hey pretty

You Ask, I Answer

Like anyone narcissistic enough to maintain a blog, I am as enthralled with my site meter (oooh, passe! a site meter post) as I am with comments. After I pour my soul out to you dear readers, it's only fair that I should be interested in knowing how people arrive at this humble site. This is of course, where the referrals page comes into play. When combined with the power and knowledge of Google, it can be a thing of beauty.

Google may, by the way, be my favorite invention of the last 15 or so years. As somebody obsessed with magic 8 balls as a child, there is something so awesome about being able to type a question into your computer and (sort of) receive an answer. It's like having one's very own oracle. I could actually spend hours typing questions into Google, simply for the sake of seeing what it comes up with. If only this were a profession. I'd be all over it in a heartbeat.

So, this morning I'm perusing my referrals and I see that somebody landed on HP after typing "how do i know when im coked up" into Google (speaking of 8 balls--ba dum, ching! yes, that's right). Well, my dear friend from Lubbock, Texas, you have asked the right blogger.

In order to determine if you are coked up, you should ask yourself the following questions.

1.) Has any cocaine entered your body recently? While the most common method of introducing cocaine into your bloodstream is by snorting it, you can also smoke it ,or rub it a little on a bodily orifice. EW. That sounded appalling, didn't it? Oh well, I don't make these things up, I just report them. Nor do I judge. Seriously, you want to rub some coke on an orifce? Go right ahead.

2.) Are you talking quickly, enthusiastically, and with great authority about something that nobody else cares about?

3.) Did you type your question so quickly and with such haste that you misspelled "know"?

If you answered yes to question 1 and any of the others, you are indeed coked up.

You are welcome.

In the comments section tell me if *you're* coked up. If not, what are you 'upped on? 

The Eternal Fly-In-My-Soup Dilemma

The stupid cafe in the basement of my building just screwed up my lunch order. Granted, I sort of asked for it when I tried to modify an existing menu item, but still. I am a customer and isn't the goal of the basement cafe industry to service customers? It has already been a really shitty week. My job is sucking more than usual, my boss is incapable of disguising her hatred for me, I am tired of being single, and yesterday (to cap off all this glory) I came home to find a letter informing me that my rent is increasing by 74 dollars a month. I promptly burst into tears and did what any whiny, miserable person does when confronted by too many life challenges: I called my mommy.

With life sucking so hard, all I wanted today was a little comfort in the form of a very specific sandwich. The fact that I did not receive saidsandwich when I asked for it just makes the inadequacies of the one I did receive that much worse. Of course, this situation raises a very obvious question: why didn't I say anything?

Because I can count with one finger the number of times in my life that I have rejected a food order. Sending food back to the kitchen centers around one crucial thing which I fear above many others: confrontation. I am very, very bad at confrontation.  I would instead prefer to pretend to be okay with things while I stew and complain about it to anyone else who will listen. I'm not sure why this is, other than the fact that because I hate being confronted with unpleasant conversations, I can only assume that other people do too, so why subject anyone to it?

OF course, the complaining is a distinctly un-charming quality that I would very much like to address but I have no idea how. I am a world champion kvetcher. The quality that I most admire in others that I lack is the ability to let shit roll off their backs. I mean, how on earth does one do that? How can people and things not bother you?

But back to the sandwich. Could it be that if I started to stand up for myself in a firm, yet diplomatic manner, even if it means engaging in a little confrontational behavior that I might be happier in general? I'm starting to think that may be just the thing.

In the comments section tell me what you do when life puts a fly in *your* soup.

Misadventures of a Non-Morning Person

It is a well-known fact among my friends and loved ones, and even this blog, that I do not care for mornings. Every single stereotype about the bitchiness of morning people applies to me, times about 100 million. I greet each day with typical Quixotian rebelliousness, head buried beneath pillow, cursing time and the construct of the 9-5 work day. Unless you are armed with a french press of strong black coffee it is best to not attempt to interact with me until I have been awake for at least an hour.

So for the reasons stated above, I always consider my first interaction of the day with another human a curious thing. It does after all, have the potential to play out very poorly, very well, or most often--quite comically.

This morning's first human interaction of the day assumed the form of the latter. I was a little late for work, so I was scurrying down the sidewalk to the metro quite quickly, while also attempting to unravel my Ipod earbuds so I could properly pump myself up for work by listening to some tunes. Recently, I have been gravitating back to several tracks on the mix that Mr. Alaska gave me, not out of any form of nostalgia for flings-of-yesteryear, but simply because I find myself addicted to the bluesy, alt-countryish sound of two in particular*. I don't know, for some reason, a song about a western serial killer just prepares me for a day of interacting with political organizers. If my Ipod is a Rorschach of the inner workings of my brain, I do not want to know what any of that means.

So. There I am, scooting down Connecticut Ave, a block from the metro, wrestling with my iPod cord when I realize two facts at once. 1.) There is a woman trying to walk past me. 2.) I am doing that maddeningly annoying thing where I can't seem to stick to one side of the sidewalk, and am not in fact walking down the sidewalk, so much as I am ricocheting along like a drunken intern in Adams Morgan on a Friday night. I feel like an asshole. Idiot sidewalk-hoggers are after all, my # 1 pet peeve and here I was reflecting my own biggest irritant.

Let me remind you now that it's 8:40 in the morning and I have yet to talk to another human today. I think I may have muttered something at my clock radio two hours earlier when it first went off (I had planned on going to the gym--ha, ha), but I don't think that the people in the NPR studios actually heard me. So what do I do? I holler over my should to the person trying to pass me. And I say:

"Sorry! I know I'm being really annoying! Here, why don't you pass me."

And God bless her, she laughed.

All in all, not such a terrible first of the day.

*Baltimore Blues No. 1: Deer Tick
Black River Killer: Blitzen Trapper

File Under: Situations, Hypothetical

Earlier today, I learned that the woman who hired me at my current position and then left for a job at a different organization, is leaving that position.

It has been clear to me for months that the woman who was hired to replace her here, is not happy here and is seeking opportunities elsewhere. This is fine with us, as to say that we're not satisfied with her management performance would be the understatement of several lifetimes. In fact, as I noted to a friend a month or so ago, the situation with her and me is rapidly devolving into a game of chicken to determine who will resign first. I am nothing if not stubborn, and since I was here first, I am determined to stay.

However, part of me thinks it would be amusing if I followed my old boss into her (about to be old) job.

But...given the fact that current boss is looking for a new job, the likelihood of us competing against one another for this position is high. Extremely high. There are after all, only so many positions available in D.C. in our field. Therefore, it would be very amusing if we passed one another in the revolving door, both in our finest interview threads, resumes clutched to our chests.

File Under: Karma, Department of

Earlier today, I observed a visitor to our office helping himself to the container of hummus I have in the fridge. Apparently, the fact that I had my initials scrawled all over it was not enough to deter him from partaking. I was about to feel rather miffed, until I realized exactly how old that container of hummus is. Now I suppose, nature will teach him a lesson on its own. It's nice how these things often work themselves out.

The Hughsian Anti-Hero

Today, Salon.com's Broadsheet is debating a very important issue in response to the untimely demise of Mr. John Hughes, teen movie auteur extraordinaire. And while the question of favorite John Hughes heroines is a good one, and indeed, there are many to choose from (how do you decide between Iona and Watts?), I am here today to pose the opposite question: Who is your favorite *male* John H. character?

Mine is hands down, Judd Nelson's brilliant portrayal of the "burnout" John Bender, in detention of course, for pulling a false fire alarm, in The Breakfast Club. To my emerging smart-ass mind, no line in movie history was as wonderful or witty as "screws fall out all the time. The world is an imperfect place." In fact, I still use it in conversation and normally receive quizzical looks. It is very possible in fact, that my soul mate (if such a thing exists) will be the man who knows what the hell I am talking about when I reference that line.

Whether challenging the authority of megalomaniac Principal, Richard "Dick" Vernon, or wooing Molly Ringwald's Claire Standish with his antagonisms, John Bender planted the seed of a life-long infatuation with bad boys and ner-do-wells. And while I have since wised-up to the pitfalls of falling for the boy who simply can't deal with the rules laid out before him, I will always carry a small torch for the wounded rebel archtype, thanks to Mr. Bender.

In the comments section, tell me what a cliche I am for liking this insufferable douchebag. Or...tell me who your favorite John H. character is--male or female.