Meeting Craig Ferguson

"Let's do a quick recon mission, there's time," I say to Jim, walking up to the Genesee Theatre in Waukegan.

"Grumble, grumble, blah blah," he replies.

Really.

My friend Wesley - who holds the distinction of being my third favorite Scotsman behind Craig Ferguson and Sean Connery - told me how he stayed after one of Craig's shows in Milwaukee a while back and scored an autograph. He also talked with Craig about some odd Scottish breakfast thing called Chinese eggs which sound delicious even though I don't get the Chinese part of it since it's eggs and toast and a bit of milk all jumbled up in a cup. Anyhoo.

"This must be the Back Stage Door," I say, brilliantly pointing to the door with the hand-lettered sign that reads 'Back Stage Door.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Our seats are nothing short of spectacular. Second row. Center.

However, because these lovely, lovely tickets are a birthday gift from Jim, I decide it will be inappropriate to throw myself and/or various undergarments on the stage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The show is just great; my face hurts from laughing.

Craig is brilliant and funny and larger than life on stage. Everything I imagined and more.

When it's over, we dart around back and wait near a black stretch limo at the Back Stage Door. We're first. There are nearly 20 of us by the time Craig appears - looking rather tired and small and shut-down for the evening.

Yes. Tired and small and shut-down. And I immediately feel awful for keeping him beyond the show.

Here's the deal. I'm not a nervous person typically. Especially meeting new people. I can be shy, but can usually manage a friendly smile and good eye contact with a firm handshake in social situations. But I also pick up on the energy of other people quickly and tend to mirror it - it's something I can't control.

So I approach him with my head down, no smile.

"Will you have time for signing?" I ask, holding out my sweat-soaked copy of his book Between the Bridge and the River.

He doesn't smile either. He sort of scans the crowd, then nods and moves toward the limo to drop off his backpack. When he returns I say something more gruff/stupid as he signs my book, and barely manage a thank you. Then we leave.

It was one of the more disheartening moments of my life. I felt like crying.

It's silly, I know.

But he worked really hard to make us laugh that night and there were so many things that I could've said like "What a great show!" or "Thank you for making me laugh every night; the only other person to accomplish that so consistently is my husband" or "I really loved your book."

I said none of these things.

It was like letting down a really great friend. And I'm sorry.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Another thing. I like Craig more when he's smiling at me from my TV set than in person.

Not because he isn't wonderful to see in person.

But because it just seems safer and more real. Does that make sense?

With some folks it's best if they're left up there on that pedestal looking fresh and happy and funny, rather than tired and quiet and spent after a really great show.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Four Weddings and a Funeral
I am reading: The Shack by William P. Young
And I am: Still kinda bummed about the whole thing

The OH NO dudes

So we met with this tech firm the other day to talk about 'partnership' opportunities.

It's been happening a lot lately - with mixed results. With some of them, you just know it's not going anywhere. Some show actual promise.

And then Monday, the OH NO dudes came to visit. Nice people. Sharp. I am still coveting their sublimely elegant PowerPoint deck.

They had me.

Then they explained their company name.

And they lost me.

"The letters on each end represent the cyclical nature of what we do, see?"

Yep.

And if you take those letters away, you've got 'ONO' in the middle, which sounds an awful lot like OH NO, which is pretty much the last thing you want to hear some high-priced consultant say at the beginning, middle, or end of your IT project.

There's clever and then there's c'mon, get a grip.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The frogs in the pond
I am reading: My assignment for this week
And I am: More of an oh yes type of girl

What would Scottie do?

I could make what’s happening all about me.

In fact, like a selfish idiot, I did. Numbing myself all weekend with silly mindless movies and chips and French onion dip and shoe shopping and margaritas.

But now it’s Monday and today it’s all about WWSD.

What would Scottie do?

When things take a turn for the worse (like they did late last Thursday), Scottie doesn’t drink or eat too much or check out with books and movies.

He works. His ass off.

It’s his refuge. It’s how he hangs on to what’s left of normal when life takes him far from it.

For example, when skin cancer and pneumonia nearly killed him a few years ago – and he spent weeks in and out of the hospital – Scottie still had his best sales quarter ever.

It’s what he does.

So it’s what I’m doing this week.

While he’s soaking up precious time with his wife and two young sons and ‘getting his affairs in order’ and doing what you do to prepare for brain surgery to remove a cancerous lesion the Gamma knife didn’t get, I’ll be working my ass off.

Because it’s what my good friend Scottie would do.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Hanging on to normal

It is Friday after all

So if I was going to piss and moan, this would be the week.

Jim's on the other side of the planet again (South Korea then Australia) and I've had various events/activities in the city every single night. No train, so no posts. Sorry, kiddies.

Anyhow. It is Friday after all, so I'll dispense with the p&m and focus on the good stuff:

On this day 66 years ago, my Da was born.
He got another clean bill of health from the doctor - everything benign and wonderful.
Bridget Jones' Diary - Renee looks so much happier as a chubby girl.
Snagged the spot with the broken meter right out front of my office yesterday.
Gromit does this yodeling thing when he's happy to see me.
"Why don't you go shopping this weekend?"
The refrigerator is working again.
Three up days for the Dow.
Re-connecting with more old classmates on Facebook.
The refrigerator is squeaky clean, too.
Meeting Craig Ferguson and getting his autograph (I couldn't speak; it was very embarrassing + depressing but that's a story for a non-Friday).
Clean house heading into the weekend
Billy Squier - Rock Me Tonite
Jim's new mobile takes international calls
I can burn all the lavender incense I want this week without giving Jim an asthmatic fit.
I threw together a last-minute PowerPoint deck that rocked
'Mr. Darcy'
Really really really working on a screenplay/story finally (maybe that's why no posts, too).
I'm reading over this out loud with a British accent
C'mon, do it -- throw on your best Monty Python and read aloud with me
'Shagged'
Bowling a 52 and not winning the prize for worst bowler
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Bridget Jones' Diary
I am reading: Nothing at the moment
And I am: 'Going to Bedfordshire'

Hippy Skippy Friday

“Are you excited?” asks Jim.

“I’m nervous. I love him. What if he’s an asshole?”

“It’ll make you appreciate me that much more, won’t it?”
~~~~~~~~~~~
Topping off this week’s list of good things:

We’re going to see my boyfriend Craig Ferguson at the Genesee Theater in Waukegan tonight. Wesley from the Train inspired me to bring a copy of Craig’s book and a Sharpie in hopes of catching an autograph. And perhaps a photo. Confession: I really hope he grabs my ass.

Other good things from the week:

Suze and me had a fabulous time on Longboat Key. I’m still giggling over the sight of her sipping a small leftover bottle of Riesling out of her sweatshirt as we’re heading to the airport with the top down.

I’m a hippy today for less than $20: I am wearing a $3 mood ring and a $12 shiny silver peace necklace from a shop in St. Armand’s Circle.

The necklace came with earrings - I can’t wear ‘em – and they looked great on Suze.

We’re second row center for Craig. It will take every tattered remnant of my self-control to keep from throwing my bra/undies/self on the stage. Really.

I am learning about the wondrous power of keeping silent.

There are specks of sand trapped in my phone case.

I was in Florida the same time as Molly and Pos. Even though we didn’t have the opportunity to connect, it felt good having them so close.

It’s sunny and warm here today and I’m wearing favorite spring jacket.

Dave over at Rather Than Working wrote a lovely piece about the gay marriage madness in California. Please read it.

Mrs. You Know Who made dinner for us Wednesday after our visit with the Taxman. It was wonderful as always.

You Know Who came through knee surgery just fine and was a veritable hoot, whacked out on red wine and Vicodin.

Apparently the surgery made his ‘dong longer and thicker’ – which is a real blessing for Mrs. YKW, who has suffered long enough.

Jim made spicy grilled chicken tacos last night and they were outstanding.

The 11 bus was waiting for me twice this week.

We are starting to plan my mother-in-law’s 80th birthday in October.

I did not work out this week but Suze and me did a fast walk on the beach for 45 minutes each morning.

Laughing so hard we got bellyaches over neckties for dogs at Wet Nose in St. Armand’s.

Knowing that a former friend is still at the same phone number and doing GREAT.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Keep Me in Your Heart - Jorge Calderon
I am reading: Content for a new commerce site
And I am: Yippy Hippy Skippy

Our taxman is taxing

Editor's Note: This entry has been updated for accuracy. I'm not really an atheist, although I am a 'non-believer' of sorts. Definitely more of a benign pagan. Apologies for the error.

“Now I remember why I hate coming here every year,” I say to Jim as we’re leaving the office of our Tax Guy last night.

“Tithing,” says Jim, knowingly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No church for you two again this year?”

This is how it starts.

Our Tax Guy gets to the part where we’re sorting through last year’s charitable donations and he always always always brings up church.

“You ever hear of tithing?” he asks with a smirk.

What I’m thinking: “Listen, Mr. Christian. I’m an atheist pagan and Jim thinks Jesus was a space alien. Find The Church of Latter Day Pagan Ufologists and we'll gladly start tithing. Otherwise, do us a favor and shut the fuck up.”

What I say: Nothing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“MUFON.”

“Moo-fon?” I ask.

“Yes. MUFON. The Mutual UFO Network. That’s where we should be sending 10% of our income,” says Jim.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Why even bother with a taxman, Hedy? Ever heard of TurboTax?

I know. It makes sense.

But it’s a family thing with our Tax Guy.

Jim’s parents went to him. When we got married, we started going to him, and now there’s this history and if for some reason we didn’t show up one year, we’d be dishonoring our proud tax-paying heritage. Or something.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Well maybe he’s just trying to encourage you to give more so you have more of a write-off,” says You Know Who last night.

That might make sense. But it’s always about church.

We give to charities. Just not to church.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Underneath all of it, here are my issues:

It’s okay for our Tax Guy to tell us we should be giving more if he thinks we could benefit – that’s his job – but it’s none of his fucking business where we’re giving.

More importantly, I’ve always had a problem with giving to charity just to get it back as a write-off.

You don’t give to a charity so you can benefit, you give so that others can benefit.

And in the end, it's nobody's business to whom you're giving or why. Right?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Keep Me in Your Heart - Warren Zevon
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Sun-Times
And I am: Taxed

Save the Syllables!

We have a grim crisis here in the United States, folks.

Grim.

I’m not talking about the silly economy. Or the silly environment.

I’m talking about syllables.

People are wasting syllables EVERY DAY. It’s tragic.

They’re using up big words as if the syllable fairy comes each night to bring more. Ahem.

This sign, parked on all the tables at Portillo's, was the last straw. It's why I’m launching Save the Syllables.

Not People for the Ethical Treatment of Syllables. Not the Society for the Conservation of Syllables.

Too many syllables.

Just Save the Syllables.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let’s dissect this lovely bit of lunacy, shall we?

To our guests.

Clue: We’re all guests. Except employees. And they should damn well know better.

And frankly, I have a problem with guests. We weren’t invited. It sure as shit ain’t free. We’re customers, dammit.

Please help us keep our costs down…

1) I’m a customer and I’m supposed to help you? With anything? No. I’m always right and I will do as I damn well please. Now maybe if I happened to be a ‘guest’ and the meal happened to be free, I’d feel obligated to help you. Maybe.
2) Help us keep our…okay, if we did go along with the whole customers-helping-Portillo’s thing, it would have to be ‘Help us keep YOUR costs down’. Right?
3) Better still, let’s ditch the extra pronoun and adjective. Why can’t it be: Help keep costs down?
4) Fuck that. The whole sentence goes.

Here’s where it starts getting good:

By discarding all paper items…

Discarding? Paper items? All of them? Are you sure?

How about: Throw out your trash.

It’s simple. It’s direct. Perhaps not as elegant as discarding your paper items, but this ain’t Britain. We’re Americans and we have trash.

Furthermore, what if I’m not done with all of my paper items? Does it make me a bad guest if I leave with a napkin for blowing my nose later?

Also: What should be done with non-paper items? Styrofoam isn’t paper. It’s a mysterious combination of styro and, well, foam. Do we discard that, too, or just leave it on the fucking table with the plastic forks and ketchup packets?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the appropriate garbage units…

Where are the inappropriate garbage units? Are they particularly trashy? (I know – lame – I couldn’t resist.)

Now I’ve got all this anxiety about discarding my paper items in the appropriate garbage unit. Serious anxiety. Is this the right one? Or maybe it’s this one? Stress.

And what the fuck is a garbage unit?

Unit: an individual thing or person regarded as single and complete, esp. for purposes of calculation : the family unit.
• each of the individuals or collocations into which a complex whole may be divided : large areas of land made up of smaller units | the sentence as a unit of grammar.
• a device that has a specified function, esp. one forming part of a complex mechanism : the gearbox and transmission unit.

Nope. No mention of garbage-related units.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In case you're thinking Portillo's cares about the environment and offers multiple garbage units with which to sort your paper and non-paper related items, no. Nope. No.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Shall we continue?

Located in the dining area…

Ahhhh. So the inappropriate garbage units are not located in the dining area? Maybe.

Why do they need to be located anywhere?

Why can’t they just be? These units. Of garbage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Who are these signs for, exactly?

The folks who clean up after ourselves don’t need a sign. We just do it.

And the morons who need to be told to clean up after themselves probably aren’t going to pay attention to a poorly phrased plastic placard. You could slap them on the forehead with a hot dog and it wouldn’t matter – they’d still leave their shit behind.

Yes, I know that first sentence wasn’t exactly grammatically correct. Shaddap or I'll smack you on the forehead with a hot dog.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please throw away your trash.

Thank you!

Doesn’t that just feel better?

It’s less stressful. And it shouldn’t take an advanced degree to figure out what to do with your hot dog wrapper.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The only thing that’s missing from Portillo's grammatical abortion of a sign is ‘utilize’.

I hate utilize.

Hate it.

Please use 'use'. Utilize is complicated and showy. Use is simple. Three syllables versus one.

In these tough times, please folks, let’s save our syllables. We just might need them later.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: One - U2
I am reading: Notes for the first entry of my eCommerce project blog (yay!)
And I am: Fine

Teenagers

After a long day of shopping and drinking and drinking and shopping, Suze and me approach the kindly old lady working checkout at the Longboat Key CVS and plop our evening meal on the counter.

Appetizer: One large bag of Tostitos plus a jar of medium queso.
Main course: Pepperoni Hot Pockets.
Dessert: Pepperidge Farm Double Chocolate Milano cookies.

"You must have teenagers," she says.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The ocean
I am reading: Riding Lessons by Sara Gruen (don't read it, it is unbelievably sucky)
And we are: Still giggling like teenagers

Friday fun

Yep, it's good things Friday again.

But first, a story:

I was crying on the train last night. Because of this e-mail, from my boss:

Let's add it to the newsletter.

Sent from my BlackBerry® smartphone with SprintSpeed

From: Kate
Date: Thu, 26 Feb 2009 17:24:38 -0600
To: Rich
Subject: Confirming 3/24

Hi Rich,

I was able to move things around on Bob’s schedule to accommodate a meditation workshop at your office on March 24, 3 to 5 pm.

Yep. My boss. Scheduled a meditation class for the office. And wants me to put it in the company newsletter.

Why were you crying, Hed?

It was a happy cry. An I-can't-fucking-believe-I-work-here happy cry.
~~~~~~~~~
Da came through the surgery like a champ and it was all good news again. Yay!
My sunglasses are fixed better than new and arrived yesterday.
Just in time for a long weekend in Longboat Key with my dear friend and college roommate Susie.
Pineapple Express is pretty funny.
Catholics with ashes on their heads walking through the Loop this week.
Jim made steak last night and it was perfect.
The 11 bus was waiting for me twice this week.
Try the dark chocolate almond Zone bars. They're fabulous.
Did I mention my boss scheduled a meditation class for our office?
It rained last night - a lovely, heavy, warm rain - and I didn't have an umbrella. I walked to my car with my head tilted back to the sky. It was awesome.
I worked out three times this week.
Yep a meditation class. In my office.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Killing the Blues - Plant/Krauss
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Joyful

Better still

More on Rick Santelli:

"Yeah, your neighbor took out a mortgage he couldn't afford, but your other neighbor got the commission on it. Listen. If the guy next door is smoking in bed and his house catches fire, you're gonna help him put it out, right?" - Josh from the train
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gives You Hell - The All-American Rejects
I am reading: Newsletter stuff
And I am: Headachey

Small moments

The Asian man kisses his wife as he hands over her laptop bag at the corner of Adams and Wacker.

A family of three prays before a meal at the Portillo’s on Ontario.

A beefy white man sits scribbling on a greeting card pressed against his steering wheel in the parking lot at Walgreens.
~~~~~~~~~
There’s a woman with dirty blond hair sitting ahead of me on the train. She’s looking for something to piss her off.

Someone farted earlier and she turned around and scowled at me. I didn’t do it. Honest.

Someone else’s phone is ringing for a second time and her neck is whipping back and down, searching for the culprit.

Oh, and now it’s ringing for a third time. She’s shaking her head and scowling. Again.
~~~~~~~~~
The thing is, I can be that blond angry woman a lot more than I'd care to admit.

We can choose to make our days about seeing everything that’s wrong or frustrating or ugly about our existence or we can see the small meaningful moments that make it all worthwhile.
~~~~~~~~~
A favor: Send a warm, comforty thought to Da today – he’s in for outpatient surgery to remove the bit of cancer that crept back into his bladder. He’s strong and doing all the right things (quit smoking cold turkey four months ago, working out a few times a week) so we’re sure he’ll be just fine. Thanks.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Killing the Blues from Raising Sand by Robert Plant and Alison Krauss
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Staying positive

Post-Oscar talk

Overheard in the office just now:

"Was Nights in Rodanthe bad?"

"I wanted to shoot my head off."
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Office chatter
I am reading: eCommerce campaign script
And I am: Laughing

Freudian

www.fecebook.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Oscars
I am reading: Nothing right now
And I am: Sleepy

Hey Rick

Hey elitist douchebag Rick Santelli:

Let me get this straight.

It's okay to bail out Wall Street.

It's not okay to bail out Main Street.
~~~~~~~~~~
This helps:

"I'm not entirely sure where Mr. Santelli lives or in what house he lives," Gibbs said during the daily briefing. "But the American people are struggling every day to meet their mortgage, stay in their jobs, pay their bills to send their kids to school, and to hope that they don't get sick or somebody they care for gets sick that sends them into bankruptcy. I think we left a few months ago the adage that if it was good for a derivatives trader, then it was good for main street. I think the verdict is in on that." - Robert Gibbs, Obama's press secretary.
~~~~~~~~~~
Here's the deal:

We're the folks who do the right thing. We pay our taxes. We pay our mortgages. We work hard.

We are happy to help out others who are struggling and can't make do on their own.

We've already bailed out the big banks. And they thanked us by using our money to hand out multi-million dollar rewards to employees during a year of jaw-dropping financial losses.

And now we, the people who always can be relied upon to do the right thing, are ready to throw a tea party over helping out a few of our neighbors?

C'mon, people. We're better than this.
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The wind howling
I am reading: Attack of the Greed Zombies by Steinberg at the Sun-Times
And I am: Really tired of this crap

Celebrate something

Bitching sure feels good, doesn’t it?

Things are good, we bitch. Things are bad, we bitch.

And right now, things are pretty fucking awful, so it’s like someone gave the whole world a free pass to just bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch.

Here’s the deal.

Yes, things are bad. Heartbreaking and terrifying for millions. A certain amount of venting is not only healthy, it’ s necessary.

But at some point (like right the fuck now) the pissing and moaning needs to stop.

Because the more we bitch, the worse things seem. And when we’re in bitch mode, we tend to notice only the things that are bad.

So until things get better, HedyBlog is a Bitch-Free zone on Fridays.

We’re going to celebrate small wins here. The big ones, too. We’re going to focus on the positive as we head into the weekend. Feel free to join in.
~~~~~~~~~
Yes, I realize I was just bitching about bitching.

Shaddap.
~~~~~~~~~
Okay, I admit it’s taking me a few minutes to come up with something good here.

George Bush is no longer president. That’s one good thing.
The sun is shining.
It’s Friday.
I worked out three times this week.
I smiled at the train conductor on the 7:22 even though I didn’t feel like it.
Gromit’s blood tests came back just fine yesterday.
Work is going exceptionally well and is a huge source of joy and satisfaction.
There’s a dude here in Niles, Illinois who is about to turn 100 and he’s still working. Money quote: "I just want to keep busy."
You can get pricey designer shit at Goodwill now.
[Hey I’m rolling now, this is getting easier!]
It’s never been more difficult to be corrupt in Illinois politics.
I've done my assignment for class this week and am finally fully engaged.
Jim sent in my favorite sunglasses to be fixed so I didn't have to.
Jim's going to a Bulls game with the boys tonight and I (finally!) have a night to myself.
The Oscars are on Sunday – always good for one or two priceless moments.
On our 'city date' last night, Jim and I found a parking space on the street less than a block from the restaurant. Bonus: With an hour left on the meter.
I shared a cab to the Loop with a woman I didn't know yesterday so instead of $8, it only cost $4.
The 11 bus was at the stop as I walked up this morning.

Gee whiz. Once I started thinking about all the good things that happened this week, it put me in a better mood.

And one I started looking for good things to happen, they did. Cool.
~~~~~~~~~
Are we gonna have to start calling you Hedy Happy Pants?

Nope. Just on Fridays. So start thinking about the good things – no matter how small – right now. Share one or two here if you like. And have a great weekend.
~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Always Look on the Bright Side of Life – Monty Python
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Sun-Times
And I am: Hedy Happy Pants

Thursday random

From the Only in America Department: Two firms offering farting iPhone applications are in a legal battle over the phrase 'pull my finger.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Oops:

"The founder of an upstate New York TV station aimed at countering Muslim stereotypes has been arrested on suspicion of killing his wife, who was beheaded, authorities said."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you noticed the people that are most worried about offending you are usually the easiest to offend?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Few people realize that The Shawshank Redemption is really a love story. So is Leaving Las Vegas. FYI.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Only in America, part two:

Did you know there's an iPhone application called iPeriod?

It's not for checking your grammar, either.

Yep. An application to remind you when Aunt Flo is comin' to town.

As if that I-could-happily-murder-you-for-bringing-low-fat-Oreos-into-my-home feeling isn't enough of a warning.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If I hear one more person blaming minorities for the sub-prime housing crisis, my head is gonna pop off like a cork.

It's like blaming the immigration issue on illegals.

Here's the bottom line: Someone, somewhere stood to make tons of money off of this or it simply wouldn't have happened.

And yes, our government was complicit in this crime by passing deregulation laws. But who was lobbying these lawmakers? Do you really think politicians are smart enough to come with this crap on their own?

There's plenty of blame to go around, but if you start with the fucking minorities, you're either stupid or willfully ignorant.

Read Liar's Poker by Michael Lewis if you'd like to learn how this whole thing started. I was surprised to learn it was published back in 1989.

If you want someone to blame, Google Lew Ranieri. Or just read this article from Time magazine.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm still pissed that Coldplay won the Best Rock Album Grammy over Kid Rock.

Un-fucking-believable. Coldplay isn't rock. Coldplay is boring.

Like listening to a test pattern.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My assignment this week is all about telling the truth. I had to write out a list of people I'm honest with. It's more of a continuum.

If you ask me where you are on this continuum, I will probably lie to you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I'm also mildly pissed/disappointed in our guy Obama. Three cabinet appointees with tax troubles?

Aren't the Democrats the ones who will gladly pay taxes for bleeding-heart social programs? Aren't they the ones who happily share the wealth? Am I missing something?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was another banner week in Illinois politics.

Read this and this if you'd like to know how Chicagoans feel about that fuckstick Roland Burris.

Oh, and Chicago Alderman Arenda Troutman was sentenced to four years in prison this week for "demanding campaign money and bribes in exchange for lending her support to developers' projects. She even went so far as to block a low-income housing development in an impoverished neighborhood because the developer wouldn't pay a bribe. Instead of helping rid the area of gang influence, she had a relationship with a gang leader and used gang soldiers to help her campaign." [Chicago Tribune]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And from the Dept. of Still No Cure for Cancer:

Brain scans revealed that when men are shown pictures of scantily clad women, the region of the brain associated with tool use lights up.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Words that Need to be Retired Please

Diva - There are few more cringe-inducing words than this one. It's supposed to mean a celebrated singer of rare, outstanding talent. Not Rihanna. Not Beyonce. Maybe Whitney before she went all heroin-y on us. And certainly not any girl under the age of 18 sporting a sparkly 'diva' t-shirt. Unless you're talking about Etta or Aretha, keep the diva in your pants.

Monetize - "I'm looking to monetize my blog." STFU and sit down, ya douchebag. Monetize is just another way of saying selling out.

Green - Okay. We get it. You care about the environment. Sure it's important. But the majority of so-called 'green' efforts should really be 'brown.' As in bullshit.

Twitter - The sooner this worthless, time-waster of an IT 'innovation' goes tits-up, the better. Did you know they just received $35 million in additional funding and they still don't have a real plan for generating revenue? Did we learn nothing from the bubble? And I don't give a flying fart if you're, well, giving a flying fart. Your followers don't care, either. If there's one person out there who's ever going to make a fucking dime off this, I'll eat my monetized green diva micro blog.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's a list of the things I've learned about myself since this new fear/comfort adventure began last month:

1) I ask people questions to avoid talking about myself. It's pretty sneaky.
2) I am more honest about my feelings and opinions here in this blog than I am in person.
3) We are obligated to be the best version of ourselves not for us, but for the people who love us.
4) I've always said 'I'm not a public speaker' but there's really no reason I can't get good at it.
5) My deepest desire is to write a classic story that gets published and/or produced.
6) I say I don't want much but the fact is when you're comfortable you stop thinking about having more.
7) I've placed a priority on truth throughout my life and it has hindered my ability to feel deeply. This makes me very bad at comforting people.
8) I have trouble asking for help.
9) My single greatest power lies in my ability to recognize and write the truth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Shawshank Redemption
I am reading: Niagaran Pebbles
And I am: Back

Belongings

Chicago Transit Authority reminder: "Please keep your personal belongings with you at all times."

And what are we supposed to do with our public belongings? Hmmm?
~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Soft office sounds
I am reading: Nothing - I am in between books
And I am: Picky

Ethical dilemma #4,228

"Do you know Alex Dixon? Of course you do. I'd like some background on this guy."

That question came via work e-mail from my good friend Scotty at 9:45 last night.

Background:

Scotty works for a Great and Powerful Software Company. This Great and Powerful Software Company forms partnerships with IT consulting firms like the ones that have employed me over the past 20 years. How this Great & Powerful Software Company perceives its partners (and the people they employ) can have a huge impact on the amount of business they do together each year. We're talking millions of dollars in consulting contracts.

Feel free to say that in your best Dr. No/Austin Powers voice: Mee-lee-ons of Freakin' Dough-lars. Riggght.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Background on this guy:

The person he's asking about is a former co-worker of mine.

Next time you wipe your ass, think of Alex Dixon. Seriously. Do it. For me.

He's an ego-maniacal jerk who refuses to contribute to projects in any meaningful, helpful way, but will: a) scream like a spoiled child if it doesn't go well or b) happily take full credit for it if by some miracle it's a success.

He is without question one of the most ethically bereft (personally and professionally) people I've encountered in my entire life.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alex Dixon, Hedy?

Yeah. Not real of course. I changed the name to protect the prick-hole.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I'd like some background on this guy."

The fact that Scotty used 'this guy' tells me he probably already has a pretty good take on Alex.

Still.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Option 1: Decline to answer like those salmonella peanut-jobs from Georgia. "No, I'm sorry, I can't help you."

Option 2: Spill it. Tell him everything I know about this guy and let the computer chips fall where they may.

Option 3: Be honest yet professional. "I did not have a great relationship with Alex professionally but you might find him entirely competent and likable."

Option 4: Be dishonest yet professional. "He was a great guy. Go get 'em."

Okay. Option 3 is impossible - they're mutually exclusive. And just thinking about it makes me puke up in my mouth a little bit.

I can't decline to answer, either, because Scotty and me don't have that kind of relationship and besides, he'd eventually ply me with Jack & Cokes and drag it outta me anyway.

Option 4 is not possible because, while I'll happily lie to Scotty about how close I am to the pub we're meeting at in order to keep him from leaving ("I'm passing a ball field." "You silly, lying bitch. You're not even close."), I'd never, ever lie to him about some worthless piece of shit ex co-worker.

So I'm pondering option 2. Which could have a negative impact on the business of my former employer. And could have an impact on some likeable, competent folks who still work there.

So. What would you do? I think I've figured it out, but perhaps I've forgotten an option? Any legal ramifications to this issue, Dave? Please help.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Dr. No on the TV
I am reading: This great article by Thomas Friedman (I really love this idea)
And I am: Mildly perplexed

Whack-jobs for Jesus

WARNING: If you are a current Christian and/or ex-masturbator, you WILL be offended by today's post. Please move along.

Jesus Christ doesn't give a flying fart if you jerk off.

Seriously. Folks.

Rome is burning.

And cuddly-wuddly Christ - if he's not (as I suspect) spinning like a freakin' top in his ever-loving grave - is too busy frying fatter fish to care about your infernal fapping.

But this delightful batch of whacked-out Christians - bless their sweaty little pre-occupied souls - happens to believe otherwise: Passion for Christ Ex Series T-shirts.

Yep. Ex-masturbator t-shirts. For Christ.

Get 'em while they're...whatever.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. You're going straight to hell for mentioning Christ and 'jerk off' in the same sentence.

Perhaps. Let me clarify.

Jesus Christ probably doesn't give a flying fart if you jerk off.

Here's the deal, kiddies.

There's a long list of things that are wrong with our world right now. Masturbation ain't one of 'em.

Beating off is free. It doesn't hurt anyone. It feels good. It's what's for breakfast. It's the other white meat. It's. . .wait. Anyhoo.

Masturbation could be the very thing that helps us make it through the current economic crisis.

"Hey Spike, did you see what the Dow did today?"

"No dude, I was choking my Cheney. Try it. It'll raise your stock a few points."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IMs from earlier today...

Hedy: http://www.p4cm.com/p4cm/store/launch?1

Jim C: "But is it really okay in the eyes of God?" What? My load?

Hedy: You shot your load in the eyes of God?

Jim C: I did

Hedy: Nice shootin' Tex

Jim C: He was wearing my 'Ex-Hypocrite' t-shirt
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Read the comments on the ex-masturbator t-shirt site.

C'mon. Read 'em.

Here's my favorite, from iBuyStuff4Jesus:

"I was really afraid that there would be a shortage of things for me to buy in 2009 that show my love and appreciation for our lord Jesus Christ."

Did you get that folks? I was really afraid there would be a shortage of things for me to buy that show my love and appreciation for our lord Jesus Christ.

Because nothing says love and appreciation for Christ like a t-shirt about whacking off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Nothing when I'm supposed to be listening to something
I am reading: Nobody's Fool by Richard Russo
And I am: Pro-whacking, pro-Christ

Test

Thanks Pos. This is cool.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Flight of the Conchords
I am reading: Nobody's Fool
And I am: Posting from my phone

Easing back in...

Sure this is a cop-out but what the hell, it's already written:

1. I have eight scars, the longest of which measures more than eight inches.
2. Oprah Winfrey changed my life. Seriously.
3. I fantasize about living in Paris for a year.
4. I feel best when I’m wearing brown.
5. I love my dog Gromit more than 90% of my relatives. Of course that doesn’t include you, [insert your name here.]
6. Old cemeteries are among my most favorite places on Earth.
7. I worship the sun but am ruled by the moon.
8. Tidal waves are my biggest fear. Thank the gods I live in the Midwest.
9. The older I get, the less I like talking on the phone.
10. My life is fabulous because of three people: My parents, who gave me a great start. And my husband Jim, who gave me a happy ending.
11. If I could go back in time and visit my 18-year-old self, I would say: a) Go to a community college until you figure out what you really want to do; b) Stop screwing around so much and try holding hands once in a while; and c) Trust your gut. It’s always, always right.
12. Nelly Olson really pissed me off.
13. I would wear a baseball hat every day if possible.
14. The Twelve Dancing Princesses is my favorite fairy tale.
15. It’s difficult for me to swim in bodies of water where I can’t see the bottom.
16. I’ve already written my acceptance speech for the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. How fucked up is that?
17. I do not believe that men and women are equal. We couldn’t be more different and should be treated that way when it makes sense.
18. I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar on a daily basis.
19. My favorite joke: What did the Dalai Lama say to the hot dog vendor? Make me one with everything.
20. I prefer listening to talking and dancing to singing.
21. I worked in a liquor/convenience store (The Party Pantry) throughout high school and college. It was without question one of my all-time favorite jobs.
22. I’ve had some fairly meaningful conversations with trees.
23. I can count my regrets on one hand. And most of them are recent. No, I’m not telling what they are.
24. It would be great if Christians paid more attention to Jesus' life than his death.
25. I am trying to live my life with a more open heart.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The busy busy washing machine
I am reading: Nobody's Fool by Richard Russo (I like it even better than Empire Falls)
And I am: Home again home again jiggity jig

Sorry about the long title but blogger doesn't like my iPhone. I'm on vacation this week somewhere warm. Aloha dear friends, will catch up Saturday

A sign from Rod

So I don't know about your state, but here in Illinois, we've been feeling rather criminalicious lately.

We've got one governor in Federal prison (Ryan) and another on the way (Blago).

Here's what really bugs me about all this gubernatorial turnover: The signs.

Crossing into Illinois from Indiana or Wisconsin, you'll see a sign that reads something like this:

Welcome to Illinois. Rod R. Blagojevich, Governor

And if you're paying your way through on our toll roads, you'll see these signs:

Open Road Tolling. Rod R. Blagojevich, Governor

Here's an open request to our spankin' new dude, Governor Pat Quinn:

Whaddaya say we shit-can the self-promoting signage until we're certain you're not heading for the slammer?

Deal?

Thanks so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel K
I am reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo
And I am: Fabulous

Why I hate analysts

According to Forrester Research:

While Web buyers generally expect the coming 12 months to be particularly grim for the US economy overall, these same consumers view their personal financial situations more optimistically. As a result, more Web buyers report that, on average, they will spend more online in the next year. The segment of the population that is most likely to drive this increase in overall online spend is a set of consumers who saw their personal financial situations improve during the past 12 months.

Most likely? Ya think? Yeesh.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Certainly not this brainiac
I am reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo
And I am: So done with winter

Blown again

It happens a few times a year. I blow a mental fuse.

Most of the time it has to do with being over-socialized, like after a trade show. Sometimes it has to do with being fired.

Thankfully, this time it's more of the self-induced variety.

I went to a weekend class recommended by my boss and several others I know professionally. It kinda fucked with my head - which is exactly what it was designed to do. I learned more about myself in that weekend than I have in more than a few years of self-indulgent navel gazing. Some of it wasn't very pretty. Some of it was irritating. Some of it was downright lovely. All of it was enlightening.

Remember the year of fear and comfort? Well this is part of that.

I've been wayyyy too comfortable for wayyyy too long and it's time to shake things up a bit.

So I'm going on this big scary adventure.

I'm petrified. For brief moments I'm really angry (because I like my comfortable life just the way it is.) Most of the time I'm more present and compassionate than I've been in quite some time.

Which is kinda cool.

This adventure. It's going to take a year, maybe longer. Sometimes I will share what I'm learning, sometimes not.

But I expect to be writing again soon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: An extremely irritating episode of 24
I am reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo
And I am: Blown again

Apples to apples

Red Delicious apples are far superior to Galas in my opinion.

The Gala is tougher and tastes more 'orchard-ish'. The Red Delicious is sweeter and softer and tastes more 'apple-y'.

Apples, Hedy? You don't post all week and then it's fucking apples? What gives?

It's all I've got. Trust me.

Next up: Emotional hamburgers. Have a great weekend.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sing For You - Tracy Chapman
I am reading: Empire Falls by Richard Russo (Thanks, Dave!)
And I am: Out of my fucking tree

Good morning, Robot

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Seven things you don't know about me

Favorite Poem:
When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer
by Walt Whitman

WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite Non-Swear Word: Unfettered
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite Belief: Separation only exists in our minds because of our bodies - in reality, we're all connected; we're all one.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite Swear Word: Fuckstick
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite Sci-Fi Movie After Star Wars:
Contact
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite Guilty Pleasure:
Scrabble on Facebook
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Favorite Famous Dead People: Albert Einstein, Queen Elizabeth I, Mark Twain, Jesus Christ, Leonardo da Vinci.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: 24
I am reading: Nothing yet
And I am: Phoning it in today, sorry

Heather is gassy

Practically everyone I know is on Facebook now. Work people. Ex-work people. Friends. Family.

Which can be tricky. For example:

Update status: "Heather is trying to figure out what the hell to get Jim for Christmas."

Rodney Lee commented on your status: "Here's a hint: it rhymes with glowjob."

Which was a great idea.

Except now all of my (relatively) new co-workers know that I know what a glowjob is and that one of my husband's best friends knows me well enough to suggest the giving of it in celebration of the birth of our Lord, the Cuddly Wuddly Christ.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here's hoping all of this incessant status updating will fade out eventually. Or perhaps people will start sharing what they're really doing. Wouldn't that be fun?

Instead of: "Heather is chilling on the couch watching the snow."

It will be: "Heather is farting so much from the chicken parm sliders at TGI Friday's that Gromit has left the room."

Whaddaya say, folks? You in?

If I started the "Heather is Farting and Other Reality-Based Facebook Status Updates" group, would you join?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The washing machine
I am reading: My guy Neil's Saturday column
And I am: Gassy

Looks like a left wing liberal whore

“Yesterday I have this guy who say he’s Christian,” says my cab driver. “Say he's teaching Christian school 40 years.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, wondering where the hell this is going.

“He was no Christian. He was jerk. And I want to tell him ‘I am Muslim, how do I know more about your Jesus than you?’”

He holds up a small MP3 player and smiles.

“I listen to Koran every day. It tells about Jesus – I know about him and his mother and what he do, how he live. I know more than this guy about his Jesus.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Quite a photo, isn’t it?” asks the Pakistani guy standing next to me on the 7:42 train to Chicago.

We were waiting to get off the train, reading the front section of the Chicago Tribune someone had left on the luggage rack. It was that photo of all the presidents: Bush, Bush Sr., Clinton, Carter, and Obama from the famous lunch they had earlier this week.

“But only two great presidents,” he says, pointing to Clinton and Obama, and smiling.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s a great day,” says the cab driver, winding his way through Chicago.

“It sure is,” I say.

“Obama is our candidate for president,” he says.

“He sure is.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It happens all the time. This thing.

Strangers expressing views on politics and religion, assuming I’ll agree.

And here’s the deal: I do agree. 100% of the time.

But how the hell do they know I’m – as my friend You Know Who likes to say – a left wing liberal whore?

I don’t dress like a hippy chick. My fashion leans toward Midwestern Chubby Girl. And I have no visible tattoos.

So what gives?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“You must give off some kind of weird vibe – how do you attract people like this all the time?”

That was my dear friend DewMama, back in college when I was more of a whore than a left wing liberal, but anyhoo.

It’s been the story of my life: People open up to me on things that they probably shouldn’t and/or wouldn’t with others.

It happens all the time.

Well, Hedy, I’m sure your cab drivers don’t say that shit to old white dudes in suits.

Right. Like the Jesus teacher.

But why open up like that to me? I could just as easily be a Right Wing Bible Humpin' Christian. They can’t possibly know who I am or what I believe just by looking at me.

Can they?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The irritating dude in front of me babbling into his phone
I am reading: The Soft Addiction Solution by Judith Wright
And I am: An LW-squared

Speaking of fearless

We’re gliding up to the top of the hill, Jim and me.

It's a gorgeous, cold, New Year's Eve day in northern Wisconsin.

It’s my first time on a chairlift since I fell off four years ago, shredding my ACL, and launching a year-long saga of damnfuckshithell hurty bullshit capped off with cracking my knee cap in two like a cookie during physical therapy.

Good times.

But we’re back. Our skis are ‘tips up’. I’m scoot-scoot-scootching forward. My heart is beating in my ears and in my toes, but I’m ready.

“So, tell me again how did you manage to fall off this thing?” asks Jim.

“Seriously? I asked someone a really stupid, ill-timed question and they pushed me off.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Katy Perry - Hot N Cold
I am reading: Neil Steinberg at the Sun-Times
And I am: Still yelling at him for that one

The Year of Fear and Comfort

So I realized a while ago that I don’t much like the whole Happy New Year thing.

It’s inane to celebrate, as LBB at Suburban Panic puts it, the arbitrary division of our solar orbit.

It seems like the new year should happen some time in the Fall. Maybe it’s the perpetual schoolgirl or the ancient pagan in me, but I’ve always felt that Halloween or, better still, the equinox makes more sense.

That said, I do have one resolution for 2009: Do Not Be Afraid.

It’s sort of the end-all, be-all of resolutions.

Think about it.

What keeps us from being who we’re really supposed to be? What keeps us from keeping those promises to eat right and take care of ourselves and finally write that fucking screenplay that’s been rattling around in our brains since 1993?

Fear.

I dunno, Hed. We get busy and distracted. We’re lazy, not afraid.

No, no, no.

What’s the white twin of fear? It’s that dangerous, evil magnet: Comfort.

This couch sure feels good. These potato chips sure taste good.

Lazing through a weekend with someone else’s stories (even if they reek like a backwoods craphouse on a hot summer day) is easier than writing something that actually might be worth reading.

I’m comfortable here. What if I trip and fall? What if I lose 30 lbs. and am faced with finally wrestling my deeper demons?

What if I actually tried writing something worth a good goddamn? What if I fail? Or worse, what if it changed the lovely, comfortable life I’ve created for myself?

Here’s a silly example: This new fantastic job comes with a membership at a fancy-schmancy big city health club.

I started working here in June. I went to the health club for the first time yesterday.

Because I was afraid of being the chubbiest girl at the gym. I was afraid of being semi-naked in a locker room with my co-workers. Afraid of what the world would think of me.

See? Fear. It keeps you from doing things that are good for you.

So this is the Year of Fear & Comfort.

If it’s something that makes me comfortable, it’s suspect. If it’s something that makes me afraid, I’m going for it.

And if there are ways that I can make others comfortable by doing things that make me fearful, well, those are the things I’d like to do most of all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Erasure – A Little Respect
I am reading: Nothing until I write something worth reading
And I am: Not afraid and not comfortable

Conversations with Trees: Birch

"Hi, how are you?"

"Cold."

"Ah, birch trees don't like the cold much?"

"If I am a 'birch' as you call me, then no, we don't."

"That's right, I forgot. You don't know what you are, what we call you."

"No, I don't. But you don't know what you are, either, do you?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: I Promise You I Will - Depeche Mode
I am reading: The End of the Financial World as We Know It by Michael Lewis
And I am: Not as crazy as you think

185 people found this offensive

Apparently this was the most complained about ad in 2008.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is just a guess at how the pitch went:

"You see, there's this hot woman wandering around town with this pussy, er, beaver. And it's her beaver, get it? And they're having a great time doing all these things together like going to lunch and getting manicures. It's all about treating your beaver right, get it?"

Of course the ad doesn't show the hot chick whoring around town the night before and this whole 'day of fun with my beaver' thing is really a big 'I'm sorry about the smelly investment banker with the tiny wiener.'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Twilight Zone
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Giggling

What is Santa doing?

Sure, I can be an angry old pagan at times.

But in my heart I'm just an old-fashioned Christmas girl.

Multi-colored lights. Stockings hung by the chimney with care. Cuddly-wuddly Christ all bundled up in the manger. Presents to pretty girls.

And angels. On top of Christmas trees, dammit.

So, to paraphrase my friend Oz from a few days ago: "What the HELL is Santa doing there at the top of the tree?"



















Sigh.

When Jim and I combined households 10+ years ago, the Christmas tree topper was a Major Marital Issue. Right behind Jif vs. Skippy peanut butter and Hellmann's versus Miracle Whip.

It went something like this:

"Santa goes on the top of the tree."

"Can't we try an angel?"

"Santa goes on the top of the tree."

"But he looks like he's drunk."

"Santa goes on the top of the tree."

"Jif! Hellmann's! Angels!"

"Skippy! Miracle Whip! Santa!"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Santa isn't drunk. Really.

It's not a beer stein in his hand. Really.

It's a lantern. And when the tree's plugged in, Santa swings the lantern.

Which makes it look like he's hammered and hollering "CHEERS, motherfuckers! It's Christmas!"

Really.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hedy, it looks like Santa's pole is slightly bent.

Yeah, Mrs. Claus can't get enough of that shit.

Wait. Right.

Yes, it is slightly bent. That is the result of the Year We Almost Turned Jewish. We bought a bad tree with a trunk that was soft and rotten. By the time Christmas came the damn thing was held up by string tied to hooks embedded in the walls and we were rednecks on the verge of converting to Judaism.

Anyhoo.

It's 4:30 a.m. on Christmas and I hear that all too familiar sound: WOOSH-CRASH! Tinkletinkletinkletinkle.

While Gromit the Brave Yule Dog cowers in the corner, I dash out to the living room to see if Drunk Santa survived the third and final tree crash of the season.

Every single spendy Christopher freakin' Radko ornament from Marshall Field's is smashed to Shards of Christmas Death Glass.

But Drunk Santa? Trapped under a branch. And still swingin'.

I want want wanted to step on his little alcoholic head before Jim came out to survey the scene, but a minor Christmas miracle occurred that morning. My snoring husband wouldn't wake up for a dump truck driving through a nitroglycerin plant, but Drunk Santa is in danger and lo and be-fucking-hold, Jim leaps outta bed to see what's the matter like that nightgown wearin' freak from the Night Before Christmas.

And if he hadn't Grinch-launched it out the front door minutes later, I was gonna keep pushing that rotten tree over until Santa's drunk ass finally cracked.

I guess there's always next year. Cheers.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Chris Rock: Kill the Messenger
I am reading: Not much, looking for a recommendation
And I am: On vacation 'til Friday.

Detroit: We Don’t Do That

“This doesn’t look good,” says Jim.

We’d been westbound on I-94 maybe 20 minutes when suddenly it was nothing but brake lights ahead.

This is not good any time, of course, but especially at 11 a.m. on a Sunday.

Something big was happening.

We slowed down and waited. After a bit, we started inching forward again and I could see that everyone was merging to the right – serious merging – all the way off the road merging.

Something big indeed.

At least two feet of water across all eight lanes – east and west bound. Idiots driving through the deepest parts. All of us bright (scared) folks waiting our turn to ride up the curb/embankment.

“I’m dialing 911,” I say. “It’s obvious this didn’t just happen but there’s no one here directing traffic. The road should be closed.”

9-1-1

Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…

“Thank you for calling Detroit 9-1-1. All of our operators are busy right now. Please hold for the next available operator.”

I wait. For what seems like forever but was probably a minute at most. Good thing I wasn’t having a stroke or coronary or something really important.

“Detroit 9-1-1 how can I help you?”

“There’s deep standing water across all of I-94 just north of exit 220.”

“I’ll transfer you to the State police.”

CLICK.

Ring…ring…ring…ring…ring…

“State police are you reporting an accident?”

“No, there’s deep standing water across all of I-94 just north of exit 220.”

“We don’t do that. We’ll notify MDOT.”

We don’t do that?

WE DON’T DO THAT?

There’s a hazardous situation on a major state road and “We don’t do that”?

Gotta love Detroit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: CNN on the office TV
I am reading: Nothing, still basking in the glow of Between the Bridge and the River by Craig Ferguson
And I am: Not surprised, sadly enough

Merry & bright

Bright blessings to you this Christmas.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Ave Maria - Jewel
I am reading: Time to Reboot America - Thomas Friedman
And I am: Merry

He knows

Gromit knows all about presents.

As soon as a few wrapped gifts appeared under the tree, he was all over 'em, sniffing and pawing and barking.

Of course, Gromit -- Brilliant and Gifted Dog -- quickly ascertained there was nothing under the tree for him quite yet, and this was the face we got:















"Where the hell are MY presents?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Craig Ferguson
I am reading: Nothing really
And I am: Sleepy

The worst Christmas commercial ever

It’s Christmas morning and a cheery little family is gathered around the tree opening presents. Suddenly, the young, fresh-faced son realizes something is amiss: Mommy doesn’t have a gift.

“Mommy, what did daddy get YOU for Christmas?”

Mommy gazes off into the twinkle lights, recalling the night before: She’s in bed with daddy, who hands her a gift bag from Lover’s Lane. She pulls out a silky blue teddy and looks longingly into his eyes…

“Daddy gave me the gift of LOVE,” she replies.

Yes, little Johnny. Daddy gave your whore of a mother a hot Yule log for Christmas.

Isn’t that merry and bright?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Back at school:

“What did you get for Christmas, little Johnny?” asks the teacher.

“I got a train set and a basketball,” says little Johnny.

“And what did your daddy get your mommy?”

“Mommy says it was the Gift of Love but I’m pretty sure it was The Harvey Wall Banger Deluxe with Triple Rotating Action, the way she was hollerin’ all night. I thought for sure she’d scare off Santa, but he came. So did daddy, from what I could tell.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Listen. I’m all for whatever keeps the eggnog flowing for you and Mrs. Santa this holiday season.

But kids? In an ad for a sex toy shop?

Excuse me while I go bleach my brain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Keep Me in Your Heart – Jorge Calderon (Music from the Showtime series Californication)
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Never Googling ‘dildos’ ever again

Darkest night

Merry Solstice, people.

It's the longest night of the year - a fabulous reminder to anyone in a really dark place (physically, mentally) that the sun always returns.

The world always get warmer and brighter.

It is one of the few things upon which we can depend.

Bright blessings to you and yours this dark night and always.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The howling wind
I am reading: This profile of Philip Seymour Hoffman in the New York Times
And I am: Struggling with some personal demons

I could just cry

Seriously. And just a few days before Christmas.

This is quite possibly the best present I've ever received - and it's from someone I've never met, about people I had no idea existed.

Please read this article from ABC News about the new Christian evangelist movement.

Here's the money quote:

"What's happened is that many of us have gotten to the point where we don't want to call ourselves evangelicals anymore if it means anti-women, anti gay, anti-environment and pro-war," Campolo told ABCNews.com. "That's not who we are."

And the last line gives me more hope for this world than I've had in quite some time:

"It's absurd to our generation that the state of civil unions would be the moral issue of our time," he said. "The further you dive into the subculture, the less comfortable we are with the evangelical labels and the more comfortable we are aspiring to be a follower of Jesus."

I stopped calling myself a Christian in the early 90's because of all the evil, repugnant things that evangelicals do and say in Jesus' name.

I'm thrilled to know that a new generation of Christians truly gets what he was all about and am hopeful that his simple message of love and acceptance will grow because of their efforts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Gromit snoring on the couch next to me
I am reading: This article again, because it's so goddamn good
And I am: A follower of Jesus

The customer service disconnect

A lot of folks long for the days of human interaction.

When customer service meant something. When a warm, friendly, knowledgeable person helped solve your problem.

Fuck that.

I’ll take a mouse and a laptop over a phone and a live person any day of the week.

Especially yesterday.

Twice. TWICE in one day I had a better experience on a web site than dealing with people. What’s more, I learned there’s a serious disconnect between what corporate web sites say they can deliver and what their people actually do.
~~~~~~~~~~~
“Hi I’m hoping you can help me.”

It’s 8 a.m. and I’m the first customer at the Office Depot customer service desk.

“Can I give you the product ID number on these Pitney Bowes postage labels I’m looking for? Your web site says you have them in stock.”

“WELL,” she replies importantly. “If it has to do with SHIPPING, it’ll be RIGHT over HERE.”

I follow her over to the envelope-box-Styrofoam peanut department.

Now.

If I’m her, and a potential customer went to the trouble of offering up an actual Office Depot product ID number, I’m looking up that little sucker straight away just to be sure I know what the hell we’re after before leading her on a small Christmas parade through the goddamn store.

But that’s just me.

I went to the web site the night before to locate the labels that I need need needed to send out holiday gift boxes to our clients (the office manager was swamped and didn’t have time to order them last week).

The Office Depot web site was extremely helpful. I found the right postage labels within seconds on the site and clicked on “Check Local Store Availability” to find them at a location near me.

Beautiful, yes?

No. Back in the shipping supplies department at the Office Depot on Indian Trail in Aurora, Illinois, things are getting ugly: No postage labels.

“Well, IF we had ‘em, they’d be RIGHT HERE,” she insisted.

“Could we maybe look up the product ID number?” I ask hopefully. “I have it right here. Your web site says you have them in stock.”

“WAIT. They MIGHT be OVER HERE, too. LET’S CHECK.”

I look longingly at the PC on the customer service desk as we pass it yet again on our trek to the laser label department.

“They’d DEFINITELY be here IF we had ‘em,” she says again.

And my head goes kersplody all over the Avery 5422 multi-use labels.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Attention United States Post Office:

You have a problem.

Your web site’s writing checks that your people can’t cash (apologies to Viper).

Go to www.usps.com.

C’mon, do it. Right now.

Then click on the helpful tab towards the top center that says “Schedule Pick Up.”

See where it says 'Pick Up On Demand' service?

If you’re reading this before noon, you should be able to successfully schedule a parcel pick up for the low low price of $14.75.

The site provides a two-hour pick up window. You agree to have your packages ready by 1 p.m. You select a method of payment. And then (this is important) you receive a confirmation number.

Then, two hours later, you get a call from the local post office that goes something like this:

“Hello this is Mr. Williams calling from the post office regarding your pick up request. All of our trucks are full for the day so you’ll have to schedule another pick up for tomorrow. Please call me at 312-644-3929 if you have questions.”

Remember the postage labels? They’re for running through our company’s postage machine, which postmarks the label for the day the package is shipping. Once you slap that postage label on your package, it needs to go out that day or the post office won’t take it.

I waited to run my postage until I received my pick up confirmation number from the post office.

I’m silly fucked-up paranoid that way.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Where'd ya get the labels, Hed?

The office manager had ordered some from a web site the day before and like a small Christmas miracle, they arrived two days early.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I read somewhere that when you’re frustrated you should smile. It takes everything down a notch and leads to better customer service.

So I’m sitting at my desk smiling like Forrest Gump on a shrimp boat prior to picking up the phone.

“Hello Mr. Williams,” I say. “I’m calling about the On Demand pick up request I made earlier today.”

Here’s a summary:

“But your web site…”

“But I submitted my request at 10:30 a.m….”

“But I have a confirmation number…”

“But why would your web site provide a 2-hour window if picking it up was never an option…?”

“But I have post-marked packages that need to go out today…”

Mr. Wilson called me back four times – each time with another excuse for why he couldn’t pick up my packages that day.

He even read the web site to me:

“Mail pieces weighing more than 13 ounces bearing only postage stamps as postage, must be taken by the customer to an employee at the retail counter of a Post Office.”

“I used metered postage.”

“Oh.”

“Requests must be received by 2:00 a.m. on the day your pickup is scheduled.”

“No, that only applies to carrier pick ups. The On Demand pick up section doesn’t say that.”

“Oh.”

“Where are these packages? On the third floor?”

“Yes, the site requested the exact pick up location.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to bring them down to the first floor, you know we’re not UPS.”

That’s when my head went kersplody all over again.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Yes, that's Mr. Williams' actual phone number. Call it, if you like.

Tell him my packages made it out the door by 5 p.m. no thanks to him and his bullshit excuses.

Chris Baxter, Mail Carrier Extraordinaire, (and sadly the first capable, warm, friendly person I'd encountered all day), interrupted his residential delivery route to pick up my stuff.

He was almost enough to restore my faith in people. Almost.
~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Office voices
I am reading: How to submit a complain to the USPS
And I am: Sticking with my mouse

Reason #1,771 why my Dad rocks

My cousin's four-year-old son Nicholas was 'acting up' at the family Christmas party on Sunday:

"Nicholas, you better be good or do you know what's going to happen?" asked Da.

"No, Uncle Rick."

"Santa Claus will come to your house and kill you."

Mom was horrified. Da later told Nicholas he was joking.

And Nick's father expressed gratitude for "saving me 20 grand in therapy."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: 30 Rock
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Still laughing