Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Apparently, 40 Days Is Too Much To Ask Of Me
Today I was talking to a very conservative co-worker about her recent trip to Las Vegas. I asked her how it was and she said "It was good. But there's not much for me to do in Vegas though because I don't gamble, I don't drink and I'm not into the sex stuff." So I said "Yeah, I don't gamble either." And I left it at that.
Yes I did.
It didn't occur to me until a few seconds later that I may have implied to her that I am into the sex stuff. And by then enough time had passed so that I couldn't bring it up again and clarify.
So, now I'm the new girl who steals coffee and goes to Vegas for "sex stuff." Pretty good start to this job.
On another (yet related) note; I received an e-mail from a girl I went to grad school with. She has not graduated yet and was asking for advice on how to do her capstone research project. Cool, huh. Grad students are asking *me* for advice! So I wrote her back and said that it's best to do your project on something you are really passionate about. I said "since the research paper has to be 25 pages, you better be able to babble on about it for a while." I told her I did my project on sustainability in museums and I included lots of pictures and checklists. You know, standard college student page filler. Well, she wrote back and said she thinks she's going to write her paper on a project she and her husband are working on. Here it is:
"My husband and I are trying to get the city to donate the land for us (and corporate sponsor) to build a velodrome park. A velodrome park is like a racetrack but built for bikes. The center of the velodrome is usually green space. Many kids in the city do not know how to ride bikes anymore because there is no safe place to learn. So, my dream is to build a place where they can learn how to ride, even race bikes. If the next generation doesn't know how to ride a bike, how are they going to commute on it? My husband has already started sponsoring and training about a dozen kids. So, there is a need. Through mentors from his bike team, the kids get their own bike and gear, get driven to races (some of them have never left the city before) and help on college application, and whatever else they may need within reason."
Shit, can she see me through the internet?
I'm so embarrassed. Here she is doing something really noble and worthy and I'm playing Scrapbook USA with my paper.
Remember that Seinfeld episode where Jerry has to give a presentation to a school assembly so he asks George to help fill up time? George says he's "prepared some science experiments that will illuminate the mind and dazzle the eye." And Jerry says "I wrote a 20 minute bit about how homework stinks." I'm Jerry right now.
Thankfully I graduated before her. They can't rescind degrees, can they? Well, just in case, I have put mine in a lockbox guarded by killer bees. Because I like honey.
And "sex stuff," apparently.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
I Had To Re-Take This Picture A Bunch Of Times Because People Kept Coming In. And No One Likes The Girl With The Camera In The Bathroom
First, a short ode to athletes who love reality shows girls.
Thank you.
Without your love and support, I wouldn’t be able to watch shows like “Keeping up with the Kardashians” or “Kendra.” At least not while Mike is awake. ..Or still not blind and deaf.
You see, it’s those rare athletes who, for some reason, choose to marry these “celebrities” and who make occasional appearances on their shows that allow me to watch without constant comments like “isn’t there anything else on?” or “I will poke my eye out if we have to watch this again” or “seriously, I’m getting a sharpened pencil…”
So, thank you.
Now, if only we can get one to fall in love with Tyra Banks…or one of the Bad Girls…
On another note, I noticed this sticker on the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom here at work.
You know what? If there’s an emergency in the bathroom that requires more paper towels and in-a-hurry; I promise you I won’t be hanging around long enough to utilize those emergency towels.