Friday, January 30, 2004
Foot Fetish.
So, the fuck-me boots turned out to be a worthwhile purchase. Have they brought me schools of men, or a little action? Who's to know? I'd like to think that my staggering wit and the frequency of which I discuss cunnilingus in public places does that for me. But really, who needs another man? And these days, if given the option of an evening of action and an evening alone with a book, I'd be making sweet love to Sarah Vowell and Dave Eggars. (Both of whom have shared a bed with me for about a week.) Now that's one hell of a threesome.
Back to the boots. Turns out that the boots are high enough off the ground that only six inches of my pants get enveloped by slush. And the leather factor (yes, leather - I eat meat too) keeps my feet dry. Love 'em.
But last night, I did not wear the boots. I wore, as I am apt to do, Inappropriate Shoes. Black stilettos with a Mary Jane-style hole in on the top. With no stockings. I wore said footwear to the Treebar, to see Tim Easton play.
To say that I got drunk is an understatement. To say that I passed out on the couch in glasses and all attire, got to work at 11.00 and never want to drink again is more accurate.
Sarah and Patrick (houseguest extraordinare) wanted doughnuts on the way home. While in the parking lot of Tim Horton's, drunk Jill, in her fabulous shoes, decided she'd rather stumble home, through two front yards of snow, than wait three minutes for them to decide whether they wanted Boston Cream or Double Chocolate.
Though I felt like I was barefoot, and the stilettos didn't help the whole balancing in the snow and ice dilemma, they did have one plus as I flung myself on the couch to stop the spinning. Had I been wearing the boots last night, I would have most definitely woken up in them this morning.
As I slept, my fabulous and ineffective shoes sat in a pile of melting snow, waiting for a spring day.
So, the fuck-me boots turned out to be a worthwhile purchase. Have they brought me schools of men, or a little action? Who's to know? I'd like to think that my staggering wit and the frequency of which I discuss cunnilingus in public places does that for me. But really, who needs another man? And these days, if given the option of an evening of action and an evening alone with a book, I'd be making sweet love to Sarah Vowell and Dave Eggars. (Both of whom have shared a bed with me for about a week.) Now that's one hell of a threesome.
Back to the boots. Turns out that the boots are high enough off the ground that only six inches of my pants get enveloped by slush. And the leather factor (yes, leather - I eat meat too) keeps my feet dry. Love 'em.
But last night, I did not wear the boots. I wore, as I am apt to do, Inappropriate Shoes. Black stilettos with a Mary Jane-style hole in on the top. With no stockings. I wore said footwear to the Treebar, to see Tim Easton play.
To say that I got drunk is an understatement. To say that I passed out on the couch in glasses and all attire, got to work at 11.00 and never want to drink again is more accurate.
Sarah and Patrick (houseguest extraordinare) wanted doughnuts on the way home. While in the parking lot of Tim Horton's, drunk Jill, in her fabulous shoes, decided she'd rather stumble home, through two front yards of snow, than wait three minutes for them to decide whether they wanted Boston Cream or Double Chocolate.
Though I felt like I was barefoot, and the stilettos didn't help the whole balancing in the snow and ice dilemma, they did have one plus as I flung myself on the couch to stop the spinning. Had I been wearing the boots last night, I would have most definitely woken up in them this morning.
As I slept, my fabulous and ineffective shoes sat in a pile of melting snow, waiting for a spring day.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Shiny Treasures.
"Well, you have a history of misfire on all your cylinders except number four," he says to me. I'm on the phone at work, preparing for a meeting with a woman representing the local CBS affiliate when Mr. Tuffy calls.
"Oh," I say, thinking that at least my fourth cylinder is good.
"And the fourth cylinder is dead," he continues. My check engine light has been on for a few days, and Patrick (houseguest extraordinare) suggested that we get it looked at. Apparently, I have a bad injector, need all new plugs and wires, and should replace my lower intake manifold gasket. Which is a lot more expensive than Manifold Destiny.
A note on car repair, especially in Chevy's: gaskets may sound funny and may easily be fit into limericks, but they need to be taken seriously. You should respect your gaskets way more than you respect your battery or even your alternator. Gaskets are expensive.
I try to hide the sound components of the sobbing. These are the tears usually reserved for four year olds who fall off their bikes after being chased by giant alligators. These are the tears held sacred by the straight-A student who gets her first D, in handwriting, nonetheless. These are the "life isn't fair" tears one might find coming from a woman who has finally built up a savings account to aide her escape from Ohio, and will have to spend every penny of it (plus $27) to buy a new manifold gasket.
"Um, okay. Which one of these things need to be done first?" I ask, cursing myself for crying every time I talk to an auto mechanic.
"They all do."
I don't believe him. I ask the guy in the meat department. "They all do."
And our store manager. He's from Kentucky and always has chewing tobacco in his mouth. He must know about cars. "Is this stuff all that important?"
"Hell, yeah. But if I were you, I'd check into getting your engine rebuilt."
Right. I'll just go get my engine rebuilt. I return to my office, shut the door, and wail.
For what it would cost me to fly to Paris twice, or buy a new laptop or pay my first month's rent and expenses in a place that is not Ohio, I will now be the proud owner of many random car parts. Y'all should come out and take a look at them. I'll lift my lid and show you.
They're the shiny ones.
"Well, you have a history of misfire on all your cylinders except number four," he says to me. I'm on the phone at work, preparing for a meeting with a woman representing the local CBS affiliate when Mr. Tuffy calls.
"Oh," I say, thinking that at least my fourth cylinder is good.
"And the fourth cylinder is dead," he continues. My check engine light has been on for a few days, and Patrick (houseguest extraordinare) suggested that we get it looked at. Apparently, I have a bad injector, need all new plugs and wires, and should replace my lower intake manifold gasket. Which is a lot more expensive than Manifold Destiny.
A note on car repair, especially in Chevy's: gaskets may sound funny and may easily be fit into limericks, but they need to be taken seriously. You should respect your gaskets way more than you respect your battery or even your alternator. Gaskets are expensive.
I try to hide the sound components of the sobbing. These are the tears usually reserved for four year olds who fall off their bikes after being chased by giant alligators. These are the tears held sacred by the straight-A student who gets her first D, in handwriting, nonetheless. These are the "life isn't fair" tears one might find coming from a woman who has finally built up a savings account to aide her escape from Ohio, and will have to spend every penny of it (plus $27) to buy a new manifold gasket.
"Um, okay. Which one of these things need to be done first?" I ask, cursing myself for crying every time I talk to an auto mechanic.
"They all do."
I don't believe him. I ask the guy in the meat department. "They all do."
And our store manager. He's from Kentucky and always has chewing tobacco in his mouth. He must know about cars. "Is this stuff all that important?"
"Hell, yeah. But if I were you, I'd check into getting your engine rebuilt."
Right. I'll just go get my engine rebuilt. I return to my office, shut the door, and wail.
For what it would cost me to fly to Paris twice, or buy a new laptop or pay my first month's rent and expenses in a place that is not Ohio, I will now be the proud owner of many random car parts. Y'all should come out and take a look at them. I'll lift my lid and show you.
They're the shiny ones.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
House Guest.
Last night I had a dream that my houseguest walked into my room in the middle of the night holding my Chicago Cutlery serrated butcher's knife in his hand.
He's a good houseguest, and I would never, ever imagine him to be the "kill your host in the middle of the night" sort of guy. He's the "play with the cats and take out the trash" kind, instead.
Nonetheless, I'm a little bit nervous.
Last night I had a dream that my houseguest walked into my room in the middle of the night holding my Chicago Cutlery serrated butcher's knife in his hand.
He's a good houseguest, and I would never, ever imagine him to be the "kill your host in the middle of the night" sort of guy. He's the "play with the cats and take out the trash" kind, instead.
Nonetheless, I'm a little bit nervous.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Falling Down.
I spent Saturday night in Hell. Otherwise known as Gameworks. Places like Gameworks do not discriminate. They're everywhere. You know the kind. Poor service, expensive drinks, mediocre food and lots of video games. Like crack addicts, people (of all ages, hairdo's and sizes) swipe their cards to get one more chance at pretending to parasail or riding a motorcycle. It's so much better than real life.
So. I "played" Dance, Dance Revolution. It's that game that resembles Simon, except that you use your feet to hit the pretty colored squares, instead of your hands. And there's a dance beat to it. And you look like an idiot in front of strangers. Japanese boys are really good at Dance, Dance Revolution.
I am not.
I fell down. Like, within two minutes of being on that thing. I hit my knee.
It was bleeding.
And I wasn't even drunk.
We survived the evening, using the majority of the hand-me-down gift certificates that led us there in the first place. We couldn't even spend $150 in an over-priced crack arcade.
As we left, my friends and I promised one another that we would never, ever, EVER step foot in a place like that again.
I spent Saturday night in Hell. Otherwise known as Gameworks. Places like Gameworks do not discriminate. They're everywhere. You know the kind. Poor service, expensive drinks, mediocre food and lots of video games. Like crack addicts, people (of all ages, hairdo's and sizes) swipe their cards to get one more chance at pretending to parasail or riding a motorcycle. It's so much better than real life.
So. I "played" Dance, Dance Revolution. It's that game that resembles Simon, except that you use your feet to hit the pretty colored squares, instead of your hands. And there's a dance beat to it. And you look like an idiot in front of strangers. Japanese boys are really good at Dance, Dance Revolution.
I am not.
I fell down. Like, within two minutes of being on that thing. I hit my knee.
It was bleeding.
And I wasn't even drunk.
We survived the evening, using the majority of the hand-me-down gift certificates that led us there in the first place. We couldn't even spend $150 in an over-priced crack arcade.
As we left, my friends and I promised one another that we would never, ever, EVER step foot in a place like that again.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Go Me.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Three lights came on in my car as I was driving to work yesterday morning. The low coolant light and check engine lights had been on for about a week, so they were almost comforting. But when the battery light made its debut on my dashboard, I decided it was time to do something.
Gas station number one did not have the right type of coolant (I needed dextol or something that sounds like a photo-developing chemical) but they did have cigarettes. Next was the Tuffy, where I had my brakes and tires replaced a few months ago. Hoping that they would recognize me as a regular who needed a favor, I asked for a top-off of coolant. Instead, I got directions to the nearest Napa Auto Parts store. Already late to work, I decided to go ahead and do it. I don't know exactly what happens when a car overheats, but the battery light wasn't bringing me any good vibes.
"Can we help you?" Six guys are standing behind the counter, waiting to help the damsel in distress, figuring I probably wanted fuzzy dice or a piña coloda-flavored air freshener.
"I need coolant. The dex kind," I say with authority.
"Aisle two. Bottom shelf," one replies.
At the counter, to prove to them that I knew what I was doing, that I wasn't just some little flake, I asked to borrow an empty container and water, to dilute the orange fluid.
They assured me that I could just pour the coolant directly into the...coolant hole. I thanked them and did the job in the cold parking lot, with grace and confidence. (Knowing that my engine was not yet warm enough to warrant waiting.)
As I drove away, I was thrilled. I had solved the problem. The engine light, the coolant light and the battery light were all dark, awaiting a better time to reappear into my life. That's when the gas light came on.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Three lights came on in my car as I was driving to work yesterday morning. The low coolant light and check engine lights had been on for about a week, so they were almost comforting. But when the battery light made its debut on my dashboard, I decided it was time to do something.
Gas station number one did not have the right type of coolant (I needed dextol or something that sounds like a photo-developing chemical) but they did have cigarettes. Next was the Tuffy, where I had my brakes and tires replaced a few months ago. Hoping that they would recognize me as a regular who needed a favor, I asked for a top-off of coolant. Instead, I got directions to the nearest Napa Auto Parts store. Already late to work, I decided to go ahead and do it. I don't know exactly what happens when a car overheats, but the battery light wasn't bringing me any good vibes.
"Can we help you?" Six guys are standing behind the counter, waiting to help the damsel in distress, figuring I probably wanted fuzzy dice or a piña coloda-flavored air freshener.
"I need coolant. The dex kind," I say with authority.
"Aisle two. Bottom shelf," one replies.
At the counter, to prove to them that I knew what I was doing, that I wasn't just some little flake, I asked to borrow an empty container and water, to dilute the orange fluid.
They assured me that I could just pour the coolant directly into the...coolant hole. I thanked them and did the job in the cold parking lot, with grace and confidence. (Knowing that my engine was not yet warm enough to warrant waiting.)
As I drove away, I was thrilled. I had solved the problem. The engine light, the coolant light and the battery light were all dark, awaiting a better time to reappear into my life. That's when the gas light came on.
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
All Politics.
I watched the State of The Iraqi State last night, featuring our cute little President George Dubya. I told him what I thought of his policies and whatnot, but he seemed as attentive to my ideas as the cats are when I suggest they stop shedding.
I spent the rest of the evening drawing the jawbones of talking heads and Democratic candidates. Newt Gingrich's chin looks like an octogenarian's breast. I wanted to put a bra on that thing.
If I were a political cartoonist, I'd want Kucinich to win.
I watched the State of The Iraqi State last night, featuring our cute little President George Dubya. I told him what I thought of his policies and whatnot, but he seemed as attentive to my ideas as the cats are when I suggest they stop shedding.
I spent the rest of the evening drawing the jawbones of talking heads and Democratic candidates. Newt Gingrich's chin looks like an octogenarian's breast. I wanted to put a bra on that thing.
If I were a political cartoonist, I'd want Kucinich to win.
Monday, January 19, 2004
American Dream.
"You have to come over to see our cake," I demanded.
Lainie sighed and agreed to brave the Sunday evening cold, even though she doesn't like cake or Sex & The City. It must have been the third part of our offer that landed Lainie on our doorstep: wine.
We've been waiting for Media Play to send Season Five of the aforementioned show since December 26th, when Sarah ordered it online. Last night, we threw our patience into the litter box and rented the DVD's from a family video store for only $2.11.
We spent half an hour searching through old magazines for pictures of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The plan was to make a portrait of him on the cake out of sprinkles. We could only dig up photos of Gandhi and Newt Gingrich, and settled for a mere "I have a dream" in yellow icing (surrounded by blobs of multi-colored balls and sprinkles).
Like proud mothers of preschoolers, we took photos of one another holding the sophomoric cake. When Lainie got there, we sang happy birthday to the King and opened a bottle of wine.
The cake was yellow. The wine was red. The icing was brown. And we were varying shades of white, sitting in a white neighborhood, watching four fictional white women screw other white men in a city that is far from white.
"You have to come over to see our cake," I demanded.
Lainie sighed and agreed to brave the Sunday evening cold, even though she doesn't like cake or Sex & The City. It must have been the third part of our offer that landed Lainie on our doorstep: wine.
We've been waiting for Media Play to send Season Five of the aforementioned show since December 26th, when Sarah ordered it online. Last night, we threw our patience into the litter box and rented the DVD's from a family video store for only $2.11.
We spent half an hour searching through old magazines for pictures of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. The plan was to make a portrait of him on the cake out of sprinkles. We could only dig up photos of Gandhi and Newt Gingrich, and settled for a mere "I have a dream" in yellow icing (surrounded by blobs of multi-colored balls and sprinkles).
Like proud mothers of preschoolers, we took photos of one another holding the sophomoric cake. When Lainie got there, we sang happy birthday to the King and opened a bottle of wine.
The cake was yellow. The wine was red. The icing was brown. And we were varying shades of white, sitting in a white neighborhood, watching four fictional white women screw other white men in a city that is far from white.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Human Tissue.
Last night, I was a shoulder to cry on, literally. Snot, tears, gasps, shaking and all.
When you exercise for the first time in months, you discover muscles that you didn't know existed. Similarly, by showing tenderness, I realized that I have hidden maternal instincts.
Maternal instincts?
Truth is, I never really liked exercising, anyway.
Last night, I was a shoulder to cry on, literally. Snot, tears, gasps, shaking and all.
When you exercise for the first time in months, you discover muscles that you didn't know existed. Similarly, by showing tenderness, I realized that I have hidden maternal instincts.
Maternal instincts?
Truth is, I never really liked exercising, anyway.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
Damn Right.
Last Friday, I catered a surprise birthday dinner party for an 18-year-old. The parents left and a dozen seniors in high school danced in the living room - completely sober - to a Clearchannel radio station. This is what I learned:
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
And they're like, "It's better than yours"
Damn right, it's better than yours
I could teach you
But I'd have to charge
And there's really no proper way to comment upon this.
Last Friday, I catered a surprise birthday dinner party for an 18-year-old. The parents left and a dozen seniors in high school danced in the living room - completely sober - to a Clearchannel radio station. This is what I learned:
My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
And they're like, "It's better than yours"
Damn right, it's better than yours
I could teach you
But I'd have to charge
And there's really no proper way to comment upon this.
Tuesday, January 13, 2004
Take Two.
"Do you ski?" Tom asks.
The last time I went skiing, I was in fourth grade. I somersaulted down the slopes of Crystal Mountain in Northern Michigan and sprained my knee. I spent the rest of the week in the cabin, watching television and eating only Three Musketeers Bars and cottage cheese. This resulted in my puking on my sister in the middle of the night.
It seems that the ski-bug has hit my friends with great force. I have two choices. I can stay at home, warm and cozy, reading a book and listening to NPR, facing no injury, save the occasional cat scratch. Or I can join the team and sit in the lodge drinking Baileys and coffee after spraining my other knee.
It's been fourteen years; I'm ready to give it another shot.
In other notes, I am in search of a new site that will provide comments. Apparently blogspeak has been shut down by "the bastards that host my site" according to the guy who provided the service. No worries, though. I live for comments, so this will be remedied soon.
"Do you ski?" Tom asks.
The last time I went skiing, I was in fourth grade. I somersaulted down the slopes of Crystal Mountain in Northern Michigan and sprained my knee. I spent the rest of the week in the cabin, watching television and eating only Three Musketeers Bars and cottage cheese. This resulted in my puking on my sister in the middle of the night.
It seems that the ski-bug has hit my friends with great force. I have two choices. I can stay at home, warm and cozy, reading a book and listening to NPR, facing no injury, save the occasional cat scratch. Or I can join the team and sit in the lodge drinking Baileys and coffee after spraining my other knee.
It's been fourteen years; I'm ready to give it another shot.
In other notes, I am in search of a new site that will provide comments. Apparently blogspeak has been shut down by "the bastards that host my site" according to the guy who provided the service. No worries, though. I live for comments, so this will be remedied soon.
Monday, January 12, 2004
Journaltising.
I just got out of a meeting with a woman who is selling ad space in her company's magazine. The magazine is an unabashed marketing tool for said company. For every fifteen pages of advertisements, there are three editorials. Nonetheless, the piece looks good. And hits our demographic.
I said I'd buy ad space, so long as I can disguise it as an editorial. (Because we can't afford the fancy photography needed to compete with the other advertisers, all large companies whose advertisements can be found in the likes of *The New York Times Sunday Magazine* and *Style.*)
What does a marriage of journalism and advertising produce? A generation of consumers who don't trust anything they read. Or worse, one that believes everything.
I'll help with the conception, but I don't want to stick around to see them grow up.
I just got out of a meeting with a woman who is selling ad space in her company's magazine. The magazine is an unabashed marketing tool for said company. For every fifteen pages of advertisements, there are three editorials. Nonetheless, the piece looks good. And hits our demographic.
I said I'd buy ad space, so long as I can disguise it as an editorial. (Because we can't afford the fancy photography needed to compete with the other advertisers, all large companies whose advertisements can be found in the likes of *The New York Times Sunday Magazine* and *Style.*)
What does a marriage of journalism and advertising produce? A generation of consumers who don't trust anything they read. Or worse, one that believes everything.
I'll help with the conception, but I don't want to stick around to see them grow up.
Friday, January 09, 2004
Mr. Tinkle
He leaned in to kiss me and I obliged, just to get it over with. "Sure," I say wearily at the end of the date, "you can give me a call." Though, I added silently to myself, my phone battery might be dead for a few months.
I've spent my entire dating experience repressing emotion and honesty. "Don't let on that you like him," they say. I've learned that if I find the words "I love you" resting dangerously at the tip of my tongue, most likely I'm drunk and what I really mean is, "I love having someone near me; at the moment, it happens to be you." I'm not sure if this strategy is successful in attaining relationships, but I guess I'm where I want to be right now. I'm very happy not picking out blenders at Williams Sonoma or writing 'Thank You' notes to someone's mother for a turquoise turtleneck sweater that she "just knew" I would love.
So. What happens when honesty is essential? When the correct answer to the question "Can we do this again sometime?" is "Tonight was the longest night of my entire life. Not only do we not connect on an intellectual level, but I found that while you were talking, I was focusing on the little hairs that seem to be growing from the back of your right ear. Also, you chew with your mouth open, touch me too much, and when you say things like 'I'm going to go tinkle' it really hurts my internal debate as to whether you are, in fact, a heterosexual man."
In four hours together, I had not made eye contact once. I went home wondering which spoke louder, my words or my body language.
As I pondered the importance of honesty and my evening with Mr. Tinkle, I realized the true meaning to the words "Wow. I've got a really long day at work tomorrow."
And I tried to remember how many people have said them to me.
He leaned in to kiss me and I obliged, just to get it over with. "Sure," I say wearily at the end of the date, "you can give me a call." Though, I added silently to myself, my phone battery might be dead for a few months.
I've spent my entire dating experience repressing emotion and honesty. "Don't let on that you like him," they say. I've learned that if I find the words "I love you" resting dangerously at the tip of my tongue, most likely I'm drunk and what I really mean is, "I love having someone near me; at the moment, it happens to be you." I'm not sure if this strategy is successful in attaining relationships, but I guess I'm where I want to be right now. I'm very happy not picking out blenders at Williams Sonoma or writing 'Thank You' notes to someone's mother for a turquoise turtleneck sweater that she "just knew" I would love.
So. What happens when honesty is essential? When the correct answer to the question "Can we do this again sometime?" is "Tonight was the longest night of my entire life. Not only do we not connect on an intellectual level, but I found that while you were talking, I was focusing on the little hairs that seem to be growing from the back of your right ear. Also, you chew with your mouth open, touch me too much, and when you say things like 'I'm going to go tinkle' it really hurts my internal debate as to whether you are, in fact, a heterosexual man."
In four hours together, I had not made eye contact once. I went home wondering which spoke louder, my words or my body language.
As I pondered the importance of honesty and my evening with Mr. Tinkle, I realized the true meaning to the words "Wow. I've got a really long day at work tomorrow."
And I tried to remember how many people have said them to me.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
I Say Fight.
I got into a fight with my boss this afternoon about the construction of a new sign for our shopping center.
Me: I'm already fighting with the city, the owner of the shopping center, all the tenants and the sign company. And now I'm fighting with you? Fuck it, Jim. YOU do this, if you're so good at negotiation.
Jim: We're not fighting. We're having a disagreement.
Me: Like fuck we're not fighting. We're fighting. THIS is fighting.
Jim: It's just a disagreement. Not a fight. We're disagreeing.
Me: This is SO a fight.
(Note. My boss is in his seventies. His favorite thing to say when I ask for extra vacation days and the like is "You know you have me wrapped around your finger, Jill. You can do whatever you want.")
Jason steps in and hands me a brochure, reading "Conflict Management Skills for Women. A Special One-Day Seminar for Women Only..." The brochure has a cartoon image of a frazzled woman in glasses holding a cup of coffee and shaking. It promises to teach me 'how to keep my cool, stand my ground and positively resolve conflict.'
I throw said brochure away and promptly go outside for a cigarette, trying not to laugh (or cry) in anyone's presence. Upon my return, I resolve the conflict and step back into his office to retrieve the brochure from the trash can for blog purposes.
Mark: Jill, do you want to show Jim what we came up with?
I glare at both of them, still trying not to laugh.
Mark: I guess not. Jim, she's never talking to you again.
Jim: That's what I was going for all along.
On the brochure:
Be honest. Do you ever...
• back down on an important issue instead of sticking to your guns?
• overreact and make a difficult situation even worse?
• allow unresolved anger and resentment to hurt an important relationship?
• become angry or frustrated when dealing with difficult people?
• let people take advantage of you?
• find yourself in the middle of an argument and wonder how it got started in the first place?
• feel trapped in a seemingly unresolvable conflict?
(If any of these situations sound familiar then this seminar is for you!)
I got into a fight with my boss this afternoon about the construction of a new sign for our shopping center.
Me: I'm already fighting with the city, the owner of the shopping center, all the tenants and the sign company. And now I'm fighting with you? Fuck it, Jim. YOU do this, if you're so good at negotiation.
Jim: We're not fighting. We're having a disagreement.
Me: Like fuck we're not fighting. We're fighting. THIS is fighting.
Jim: It's just a disagreement. Not a fight. We're disagreeing.
Me: This is SO a fight.
(Note. My boss is in his seventies. His favorite thing to say when I ask for extra vacation days and the like is "You know you have me wrapped around your finger, Jill. You can do whatever you want.")
Jason steps in and hands me a brochure, reading "Conflict Management Skills for Women. A Special One-Day Seminar for Women Only..." The brochure has a cartoon image of a frazzled woman in glasses holding a cup of coffee and shaking. It promises to teach me 'how to keep my cool, stand my ground and positively resolve conflict.'
I throw said brochure away and promptly go outside for a cigarette, trying not to laugh (or cry) in anyone's presence. Upon my return, I resolve the conflict and step back into his office to retrieve the brochure from the trash can for blog purposes.
Mark: Jill, do you want to show Jim what we came up with?
I glare at both of them, still trying not to laugh.
Mark: I guess not. Jim, she's never talking to you again.
Jim: That's what I was going for all along.
On the brochure:
Be honest. Do you ever...
• back down on an important issue instead of sticking to your guns?
• overreact and make a difficult situation even worse?
• allow unresolved anger and resentment to hurt an important relationship?
• become angry or frustrated when dealing with difficult people?
• let people take advantage of you?
• find yourself in the middle of an argument and wonder how it got started in the first place?
• feel trapped in a seemingly unresolvable conflict?
(If any of these situations sound familiar then this seminar is for you!)
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Life's Tough.
There are two types of poverty: self-inflicted and otherwise. I've known both, though the majority of my scholarship has been with the former. I was lucky enough to be born into a white, semi-educated middle class American family, allowing me the luxury of extravagance, the self-indulgence to be poor for a little bit, 'just for the experience.'
Sure, I've had a few shopping sprees leading to a slippery slope of check bouncing, and that $20k student loan bill looms always, but the indulgences that I speak of are those that involve tiny epiphanies in my view of society. Namely, I'm alluding to travel.
While my sister wonders how she's going to afford the antibiotic for her newborn while the two older children are eating day-old Happy Meals, I remember fondly of my first few homeless days in London. For our student visas to be valid, Ricky and I were required to arrive in Great Britain with no less than $1500 available to us. I had $700.
We came with a mission: find jobs and a place to live as soon as possible. We spent the first few nights sharing a room with a single bed with a stranger in a hostel near St. James Cathedral. We used sheets for beds, and towels for pillows. I was sick, harboring the symptoms of mono.
To get healthcare in England, all you need is a job. To get a job in England, you need to be healthy. Problem.
A friend of Ricky's from school was studying Art History for the summer at University of London. With suitcases in tow, we agreed to meet her at the King's Cross station. After sitting on the floor for two hours, delirious, and high on over-the-counter drugs, we made up songs about dirty, dreary London, before learning that there are two parts to the station.
I had a job before we found a home. My peppy American accent and customer service skills made me a perfect candidate to be a waitress at Mezzo, an upscale restaurant and club in Soho. We spent a week and a half living on the dorm room floor, and sneaking down to the continental breakfast. Ricky's friend had only one key to the premises, so we arranged a schedule for me to get in after work. Meanwhile, he had found us a flat, just blocks away on Pentonville Road, 'known for its prostitutes and drug dealers' a travel guide would say.
It also had a rather large gay dance club called Pop Starz.
After two weeks of being in London, we would have a kitchen and our own keys. And half a dozen new roommates, from Australia, Scotland and England. We would take Johannes' room in a sublet. It was large with two windows, a desk, bookshelves and two twin beds.
"I'll be taking the second mattress," he said as we signed the handwritten lease for the room.
"But there's two of us," Ricky protested, "And you advertised the place as a room for two."
Handing us the key, Johannes smirked at us before saying in his German accent, "Life's tough."
There are two types of poverty: self-inflicted and otherwise. I've known both, though the majority of my scholarship has been with the former. I was lucky enough to be born into a white, semi-educated middle class American family, allowing me the luxury of extravagance, the self-indulgence to be poor for a little bit, 'just for the experience.'
Sure, I've had a few shopping sprees leading to a slippery slope of check bouncing, and that $20k student loan bill looms always, but the indulgences that I speak of are those that involve tiny epiphanies in my view of society. Namely, I'm alluding to travel.
While my sister wonders how she's going to afford the antibiotic for her newborn while the two older children are eating day-old Happy Meals, I remember fondly of my first few homeless days in London. For our student visas to be valid, Ricky and I were required to arrive in Great Britain with no less than $1500 available to us. I had $700.
We came with a mission: find jobs and a place to live as soon as possible. We spent the first few nights sharing a room with a single bed with a stranger in a hostel near St. James Cathedral. We used sheets for beds, and towels for pillows. I was sick, harboring the symptoms of mono.
To get healthcare in England, all you need is a job. To get a job in England, you need to be healthy. Problem.
A friend of Ricky's from school was studying Art History for the summer at University of London. With suitcases in tow, we agreed to meet her at the King's Cross station. After sitting on the floor for two hours, delirious, and high on over-the-counter drugs, we made up songs about dirty, dreary London, before learning that there are two parts to the station.
I had a job before we found a home. My peppy American accent and customer service skills made me a perfect candidate to be a waitress at Mezzo, an upscale restaurant and club in Soho. We spent a week and a half living on the dorm room floor, and sneaking down to the continental breakfast. Ricky's friend had only one key to the premises, so we arranged a schedule for me to get in after work. Meanwhile, he had found us a flat, just blocks away on Pentonville Road, 'known for its prostitutes and drug dealers' a travel guide would say.
It also had a rather large gay dance club called Pop Starz.
After two weeks of being in London, we would have a kitchen and our own keys. And half a dozen new roommates, from Australia, Scotland and England. We would take Johannes' room in a sublet. It was large with two windows, a desk, bookshelves and two twin beds.
"I'll be taking the second mattress," he said as we signed the handwritten lease for the room.
"But there's two of us," Ricky protested, "And you advertised the place as a room for two."
Handing us the key, Johannes smirked at us before saying in his German accent, "Life's tough."
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
I'm Broke.
Poverty is sometimes a blessing, especially in January. The cold weather and empty pocketbook keep me inside, at a time of year that guilt is more likely to penetrate the part of the brain that exercises my reason, logic and laundry doing skills.
I enjoy being frugal. But I'm not always so good at it. Friends in New York City pillage through trash on daily walks, hoping to find the perfect end table, street sign or mannequin leg to complete their apartments. I watch them do this, as I buy $25 tights that I will most likely ruin before ever figuring out how to wash them.
In Chicago, I used to walk the mile to the theater, but take a cab ride home.
In Columbus, managing finances is trickier, because everything seems cheap. But I have a strategy. I will leave this period of pseudo-financial distress a better person.
Number One: Food. I've found that if I take a potato to work and throw it in the microwave, I can have a cheap, healthy, hot lunch for about 31 cents. True, it will be filled with carcinogens or whatever flows through the microwave in the six minutes it takes to make mushy warm goodness, but so are cigarettes. Dinner will be whatever food is in the house: potatoes. I will continue this trend until I grow spuds.
Number Two: Entertainment. I love my library. Books, books, books. And videos. In the last week, I've discovered the artistry of Mexico. "Y Tu Mama Tambien" is the more solemn "Amelie." And I'm a fool for not having discovered Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his writing before my 24th year. "One Hundred Years of Solitude" is a suitable replacement for travelling, when there's more in your frequent flier mile bank than in your savings account. (Savings account?)
Number Three: Alcohol. I'm skipping happy hour. I don't like my coworkers. I don't need the extra calories. I should have figured this out months ago. Also, I'm skipping weekday alcohol. It's tea and coke and water for me.
We'll see how long this lasts.
Poverty is sometimes a blessing, especially in January. The cold weather and empty pocketbook keep me inside, at a time of year that guilt is more likely to penetrate the part of the brain that exercises my reason, logic and laundry doing skills.
I enjoy being frugal. But I'm not always so good at it. Friends in New York City pillage through trash on daily walks, hoping to find the perfect end table, street sign or mannequin leg to complete their apartments. I watch them do this, as I buy $25 tights that I will most likely ruin before ever figuring out how to wash them.
In Chicago, I used to walk the mile to the theater, but take a cab ride home.
In Columbus, managing finances is trickier, because everything seems cheap. But I have a strategy. I will leave this period of pseudo-financial distress a better person.
Number One: Food. I've found that if I take a potato to work and throw it in the microwave, I can have a cheap, healthy, hot lunch for about 31 cents. True, it will be filled with carcinogens or whatever flows through the microwave in the six minutes it takes to make mushy warm goodness, but so are cigarettes. Dinner will be whatever food is in the house: potatoes. I will continue this trend until I grow spuds.
Number Two: Entertainment. I love my library. Books, books, books. And videos. In the last week, I've discovered the artistry of Mexico. "Y Tu Mama Tambien" is the more solemn "Amelie." And I'm a fool for not having discovered Gabriel Garcia Marquez and his writing before my 24th year. "One Hundred Years of Solitude" is a suitable replacement for travelling, when there's more in your frequent flier mile bank than in your savings account. (Savings account?)
Number Three: Alcohol. I'm skipping happy hour. I don't like my coworkers. I don't need the extra calories. I should have figured this out months ago. Also, I'm skipping weekday alcohol. It's tea and coke and water for me.
We'll see how long this lasts.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Top This.
I know that my deeply contemplated list of seasonings below will be highly debated, even contested. But like Martin Luther King, Jr. and Nathaniel Hawthorne, I, too, believe that my first amendment rights must be exercised or they will become flabby like my belly. So it is with nonviolence and an understanding for adulturists that I present the following lists.
The Top Ten Seasonings of 2003
1. Cilantro (fresh)
2. Rosemary (fresh)
3. Saffron
4. Fresh Ground Pepper
5. Anise
6. Kosher Salt
7. Nutmeg
8. Sea Salt
9. Tarragon (dried)
10. Allspice
The Most Overrated Seasonings of 2003
1. Basil (fresh)
2. Dill (fresh)
3. Table Salt
4. Oregano (fresh)
5. Mrs. Dash
I know that my deeply contemplated list of seasonings below will be highly debated, even contested. But like Martin Luther King, Jr. and Nathaniel Hawthorne, I, too, believe that my first amendment rights must be exercised or they will become flabby like my belly. So it is with nonviolence and an understanding for adulturists that I present the following lists.
The Top Ten Seasonings of 2003
1. Cilantro (fresh)
2. Rosemary (fresh)
3. Saffron
4. Fresh Ground Pepper
5. Anise
6. Kosher Salt
7. Nutmeg
8. Sea Salt
9. Tarragon (dried)
10. Allspice
The Most Overrated Seasonings of 2003
1. Basil (fresh)
2. Dill (fresh)
3. Table Salt
4. Oregano (fresh)
5. Mrs. Dash
Friday, January 02, 2004
New Years' Peck.
What started as a tame evening with potato soup, key lime martinis and Frank Sinatra crooning from the kitchen, turned to a less tame morning with Guided By Voices and injury-triggering dancing. I brought in 2004 negotiating a midnight kiss with a gay man.
"Open mouth?" I asked, as we stood on the stoop, making a small pile of cigarette butts that Tyler would be sure to clean up as soon as he realized they were there.
"Okay. Open mouth. But that's it," he said, taking a swig of his wine, "Though I may need another one of these."
Half an hour later, we meet on the porch again. "How about tongue?" I ask.
"No way. No tongue. You're lucky I agreed to open mouth," he protested.
"Oh come on now. You might like it. I've kissed other gay men with tongue and they enjoyed it."
"Well, how long until midnight? If I can get another drink in me before midnight, then maybe."
At ten 'til midnight, Jen unveiled the television, which had been disguised as a side table covered with a lace tablecloth in the dining room. She found rabbit ears and we used scotch tape to put the cord in exact position necessitated to make out the shape of Dick Clark's forehead.
We counted down, as required by the United States Constitution, right between the thing about talking about the weather with strangers in the grocery store checkout lane and the one where you're expected to gush over engagement rings.
Three. Two. One. I looked over at my betrothed. He leaned forward and I kissed his cheek.
I spent the next hour slurring "I love you's" to a random assortment of cell phone voice mailboxes, before retiring my phone and deciding to live in the present.
Because, well, there were fondue and swing dancing in the kitchen.
What started as a tame evening with potato soup, key lime martinis and Frank Sinatra crooning from the kitchen, turned to a less tame morning with Guided By Voices and injury-triggering dancing. I brought in 2004 negotiating a midnight kiss with a gay man.
"Open mouth?" I asked, as we stood on the stoop, making a small pile of cigarette butts that Tyler would be sure to clean up as soon as he realized they were there.
"Okay. Open mouth. But that's it," he said, taking a swig of his wine, "Though I may need another one of these."
Half an hour later, we meet on the porch again. "How about tongue?" I ask.
"No way. No tongue. You're lucky I agreed to open mouth," he protested.
"Oh come on now. You might like it. I've kissed other gay men with tongue and they enjoyed it."
"Well, how long until midnight? If I can get another drink in me before midnight, then maybe."
At ten 'til midnight, Jen unveiled the television, which had been disguised as a side table covered with a lace tablecloth in the dining room. She found rabbit ears and we used scotch tape to put the cord in exact position necessitated to make out the shape of Dick Clark's forehead.
We counted down, as required by the United States Constitution, right between the thing about talking about the weather with strangers in the grocery store checkout lane and the one where you're expected to gush over engagement rings.
Three. Two. One. I looked over at my betrothed. He leaned forward and I kissed his cheek.
I spent the next hour slurring "I love you's" to a random assortment of cell phone voice mailboxes, before retiring my phone and deciding to live in the present.
Because, well, there were fondue and swing dancing in the kitchen.
