August 20, 2010
Facebook hazard #932
When someone you’ve been friends with for something close to a decade posts a status that reveals views repugnant to you.
Frankly, I’m kinda pissed. I’m not sure at whom, though. At this person, for pretending to tolerance all these years? Or at myself, for ignoring other personality characteristics that would, if acknowledged, allowed me to discern these views and fade the friendship appropriately.
Even worse, part of me suspects that I’m pissed because his views reflect poorly on me. Nobody likes to say, “Oh, yeah, he’s kind of a {misogynist, racist, homophobe, bigot, ignorant asshole who has apparently forgotten how to use the rational parts of our brains that make us human), but he’s otherwise an okay guy, so I’m totally friends with him. Well, maybe some people like to say that. I don’t.
And right now, as I’m thinking of him, I’m thinking of a whole list of things about him that annoy me and make me want to not be his friend anymore. And I wonder if this is the opening of my eyes to the way I’ve always thought about this person, and the whole friendship was a lie, or if it’s just the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Either way, back broken. Now, to unfriend, block, or hide?
August 13, 2010
634 blow jobs in 5 days… I’m really quite tired.
I just have to make it clear that I don’t want to hear about it anymore, I suppose.
Because the notion that I might actually care what thirtysomething versions of Regina George and Gretchen Weiners think of me is patently absurd.
But the notion that people are capable of developing an irrational hatred for you, specifically (not because you are a member of a class or group) is unsettling. And since I can’t do anything about it, I’d just as soon not know.
August 11, 2010
Unacceptable
You must really think I’m stupid, WMATA.
You must also think that my dry cleaners could REALLY use some more business. I suspect they are most grateful.
Because here’s the thing. I walk to the Metro every day, and this summer, the parking lot has been taking a lot longer to get full. And while this might be the result of increased “green” commuting to the metro station, it’s probably also because there are slightly fewer people riding in the summer, especially on Mondays and Fridays. People take vacations in the summer, and it is the one thing that makes summertime commuting bearable, because it increases the personal space zone by roughly 1/2″ all the way around.
Or it used to, before you surreptitiously started running fewer trains.
Maybe you thought we wouldn’t notice, those of us living along the Orange Line. Maybe you thought we’d stand on the platform waiting 8 minutes for a train that we wouldn’t be able to fit on, and think that this was normal for a line that’s supposed to have trains every 3-4 minutes during rush hour – trains with 8 cars! And yes, I know there’s a budget shortfall, and I get that reducing service is one way to compensate for such things. But.
BUT, you didn’t decide to do that. NO. You raised fares, and raised them substantially. And you said you were doing this so that there would NOT be a reduction in service.
So how is it that I’m waiting 8 minutes just to get to the front of the line to board the train, then another 6 minutes for the next train, where the car I get on has minimal or no air conditioning (this, by the way, has already happened THREE times this week, and it’s only Wednesday morning). I get on just a few stops from the end, and the trains are very nearly full by the time they get to me.
This is ridiculous. At this point, I’m beginning to understand why a working-class individual would be swayed by the likes of Mussolini. What I don’t understand is how this level of mismanagement could exist in such a public organization for this length of time.
If Congress can investigate steroid use in baseball, they can certainly take the time to investigate the clusterf*ck that is WMATA management. I’m writing my representatives right now.
August 5, 2010
Mascara
My workday beauty regimen is pretty basic – undereye concealer (thanks, DC-area-allergy embiggened dark circles!), the lightest dusting of blush, some powder (to soak up all that lovely humidity!) and mascara. Following the mascara, I wipe the edge of my upper eyelid with a Q-tip, as I’ve invariably managed to get mascara on it as well as my lashes.
This morning, on the metro, it was standing room only (as it has been for much of the summer, because they are running fewer trains on the Orange Line and we are thus packed like sardines in insufficiently air-conditioned cars). A petite girl stood next to me, clearly in the part of the car where petite persons should not stand*, as there was nothing for her to grab onto when the train lurched or shuddered.
And then she put on her mascara, as the train lurched and shuddered merrily along.
I couldn’t decide if I was more concerned, disgusted, offended, or impressed. And I seriously considered saying something, because putting makeup on, on the metro, is inappropriate to the point of being rude, in my opinion. Not to mention, it would have been totally gross if she’d poked herself in the eye with the mascara wand.
Am I alone in this?
*I would just like to point out that this part of the train isn’t exactly comfortable for taller people either, as our arms are above our heads for the entire trip. More poles, please!
July 21, 2010
Zen Ze Game of Lowered Expectations
This, I had to think about. Because, well, spas are supposed to be relaxing, first and foremost. Invigorating, sure. And I suppose there are spas out there that put the invigoration first and the relaxation second, but a spa whose entire existence is centered around chocolate, a spa with little bowls of free kisses and fun-size bars pretty much everywhere? Is not a spa that is all about Health! And Exercise! And AWAKE!
No. It is a spa about languid relaxation with a schmear of decadence.
So, I signed up for my package, and it included something called a “Rain Shower”. I had no idea what this was, but figured it was probably something enjoyable, and why not give it a go?
(hint: I’m about to tell you why not)
I changed into my bathing suit, and was escorted into a very complicated shower stall with many shower heads placed so that water could be directed towards the center of the stall from pretty much every angle. These shower heads, I could see, were connected to some very impressive looking gauges, with some complicated knob arrangements alongside. And, a hose.
The technician started the bottommost set of showerheads, and it was cold, and then it wasn’t, and then it was kind of hot, and then I stepped out of the stall and refused reentry until the temperature was readjusted downward. The flow was similarly opened to subsequent sets of showerheads, progressing upwards, with a similar shock of cold followed by (thankfully, not so close to boiling) warm water. The hose was aimed at various muscle groups, and the water pressure allegedly massaged the major muscles, and I repeatedly told myself that this was a new experience and I should keep an open mind, because I WAS NOT RELAXED, NOT AT ALL, NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST, because there was a GROWN WOMAN WITH A HIGH-PRESSURE HOSE POINTED AT ME.
And then, she stopped, and for a spit second, the warm water emitting from the showerheads created a rather pleasant cocoon. And then, she turned on the final part of the shower – something she called a “waterfall deluge”.
All of those pictures of people happily cavorting in waterfalls? LIES.
Freezing cold water poured directly onto my head and took my breath away. Nothing could save me, not the warm water from the horizontal showerheads, not the fluffy towels stacked on the other side of the room, past the lady who STILL HELD THE HOSE, as though she’d use it to corrall me like some unfortunate wayward calf. “Get back in the stall!” I imagined her shouting, as I struggled to regain sufficient control over my person to fill my lungs with air.
And then it stopped, and she told me, in that calm, quiet “spa voice”, to use as many towels as I liked to dry off, pointed out the plastic bag for my swimsuit, and said she’d meet me outside the outer door, so she could take me to my “soak”.
At this point, I was more than a little afraid of what might happen next.
July 13, 2010
Those? The gloves over there? Yes, they’re off.
When I was in high school, I had an absurdly massive crush on this guy we’ll call Joe. Joe encouraged the crush, but never acted on it – impressive, since he was definitely a “bad boy” and I was ridiculously naive. Also, Joe started dating a girl whom I promptly began to hate. Haaaate. Really dislike. Solely on the basis of her relationship with him, because there wasn’t much else I could see to dislike. She was petite, with dark curly hair and big brown eyes – in a word, gorgeous. They had the same friends, the same taste in music. And all I had was a stupid crush.
One night, shortly after they’d broken up, she and I sat on my back porch and became really good friends. I was her maid of honor years later, when she married an entirely different sort of person, the sort who did NOT wind up pumping gas in size 40 coveralls. I’m lucky, because I’d said some pretty horrible things about her, when I thought I hated her. All superficial stuff, all just desperately trying to find a flaw so that I could hang onto some hope that Joe would break up with her and finally be free to see what he was missing with me.
I read *entirely* too much Sweet Valley High at that age. Which, I’ll explicitly state for emphasis, was FIFTEEN. Not mid-thirties. And I certainly never pretended to friendship where none existed.
I know I shouldn’t stoop. I really shouldn’t. But now that I’ve taken the gloves off, I’ll have to bend over to put them down at some point – I do hate just throwing things on the floor.
July 7, 2010
Putting Out
You know what would make me happy? If people took more responsibility for what they put out there.
So if you want me to think you are capable, hardworking, intelligent, and worth my best effort, you should probably do things that are in line with those qualities. And not, say, continually engage in undermine-y, petty behavior. Yes, you are successfully telling me that you don’t like me. But you’re also telling me that you’re not adult or professional enough to work around that, even if I’m the best person to work on a particular task. And when you get all wide-eyed later, and say that you never suggested any such thing, bless my heart, I’m going to call you on it, and recount the ways in which you very much suggested all of those things.
And if you want me to think that you’re a pretty good human person, who is generally respectful of others and worth establishing a friendship with, you should probably do things that support that thesis. For example, you could respect my boundaries, and not try to foist your agenda on me when that agenda clearly conflicts with my boundaries. And when I call you out on it, you could admit to egocentricity and lack of consideration, at the very least.
And I, in turn, should take responsibility for giving the impression that I might be okay with a little foisting, (which I sometimes do by dint of being confrontation-abhorrent). And, remember that for next time, and be less confrontation-abhorrent.
June 28, 2010
Lessons learned
While it is perfectly okay for people to be upfront about horror stories and major concerns about parenthood at a baby shower, being open about one’s lack of desire to partake will most likely have people thinking that something is wrong/missing for you.
Also, if you are building something from Ikea, and have leftover parts at some point prior to being completely finished, just be prepared to undo everything you’ve done so far, because you likely skipped a step.
Pretty much every comedian I’ve ever seen on a recorded special will have been slightly funnier in that special than in person. Jim Gaffigan, however, came closest to closing this gap.
Sometimes, things can seem like the Most Fun and Best Idea Ever. And then three weeks later, with the help of a little critical thinking, you will realize that not only was it not the best idea ever, but it was ridiculously dumb and boy howdy, you expect better of yourself.
Watched pool league operators never call to let you know if you’re going to Vegas or not. I still don’t know.
June 23, 2010
I do not suppose you could, ah, speed things up?
“Look, if you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch, or find something useful to do.”
“I could do that. I got some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.”
“That does put a damper on our relationship.”
It’s safe now. The explosion has passed, thanks to the powers of catharsis and excellent musical suggestions from my friendly neighborhood gas pump. So, thanks for that.
I spent 23-24 hours in a pool hall last weekend, attempting to win a free trip to Vegas for me and my team. We’d almost locked it up the first day, but couldn’t quite close, and had to come back the second. After some hard-fought battles, we made it to the final round, where we ran into a team that wound up having some issues.
We were up 2 matches after the first 2 matches – so we had three more chances to win the last match we needed to get to go. I lost – which wasn’t entirely unexpected, and was a strategic move (playing me enabled my team to put up some higher skill level players). And then something became readily apparent.
The other team’s players were sandbaggers. All but one of them were blatantly under-ranked. And the last one? The one who won the last match to enable his team to come back and win the round? Nobody who legitimately holds the rank next to his name on the scoresheet can play as well as he did. And the referees saw.
And so, we mentioned it to the local league authority. Who then talked to the team, and couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of them about, well, anything. They claimed that some of them weren’t legally able to travel, so they couldn’t field a full team in Vegas. And then they said never mind, they’d rent a van and drive there, if they couldn’t get on a plane. And then, they admitted that their last player could probably be ranked at least two levels higher than what the scoresheet said.
Except, that if you go up two or more levels in this kind of tournament, your team gets disqualified.
Basically, every member of that team was playing dirty pool. And so now, we’re waiting to hear whether the national HQ for the league is going to disqualify them and give us the slot for Vegas, or, well… not.
I hate waiting.
June 21, 2010
Please, Go Away.
Don’t ever think about me again. Don’t ever think about anything that might lead you to think about me again.
Don’t come here and read what I write.
Don’t talk to people I know, and mention my name in an artfully casual manner, just to see what they might have to say.
While we’re at it, don’t say my name at all.
There has been a strong correlation between how much better my life has gotten, with less of you in it. Statisticians be damned, I’m going to go with causation on that one – so stay the fuck away.
You will never, ever, have the foggiest notion of what is actually going on in my life, if I can help it. So don’t ever start rumors about me in any capacity, because you will be wrong and I will hear about it, and it will just make me want to tell people the truth about you.
Truths like how you propositioned me while you knew I was in a serious, committed relationship – and while you were living with your then-girlfriend.
Truths like how you think that people are things you can barter – something you tried to do TWICE, though you thought I only knew about the first time.
Truths like how you’re willing to stab anyone in the back if you think it will get you laid.
Truths like how you’re willing to lie for the sole purpose of making others feel bad.
Truths like how you’re a shitty excuse for a person, and how absolutely nobody deserves to have you inflicted on them.
So, please stop reading. Close your browser, go elsewhere, and just leave me alone. Because I am a good person, and don’t deserve this bullshit.
And, kindly fuck off and die.
Seeking John Galt 