike called me out as a person who complains without offering up any solutions.

Perhaps he’s just a little bit right after yesterday’s blog. Although the answer seemed obvious to me, it’s apparent even a graduate of both Harvard and Yale might have trouble seeing the solution to the Iraq cock-up: Get the hell outta there.

[Insert your favorite both hands/flashlight or ass/hole in the ground statement here.]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today I am accepting Spike’s challenge and offer up the following theory: All of the world’s biggest problems can be solved with blowjobs.

Ta-da!

CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
HEDY! The world has serious, serious issues and you’re making a joke.

Nope. I’m serious. Seriously serious.

Think about it: When Bill Clinton was president, the economy was booming. The national debt was nothing. We had no war. And blowjobs in the White House.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Take global warming. The #1 cause of global warming is carbon dioxide emissions – primarily from the burning of fossil fuels to produce electricity and the burning of gasoline to produce traffic jams.

Women: Pay attention. Light some candles. Get on your knees.

It’s a win-win.

You reduce your ComEd bill with the romantic lighting and your guy stays home more often rather than driving around in his big SUV looking for scotch, women and golf balls. Or something.

Say it with me guys: “C’mon baby, it’s to help the environment.”

See? Isn’t this fun?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
World hunger? Too easy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back to the mess in Iraq. Ugly for sure.

Pulling out is one answer. But I say put it in, boys.

Rather than a surge of troops, we need to send a surge of sluts over there.

Call it Operation Desert Dome.

We’ll send over our best and brightest prostitutes; I’m sure Deborah Jeane Palfrey, the D.C. madam, has some good connections and would love to help out.

Think about it. These terrorist nut-jobs will have no time to think about blowing themselves up if they’re too busy being…well, you know.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Next up: Abortion.

Abstinence Schmabstinence. The Christian Coalition has it all wrong.

Just think of all the unwanted pregnancies that could be avoided if women would just give more blowjobs.

Shaddap. You know I’m right.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Obesity? Hey, they call it a job for a reason. If you’re doing it right, you’ll burn some calories for sure.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Immigration. This is a tough one.

Theory #1: Mexicans come here illegally for the jobs. We need to get them to stay in Mexico for the blowjobs.

Eh, scratch that. Who would mow your lawn? Or serve your burritos?

The way I see it, the immigration issue is all about economics. We need cheap, illegal labor. They’re cheap and illegal.

Actually, it doesn’t seem like there’s much of a problem after all. And blowjobs could only make that situation better.

Damn I’m good.

There’s no need to thank me, really. I’m just doing my part to make a small difference in the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Eve - Let Me Blow Ya Mind
I am reading: Everything
And I am: A Goodwill Ambassador

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

BUSH VETOES PULLOUT

...and keeps right on fucking all of us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
According to the New York Times, Bush called the measure a “prescription for chaos and confusion."

Because what's happening over there now is all sunshine and blowjobs, yes?

But wait, it gets better: Bush also said, “Setting a deadline for withdrawal is setting a date for failure, and that would be irresponsible."

3352 dead? 24000+ wounded? Nearly $500 billion?

It's already a failure due to the Bush administration's irresponsible behavior.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dogs running around the house
I am reading: Neil
And I am: Fed up

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

May march

They’re marching again in Chicago today. I can’t wait.

It’s thrilling.

Thousands of people united for a cause.

I don’t care what you believe on the immigration issue, when thousands of people gather like that, you can’t help but take notice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Speaking of which:

NOTICE


On Tuesday, May 1 we will not be open for lunch.
We will not have the necessary workforce to maintain our
high levels of quality and service so we are closing for lunch only.
We will open at 5 p.m. for dinner.


“Check it out,” I say to Jim the IT guy, standing in front of the hostess counter at Lalo’s Mexican on LaSalle. “It’s because of the immigration march tomorrow.”

“They come here and do the jobs no one else wants,” he says.

“Yep, and when they don’t do the jobs no one else wants, businesses shut down.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Your family is living in poverty. Every day is a struggle. There’s never enough money for food. There is no good medical care.

There is a job waiting for you in the United States. But you have to break the law to get it.

Would you do it? Would you break the law to provide the basics for your family?

I would. In a heartbeat.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lalo’s is a classic Mexican restaurant: Bright colors, mosaic tiles on the wall, wrought iron. If you’ve ever been to Chicago, it’s in what used to be Michael Jordan’s restaurant. There are small, brass engraved nameplates at each booth, the only holdovers from that heady era.

“That’s the waiter from La Margarita,” says Jim the IT guy, taking a tortilla chip out of the freshly delivered basket.

“Really?” I say. “We should ask him what happened.”

La Margarita was our favorite Mexican restaurant in the Loop. It was reliably good food. And Francisco, our regular waiter, was fabulous – the kind of guy who’s there with a Diet Pepsi refill before you even think of asking.

It was a great place to take new employees for their welcome lunches and we always looked forward to it.

But at five city blocks away, it was a bit of a cold blustery hike in the winter. So a few weeks ago when the weather finally turned warm, we set out for our old standby – only to discover it was gone. Shut down. As if it was never there.

“They give us no notice,” Francisco tells us. “On December 22, I work. On December 26, I come and it is closed. They say nothing. I work there 11 years, nothing.”

Francisco, who worked the part-time lunch shift, went on to explain how bad he felt for the full time employees who were left jobless.

“This is why I always have two job,” he says. “You never know what happen.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Businesses benefit from having illegal immigrants here because they do the shit jobs that no one else wants for low wages. And they don’t complain because they can’t complain – they’re here illegally.

Businesses hire illegal immigrants to avoid paying fair wages and health insurance.

Businesses are breaking the law.

Why are we so quick to blame poor brown people for the problems created by greedy white people?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Francisco is not serving up Diet Pepsi refills at Lalo’s today.

There’s no way of knowing if he is participating in the march.

But I know he’s a good guy. He works his ass off. Two jobs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ne-Yo - Because of You
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Grateful

Monday, April 30, 2007

Perfect morning

“You rang?”

“I was calling to say I’d go with you guys but you already left,” I say.

“We’re sitting in the driveway.”

“I’ll be right down.”

And so Saturday began: Walkies on the river trail with my two favorite guys.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bright green tufts of grass. Mounds of moss. Tiny clusters of purple and white flowers. Crocus.

And Gromit, peeing on all of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A woman runs by.

“Whew,” Jim whispers. “She has your old boobs.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We talk about everything and nothing, as couples do.

We fantasize about simplifying our lives – selling everything and moving to the country. Or the city.

We talk about the things we need to do. The things we need to get.

“What about a Prius?” I ask.

“Do you really want to drive a car that sounds like an STD?” says Jim. “’Doctor, I think I have Prius. You might need to lance it.’”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Two weeks ago you had to squint to see the green on the trail. It looked like hope.

Now everything is bright and bursting -- exuberant green.

It looks like joy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Blue October - Hate Me
I am reading: Neil
And I am: Relaxed

Friday, April 27, 2007

My second life

At home on Wednesday, illin’ and chillin’ from the big hoo-ha software conference, I decided to check out Second Life.

Have you heard of this?

It’s a virtual reality world where people can buy and sell land, own businesses, and (more coolio than Julio) fly.

You start out choosing a name for yourself. Any first name will do, but you are required to choose from the list of last names available in Second Life.

I am Hedy Voom.

I wanted Veda Voom, but it was taken. So was VaVa.

Once you’re registered on-line, you download the SL software to your computer. You sign on, and before you can say Voila Voom (also taken), you are born into your second life.

Confession: I did not take well to this second life.

Within minutes I was completely bald and wearing a chainmail shirt I got for free from a street vendor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
You begin your new life on Orientation Island.

There, you can visit four portals that provide the basics for surviving your second life: Appearance, Communicate, Move, and Search.

I arrive standing in front of the Communicate portal, but make a beeline for Appearance.

The fact that I would choose Appearance over Communicate disturbs me more than just a little bit as, in my real life, I am extremely lame when it comes to my appearance and more than a little interested in communicating.

While standing in the Appearance portal trying to get my hair back, a dude named Alex66 walks up and hands me a dollar.

One can only assume that Alex66 thought I was a) a homeless person or b) a stripper.

Who else do you give a $1, really?

Also, I got trapped under a ceiling while learning to fly in the Move portal.

But I took a long ride on a Segway, too. I am more than a little melancholy at the fact that Hedy Voom has ridden one of these contraptions. I have not.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Of course, the concept behind Second Life is that you get to look and act differently than you do in your first life.

You can adjust everything about the way you look: Hair, eyes, chin, mouth, ears, height, boobs, ass – everything.

Two complete mysteries: The “more bags” option for eyes and the “more saddlebags” option for asses.

Hedy Voom is a tall, bi-racial woman with freckles and light gray eyes. Think of me as a less brainful Condi Rice with Halle Berry tits.

As for the acting differently, well, I'm not really into that so much. There are plenty of "adult" activities in Second Life but it all seems rather forced and lame.

In SL, I mostly wander around by myself exploring new places.

Kinda like my first life but with flying and much better clothes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
More on last names: I could’ve been Hedy Writer.

But it seemed redundant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Update: Hedy Voom is currently trapped on a small, dark island in the middle of nowhere because of an ill-fated quest for “Free Ocean Front Property” in the Search portal.

At least I’m not bald.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jem - Amazing Life
I am reading: Salon.com
And I am: Appreciating my first life

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Angry again

And this quote pretty much sums it up:

"Having children makes you no more a parent than having a piano makes you a pianist."

If you are blessed with children, please hug them today.

Tell them they are precious and that you love them no matter what. Tell them they are good and wanted and loved. Be selfless with them.

Because some kids don't ever get that. In fact, some kids get quite the opposite.

And there's nothing more sad than that.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Office sounds
I am reading: Work e-mail
And I am: Sad

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

More adventures with airport security

There are two types of rule-breakers.

There are the folks who break a rule, consider themselves lucky if they don’t get caught, and never do it again.

And then there are us habitual offenders who, like velociraptors hurling ourselves violently at an electronic fence, constantly test the system for weaknesses.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This time I’ve got the standard-issue baggie with three 3 oz. bottles of blah blah. There’s a fourth bottle that, at 4 oz. is slightly over the limit, but has somehow made it through at least four of these silly airport screenings unscathed.

I approach the security checkpoint at Orlando International Airport with a smile on my face and a 12 oz. bottle of Extremely Dangerous & Illegal contact lens solution ($10!) stashed beneath a thick-soled sandal in the bottom of the wheelie bag.

Exciting, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I know.

The Jurassic analogy was probably a bit much given the fact that I’m an aging and somewhat arthritic office worker whose biggest thrill is watching Boston Legal Tuesday nights.

I’m like Walter Mitty with tits and a less irritating spouse.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since that last airport security adventure I’ve developed a system.

First bin: Shoes + jacket + baggie with liquids. Next: Black wheelie bag. Second bin: Mac. Last: The backpack.

Here’s my logic: If the security folks see the baggie first, they’ll assume I’ve attempted to comply with their inane rules and check the wheelie less carefully.

Ah, the mind of a career criminal.

Fascinating, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why the hell do you have a 12 oz. bottle of anything, Hedy?

It was yet another mad dash to the airport on Saturday and I had to leave my over-the-limit liquids in the car with Jim, who was kind enough to drop me off at Midway.

Arriving in Orlando with no hairspray and nothing for soaking the contacts while I sleep, I was back in business after a quick trip to Albertson’s.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A short, roundish security lady reaches into the first gray bin and grabs the baggie.

“Nice form,” she says with a stern smile. “But this bottle is too big. It’s four ounces, see? Over the limit. You’ve gotta try harder next time.”

There’s a brief moment of anxiety while I assume she’s about to confiscate the offending Mary Kay Moisturizer.

But she tosses it back in the bin with a wink and lets it slide on through.

Uh-oh, I think.

If she’s such a stickler on the 3-1-1, she’s gonna be uber-pissed when she finds that contact stuff.

I hold my breath walking through the metal detector, always waiting for it to beep for no good reason.

But once again, the airport gods smile as the illegal wheelie sails through the x-ray like a small miracle and I wander off to find a smoothie.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Was it the Aosept stuff we use?" Jim asks on the way home from the airport last night. "There's irony there, because it's got hydrogen peroxide in it -- the stuff those guys were gonna use to make a bomb on the airplane in London."

If the fierce velociraptor felt any remorse about her most recent attack, it is eliminated by this revelation.

Now, no one will be safe. She growls a little in satisfaction.

"What'd you say?" asks Jim. "Are you tired?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What about the hairspray, Hedy? Where o where did you hide that?

Nothing sexy or mysterious there, sadly. It was left behind in the hotel room.

I’m working my way up to smuggling two 12 oz. bottles of blah blah.

In a year, I figure I’ll be zipping through security with a gallon of gas stashed beneath my shoes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit breathing
I am reading: Leads from the Hyperion conference
And I am: A vicious dinosaur with pointy teeth and nice tits

Friday, April 20, 2007

The Secret of Guy Code

“I’m gonna tell you something but you can’t tell ANYONE, okay?” a friend says over lunch last week.

I set my fork down. I lean in.

That zippy-skippy part of my brain wakes up and says “Woo-HOO, this is gonna be GREAT!”

There’s nothing like a fat, juicy secret to make your day.

We all have ‘em.

And when someone shares one with you, it’s exhilarating.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I hate to generalize, but men are way better at keeping secrets than women.

Men thrive on their secrets. They need them. And they bond over them.

It’s Guy Code.

Guy Code is that unwritten yet sacred policy between men that there are certain things you NEVER share with the women in your life.

Wife, girlfriend, best friend – doesn’t matter. Some shit you just don’t share with chicks.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The One Chick Rule is a little-known corollary to Guy Code.

If you’re with a group of guys and there’s just one chick, feel free to act like she’s not there.

Two male co-workers introduced me to the One Chick Rule over lunch at Chipotle a few years ago.

I was sitting next to one of them on a molded, pseudo wood bench seat when about halfway through the meal, I felt the unmistakable vibration of a long, burrito-induced fart.

The perpetrator looked at me, shrugged, and said, “One chick rule.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You’re about as close as any woman’s ever got to Guy Code,” said Jim’s friend Rodney one night over drinks. “Probably 90%. But you can never get all of it.”

“Because it would break the code?” I ask.

“Well, that, but it would also make you really hate men,” he replied.

The three of us were at the Roundhouse in Aurora one Friday talking about men, women, and whatnot.

They agreed that they both let me in on stuff because they know I won’t go all freaky-irrational-jealous on them. They know I won’t use the information they share against them later on.

But they also know just how far they can go.

About two hours into their war stories, I’d had enough.

“Okay, I’m starting to hate you two,” I sighed. “I’m out.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I love Guy Code.

For all our emotional sharing and blabbing with each other, us chicks have nothing that remotely compares to Guy Code.

And I think I know why. With secrets, it’s a power thing. Secrets hold great power.

Guy Code exists because chicks have what guys want and they are mostly powerless in that regard.

Guy Code gives them back some of that power.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somewhere along the way I learned the value of honoring and keeping secrets.

Now when someone says don’t tell, I’m like a vault.

Even the Guy Code stuff.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dirty Little Secret – All-American Rejects
I am reading: My guy Neil
And I am: Keeping 'em

Thursday, April 19, 2007

Longing for the days of Anna & Imus

Confession time. And this is a Big Ugly One.

When news broke of the Virginia Tech murders, a small part of me said: "Finally! Real news! We can stop hearing about Anna Nicole Smith and Don Imus."

I told you it was ugly. If you like me a little less now I totally understand. I liked me a little less thinking it.

Today the networks have traded one form of lunacy for another by broadcasting the rantings of this madman over and over and over.

I miss Anna. I miss Imus. Truly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's a question: Where are this boy's parents?

I searched high and low on the Internet last night and only found one largely irrelevant article about his sister, who works for some government agency re-building Iraq. Or something.

Even this morning, there is nothing about his parents.

And in this aftermath of ugly rhetoric on who's to blame this time -- gun freaks on both sides sure didn't waste any time making hay outta this one -- the most important question is: Where were these parents when their sad, manic son was skittering down the path to massacre?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Like a Star - Corinne Bailey Rae
I am reading: Three Cups of Tea: One Man's Mission to Promote Peace -- One School at a Time by Greg Mortenson
And I am: Turning everything off

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Bunnies, flowers, sunshine & blow jobs

Spike: We gettin' shut out today?

Heather: It's lookin' that way. I'm sorry. A cousin in from outta town; not much train time this week.

Spike: Gotcha....the title out there looks so ANGRY.

Heather: Okay, I will fix it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Freek-a-Leek - Petey Pablo
I am reading: Done with Crichton, The God Delusion is next
And I am: Trying for less angry

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

We're white and we're angry!

Yesterday’s blog provoked a rather visceral reaction in some.

Why all the hate, my friends? Why are white folks so incensed by race issues?

It's a little odd, given the fact that I don’t know one white person that has suffered or is suffering because of minorities. I don’t know a single white person whose life is worse because of something an African American did or didn’t do.

In fact, the white people I know who are struggling with bills and whatnot, struggle because of their own decisions, not because somebody stole an opportunity or money or property from them.

Plus, I would argue our lives are easier because of the scads of minorities ready and willing to work the shit-jobs most teenagers wouldn’t deign to do.

So why all the anger, people? What is this really about?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But Hedy! What about these women on welfare who keep having babies to get more money?”

Did we sleep through the 90’s folks?

Bill Clinton’s welfare reform law passed in 1996 changed all of that. According to a report by the Urban Institute, a non-partisan economic and social policy organization, the number of families receiving cash benefits has decreased from 4.6 million in 1996 to 2.1 million families in 2002.

So if you’re angry about paying taxes to support minorities on welfare, you’re actually paying less than you did 10 years ago.

And if you wanna be pissed off about taxes, what about that bridge to nowhere they’re building in Alaska with your tax dollars? It’s a bunch of white old men behind that particular fiasco.

Listen, just like "Tired of It" from yesterday, I have a seriously low tolerance for assholes and idiots.

But when you blame an entire race of people for the problems you don't have, who's the asshole?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: 50 Cent - Hate It or Love It
I am reading: Next by Michael Crichton
And I am: Blah again

Monday, April 16, 2007

Imus vs. the rest of us

Look at him.

Does this man have any business commenting on hair-dos, nappy or otherwise?

C'mon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But Hedy! What about rap music? Black people use the n-word all the time! It’s a double standard! It’s NOT FAIR!”

Um. Right.

Are you actually complaining because you can’t use the n-word?

No?

All right then, are you complaining about double standards held by people that have lived with double standards here for hundreds of years? People who lived with separate but equal up until the 60’s? People who still live with different standards today, like a friend of mine who gets pulled over on a regular basis because he’s black and drives a Lexus?

Here’s the deal: If you’re white and you’ve never, ever laughed at a racist joke your whole life and you’ve never once uttered the n-word when you’re alone with your white friends, THEN you can gripe about double standards.

No? Not so much?

Then please, SHUT the FUCK UP about DOUBLE STANDARDS.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“But Hedy! You said if it’s not true, you shouldn’t be offended!”

Right.

And I thought C. Vivian Stringer, the coach of the Rutgers women’s basketball team, was being just a little bit dramatic when she said: “Let the healing begin.”

What Imus said was offensive.

But if I’m on that team, I’m not hurt. I’m not offended. Oh, hell no.

I’m pissed off that the media are so focused on some washed up, dried up, angry old racist fuck and not on the fabulous season we had.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question: Why isn’t Imus heading to rehab like Mel Gibson and all the other celebrities who’ve suffered from verbal diarrhea over the past year?

Because he’s a recovering alcoholic and drug addict who used to get drunk/high while on the radio.

But he’s better now. Yep. All better.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Hedy’s Shake Ya Ass mix
I am reading: Next by Michael Crichton (it’s better now – not a great story, but makes you think about DNA and stuff.)
And I am: Pretty goddamn good

Friday, April 13, 2007

Moo-cows, hoot owls

We live in what used to be the country.

Since 1995, our neck of the woods – and it was in fact mostly woods and farm fields back then – is being swallowed up by the sprawl of suburbia.

There are two Targets now, less than two miles away. The friendly four-way stops are gone, replaced by civilized stoplights. The McDonald’s opened just six months ago, depressing and comforty all at once.

But all of this doesn’t bother me so much because there are still moo-cows at the farm across the street; you can hear them mooing on warm summer mornings. On really good days, blue herons wade through the pond behind our house. On really bad nights, coyotes scream from the few remaining cornfields nearby.

And there are hoot owls.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why are they called moo-cows and hoot owls?

There are no oink-pigs or bark-dogs.

And what if all of us put what we do in front of who we are?

What would you be?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This morning I woke up dark-early to that familiar h-h-HOO hoo HOOooo.

We’ve known since November that an owl is nesting nearby.

When he’s on the chimney it’s so loud it sounds like he’s sitting next to me on the couch. Stand in the back yard and you can hear him hoo after 10 almost every night.

But this morning I heard something new with the hoo-ing.

A small, soft hoo. Echoing the huge, loud hoo.

Baby hoots. Owlets on the roof.

Cool.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Streetcorner Symphony – Rob Thomas
I am reading: My guy Neil
And I am: A Bitch-Hed (lately)

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Rude dude

I’m walking up to the bright yellow parking meter machines at the train lot in Aurora this morning, yapping with Mom again.

In the back of my head, it’s 284. 284. 284. Must remember 284.

That’s the space I’m in today.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a guy rapidly approaching – hurrying up to beat me to the one machine that’s open on the right.

Of course this is terribly rude.

But I’m too late for the 7:22 and way early for the 7:42 train, so it’s no biggie.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s how it works: You park in a numbered space. You punch your number in the machine. Then you plug in your buck-fifty or your parking cash card. You wait for the printed ticket to push its way out, and voila, done.

The whole transaction should take less than 30 seconds.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hedy, maybe he saw you yapping on the phone and thought you would be slow.”

That’s what I figured. But still.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rude dude gets to the machine, plops down his backpack and his coffee on top of the trashcan between the two machines and starts RUMMAGING THROUGH HIS BAG FOR CHANGE.

He’s not even READY.

He LEAPED ahead of me – me with my automated park card in hand – so that he could spend an HOUR digging around for money.

Now I’m irritated.

All that digging around should be done ahead of time. You prep before you approach.

It’s an unwritten rule.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The machine on the left opens up. I’m in, I’m out. Zip-zip. Still yapping.

30 seconds.

While the rude dude is still rummaging.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Everything is Alright – Motion City Soundtrack
I am reading: Next by Michael Crichton (bleh)
And I am: Zippy

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

Again with the Christian picking

“And while we’re talking about Easter, I didn’t like your blog much,” Mom tells me yesterday morning during the looonnnng drive into the city.

Why I’m not on the train is an even longer story, and I’ve bored all y’all enough lately.

“You’re picking on Christians again and I don’t like it,” she whined.

Yes, she whined. It’s true. I love her, but it was whining.

“Oh Jesus Christ! Did you read it? Did you really read it?” I yell in frustration. “Better yet, read my blog from Friday. It’s not about YOU. I wasn’t picking on Christians. I was pointing out that, if you really look at it, our country’s history isn’t all that Christian.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I pick on Christians. I pick on Jews. I pick on Muslims.

Religious hypocrisy is my all-time favorite topic – regardless of your flavor.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So what do you believe, really?” she asked later in the conversation. “I still don’t know what you believe.”

I believe everyone and everything is connected.

To me, that connection is sacred. It is a miracle that I experience every single day of my life.

It’s what most people refer to as God. But I’m more comfortable calling it the Universe because to me, this connection doesn’t have gender.

It’s not Out There. It’s In Here.

Star Wars fans call it The Force.

Because we’re all connected, we have an obligation to treat each other well. We have an obligation to do the right thing. Always.

But sometimes we don’t. The Universe is self-regulating in that regard and if we treat others badly – because we’re all connected – eventually bad things happen to us.

“But I’m not connected to that guy who killed his wife and chopped her up,” said Mom.

“Yes. Yes you are,” I say. “That’s the biggest challenge, and one that Jesus understood better than anyone: We’re all connected, no exceptions. It’s easy to feel connected to your family and your friends, but the challenge is to understand and feel that connection with people like that guy who killed his wife. People you don’t like. The people who are really different from you. That’s the hardest thing to do. To me, that’s the real miracle of someone like Jesus.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The guys who founded this country got it – they understood that concept. All men are created equal, blah blah.

If we had just followed through, followed what they said, THEN we’d be a Christian nation.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: People talking in the office kitchen
I am reading: An article about Einstein and faith in Time Magazine
And I am: Really sick of snow

Sunday, April 08, 2007

Christian nation, my ass


Tell me, please. When was the United States a Christian nation?

When we stole this land from Native Americans -- allowing those that we didn't massacre to live in captivity on reservations?

When we bought and sold slaves, and then freed them only to keep things separate but equal for another hundred years?

When we burned 'witches' at Salem?

When we ignored genocide in Germany? In China? In Afghanistan? In Bosnia? In Rwanda?

And today, in Darfur, because there's no oil, no money to be made by getting involved?

Our history was never about worshiping the Almighty.

It's about worshiping the almighty dollar.

Christian nation? My ass.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Ten Commandments
I am reading: Blogs Against Theocracy
And I am: Disgusted

Friday, April 06, 2007

It's not you. Really.

“What are you doing tonight? I really need to talk to you.”

This arrived via e-mail first thing Wednesday morning.

Of course I replied “Nothing, c’mon over” because that’s the only thing to say when a friend says something like that.

But here’s another thing I tend to do in that situation: I make it about me.

Do you ever do this?

For part of the day, in the back of mind, I was thinking:

“Hmm. I wonder if I did something to offend her. I wonder if I was obnoxious the last time we saw each other and she’s finally had it with me and wants to tell me in person how I hurt her feelings and made her mad and blah de blah ME blah ME ME ME!”

I made it about me.

It wasn’t, and the better part of me knew that.

But only because I’m trying to get better about not looking at the world through me-colored glasses all the time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Us chicks are especially good at making it all about us.

Example: This Saturday, Jim will be very quiet and tired from spending a week on the other side of the world.

Here will be me, Saturday night: “What’s wrong? Are you mad at me? Why aren’t you talking to me?”

Again with the me, me, me.

The fact is, people are quiet or sad or upset or mean or rude for a whole lotta reasons.

And 99.9% of the time, it’s not about you. Really.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"How was dinner last night?" I ask Mom this morning.

“Eh, just okay. I had to sit next to _________,” she says. “She intimidates me.”

“Oh yeah, what did she do?” I ask.

“She doesn’t do anything,” she replied. “It’s me, it’s my issue. I feel intimidated by her.”

I laugh out loud at this point and tell her about today’s blog topic.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Okay, say it with me girls: “But what about that OTHER .01% of the time, hmm?”

The rest of the time, people have no idea they’ve offended you because again, it’s NOT ABOUT YOU.

REALLY.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I think I’m gonna be fired,” I told my friend Scott a few months ago. “They hate me.”

“Hed, have you ever read ‘The Four Agreements’?” he asked.

“I did a long time ago, but obviously it didn’t take,” I reply.

“Always remember, it’s not personal,” he said. “It’s one of the agreements. It’s not about you. Really. Most of the stuff that people do and say has everything to do with them, and absolutely nothing to do with you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You wanna know the silliest part of all this?

The people who it’s usually about – the people who actually piss you off – have absolutely no clue that it’s EVER about them.

Like the lady sitting next to me on the train right now, yapping AT THE TOP OF HER LUNGS.

I’d really like to stab her in the head with a pen. She has no idea that her behavior is deeply offensive to me.

Maybe she grew up in a really big family where constant, loud, annoying yapping was the norm.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, all of us do it. We think we’re the center of the Universe.

When in fact, we’re just the center of our Universe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: KT Tunstall – The Other Side of the World
I am reading: Steinberg
And I am: Finding some new sorts

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Out of sorts

Okay. Confession time.

I’ve been out of sorts lately.

Fresh out of sorts, in fact.

And it’s not as if you can just go to Target and pick up a pack of new sorts when you’re out of them.

Sorts must replenish themselves magically like those little shampoo bottles in your hotel room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, it's extremely irritating to feel this way because a) There's no good reason for it, and b) I have an extremely low tolerance for people who mope around, out of sorts, for no good reason.

There are Major Diseases. There is Divorce. There is Loneliness.

Is it okay to make ourselves feel better by thinking of those less fortunate?

Is it okay to be down for no good reason?

What brings you back up when you're fresh out?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Prediction: I will get two types of e-mails from friends/family.

1) HEDY! Don't be down, we love you and flowers and sunshine and God and everything, BE HAPPY!
2) HEDY! PULL your HEAD outta your ASS and GET OVER IT!

And then there are the blessed few who will respond exactly the way I would respond to someone else who's down for No Good Reason: Ignore it; she'll pull out of this eventually.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Led Zeppelin - Tangerine
I am reading: New copy for corporate brochure
And I am: Fresh out

Wednesday, April 04, 2007

Hide & seek

Here's how it works: I throw the Frisbee upstairs. Gromit runs up to get it. I hide.

We've been playing all morning.

It's a total crack up listening to him scramble around the house desperate to find me.

He does a somewhat cursory check of the usual spots first: The bathroom, the laundry room, the family room. Then he circles back around -- actually taking the time to look behind doors and furniture.

If Gromit still can't find me, he starts this squealing, barking noise that is essentially the dog equivalent of bitching someone out.

He always finds me though. Then he runs like hell to make sure I can't get the Frisbee again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hide and seek was one of my favorite games growing up.

Here was my trick to avoid being It: I'd hide somewhere very obvious and just a short distance from the goal. When the It person finished counting, they'd invariably take off running, assuming all of us were hiding somewhere Far Away.

I'd watch them zoom by, then run like hell to the goal. It's literally the last place they look.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was something thrilling about hiding from someone desperate to find you.

It was a sneaky, thinky game and maybe that's why I liked it so much.

Confession: For some reason, playing hide and seek always made me want to pee. I have no idea why, but it was extremely irritating.

I think Da said once that it's that nervous-are-they-gonna-find-me feeling that makes you want to go to the bathroom.

I have no idea if that's true.

But maybe that explains why Gromit always checks the bathrooms first when I'm hiding.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The wind
I am reading: Neil Steinberg
And I am: Still in my PJ's

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Another customer service surprise

“Look at this,” says my manager, walking up to my desk yesterday afternoon.

He hands me a battered and filthy box containing a set of Bose Quiet Comfort 3 headphones I’d ordered last week.

“I can’t give it to her looking like this,” he says.

I agreed. It looked like the UPS man had wiped his ass with the box and then danced on it for good measure.

(What can brown do for you? Yikes.)

Over the past year we’ve ordered a dozen or so of these headphones, which have turned out to be popular giveaways with clients and prospects.

Usually they arrive safely and anonymously inside a plain cardboard box. But this time, the headphones were shipped in the original box – a box that now appeared to be shit-stained and stomped on -- and wholly unsuitable for giving to anyone.

“I’ll call them right away,” I say, thinking ‘right away’ will probably mean an hour from now when I finally finish that little 2-hour project I’ve been working on all week.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m a regular at the Bose web site but have never needed to call them until now.

Surprise #1: The 800 number for customer service was easy to find on their web site.

This is highly unusual. Have you noticed this?

Most companies make it extremely difficult to find a customer service number on their web sites. American Airlines is notorious – burying it a whopping four clicks deep. They’d rather you send an e-mail.

"DO NOT REPLY TO THIS E-MAIL. Thank you for contacting us about [insert generic name they've applied to your unique problem here]. You will receive a response within 24 hours regarding this issue."

The response you receive doesn't address your problem. It addresses what they've decided is your problem -- and in fact, it is YOUR problem after all, so good luck with that.

Oh, and by the way, DO NOT REPLY TO THIS E-MAIL.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Surprise #2: A live person with a very friendly voice answers the phone on the second ring. I explain the situation.

“The box never should’ve shipped like that,” says the sympathetic and soothing Bose rep on the other end. “UPS will be there today to pick it up, no charge. And we’ll ship you a new one today.”

Fabulous.

So when have you been surprised by good customer service? And is it a surprise because it happens so rarely? Or because we’ve lowered our expectations?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: INXS – The One Thing
I am reading: Pre-show mailer
And I am: Quiet and comforty

Monday, April 02, 2007

How would Jesus drive?

It was Sunday morning and I was doing 75 in the far left lane through the construction at Naperville Road on I-88.

I thought this was pretty zippy considering the speed limit is 45. But with no workers around, I figured it was a good risk.

All of a sudden, a chick in a minivan zooms up outta nowhere and sits on my bumper.

“Golly gee,” I think, “This nice woman is in an awfully big hurry. I best get out of her way as she’s obviously going somewhere Very Important.”

Who the hell am I kidding?

Here’s what I really thought: “Goddamn crazy bitch. She thinks where she’s going is So Much More Important than where everyone else is going.”

It’s Sunday so in spite of the swearing I’m feeling somewhat generous of spirit and change lanes to let her pass.

She speeds by and that’s when I see it: A Christian fish below the rear window, hanging on for dear life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m on my way to the train station this morning, already yapping with Mom as I leave the house.

By some small miracle, there’s no traffic so I pull out of my subdivision behind a school bus. The school bus takes the right lane and I move into the far left lane to pass.

There’s a car about a half-mile behind coming up fast so I accelerate to get around the bus and outta the way.

Too late. Before I can switch to the right lane, the guy zips by, cutting off the bus to take the right lane.

Yep, you guessed it. Another Christian fish.

What’s with these people?

And during Lent, for Christ's sake.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you’re going to advertise the fact that you’re a Christian aren’t you somewhat obligated to, I don’t know, act like one?

Follow the rules of the road. Be considerate of others. Use that God-given turn signal maybe.

Or not.

Maybe as Christians, these folks are fearless. They know they’re saved. They just know they’re heading to heaven.

They drive like idiots because they’re not afraid to die.

They think they’re getting to heaven just a little bit ahead of the rest of us.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: 50 Cent – Hate It or Love it
I am reading: Magazines
And I am: Calm