Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Hush, Now…
"I have something for you," he said, as we walked outside near the lake.
He hands me a box with heart-shaped earrings inside. They came apart, so you could wear them with half a heart. I presume that was to symbolize you're single or something. I don't know. I was twelve. The moment was awkward. Somehow, our parents had decided that we were going to marry one another.
"Thank you," I say. I'm not sure what to do. I don't really like him, and I can't be sure that he likes me. Our parents are dorks.
"Don't tell anyone I gave you these."
Right.
'And those words set the tone for Jill's dating career for the rest of her life,' they'll write in the unofficial biography.
"I have something for you," he said, as we walked outside near the lake.
He hands me a box with heart-shaped earrings inside. They came apart, so you could wear them with half a heart. I presume that was to symbolize you're single or something. I don't know. I was twelve. The moment was awkward. Somehow, our parents had decided that we were going to marry one another.
"Thank you," I say. I'm not sure what to do. I don't really like him, and I can't be sure that he likes me. Our parents are dorks.
"Don't tell anyone I gave you these."
Right.
'And those words set the tone for Jill's dating career for the rest of her life,' they'll write in the unofficial biography.
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Motivational Speech.
I went to a focus group this morning centered around bringing speakers to Columbus, Ohio. I let them know that not, under any circumstances, would I go to a speaker that was marketed as "motivational", that I'd rather see Jonathan Franzen than Maya Angelou, and I'd pay as much as $150 to see Garrison Keillor speak.
And then I went over to my former high school to give a motivational speech of my own. Fifty juniors and seniors sat around the room, on the floor, on the shelves, in their desks as I give my zinger opening line, "I'm terrible at public speaking. Can you tell that I'm nervous?"
I got through the experience, trying to make eye contact, trying to be funny, trying not to say 'fuck'. Their faces were mixed. A few looked interested, nodding their heads, some looked through the materials I had given them. The rest looked bored.
"I don't know how you can do it," I said to the teacher afterwards, "Talking about something you're passionate about to a wall of disinterested people."
"Oh Jill," she said, "they're not bored; they're hungry."
America's future: hungry for knowledge. Or at least lunch.
I have to admit that I did have a sort of high, standing in front of them, telling stories of my life, giving them my advice on what to do in the future. I was supposed to be talking about marketing, journalism, public relations. In a way, I did. But the following statements are what I remember, which means, most certainly, they're the ones that my 'students' retained.
"I haven't waxed my eyebrows regularly since Clinton was in office." Which was a partial lie, because I didn't wax them often then, either.
"I'm not good at paying bills. I was surprised to find hot water in the shower this morning, I was like, 'Yay, they haven't turned the water off yet!'"
"You guys are most likely the cream of the crop." Pause. "Did I just say 'cream of the crop?'" Nods of affirmation. I blush.
"I wanted that job. I mean I really WANTED that job. But, it was like, you know when you're wanting to date someone, and when you finally do - or don't - you realize that it was all about the challenge? I didn't want that job. I just THOUGHT I wanted it." This one got a few cackles, a lot of giggling and caused a small riot in my hungry students.
And finally, "I'm not put together at all. I drove all the way to Chicago in my 1987 Chevy Cavalier, stopped in a gas station, freshened my makeup and put on more deoderant and went to the interview. I always carry deoderant in my bag."
It was after that comment that a girl in a pink shirt in the front row, nodded furiously and raised her hand as if to say, "I, too, carry deoderant with me wherever I go." I felt proud knowing that I had made that connection that educators live for. That one student UNDERSTOOD what I was saying. I had made an impact on her life. (Though, I did have a second of doubt and fear, wondering if she had a question about deoderant.)
And then the bell rang and they were gone. To lunch, presumably.
I went to a focus group this morning centered around bringing speakers to Columbus, Ohio. I let them know that not, under any circumstances, would I go to a speaker that was marketed as "motivational", that I'd rather see Jonathan Franzen than Maya Angelou, and I'd pay as much as $150 to see Garrison Keillor speak.
And then I went over to my former high school to give a motivational speech of my own. Fifty juniors and seniors sat around the room, on the floor, on the shelves, in their desks as I give my zinger opening line, "I'm terrible at public speaking. Can you tell that I'm nervous?"
I got through the experience, trying to make eye contact, trying to be funny, trying not to say 'fuck'. Their faces were mixed. A few looked interested, nodding their heads, some looked through the materials I had given them. The rest looked bored.
"I don't know how you can do it," I said to the teacher afterwards, "Talking about something you're passionate about to a wall of disinterested people."
"Oh Jill," she said, "they're not bored; they're hungry."
America's future: hungry for knowledge. Or at least lunch.
I have to admit that I did have a sort of high, standing in front of them, telling stories of my life, giving them my advice on what to do in the future. I was supposed to be talking about marketing, journalism, public relations. In a way, I did. But the following statements are what I remember, which means, most certainly, they're the ones that my 'students' retained.
"I haven't waxed my eyebrows regularly since Clinton was in office." Which was a partial lie, because I didn't wax them often then, either.
"I'm not good at paying bills. I was surprised to find hot water in the shower this morning, I was like, 'Yay, they haven't turned the water off yet!'"
"You guys are most likely the cream of the crop." Pause. "Did I just say 'cream of the crop?'" Nods of affirmation. I blush.
"I wanted that job. I mean I really WANTED that job. But, it was like, you know when you're wanting to date someone, and when you finally do - or don't - you realize that it was all about the challenge? I didn't want that job. I just THOUGHT I wanted it." This one got a few cackles, a lot of giggling and caused a small riot in my hungry students.
And finally, "I'm not put together at all. I drove all the way to Chicago in my 1987 Chevy Cavalier, stopped in a gas station, freshened my makeup and put on more deoderant and went to the interview. I always carry deoderant in my bag."
It was after that comment that a girl in a pink shirt in the front row, nodded furiously and raised her hand as if to say, "I, too, carry deoderant with me wherever I go." I felt proud knowing that I had made that connection that educators live for. That one student UNDERSTOOD what I was saying. I had made an impact on her life. (Though, I did have a second of doubt and fear, wondering if she had a question about deoderant.)
And then the bell rang and they were gone. To lunch, presumably.
Monday, March 29, 2004
Alice Asked.
'Alice' called me in December for a favor.
"Can you look into hiring one of my clients? If she doesn't find a job, I'll have to take away her kids again. I don't want to do that." Alice is a social worker who finds herself working with single mothers and low income families in Lindon, the neighborhood of one of our grocery stores. We used to be neighbors, we used to drink wine and play Trivial Pursuit on summer evenings.
"She's been in jail a few times, but not for anything too serious. She's a hard worker, but can't find a job anywhere. If she doesn't have one by the end of the month, she loses her kids. If you guys would just consider her, she might be able to get back on her feet."
"We probably wouldn't be able to give her a full time job," I warned, "That store is a union store, and health insurance is outrageous. She wouldn't get any benefits."
"That's fine. She's covered through the state." Alice pauses and lowers her voice, "This is off the record, but she's HIV positive."
"They don't need to know that," I said, "Besides, she wouldn't be working with food."
I talked to my boss. He said they'd call her in for an interview, that they're always looking for good employees down there, that the turnover is high and people generally quit or get fired over scheduling conflicts. "She'd have to work Sundays," he said.
I left a message with Alice, who put the woman's phone number and name in my voice mail.
I ran into Alice at a concert Friday night. We hugged and apologized for not being in touch. She was doing well, I was doing well, etc. Before I walked away, she grabbed my shoulder.
"Don't worry about [the client], she turned out to be hooked on crack, anyway."
My stomach tightened and I felt like puking. I had never passed on the phone number. This woman had had a chance, and I blew it because I was too busy planning parties, shopping for the holidays and straightening my hair for dinner parties.
* * * * * * * *
Sarah and I went on a walk on Sunday, to look at the gardening store for planters for our front porch. We had just completed a run and I was happy to feel the warm breeze on my legs, happy to be smoking a cigarette, happy for the freedom I felt.
"We're really lucky, you know," I said to her.
"How so?"
"We're lucky to be able to have two days off, to not have to work on weekends."
"Like who?" she asked.
"Like waitresses," I said, omitting 'single mothers, low income families and crack addicts.'
We continued walking in silence.
'Alice' called me in December for a favor.
"Can you look into hiring one of my clients? If she doesn't find a job, I'll have to take away her kids again. I don't want to do that." Alice is a social worker who finds herself working with single mothers and low income families in Lindon, the neighborhood of one of our grocery stores. We used to be neighbors, we used to drink wine and play Trivial Pursuit on summer evenings.
"She's been in jail a few times, but not for anything too serious. She's a hard worker, but can't find a job anywhere. If she doesn't have one by the end of the month, she loses her kids. If you guys would just consider her, she might be able to get back on her feet."
"We probably wouldn't be able to give her a full time job," I warned, "That store is a union store, and health insurance is outrageous. She wouldn't get any benefits."
"That's fine. She's covered through the state." Alice pauses and lowers her voice, "This is off the record, but she's HIV positive."
"They don't need to know that," I said, "Besides, she wouldn't be working with food."
I talked to my boss. He said they'd call her in for an interview, that they're always looking for good employees down there, that the turnover is high and people generally quit or get fired over scheduling conflicts. "She'd have to work Sundays," he said.
I left a message with Alice, who put the woman's phone number and name in my voice mail.
I ran into Alice at a concert Friday night. We hugged and apologized for not being in touch. She was doing well, I was doing well, etc. Before I walked away, she grabbed my shoulder.
"Don't worry about [the client], she turned out to be hooked on crack, anyway."
My stomach tightened and I felt like puking. I had never passed on the phone number. This woman had had a chance, and I blew it because I was too busy planning parties, shopping for the holidays and straightening my hair for dinner parties.
* * * * * * * *
Sarah and I went on a walk on Sunday, to look at the gardening store for planters for our front porch. We had just completed a run and I was happy to feel the warm breeze on my legs, happy to be smoking a cigarette, happy for the freedom I felt.
"We're really lucky, you know," I said to her.
"How so?"
"We're lucky to be able to have two days off, to not have to work on weekends."
"Like who?" she asked.
"Like waitresses," I said, omitting 'single mothers, low income families and crack addicts.'
We continued walking in silence.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Final Lap.
As we walk into the stadium, a gaggle of children race around us, coloring books in tow. They choose the top of the bleachers to create their art, while Sarah and I choose our distance.
"Three slow miles?" Sarah asks.
"We'll see." This is my way of saying, "I don't care how fast we're running, there's no way I'm going to be able to pull off three miles, especially with that Beck that I had after work tonight."
Yesterday was the first visible day of spring. The daffodils are giving it another try, after being killed off last week by three inches of snow. Running no longer requires hats and gloves. And the neighbors are more visible - and audible - now.
The neighbors bring their baby to the front porch. "He's gonna be a linebacker for the Buckeyes," the father brags, in a southern drawl, to the guys next door. "Or maybe he'll play baseball."
The group coos at the baby and encourages the father.
On the track, we do a mile. I'm breathing heavily.
"Do I sound like I’m obese?" I gasp to Sarah.
"No," she says. Good answer. Families walk around the track. A girl in teal blue does sit-ups. We pass a walking Nick. Comments about nice asses are made.
My face is sweaty. My left knee is starting to hurt. I inhale every two steps, exhale the following two. I listen to the children shriek and try not to notice the man of a certain age flying by me without effort. I want to color with the girls on the bleachers.
In the second mile, we've created a cadence.
"I'm going to die," I say.
"No you're not," says she.
Four minutes later. "I'm going to die," she says.
"No you're not," I reply.
We walk a lap.
"Why do we do this?" she asks me, "Is it to lose weight? Is it for our physical health? Our mental health?"
Good question. The only answer I can come up with is that I'm addicted. I can't help it. It's a drug, running.
We do two more laps. She says that the final lap will be the best, because we'll almost be done. I turn the final corner and lift my chin up for the first time, looking at the sky instead of the ground. All of a sudden, it's a lot easier.
As we walk into the stadium, a gaggle of children race around us, coloring books in tow. They choose the top of the bleachers to create their art, while Sarah and I choose our distance.
"Three slow miles?" Sarah asks.
"We'll see." This is my way of saying, "I don't care how fast we're running, there's no way I'm going to be able to pull off three miles, especially with that Beck that I had after work tonight."
Yesterday was the first visible day of spring. The daffodils are giving it another try, after being killed off last week by three inches of snow. Running no longer requires hats and gloves. And the neighbors are more visible - and audible - now.
The neighbors bring their baby to the front porch. "He's gonna be a linebacker for the Buckeyes," the father brags, in a southern drawl, to the guys next door. "Or maybe he'll play baseball."
The group coos at the baby and encourages the father.
On the track, we do a mile. I'm breathing heavily.
"Do I sound like I’m obese?" I gasp to Sarah.
"No," she says. Good answer. Families walk around the track. A girl in teal blue does sit-ups. We pass a walking Nick. Comments about nice asses are made.
My face is sweaty. My left knee is starting to hurt. I inhale every two steps, exhale the following two. I listen to the children shriek and try not to notice the man of a certain age flying by me without effort. I want to color with the girls on the bleachers.
In the second mile, we've created a cadence.
"I'm going to die," I say.
"No you're not," says she.
Four minutes later. "I'm going to die," she says.
"No you're not," I reply.
We walk a lap.
"Why do we do this?" she asks me, "Is it to lose weight? Is it for our physical health? Our mental health?"
Good question. The only answer I can come up with is that I'm addicted. I can't help it. It's a drug, running.
We do two more laps. She says that the final lap will be the best, because we'll almost be done. I turn the final corner and lift my chin up for the first time, looking at the sky instead of the ground. All of a sudden, it's a lot easier.
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Office Lingo.
"A lady from NPR got fired for saying 'fuck' on air," my coworker mentioned to me today during lunch.
I looked at my boss. "You'd never fire me for saying 'fuck' would you?"
He laughed and shook his head. "I was meeting with our lawyer one afternoon, and you came storming in here announcing that [the meat guy] would have to suck your dick before you ever made another sign for him. You were so pissed. I've told that story a hundred times."
I blushed. "I don’t remember that," I said, honestly.
"I was just glad it was [our lawyer] and not someone else," he said with a smile.
I guess I should work on being a little more professional in the office. Wearing shoes right now might be a good start.
"A lady from NPR got fired for saying 'fuck' on air," my coworker mentioned to me today during lunch.
I looked at my boss. "You'd never fire me for saying 'fuck' would you?"
He laughed and shook his head. "I was meeting with our lawyer one afternoon, and you came storming in here announcing that [the meat guy] would have to suck your dick before you ever made another sign for him. You were so pissed. I've told that story a hundred times."
I blushed. "I don’t remember that," I said, honestly.
"I was just glad it was [our lawyer] and not someone else," he said with a smile.
I guess I should work on being a little more professional in the office. Wearing shoes right now might be a good start.
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
Charity Season.
It's like middle school again, outside the home economics room. I'm backed into the wall and I've got three people I hardly know getting ready to break my glasses and steal my lunch. I promise to do what they want, so long as they leave me alone. My step-mom will surely blame me if I come home with half a pair of spectacles.
This time, though, I know the names of my bullies. To my left is The American Heart Association. All they want is an auction item. I can throw together a gift basket and call it a day. To my right is Race for the Cure. Okay, sure, I'll organize a team of golfers and alcoholics to, well, walk for the cure. And right in front of me is the ALS Foundation, the people fighting Lou Gehrig's Disease. These guys can be tricky; I've dealt with them before. I can't get out of this one without spending at least twenty hours designing the literature for their annual wine tasting fundraiser.
Seriously, I don't mind doing the charity. It brings me good karma and adds a "pro bono" to my resume, which makes me feel important, like a lawyer or doctor or something. But they all hit at the same time: Spring. Well, at least the health-related ones do. The social ones start calling around the beginning of June.
"Would you be willing to cater an event for Ballet Met? A lot of your customers support the ballet. We'll put your logo in our program and say nice things about you at the party, while we suck up champagne and slobber over grilled vegetable canapes."
"Opera Columbus and your store really do have a lot in common. We feel that if you just give us the wine for our annual…"
The education related ones are usually in the autumn, save an antiques auction for a private school in April.
My question is, with all of this good karma surrounding my aura, why does my checking account bounce, my bath water not drain and my mobile phone battery die every two hours?
It's like middle school again, outside the home economics room. I'm backed into the wall and I've got three people I hardly know getting ready to break my glasses and steal my lunch. I promise to do what they want, so long as they leave me alone. My step-mom will surely blame me if I come home with half a pair of spectacles.
This time, though, I know the names of my bullies. To my left is The American Heart Association. All they want is an auction item. I can throw together a gift basket and call it a day. To my right is Race for the Cure. Okay, sure, I'll organize a team of golfers and alcoholics to, well, walk for the cure. And right in front of me is the ALS Foundation, the people fighting Lou Gehrig's Disease. These guys can be tricky; I've dealt with them before. I can't get out of this one without spending at least twenty hours designing the literature for their annual wine tasting fundraiser.
Seriously, I don't mind doing the charity. It brings me good karma and adds a "pro bono" to my resume, which makes me feel important, like a lawyer or doctor or something. But they all hit at the same time: Spring. Well, at least the health-related ones do. The social ones start calling around the beginning of June.
"Would you be willing to cater an event for Ballet Met? A lot of your customers support the ballet. We'll put your logo in our program and say nice things about you at the party, while we suck up champagne and slobber over grilled vegetable canapes."
"Opera Columbus and your store really do have a lot in common. We feel that if you just give us the wine for our annual…"
The education related ones are usually in the autumn, save an antiques auction for a private school in April.
My question is, with all of this good karma surrounding my aura, why does my checking account bounce, my bath water not drain and my mobile phone battery die every two hours?
Monday, March 22, 2004
Bitches Hoes.
It was early this morning, the conversation. I've been trying to recall the exact phrase. I think it was "girlfriends are back-stabbing bitches hoes" I could have heard it wrong though. "Back-stabbing bitchy hoes" sounds better.
I remember the phrases that sandwiched it. "Why would I want girlfriends? Girlfriends are back-stabbing bitches hoes that try to sleep with my boyfriend."
Apparently my father does not want my sister to move into an apartment on the West Side with her boyfriend. She called me at 8.00 a.m. to tell me I needed to convince dad otherwise.
Except that I'm not so sure that I want my sister to move into an apartment on the West Side with her boyfriend. "You're his little girl. Of course he doesn't want you to move in with a guy. Why don't you get an apartment with some girlfriends? You'll have the time of your life. You're young; you can do the live-in boyfriend thing later."
That's when she told me that she doesn't have any girlfriends and has no plans to get any.
I'm no therapist, but instinct is telling me that an aversion and distrust of an entire gender is unhealthy.
I try to imagine a life sans girlfriends.
Who would tell me that the post-pubescent zit that occasionally lives on my chin is really quite small when compared to a chocolate chip? That, in retrospect, the last guy I dated was most likely gay and/or will marry someone devoid of personality and live in misery for the rest of his life? Who would join me on a 1200-mile journey at least partially inspired by a crush?
Most certainly not Gene, who took a three week break from me after watching marching band videos. (He's back now - he joined me at a peace rally this weekend so he could check out women.)
My point is that girlfriends are crucial. Everyone needs them. Even my sister.
Though I suppose by writing this, I've become a back-stabbing bitch ho.
P.S. Due to an incident involving open-toed heels, I now have Band-Aids on my left big toe and right knee, bringing the total number of cuts on the lower half of my body to three. Luckily, I stumbled across someone who not only had Band-Aids, but Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide. I should just start carrying a first aid kit in my purse.
It was early this morning, the conversation. I've been trying to recall the exact phrase. I think it was "girlfriends are back-stabbing bitches hoes" I could have heard it wrong though. "Back-stabbing bitchy hoes" sounds better.
I remember the phrases that sandwiched it. "Why would I want girlfriends? Girlfriends are back-stabbing bitches hoes that try to sleep with my boyfriend."
Apparently my father does not want my sister to move into an apartment on the West Side with her boyfriend. She called me at 8.00 a.m. to tell me I needed to convince dad otherwise.
Except that I'm not so sure that I want my sister to move into an apartment on the West Side with her boyfriend. "You're his little girl. Of course he doesn't want you to move in with a guy. Why don't you get an apartment with some girlfriends? You'll have the time of your life. You're young; you can do the live-in boyfriend thing later."
That's when she told me that she doesn't have any girlfriends and has no plans to get any.
I'm no therapist, but instinct is telling me that an aversion and distrust of an entire gender is unhealthy.
I try to imagine a life sans girlfriends.
Who would tell me that the post-pubescent zit that occasionally lives on my chin is really quite small when compared to a chocolate chip? That, in retrospect, the last guy I dated was most likely gay and/or will marry someone devoid of personality and live in misery for the rest of his life? Who would join me on a 1200-mile journey at least partially inspired by a crush?
Most certainly not Gene, who took a three week break from me after watching marching band videos. (He's back now - he joined me at a peace rally this weekend so he could check out women.)
My point is that girlfriends are crucial. Everyone needs them. Even my sister.
Though I suppose by writing this, I've become a back-stabbing bitch ho.
P.S. Due to an incident involving open-toed heels, I now have Band-Aids on my left big toe and right knee, bringing the total number of cuts on the lower half of my body to three. Luckily, I stumbled across someone who not only had Band-Aids, but Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide. I should just start carrying a first aid kit in my purse.
Friday, March 19, 2004
The Only Sport Entry Ever.
Basketball is in the air. And now it's on the ground. In the air. On the ground. Dribble.
I'm not a big basketball fan, and I have very logical supports for this argument.
1. I'm short. Except when I'm in heels. And I don't like to run when I'm in heels, because I can hardly walk when I'm in heels.
2. There's less suspense in basketball than in football. I like a sport that tells a good story. Football games have a beginning, middle and end. By the second quarter, you've got a plot. You get to know the characters. There's foreshadowing. And after 24 years of being surrounded by it, I'm finally able to predict what needs to happen for the Chicago Bears to beat the Green Bay Packers in the fourth quarter. (Divine intervention.)
3. When I was in elementary school, our Girl Scout troop disbanded between third and forth grades because all the girls wanted to play basketball. See number one.
4. When you're dating someone, it's a lot easier to remember football schedules than basketball schedules. College football is on Saturdays. NFL games are on Sundays and Mondays. The teams only play one another once (sometimes twice, but not often). Basketball is on every hour of the day and they play five thousand games. The same applies to hockey.
5. There's a serious problem with inflation. Hockey and soccer teams are lucky to get five points. Football teams do well if they get 30 points. But 90 points? Seriously? Spread the wealth, will you?
6. There are too many rules about what to do with your feet.
Despite the above, I've been interested in the tournament that's happening. Mainly because everyone I know is betting on it. It's a known fact, according to my boss, that women do better at these things than men, because they're just guessing. But I happen to know that women really do put thought into who they pick to win, and do so in a very logical manner. Here are a few examples.
1. Color. Team colors are very important in the outcome of the game. Red calls attention. A combination of blue and yellow symbolizes safety. Light blue is just pretty.
2. Stereotypes. Stereotypes have a crucial place in basketball. For example, look at BYU. When was the last time you saw a Mormon playing basketball? They don't. They sing in choirs, procreate and go door to door saving you. Besides, baseball is more of a Mormon sport.
3. City preferences. Let's look at Dayton vs. DuPaul. Would you rather spend a weekend in Dayton or Chicago? That's what I thought.
4. Nicknames. How can a team called the Demon Deacons possibly fail?
5. Hot guys. This takes a little more research, but it's a fact that teams with the highest number of attractive men will win more frequently. Of course, it's kind of difficult to tell with basketball players, what with their baggy shorts and all. Soccer, though, soccer is a different story.
So, gentlemen, keep these tips for next year. It's too late to change your predictions now. But you're certain to win the office pool with the above crucial tips.
Basketball is in the air. And now it's on the ground. In the air. On the ground. Dribble.
I'm not a big basketball fan, and I have very logical supports for this argument.
1. I'm short. Except when I'm in heels. And I don't like to run when I'm in heels, because I can hardly walk when I'm in heels.
2. There's less suspense in basketball than in football. I like a sport that tells a good story. Football games have a beginning, middle and end. By the second quarter, you've got a plot. You get to know the characters. There's foreshadowing. And after 24 years of being surrounded by it, I'm finally able to predict what needs to happen for the Chicago Bears to beat the Green Bay Packers in the fourth quarter. (Divine intervention.)
3. When I was in elementary school, our Girl Scout troop disbanded between third and forth grades because all the girls wanted to play basketball. See number one.
4. When you're dating someone, it's a lot easier to remember football schedules than basketball schedules. College football is on Saturdays. NFL games are on Sundays and Mondays. The teams only play one another once (sometimes twice, but not often). Basketball is on every hour of the day and they play five thousand games. The same applies to hockey.
5. There's a serious problem with inflation. Hockey and soccer teams are lucky to get five points. Football teams do well if they get 30 points. But 90 points? Seriously? Spread the wealth, will you?
6. There are too many rules about what to do with your feet.
Despite the above, I've been interested in the tournament that's happening. Mainly because everyone I know is betting on it. It's a known fact, according to my boss, that women do better at these things than men, because they're just guessing. But I happen to know that women really do put thought into who they pick to win, and do so in a very logical manner. Here are a few examples.
1. Color. Team colors are very important in the outcome of the game. Red calls attention. A combination of blue and yellow symbolizes safety. Light blue is just pretty.
2. Stereotypes. Stereotypes have a crucial place in basketball. For example, look at BYU. When was the last time you saw a Mormon playing basketball? They don't. They sing in choirs, procreate and go door to door saving you. Besides, baseball is more of a Mormon sport.
3. City preferences. Let's look at Dayton vs. DuPaul. Would you rather spend a weekend in Dayton or Chicago? That's what I thought.
4. Nicknames. How can a team called the Demon Deacons possibly fail?
5. Hot guys. This takes a little more research, but it's a fact that teams with the highest number of attractive men will win more frequently. Of course, it's kind of difficult to tell with basketball players, what with their baggy shorts and all. Soccer, though, soccer is a different story.
So, gentlemen, keep these tips for next year. It's too late to change your predictions now. But you're certain to win the office pool with the above crucial tips.
Thursday, March 18, 2004
Water, Please.
I'm wearing the blue hat with the fuzzy ball on top of it at work today. This, of course, means that I'm hungover and feeling fragile. Had I decided to wear a short skirt, the cut and bruise the shape of Poland on my left knee would have accomplished the same task.
I spent last night with five hundred of my closest friends at Byrne's, our neighborhood Irish pub. It only took an hour and a half to park, get in and get a cold PBR in my hands. The evening held many treasures, including getting a table, bonding with strangers in the women's bathroom line, peeing in the men's bathroom and getting a mixed drink knocked down my back. As my version of the evening came to a close, I ran into two guys that I had met last Friday at a bar across town.
I had been sitting alone at the bar, waiting for a friend. After fifteen minutes or so, I decided to talk to the guys next to me, to deter the "woman drinking alone" image I had going for me. Their names elude me, as is the trend, but the conversation was lively. I had come across two genuine Irish lads who were in town for business.
We discussed my affinity for Scotland, the Irish perception of Dubya, the lack of public transportation in Columbus and what they should do if they got pulled over after drinking. And then I suggested they go to Byrne's on St. Patrick's Day.
Last night I had friends there that I never actually saw. Cell phones were basically useless and we had a coveted standing space. To move around would risk getting shoved into the current of people spilling beers and wearing headbands with shamrocks on them. While I did not ever see Tom Rob, Gene or even the band I specifically came to Byrne's to watch, I did see my Irish friends.
They thanked me for the recommendation. What was an extremely annoying evening for myself and others who prefer quieter, subtler places, turned out to be the deciding factor that they loved this town.
We exchanged information, with promises for one last evening of authentic American fun before they return to Ireland to tell the stories of this great little place called Columbus, Ohio. If only they had been here during the summer for Comfest. Ireland gets its own day to celebrate, but we get an entire weekend.
I'm wearing the blue hat with the fuzzy ball on top of it at work today. This, of course, means that I'm hungover and feeling fragile. Had I decided to wear a short skirt, the cut and bruise the shape of Poland on my left knee would have accomplished the same task.
I spent last night with five hundred of my closest friends at Byrne's, our neighborhood Irish pub. It only took an hour and a half to park, get in and get a cold PBR in my hands. The evening held many treasures, including getting a table, bonding with strangers in the women's bathroom line, peeing in the men's bathroom and getting a mixed drink knocked down my back. As my version of the evening came to a close, I ran into two guys that I had met last Friday at a bar across town.
I had been sitting alone at the bar, waiting for a friend. After fifteen minutes or so, I decided to talk to the guys next to me, to deter the "woman drinking alone" image I had going for me. Their names elude me, as is the trend, but the conversation was lively. I had come across two genuine Irish lads who were in town for business.
We discussed my affinity for Scotland, the Irish perception of Dubya, the lack of public transportation in Columbus and what they should do if they got pulled over after drinking. And then I suggested they go to Byrne's on St. Patrick's Day.
Last night I had friends there that I never actually saw. Cell phones were basically useless and we had a coveted standing space. To move around would risk getting shoved into the current of people spilling beers and wearing headbands with shamrocks on them. While I did not ever see Tom Rob, Gene or even the band I specifically came to Byrne's to watch, I did see my Irish friends.
They thanked me for the recommendation. What was an extremely annoying evening for myself and others who prefer quieter, subtler places, turned out to be the deciding factor that they loved this town.
We exchanged information, with promises for one last evening of authentic American fun before they return to Ireland to tell the stories of this great little place called Columbus, Ohio. If only they had been here during the summer for Comfest. Ireland gets its own day to celebrate, but we get an entire weekend.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Flowing Riches.
I used to work at an Irish Brewpub in my college town in southeast Ohio. My schedule included a few nights as bar back and at the door and one Saturday afternoon "happy hour" shift, from four to eight. O'Hooley's didn't really have happy hour prices, so my clientele usually consisted of half a dozen locals who didn't want to drink with the college kids and a few friends that I'd coerce into keeping me company. I never really made much money, aside from the time that my mother came to visit and convinced a customer to give me $20 to play Neil Diamond.
There was one exception to this shift. During my senior year, St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday, making the least valuable bartending shift the most valuable of the year. I was scheduled to work from 10.00 a.m. to 3.00 a.m. with a two hour break in the middle.
I started out the day waitressing in an establishment that does not sell potato chips, let alone food. We had all the Irish classics that day. Including Bushmill's. I walked in the door, dressed in an Irish Dancer's dress I had found at a thrift store. The staff was standing at the bar and Annie handed me a shot. I looked at the clock. I looked at my boss.
"You can't work today unless you start out with a shot," he told me.
And so the day began. I served food until four, when I moved behind the bar, the only place safe from the hundreds of drunken locals, parents and their cute Irish Step Dancing Daughters (who were not drunk.) I danced behind the bar, served Guinness and Ohio Pale Ale and drank pints and shots offered to me by patrons. When the shift ended, I headed to the bar next door.
Ten minutes before I had to return to O'Hooley's, to take my post as Door Girl for the rest of the evening, I realized that I was drunk. I popped two Advil, drank five pints of water and ate a roll. Miraculously, I was able to assume my role as ID checker and money taker without slurring or staggering.
Until the bar started sending beers my way. It was nearing midnight when instead of the traditional stamping, I'd write "Four Beers and a Shot" on people's hands and arms, instructing them that they couldn't leave unless they'd consumed Four Beers and a Shot.
"You're not allowed to walk out of here," I'd inform them. "Either we carry you out, or you crawl out."
In the spirit of the holiday, people were not annoyed by me; I didn't notice if they were. A few customers actually followed my rules. I continued selling shots dangerously close to the legal cut-off line, and while my boss was happy to see the money roll in, he shyly suggested that he did not want to be shut down by liquor control agents.
I ended the evening with my fellow co-workers and a bearded man who claimed to be "Athen County's First Lesbian" who had an affinity for yelling "Hoo Haa" instead of engaging in conversation.
After he poured all the leftover drinks into a pitcher and started to drink the concoction, we pulled our strengths and kicked him out. We all did a shot and celebrated a long, successful and rich day, one rarely seen in our little Irish Pub.
And then we did what I can only imagine is tradition among pub employees in Great Britain and worldwide. We got down on the beer-covered floor and did the snake race.
Somewhere in the World Wide Web there are photos of that day. I'm grateful that the film ran out before I lost the race.
I used to work at an Irish Brewpub in my college town in southeast Ohio. My schedule included a few nights as bar back and at the door and one Saturday afternoon "happy hour" shift, from four to eight. O'Hooley's didn't really have happy hour prices, so my clientele usually consisted of half a dozen locals who didn't want to drink with the college kids and a few friends that I'd coerce into keeping me company. I never really made much money, aside from the time that my mother came to visit and convinced a customer to give me $20 to play Neil Diamond.
There was one exception to this shift. During my senior year, St. Patrick's Day fell on a Saturday, making the least valuable bartending shift the most valuable of the year. I was scheduled to work from 10.00 a.m. to 3.00 a.m. with a two hour break in the middle.
I started out the day waitressing in an establishment that does not sell potato chips, let alone food. We had all the Irish classics that day. Including Bushmill's. I walked in the door, dressed in an Irish Dancer's dress I had found at a thrift store. The staff was standing at the bar and Annie handed me a shot. I looked at the clock. I looked at my boss.
"You can't work today unless you start out with a shot," he told me.
And so the day began. I served food until four, when I moved behind the bar, the only place safe from the hundreds of drunken locals, parents and their cute Irish Step Dancing Daughters (who were not drunk.) I danced behind the bar, served Guinness and Ohio Pale Ale and drank pints and shots offered to me by patrons. When the shift ended, I headed to the bar next door.
Ten minutes before I had to return to O'Hooley's, to take my post as Door Girl for the rest of the evening, I realized that I was drunk. I popped two Advil, drank five pints of water and ate a roll. Miraculously, I was able to assume my role as ID checker and money taker without slurring or staggering.
Until the bar started sending beers my way. It was nearing midnight when instead of the traditional stamping, I'd write "Four Beers and a Shot" on people's hands and arms, instructing them that they couldn't leave unless they'd consumed Four Beers and a Shot.
"You're not allowed to walk out of here," I'd inform them. "Either we carry you out, or you crawl out."
In the spirit of the holiday, people were not annoyed by me; I didn't notice if they were. A few customers actually followed my rules. I continued selling shots dangerously close to the legal cut-off line, and while my boss was happy to see the money roll in, he shyly suggested that he did not want to be shut down by liquor control agents.
I ended the evening with my fellow co-workers and a bearded man who claimed to be "Athen County's First Lesbian" who had an affinity for yelling "Hoo Haa" instead of engaging in conversation.
After he poured all the leftover drinks into a pitcher and started to drink the concoction, we pulled our strengths and kicked him out. We all did a shot and celebrated a long, successful and rich day, one rarely seen in our little Irish Pub.
And then we did what I can only imagine is tradition among pub employees in Great Britain and worldwide. We got down on the beer-covered floor and did the snake race.
Somewhere in the World Wide Web there are photos of that day. I'm grateful that the film ran out before I lost the race.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Call Waiting.
I have a phone interview tonight to pick up some freelance work. I've barely had enough time to think about what I'll say when my phone rings; I've never had a phone interview before. Here are a few thoughts, though.
What are you strengths?
I'm very good at making a roasted chicken, so long as I cook it long enough and it's a free-range bird.
I can go extraordinary lengths of time without doing laundry.
I'm very good at multi tasking. I can talk on the phone with a media rep while updating my blog.
I can accessorize. I know how to bring out the blue in my eyes and the pink in my cheeks without being tacky or obvious.
I'm very good at backgammon and making up words in Scrabble.
If we weren't on the phone, you'd know that I have a very nice handshake and can make eye contact very well.
What are your weaknesses?
I smoke too many cigarettes.
I bite my nails when I'm nervous.
I get split ends when I make my hair straight and don't get it cut nearly as often as I should.
My handbag rarely matches my belt and shoes.
I take on too much at a time.
I like to sleep in.
I have a phone interview tonight to pick up some freelance work. I've barely had enough time to think about what I'll say when my phone rings; I've never had a phone interview before. Here are a few thoughts, though.
What are you strengths?
I'm very good at making a roasted chicken, so long as I cook it long enough and it's a free-range bird.
I can go extraordinary lengths of time without doing laundry.
I'm very good at multi tasking. I can talk on the phone with a media rep while updating my blog.
I can accessorize. I know how to bring out the blue in my eyes and the pink in my cheeks without being tacky or obvious.
I'm very good at backgammon and making up words in Scrabble.
If we weren't on the phone, you'd know that I have a very nice handshake and can make eye contact very well.
What are your weaknesses?
I smoke too many cigarettes.
I bite my nails when I'm nervous.
I get split ends when I make my hair straight and don't get it cut nearly as often as I should.
My handbag rarely matches my belt and shoes.
I take on too much at a time.
I like to sleep in.
Monday, March 15, 2004
Introducing: My Column.
I had lobster yesterday with a former high school teacher and her daughter. In a few weeks, I will be showing up at my high school alma mater to show the youth of America how to make it in marketing, P.R., or whatever it is I'm doing at the moment.
"Now Jill," she starts, with a cautious voice, "these kids will be looking up to you. A lot of them want to go into communications; a lot of them are going to Ohio University next year…"
I knew something was coming. So, please don't come in smelling like cigarette smoke. So please don't say "fuck". So please don't mention your political views in my classroom.
"So you want me to wear shoes?" I ask.
Laughter. I've just said the funniest thing in the world.
"No, I just don't want to you feel like you're bragging. Tell them about the things you've done. Scotland. Your portraits," she starts listing the less boring parts of my life.
"And the penthouse," the daughter chimes in, "don't forget to tell about the penthouse."
Living in a penthouse is not necessarily a typical happening for someone getting into marketing. I had been thinking more along the lines of suggesting ways for the students to brand themselves on a resume and business card.
I realized that my time in the classroom would not be about the real pros and cons of the communications world. Instead, I'd be showing what happens when you live "outside the box." Which, according to my former teacher, is just as valuable to 18 year olds.
Conversation moved on to stories of my life. They leaned forward and laughed as I told them I almost walked into a funeral home carrying my own flowers, and about my brief dating experience with Mr. Tinkle.
"Jill," they shrieked, "This stuff is so funny. You should write a column."
I just smiled and thanked them for lunch. Sure, I could have told them, but what would we have to talk about the next time I saw them?
I had lobster yesterday with a former high school teacher and her daughter. In a few weeks, I will be showing up at my high school alma mater to show the youth of America how to make it in marketing, P.R., or whatever it is I'm doing at the moment.
"Now Jill," she starts, with a cautious voice, "these kids will be looking up to you. A lot of them want to go into communications; a lot of them are going to Ohio University next year…"
I knew something was coming. So, please don't come in smelling like cigarette smoke. So please don't say "fuck". So please don't mention your political views in my classroom.
"So you want me to wear shoes?" I ask.
Laughter. I've just said the funniest thing in the world.
"No, I just don't want to you feel like you're bragging. Tell them about the things you've done. Scotland. Your portraits," she starts listing the less boring parts of my life.
"And the penthouse," the daughter chimes in, "don't forget to tell about the penthouse."
Living in a penthouse is not necessarily a typical happening for someone getting into marketing. I had been thinking more along the lines of suggesting ways for the students to brand themselves on a resume and business card.
I realized that my time in the classroom would not be about the real pros and cons of the communications world. Instead, I'd be showing what happens when you live "outside the box." Which, according to my former teacher, is just as valuable to 18 year olds.
Conversation moved on to stories of my life. They leaned forward and laughed as I told them I almost walked into a funeral home carrying my own flowers, and about my brief dating experience with Mr. Tinkle.
"Jill," they shrieked, "This stuff is so funny. You should write a column."
I just smiled and thanked them for lunch. Sure, I could have told them, but what would we have to talk about the next time I saw them?
Friday, March 12, 2004
Three Things.
I'm feeling a bit lost today, but I do have a few facts to add to this here literary venture.
1. I really do love cilantro.
2. Our neighbors had their baby. Six weeks ago. Sarah learned this two days ago.
3. I want a warm beach. Or some sun.
I'm feeling a bit lost today, but I do have a few facts to add to this here literary venture.
1. I really do love cilantro.
2. Our neighbors had their baby. Six weeks ago. Sarah learned this two days ago.
3. I want a warm beach. Or some sun.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Proper Etiquette.
Today I learned that it is inappropriate to arrive carrying flowers during calling hours. If you're going to give an arrangement in honor of the deceased, you must send it in advance, through your florist.
Etiquette often eludes me, or rather, I often elude etiquette. But I did not grow up in a Southern home wearing ruffles and strolling through gardens. In my household, rules were slightly less (or more) refined. Call waiting is rude. Take off your shoes before entering a house. Kids go first in the buffet line at Ryan's Steakhouse.
I never learned how to write a proper sympathy note, when it's appropriate to wear pantyhose, how to sip brandy.
Along the way, though, I've picked up a few rules of my own. Every bad date must have an accompanying nickname. Sunday brunch must include The New York Times and a box of Camels, in the very least. If you get a runner in your hose, just take them off and shove them in your purse. And never go too far without your mobile phone charger.
My florist (and friend) will deliver a nice arrangement with tropical flowers and lucky bamboo ("Something Jill-like," she decided) to the funeral home this afternoon, hours before I arrive, disheveled and sprayed with Febreeze, ready to give my condolences to the family of the deceased.
It's always proper for a smoker to use Febreeze when spending time with family members, no matter how distant.
Today I learned that it is inappropriate to arrive carrying flowers during calling hours. If you're going to give an arrangement in honor of the deceased, you must send it in advance, through your florist.
Etiquette often eludes me, or rather, I often elude etiquette. But I did not grow up in a Southern home wearing ruffles and strolling through gardens. In my household, rules were slightly less (or more) refined. Call waiting is rude. Take off your shoes before entering a house. Kids go first in the buffet line at Ryan's Steakhouse.
I never learned how to write a proper sympathy note, when it's appropriate to wear pantyhose, how to sip brandy.
Along the way, though, I've picked up a few rules of my own. Every bad date must have an accompanying nickname. Sunday brunch must include The New York Times and a box of Camels, in the very least. If you get a runner in your hose, just take them off and shove them in your purse. And never go too far without your mobile phone charger.
My florist (and friend) will deliver a nice arrangement with tropical flowers and lucky bamboo ("Something Jill-like," she decided) to the funeral home this afternoon, hours before I arrive, disheveled and sprayed with Febreeze, ready to give my condolences to the family of the deceased.
It's always proper for a smoker to use Febreeze when spending time with family members, no matter how distant.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Vive La Milletraillette.
Last night I learned that part of the French National Anthem is in the Beatles' "All You Need is Love." I discovered this while watching *Casablanca* for the first time. At first, I thought that the Beatles had stolen part of the soundtrack to the movie. That was until Sarah informed me that the catchy and familiar brass tune is part of pop culture for a reason.
"Everyone knows that," she told me.
It's a wonderful piece of music, the French National Anthem. One of the best (National Anthems). Way better than "Oh Canada". I do have to point out that Tom Waits borrowed the Australian National Anthem for one of his ballads. Moving on…
I've never been to France. I've studied their wines, adored their foods, enjoyed their citizens. Two French friends come to mind: Ilham and Xavier.
Ilham and I worked together at Mezzo (a restaurant) in London for a summer. It was in this restaurant that I learned that Kosovians could pass off as Italians, that Japanese business men really do know how to have fun (despite their strict table manners), and that 'milletraillette' is French for machine gun. (Pardon the spelling.)
Ilham knew no limits. We When the dance clubs closed, we'd move on to China Town for "special tea" (beer in tea pots). When the rest of us were ready to move on to coffee and wearily take the 6.00 a.m. tube home, Ilham would go through the streets of China Town and Soho banging on bar doors, screaming "Champagne, Champagne, I want Champagne."
It was with Ilham that I received the cigarette burn on my left cheek.
My friendship with Xavier was equally insane. We were roommates, working for the same advertising agency in Chicago. Once a week or so, Xavier would say to me, "Jeel, let uz haf a decadence day." This was French for, "Let's get drunk on a weeknight."
On the weekends, Xavier would juggle two (French) women, leaving me to answer phone calls on Sunday mornings, making up an excuse as to where exactly he was. (Due to my lack of imagination, he was frequently shopping on Michigan Avenue while the Holy half of our population was in church.)
It was through Xavier that I learned that nose jobs are quite popular in France.
I miss my French friends, and now that I know their National Anthem, I feel closer to them. Should our paths cross again, I will sit down and teach them our National Anthem. But then again, everyone knows that.
P.S. If you want to learn how to say "My machine gun is up my ass," please let me know. I am an expert on this phrase.
Last night I learned that part of the French National Anthem is in the Beatles' "All You Need is Love." I discovered this while watching *Casablanca* for the first time. At first, I thought that the Beatles had stolen part of the soundtrack to the movie. That was until Sarah informed me that the catchy and familiar brass tune is part of pop culture for a reason.
"Everyone knows that," she told me.
It's a wonderful piece of music, the French National Anthem. One of the best (National Anthems). Way better than "Oh Canada". I do have to point out that Tom Waits borrowed the Australian National Anthem for one of his ballads. Moving on…
I've never been to France. I've studied their wines, adored their foods, enjoyed their citizens. Two French friends come to mind: Ilham and Xavier.
Ilham and I worked together at Mezzo (a restaurant) in London for a summer. It was in this restaurant that I learned that Kosovians could pass off as Italians, that Japanese business men really do know how to have fun (despite their strict table manners), and that 'milletraillette' is French for machine gun. (Pardon the spelling.)
Ilham knew no limits. We When the dance clubs closed, we'd move on to China Town for "special tea" (beer in tea pots). When the rest of us were ready to move on to coffee and wearily take the 6.00 a.m. tube home, Ilham would go through the streets of China Town and Soho banging on bar doors, screaming "Champagne, Champagne, I want Champagne."
It was with Ilham that I received the cigarette burn on my left cheek.
My friendship with Xavier was equally insane. We were roommates, working for the same advertising agency in Chicago. Once a week or so, Xavier would say to me, "Jeel, let uz haf a decadence day." This was French for, "Let's get drunk on a weeknight."
On the weekends, Xavier would juggle two (French) women, leaving me to answer phone calls on Sunday mornings, making up an excuse as to where exactly he was. (Due to my lack of imagination, he was frequently shopping on Michigan Avenue while the Holy half of our population was in church.)
It was through Xavier that I learned that nose jobs are quite popular in France.
I miss my French friends, and now that I know their National Anthem, I feel closer to them. Should our paths cross again, I will sit down and teach them our National Anthem. But then again, everyone knows that.
P.S. If you want to learn how to say "My machine gun is up my ass," please let me know. I am an expert on this phrase.
Monday, March 08, 2004
I'm Back.
"I just want to be bitchy," I told Amy on the ninth day of the show.
She laughed and told me that she'd make me a shirt that says that.
I now empathize with politicians, after working the trade show. I've done all the campaigning I can do for the store, and now all I can do is sit back and wait for the results. Will the thousands I talked to come to us for their free range pork, hydroponic Ohio lettuce and imported caperberries? Who knows?
Will I go to the bar down the road and start hand-writing thank you notes? Definitely.
"I just want to be bitchy," I told Amy on the ninth day of the show.
She laughed and told me that she'd make me a shirt that says that.
I now empathize with politicians, after working the trade show. I've done all the campaigning I can do for the store, and now all I can do is sit back and wait for the results. Will the thousands I talked to come to us for their free range pork, hydroponic Ohio lettuce and imported caperberries? Who knows?
Will I go to the bar down the road and start hand-writing thank you notes? Definitely.
Friday, March 05, 2004
How To Lose a Friend.
Last Thursday, with alcohol-induced passion, I made Gene watch three marching band videos. I pointed out individuals our friends had dated, kissed, or given blow jobs to within the Hilliard Marching Band. I showed him the people we thought were creepy and those who could have easily been male OR female. I clapped out drumline solos on my lap, and played "Luck Be a Lady" on air xylophone.
I haven't heard from him since.
Last Thursday, with alcohol-induced passion, I made Gene watch three marching band videos. I pointed out individuals our friends had dated, kissed, or given blow jobs to within the Hilliard Marching Band. I showed him the people we thought were creepy and those who could have easily been male OR female. I clapped out drumline solos on my lap, and played "Luck Be a Lady" on air xylophone.
I haven't heard from him since.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Breaking News.
Another morning spent at the CBS affiliate here in Columbus with various talents from the store. As I was driving (at 6.00 a.m.), I felt a little excited. Not because I was going to a television station to meet Famous Newscasters, but because the only time I'm driving that early is because I'm going to an airport.
I want to fly somewhere.
So, I showed up a little late, sat in the studio, yawning, and watched Jen and Candie work their magic in short interviews on home entertaining. And then I carried an empty box out. I was too tired to talk and my nose was running, with me sans tissue. I was pretty much useless.
It seems as if every time I'm in that studio, before 8.00 a.m., a someone gets murdered in a senior home. I'm two for two here.
Of course, that could happen all the time; I only watch local news when I'm in the studio.
Another morning spent at the CBS affiliate here in Columbus with various talents from the store. As I was driving (at 6.00 a.m.), I felt a little excited. Not because I was going to a television station to meet Famous Newscasters, but because the only time I'm driving that early is because I'm going to an airport.
I want to fly somewhere.
So, I showed up a little late, sat in the studio, yawning, and watched Jen and Candie work their magic in short interviews on home entertaining. And then I carried an empty box out. I was too tired to talk and my nose was running, with me sans tissue. I was pretty much useless.
It seems as if every time I'm in that studio, before 8.00 a.m., a someone gets murdered in a senior home. I'm two for two here.
Of course, that could happen all the time; I only watch local news when I'm in the studio.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Nice to Meet You.
This one goes out to all my single girlfriends in Columbus: Laura. Who doesn't read this.
Top Ten Ideal Places to Meet a Man in Columbus:
1. Political Rallies (Democrat, of course)
2. While Volunteering
3. Clintonville (the entire town)
4. Any Library
5. Goodale Park
6. Stauf's Coffee House
7. The Grocery Store
8. Blues Station
9. The Gallery Hop
10. The Wexner Center for the Arts
The Top Ten Places We Actually Meet Men in Columbus
1. The Treebar
2. Byrne's Pub
3. Skully's Music Diner
4. Larry's
5. In the parking lot of a gas station when you've just dropped an entire case of Coke and all the cans are rolling in different directions, causing cars to swerve and half a dozen people to walk up to you with a can. Also, it's Valentine's Day. And you're wearing Birkenstocks with socks. (Okay, not really, on the sock thing.)
6. Little Brother's
7. Through your friend Mollie.
8. At your front door when you've just ordered a large pizza which you plan on eating for the next five meals, but the pizza guy doesn't know that. He just sees you paying in quarters while wearing Birkenstocks with socks. Alone. (Again - joking on the sock thing.)
9. At the pharmacy.
10. Tuffy's Auto Service.
This one goes out to all my single girlfriends in Columbus: Laura. Who doesn't read this.
Top Ten Ideal Places to Meet a Man in Columbus:
1. Political Rallies (Democrat, of course)
2. While Volunteering
3. Clintonville (the entire town)
4. Any Library
5. Goodale Park
6. Stauf's Coffee House
7. The Grocery Store
8. Blues Station
9. The Gallery Hop
10. The Wexner Center for the Arts
The Top Ten Places We Actually Meet Men in Columbus
1. The Treebar
2. Byrne's Pub
3. Skully's Music Diner
4. Larry's
5. In the parking lot of a gas station when you've just dropped an entire case of Coke and all the cans are rolling in different directions, causing cars to swerve and half a dozen people to walk up to you with a can. Also, it's Valentine's Day. And you're wearing Birkenstocks with socks. (Okay, not really, on the sock thing.)
6. Little Brother's
7. Through your friend Mollie.
8. At your front door when you've just ordered a large pizza which you plan on eating for the next five meals, but the pizza guy doesn't know that. He just sees you paying in quarters while wearing Birkenstocks with socks. Alone. (Again - joking on the sock thing.)
9. At the pharmacy.
10. Tuffy's Auto Service.
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Free Speech.
I took communion yesterday afternoon in the Church of Democrats, otherwise known as the rally at OSU for John Kerry. After standing for three hours, Sarah, myself and about 400 other students, liberals, union representatives and patriots cheered on the presidental candidate on the eve of Super Tuesday.
And then there were the three guys standing behind us with the Bush/Cheney stickers displayed on their chests. These guys were young, indie-looking. They didn't LOOK like Republicans.
They held signs questioning a bill that Kerry helped to pass in the early nineties. They conferred with others on their cell phones, making sure that the signs would catch media attention. They were distracting and I was boiling inside.
It was a strange feeling. I wanted to tear the signs from their hands, tell them to fuck off. Instead, I assisted the steel worker in the cowboy hat and a few other compatriots in blocking their puny little (poorly designed, if you ask me) signs with huge Kerry posters. The media wouldn't see them, the people on stage wouldn't see them. Meanwhile, Sarah, feeling the same rage, turned to them and politely said, "Would you please stop talking. I'm here to listen to John Kerry, not you."
After the speech, the cowboy steel worker shook the guys' hands. I wasn't strong enough to do this. I did ask them about the bill they were protesting, though. I scolded myself knowing that their goal was to pique my curiosity.
Walking away, I decided that I was glad the little rude Republican punks were there. I'll save my rage for the apathetic.
Note: I'm day four into the trade show. I stand in a booth all day telling people from Saint Louis all about our nice gourmet market in Columbus. I flirt with old men and women, hand out samples, and smile a lot. I will be back in full force next Monday, when I can resume my proper working schedule consisting of checking e-mail, blog comments, smoking cigarettes and discussing politics with my right wing creationist boss.
I took communion yesterday afternoon in the Church of Democrats, otherwise known as the rally at OSU for John Kerry. After standing for three hours, Sarah, myself and about 400 other students, liberals, union representatives and patriots cheered on the presidental candidate on the eve of Super Tuesday.
And then there were the three guys standing behind us with the Bush/Cheney stickers displayed on their chests. These guys were young, indie-looking. They didn't LOOK like Republicans.
They held signs questioning a bill that Kerry helped to pass in the early nineties. They conferred with others on their cell phones, making sure that the signs would catch media attention. They were distracting and I was boiling inside.
It was a strange feeling. I wanted to tear the signs from their hands, tell them to fuck off. Instead, I assisted the steel worker in the cowboy hat and a few other compatriots in blocking their puny little (poorly designed, if you ask me) signs with huge Kerry posters. The media wouldn't see them, the people on stage wouldn't see them. Meanwhile, Sarah, feeling the same rage, turned to them and politely said, "Would you please stop talking. I'm here to listen to John Kerry, not you."
After the speech, the cowboy steel worker shook the guys' hands. I wasn't strong enough to do this. I did ask them about the bill they were protesting, though. I scolded myself knowing that their goal was to pique my curiosity.
Walking away, I decided that I was glad the little rude Republican punks were there. I'll save my rage for the apathetic.
Note: I'm day four into the trade show. I stand in a booth all day telling people from Saint Louis all about our nice gourmet market in Columbus. I flirt with old men and women, hand out samples, and smile a lot. I will be back in full force next Monday, when I can resume my proper working schedule consisting of checking e-mail, blog comments, smoking cigarettes and discussing politics with my right wing creationist boss.
