Target, the mom-and-pop crushing giant, is once again up to its pr tricks. I’d just love to hate the way they do all these big stunts for press, but god damn it if they aren't impressive as shit. I went to for their “Go International,” campaign last year and even the toilet paper was printed with Bull’s eyes. Yep, that’s right. I literally wiped my ass with the Target logo.
Compared to its rival Wallmart, who has never done anything even remotely cool, Tar-jet looks even sweeter. This New Year’s in Time’s Square they will be distributing 30,000 pairs of 3-D glasses to onlookers who will be subjected to a fireworks extrvanganza of glowing bull’s eye logos.
I will be no where near the spectacle being that a) I am not a tourist, b) I am not a burglar looking to mug and rape tourists and c) I am not certifiable insane. The whole are area is mass chaos with people arriving early in the morning and staking their small space inside of blocked areas that resemble cattle pens. You can't leave which means that people relieve themselves in a number of ways, many including peeing into cups. No thank you.
Instead, I will be at a as of yet-yes, I realize I am getting down to the wire-unknown location. The loft party we were supposed to go to was canceled and now we are scrambling. I have pretty much given up seeing as how figuring out the first plan took weeks even whe following these steps:
Step 1: Cost Evaluation
We first needed to decide what I and my respective posse are willing to spend. This brings out the glaring fact that some people make an inordinate amount more than others. Then there is the decision to either pay one hundred and fifty fucking dollars to go to a club you go to for free every other night of the week and enjoy open bar or pay $20 to go to a club you go to for free every other night of the week and pay for cash bar. The difficulty lies in how much you are going to drink, thus bringing out the glaring fact that some people are ridiculous lushes who drink an inordinate amount more than others.
Step 2: Narrowing down the choices.
New York is a huge city where bars and clubs and secret spots exist one day and are gone the next. You could go with a place you have never been but risk it being a nightmare, you could go somewhere you know is cool but run into the danger of it being over run by those who can not get in on other nights when the admission cost is not $150, or you could go somewhere not too trendy and be pissed because half the time you wouldn’t go there for free and now you are stuck paying the amount that you would for a nice pair of stilettos.
Step 3: Decision Time:
This happens last minute when everyone is fed up and someone just decides.
This year though, since the decision was cancelled we (X and three of my good friends are most likely going to sit at Rock Star (another friend who is a rock star and should have something cooler to do) apartment.)
To be cont...
Update: Went did actually sit at Rock Stars house. It was nice, intimate and fairly quite. He had hummus and bread that he baked himself which was very considerate of him. Sure, I would have preferred something a little crazier, but my close friends and X were with me so it was actually kind of perfect. I also drank way too much Jack Daniels and made it through a NY New Year's spending zero dollars.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
M Pokes Fun at Fatties
Subtitled "Obesity in America's Youth," and alternatively titled "Your Kid is a Fat Ass" will hopefully become a weekly column. Why you might ask? Am I making a political statement about the delbilitating disease of obesity that is ravaging the youth of America because Hostess and Pepsi own our educational systems? Am I reaching out to the children whose parents idea of a four-square brown bagged lunch is cheetos and pizza? Am I making a plea for those who eat their feelings or are born into the unfortunate destiny because they come froma family with big-boned genes?
In a word: No. In a sentence: Fat kids are funny and really freaking cute.
Except for this one. He's digusting.
In a word: No. In a sentence: Fat kids are funny and really freaking cute.
Except for this one. He's digusting.
If this is your kid...shoot him and then yourself.
M Struggles with Religon, Envies the Gifts of Children
First thing is first. My father is Jewish, my mother is some sort of Christian denomination. She does not and has not since I popped out of her womb (prior to that-I have no idea) go to church or pray. The only thing she has ever said to me even remotely religious is “Spirituality is a deeply personal thing and you need to come into your own decisions on what you practice and believe.”
Wise words, but when your five it’s like basically telling your kid “There is no god. Everything is made up.” But my struggle with religion and spiritual crisis is a tale for another day. What I am trying to get at is that my mother, despite her aversion to anything religious, celebrated X-Mas. So as a child my family had a beautiful blend of Judeo-Christian celebration called Chanu-Mas (Seth Cohen-You and your piddling Chrismaka can kiss my ass).
Chanu-Mas can be broken down thus: The Chanu portion includes lighting the candles, getting a small, usually crappy present on the 8th day and having the Jewish side over for potatoe latkes and a hardcore driedel battle (we are serious about it-quarters only and no respins). The Mas part consists of a measly poinsettia plant****, a stocking, and gifts on Christmas morning followed by a trip to Denny’s for the Lumberjack slam and later, a movie.
This always really bothered me as one of four Jewish children living in the entire town. I begged for a tree until the time I was twelve when my father buckled and got me a bush, which resembled Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, with one sad, pathetic blue ornament on it. Soooo depressing when everyone you know has a big, gorgeous tree and the whole block is lit up like Vegas.
All in all, I always got good presents, or so I thought, until I started coming across news stories about what other kids got this holiday.
For starters: Marijuana! http://www.upi.com/NewsTrack/view.php?StoryID=20061230-121531-3404r Oh my god, I totally should have put this in my letter to Santa. This little girl in China Grove (so fitting that there is Dead reference), North Carolina received a doll bought off of E-Bay that’s head was filled with pot.
And can you imagine being a young boy and getting a computer pre-set with porn. It’s every adolescents dream. http://www.nbc5.com/news/10621074/detail.html Sure the parents took it back to the store when they figured out the floor model computer they purchased for Junior was bookmarked with X-rated material, but he got a few minutes of ecstasy. Plus with the $100 they were given, I’m sure they will be able to pay for loads of therapy.
Wow…all I got was a digital camera (Yes!!!) and paint so as my parents put it I can “art.”
Wise words, but when your five it’s like basically telling your kid “There is no god. Everything is made up.” But my struggle with religion and spiritual crisis is a tale for another day. What I am trying to get at is that my mother, despite her aversion to anything religious, celebrated X-Mas. So as a child my family had a beautiful blend of Judeo-Christian celebration called Chanu-Mas (Seth Cohen-You and your piddling Chrismaka can kiss my ass).
Chanu-Mas can be broken down thus: The Chanu portion includes lighting the candles, getting a small, usually crappy present on the 8th day and having the Jewish side over for potatoe latkes and a hardcore driedel battle (we are serious about it-quarters only and no respins). The Mas part consists of a measly poinsettia plant****, a stocking, and gifts on Christmas morning followed by a trip to Denny’s for the Lumberjack slam and later, a movie.
This always really bothered me as one of four Jewish children living in the entire town. I begged for a tree until the time I was twelve when my father buckled and got me a bush, which resembled Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree, with one sad, pathetic blue ornament on it. Soooo depressing when everyone you know has a big, gorgeous tree and the whole block is lit up like Vegas.
All in all, I always got good presents, or so I thought, until I started coming across news stories about what other kids got this holiday.
For starters: Marijuana! http://www.upi.com/NewsTrack/view.php?StoryID=20061230-121531-3404r Oh my god, I totally should have put this in my letter to Santa. This little girl in China Grove (so fitting that there is Dead reference), North Carolina received a doll bought off of E-Bay that’s head was filled with pot.
And can you imagine being a young boy and getting a computer pre-set with porn. It’s every adolescents dream. http://www.nbc5.com/news/10621074/detail.html Sure the parents took it back to the store when they figured out the floor model computer they purchased for Junior was bookmarked with X-rated material, but he got a few minutes of ecstasy. Plus with the $100 they were given, I’m sure they will be able to pay for loads of therapy.
Wow…all I got was a digital camera (Yes!!!) and paint so as my parents put it I can “art.”
Saturday, December 23, 2006
M Revisits Childhood
I haven't lived at home in Ohio for seven years and go back less than I should. It's depressing and joyous all wrapped in to one. My parents look a little older, greyer and saggier around the belly each time I see them, so while it is good to be near them, it hurts a little at the same time.
My parents, in the wisdom of their old age, have somehow perfected a way to treat me like a ten year old (did you brush your teeth?) and like an adult--although a failure (how can you still be broke?) --all at the same time. Yet, now that I am older and removed from them, I feel like I exhibit the same behavior in return, questioning how they live and certain decisions that they make.
Let me clarify though: My parents are odd. I have always known this. They were never like anyone else's family. Throwbacks from the sixties, my parents would listen to old Janis Joplin records and burn patchouli while meditating. They spouted Dylan quotes like most people quote the bible and were always open and free with discussions (True story: I was sent to the office during fifth grade sex ed for saying that sex was a beautiful thing when two people loved each other and that people should not be afraid of making love or their own nudity).
So, while I wore tie-die in fifth grade and listened to the Beatles, other kids wore hyper-color,
the shirts that chaged color with heat, and walked around with purple armpits and crotchscwhile listening to New Kids on the Block. Thus proving that living in the past is sometimes better than living in a crappy present. It could have made me into that weird girl with the hemp sweater, but instead it made me more confident in myself and made me be an open thinker as a child. And the funny thing is, kids are attracted to that. I knew that as long as I was confident, I was cool and surprisingly everyone else believed me.
I have my parents to thank for that, and for all the mistakes they made and the laundry list of things I have been bitter about over the years, I believe (read: hope in the assumption that I am a good person) that they did a good job.
Now though, when I go back home, they seem changed. The fire they had has gone out as the years have passed and only flickers occasionally. They still eat all organic, practice feng shui and listen to Dylan, but they seem to do it out of habit and with less zeal. More pronounced than anything is that they just seem Midwestern.
The biggest change is that my mother went from being a hard core liberal to an ultra conservative republican. This happened a few years ago when I was in college and we ended up not speaking for years because every conversation would turn into a political debate (and when I say debate, I mean she regurgitated O'Reilly for me right down to not allowing me a word in edgewise). My father stayed out of it and will not discuss politics anymore, as if he has become too disillusioned.
But enough with the serious depressing stuff and on to the odd and Midwestern. For one, and this is purely odd, my mother has taken to listening to Gregorian (which she pronounces Georgeian, which is in fact very Midwestern of her) and Celtic chant music, while my father has entered into post-midlife crisis and bought himself a convertible. He also insists on everyone calling him "The Dude" like in Big Lebowski and has taken to going to the gym sporting a doo-rag.
My mother on the other hand has handled her post-mid life crisis by getting herself another child in the form of a smelly, wild bulldog puppy. It pees on the floor, eats everything and runs around the house with her following after tripping over dog toys and shredded bits of whatever the dog has been chewing apart.
Yet, she loves it. My picture has even been replaced on the mantle by a professional picture taken at Sears of this new baby. She has even bought a treadmill specifically for walking this dog. This boggles my mind and when I first saw it made me understand how aliens must feel when they watch people. There was my mother walking along with the dog at her side on a wide treadmill. We live in the suburbs! There is a ton of land. She could walk outside but no, she likes to watch tv.
That is another thing about my parents. Tv game shows. They are the reason these mind-numbing programs keep being put on television. While I can not even watch these new game shows for longer than a second and am pretty certain that at least a thousand brain cells are killed in that one instant, my parents love it. I was subjected to both 'Deal or No Deal' and their screaming "Deal! Deal! Pick Deal you moron, Deal!" and the show 'One vs. 100,' in which they like to answer the dumbest questions and feel so much smarter because they know that a dreidel is made out of "clay, clay, clay" and not "plastic, plastic, plastic." We are Jewish for Jesus sake! If they didn't know that it would be a shame, and yet, it allows them to feel superior to 100 idiots who probably can't even tie their shoe.
But enough complaining about my parents. I really do love them, despite themselves and I am feeling slightly guilty (like I said, I'm Jewish and I swear they have perfected the ability to inflict guilt even when they aren't around).
The most depressing thing about going home is my hometown, where the level of excitment is this:
My parents, in the wisdom of their old age, have somehow perfected a way to treat me like a ten year old (did you brush your teeth?) and like an adult--although a failure (how can you still be broke?) --all at the same time. Yet, now that I am older and removed from them, I feel like I exhibit the same behavior in return, questioning how they live and certain decisions that they make.
Let me clarify though: My parents are odd. I have always known this. They were never like anyone else's family. Throwbacks from the sixties, my parents would listen to old Janis Joplin records and burn patchouli while meditating. They spouted Dylan quotes like most people quote the bible and were always open and free with discussions (True story: I was sent to the office during fifth grade sex ed for saying that sex was a beautiful thing when two people loved each other and that people should not be afraid of making love or their own nudity).
So, while I wore tie-die in fifth grade and listened to the Beatles, other kids wore hyper-color,
the shirts that chaged color with heat, and walked around with purple armpits and crotchscwhile listening to New Kids on the Block. Thus proving that living in the past is sometimes better than living in a crappy present. It could have made me into that weird girl with the hemp sweater, but instead it made me more confident in myself and made me be an open thinker as a child. And the funny thing is, kids are attracted to that. I knew that as long as I was confident, I was cool and surprisingly everyone else believed me.I have my parents to thank for that, and for all the mistakes they made and the laundry list of things I have been bitter about over the years, I believe (read: hope in the assumption that I am a good person) that they did a good job.
Now though, when I go back home, they seem changed. The fire they had has gone out as the years have passed and only flickers occasionally. They still eat all organic, practice feng shui and listen to Dylan, but they seem to do it out of habit and with less zeal. More pronounced than anything is that they just seem Midwestern.
The biggest change is that my mother went from being a hard core liberal to an ultra conservative republican. This happened a few years ago when I was in college and we ended up not speaking for years because every conversation would turn into a political debate (and when I say debate, I mean she regurgitated O'Reilly for me right down to not allowing me a word in edgewise). My father stayed out of it and will not discuss politics anymore, as if he has become too disillusioned.
But enough with the serious depressing stuff and on to the odd and Midwestern. For one, and this is purely odd, my mother has taken to listening to Gregorian (which she pronounces Georgeian, which is in fact very Midwestern of her) and Celtic chant music, while my father has entered into post-midlife crisis and bought himself a convertible. He also insists on everyone calling him "The Dude" like in Big Lebowski and has taken to going to the gym sporting a doo-rag.
My mother on the other hand has handled her post-mid life crisis by getting herself another child in the form of a smelly, wild bulldog puppy. It pees on the floor, eats everything and runs around the house with her following after tripping over dog toys and shredded bits of whatever the dog has been chewing apart.
Yet, she loves it. My picture has even been replaced on the mantle by a professional picture taken at Sears of this new baby. She has even bought a treadmill specifically for walking this dog. This boggles my mind and when I first saw it made me understand how aliens must feel when they watch people. There was my mother walking along with the dog at her side on a wide treadmill. We live in the suburbs! There is a ton of land. She could walk outside but no, she likes to watch tv.
That is another thing about my parents. Tv game shows. They are the reason these mind-numbing programs keep being put on television. While I can not even watch these new game shows for longer than a second and am pretty certain that at least a thousand brain cells are killed in that one instant, my parents love it. I was subjected to both 'Deal or No Deal' and their screaming "Deal! Deal! Pick Deal you moron, Deal!" and the show 'One vs. 100,' in which they like to answer the dumbest questions and feel so much smarter because they know that a dreidel is made out of "clay, clay, clay" and not "plastic, plastic, plastic." We are Jewish for Jesus sake! If they didn't know that it would be a shame, and yet, it allows them to feel superior to 100 idiots who probably can't even tie their shoe.
But enough complaining about my parents. I really do love them, despite themselves and I am feeling slightly guilty (like I said, I'm Jewish and I swear they have perfected the ability to inflict guilt even when they aren't around).
The most depressing thing about going home is my hometown, where the level of excitment is this:
Small, full of farms and broken down houses, the center of town can be described using a minimal number of letters from the alphabet. Meaning there is a BK (this was built in 1996 and has been the most historically exciting thing to ever happen. I was in high school and kids actually wore King crowns for a month leading up to it), a KFC, a DQ, a CVS, a Micky D's and a BP. And that is it. The sum of my town using around twenty letters.
No one stays, except for the few who end up in the same jobs as there parents (mostly landscapers and hairdressers) and live in the same houses hating their lives. These are the same few who never graduated high school or spent several years in rehab.
It is sad. It was a good town when we were young. Just big enough to cause a lot of trouble and
small enough to have it never really matter. There were many nights of getting stoned in the woods, building big bonfires and sitting around drinking. We even, though I hate to admit it, went cow tipping a few times.
The Buddhist have a saying that nothing changes except the person and that is what makes the world seem different. I can tell that New York has changed me. Some ways good and some ways bad. I am happy that I moved and going home makes me realize that. Yet, having moved makes me realize how much I love my small, shitty hometown, even though it looks so different to me now.
Awe. I promise, this will be the extent of my sappiness. The next post, I promise will be funny. Got that nonexistent readers.
No one stays, except for the few who end up in the same jobs as there parents (mostly landscapers and hairdressers) and live in the same houses hating their lives. These are the same few who never graduated high school or spent several years in rehab.
It is sad. It was a good town when we were young. Just big enough to cause a lot of trouble and
small enough to have it never really matter. There were many nights of getting stoned in the woods, building big bonfires and sitting around drinking. We even, though I hate to admit it, went cow tipping a few times.
The Buddhist have a saying that nothing changes except the person and that is what makes the world seem different. I can tell that New York has changed me. Some ways good and some ways bad. I am happy that I moved and going home makes me realize that. Yet, having moved makes me realize how much I love my small, shitty hometown, even though it looks so different to me now.
Awe. I promise, this will be the extent of my sappiness. The next post, I promise will be funny. Got that nonexistent readers.
Friday, December 22, 2006
M Pops Her Blog Cherry
Wow...I feel nervous and my palms are kind of shakey. I'm ultra aware of any noises that may come from around the corner, just waiting for someone to walk in and discover...I'm blogging.
Yes, the above does seem ridiculous to me. I bet you thought I was masturbating right? The feeling is akin to being in high school, all nervous one of my parents would walk into my bedroom and find me in a compromising position of ecstasy.
The fact that I am that nervous right now makes me feel like my emotions are not on par with reality. I understand that blogging is a firable offense and that many hardworking people have lost their jobs for just that, but come one. It just seems to me that when people where sneaking around working in the past, they were committing much more sinister offenses like money laundering or jacking off in their office.
Side note:
Maybe I could blog and masturbate? Or be like the naked blogger. That would maybe get me some audience? Once when I got stuck in the rain on my way to the office, I took my pants off to dry. I got too scared and put them on soaking wet five seconds later, but at least I gave it a shot. That was exciting (even if it comes off as a mundane story)!
The reason I am blogging at work is that I am bored. More bored than usual. It's the Friday before X-mas and I have nothing to do but wait until six o'clock rolls around. I have literally sat and stared at my outlook box, interspersed with glances at the phone, for two hours hoping that something would happen. My mind went blank for awhile but mostly I have just been wondering what the hell everyone else is doing.
I get this feeling a lot at work when things are slow. I work on a team with one other girl and we handle the most and largest accounts in the office so I have to wonder what everyone else could possibly be doing.
My office mate, who is possibly the laziest person I have ever met, talks on her cell phone, looks at pictures of her baby and talks endlessly in my ear about the cute thing, like say burping or shitting in his diaper. But being that she is the only one who has a kid and does top my list as worst employee I've ever met (she stole my idea right in front of my face during a meeting yesterday and steals everyone's placements), I can't assume that is what everyone else is doing.
This freaks me out because it makes me wonder, what should I be doing that I'm not. Then I try to make a to-do list only to realize, that yes, I really have nothing to do. Or do I...hmmm...Nope, it seems I only have to figure out a way to look busy. Is this what everyone else is doing also?
Another weird thing about my coworkers is that I never hear anyone making phone calls, an activity that is essential to public relations. My office is relatively small and I can hear at least three other people at all times and no one seems to ever pick up the phone. Some days it is as quiet as a library-not even the sound of typing. This is definitely something I am going to have to get to the bottom of. Is there as secret I don;t know about that allows people to make follow p phone calls without ever having to pick up the phone?
I guess it will remain a mystery today. For now, I am going to sign off (too nervous) but at least the sound of the keyboard typing furiously for ten minutes must have given off the sound of doing something substantial and relevant.
Yes, the above does seem ridiculous to me. I bet you thought I was masturbating right? The feeling is akin to being in high school, all nervous one of my parents would walk into my bedroom and find me in a compromising position of ecstasy.
The fact that I am that nervous right now makes me feel like my emotions are not on par with reality. I understand that blogging is a firable offense and that many hardworking people have lost their jobs for just that, but come one. It just seems to me that when people where sneaking around working in the past, they were committing much more sinister offenses like money laundering or jacking off in their office.
Side note:
Maybe I could blog and masturbate? Or be like the naked blogger. That would maybe get me some audience? Once when I got stuck in the rain on my way to the office, I took my pants off to dry. I got too scared and put them on soaking wet five seconds later, but at least I gave it a shot. That was exciting (even if it comes off as a mundane story)!
The reason I am blogging at work is that I am bored. More bored than usual. It's the Friday before X-mas and I have nothing to do but wait until six o'clock rolls around. I have literally sat and stared at my outlook box, interspersed with glances at the phone, for two hours hoping that something would happen. My mind went blank for awhile but mostly I have just been wondering what the hell everyone else is doing.
I get this feeling a lot at work when things are slow. I work on a team with one other girl and we handle the most and largest accounts in the office so I have to wonder what everyone else could possibly be doing.
My office mate, who is possibly the laziest person I have ever met, talks on her cell phone, looks at pictures of her baby and talks endlessly in my ear about the cute thing, like say burping or shitting in his diaper. But being that she is the only one who has a kid and does top my list as worst employee I've ever met (she stole my idea right in front of my face during a meeting yesterday and steals everyone's placements), I can't assume that is what everyone else is doing.
This freaks me out because it makes me wonder, what should I be doing that I'm not. Then I try to make a to-do list only to realize, that yes, I really have nothing to do. Or do I...hmmm...Nope, it seems I only have to figure out a way to look busy. Is this what everyone else is doing also?
Another weird thing about my coworkers is that I never hear anyone making phone calls, an activity that is essential to public relations. My office is relatively small and I can hear at least three other people at all times and no one seems to ever pick up the phone. Some days it is as quiet as a library-not even the sound of typing. This is definitely something I am going to have to get to the bottom of. Is there as secret I don;t know about that allows people to make follow p phone calls without ever having to pick up the phone?
I guess it will remain a mystery today. For now, I am going to sign off (too nervous) but at least the sound of the keyboard typing furiously for ten minutes must have given off the sound of doing something substantial and relevant.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
M Gives Advice, Braves Office Party
'Tis the season to get wasted in front of your coworkers, make prolonged and awkward conversation with the guy from the mail room and make out with the intern. Yes, you guessed, it, it's the dreaded holiday party. That one night per year that inhibitions are throw to the wayside and common sense eludes you with abandon.
This year,I promised myself to be good. Three moths into a new job, forgiveness would not be so easily forthcoming for dancing the electric slide and YMCA. Plus, I had to rise above my history of my singular office party at this company where I got loaded, made awkward conversation with the guy from the mail room (whom I can't for the life of me remember what I said, but it caused him to give me dirty looks for weeks following) and brought the intern home.
Yeah, I'll admit it. I was "that girl." But tonight was different. I slowly sipped my very light vodka and cranberry and watched what I have looked like in previous years. And man, was it a sorry sight to see with sober eyes.
For those of you preparing for your office party, please, please, please for the love of your self pride, follow the below rules:
2) No Dancing: Under any circumstances. This means that if the guy from accounting you've been eyeing finally notices you while doing the Macerena, do not join in. When your drunk male boss asks you to dance simply say, "I twisted my ankle" or "I'm deaf in one ear and can;t hear the music." Say anything, just don't dance. You know he can't wait to pull out the moves he used to rock in the '70's. Really, I don't care if you used to be a Rockette or Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, no one ever manages to not look like a complete fucking retard when dancing to "ABC".
3) Dress Like You Would for Work: For some reason, people tend to believe that, hey, its a party, I'll bust out my weekend club wear. Women wear their cleavage baring tops and the men plaster their hair in mousse. Nothing is more disconcerting than trying to have a conversation with your supervisor when her nipple is hanging out. And, as a side note, the perfume/cologne mixed with booze breathe is not appealing on any occasion.
4) Don't Eat Like It's the Last Supper: Yeah, everything on the desert buffet looks good and the holidays is a time for indulgence. But people are watching you as you perform the balancing act of placing the cookie on top of the chocolate cake which is precariously pushing the pettifour off the plate. Stop at the grocery store on the way home and buy yourself some goodies. You'll either be known as the bulimic or enhance your rep as "The Fat One."
5) Watch Your Conversation: It seems like a social situation, but remember it isn't. Don't take this as the opportunity to air your personal stories of your new boyfriend or really cute new puppy. No one cares. Also, do not discuss work foibles. Everyone is relaxed and maybe you want to tell the big secret that you, say blog at work, but don't do it. You'll get called into the boss's office the next morning and have to deal with it.
6) Don't make out with anyone: Even if you really, really want to. Even if it is the office hottie. Make a date for another time. You may be a Puritan virgin, but you'll be labeled the office whore forever. JUST DON'T DO IT. Especially not with this guy:
4) Leave Early: The longer your their the more likely you are to make one of the above mistakes. As the time ticks on the urge only goes greater.
Now, I know the above rules sound like common sense but they are hard to follow. Go forth with nondenominational holiday cheer and enjoy. Happy Holidays!
This year,I promised myself to be good. Three moths into a new job, forgiveness would not be so easily forthcoming for dancing the electric slide and YMCA. Plus, I had to rise above my history of my singular office party at this company where I got loaded, made awkward conversation with the guy from the mail room (whom I can't for the life of me remember what I said, but it caused him to give me dirty looks for weeks following) and brought the intern home.
Yeah, I'll admit it. I was "that girl." But tonight was different. I slowly sipped my very light vodka and cranberry and watched what I have looked like in previous years. And man, was it a sorry sight to see with sober eyes.
For those of you preparing for your office party, please, please, please for the love of your self pride, follow the below rules:
1) Don't Drink: You will look like an asshole not matter what. 'Nuff said.
2) No Dancing: Under any circumstances. This means that if the guy from accounting you've been eyeing finally notices you while doing the Macerena, do not join in. When your drunk male boss asks you to dance simply say, "I twisted my ankle" or "I'm deaf in one ear and can;t hear the music." Say anything, just don't dance. You know he can't wait to pull out the moves he used to rock in the '70's. Really, I don't care if you used to be a Rockette or Dallas Cowboy cheerleader, no one ever manages to not look like a complete fucking retard when dancing to "ABC".
3) Dress Like You Would for Work: For some reason, people tend to believe that, hey, its a party, I'll bust out my weekend club wear. Women wear their cleavage baring tops and the men plaster their hair in mousse. Nothing is more disconcerting than trying to have a conversation with your supervisor when her nipple is hanging out. And, as a side note, the perfume/cologne mixed with booze breathe is not appealing on any occasion.
4) Don't Eat Like It's the Last Supper: Yeah, everything on the desert buffet looks good and the holidays is a time for indulgence. But people are watching you as you perform the balancing act of placing the cookie on top of the chocolate cake which is precariously pushing the pettifour off the plate. Stop at the grocery store on the way home and buy yourself some goodies. You'll either be known as the bulimic or enhance your rep as "The Fat One."
5) Watch Your Conversation: It seems like a social situation, but remember it isn't. Don't take this as the opportunity to air your personal stories of your new boyfriend or really cute new puppy. No one cares. Also, do not discuss work foibles. Everyone is relaxed and maybe you want to tell the big secret that you, say blog at work, but don't do it. You'll get called into the boss's office the next morning and have to deal with it.
6) Don't make out with anyone: Even if you really, really want to. Even if it is the office hottie. Make a date for another time. You may be a Puritan virgin, but you'll be labeled the office whore forever. JUST DON'T DO IT. Especially not with this guy:
4) Leave Early: The longer your their the more likely you are to make one of the above mistakes. As the time ticks on the urge only goes greater.
Now, I know the above rules sound like common sense but they are hard to follow. Go forth with nondenominational holiday cheer and enjoy. Happy Holidays!
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
M Starts a Blog
As 2007 approaches and I begin my Resolutions List, alternatively titled "The Complete List of Everyting That is Wrong with My Life that I Promise to Change Every Year and Inevitably Fail At," subtitled "Why Do I Suck?". I feel it is is time to add something new to standard list. So this year along with dropping those twelve, okay fifteen, odd pounds, quitting smoking, learning to paint, making a million dollars and working towards world peace, I am resolving to write daily in this blog.
I had no idea two hours ago when I started how consuming a process it is. My initial plan was to get on and bitch about what a shitty day/week its been between the snot that is continuously running from my now severely chaffed nose to my impatience and near brawl with the tourist in front of me at the deli salad line today who was taking forever ("Oooohh, do you have cheddar cheese. Mmmkay. Wait no. Do you have mozzarella? Yes! Okkkayy..what else? What else?). Yet, just creating the template and picking a name took way longer than anticipated.
The main culprit for this time suck came from finding a photo. I stumbled across a number of cartoons depicting the same slightly tubby, heavy lidded blonde woman with her arm around different objects.
The first few just pissed me off and started my feminist rage burning. Overweight middle aged blonde women are golddiggers. How stereotypical. What bullshit!
And housework. What the fuck! Is this 1920? Look at how cocky that broom is all "Hey baby, you know you love me."
But then I found this, and well, it threw me for a loop. Slightly tubby, heavy lidded blonde women love joints? Hell yeah! The droopy eyes, the munchie induced belly bulge. It started to make sense.
But then I saw this and realized my first assumption was probably based on my own personal inclinations. Apparently they love tampons? Giant erasers? Life-sized Bubble Yum?
Wait a second though. Something is fishy here. Maybe the pink is a cover up. Not only does this woman love massive doobies but meth as well. Look at her with that beaker pointing towards the sky "I'll get you soo high."
Yes. Contruction workers. They are always horny!
I was all set to condemn her when...
She loves Jesus. How sweet.
In the end I gave up on finding a suitable pic, but then stumbled on this...
I had no idea two hours ago when I started how consuming a process it is. My initial plan was to get on and bitch about what a shitty day/week its been between the snot that is continuously running from my now severely chaffed nose to my impatience and near brawl with the tourist in front of me at the deli salad line today who was taking forever ("Oooohh, do you have cheddar cheese. Mmmkay. Wait no. Do you have mozzarella? Yes! Okkkayy..what else? What else?). Yet, just creating the template and picking a name took way longer than anticipated.
The main culprit for this time suck came from finding a photo. I stumbled across a number of cartoons depicting the same slightly tubby, heavy lidded blonde woman with her arm around different objects.
The first few just pissed me off and started my feminist rage burning. Overweight middle aged blonde women are golddiggers. How stereotypical. What bullshit!
And housework. What the fuck! Is this 1920? Look at how cocky that broom is all "Hey baby, you know you love me."
But then I found this, and well, it threw me for a loop. Slightly tubby, heavy lidded blonde women love joints? Hell yeah! The droopy eyes, the munchie induced belly bulge. It started to make sense.
But then I saw this and realized my first assumption was probably based on my own personal inclinations. Apparently they love tampons? Giant erasers? Life-sized Bubble Yum?
Wait a second though. Something is fishy here. Maybe the pink is a cover up. Not only does this woman love massive doobies but meth as well. Look at her with that beaker pointing towards the sky "I'll get you soo high."
Yes. Contruction workers. They are always horny!
Even the homeless get a piece of this sweet ass.
I was all set to condemn her when...
She loves Jesus. How sweet.
In the end I gave up on finding a suitable pic, but then stumbled on this...
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