Le sigh. Schmoo, whenever I feel sad recently I watch seek out house makeover shows where they re-do bathrooms into a spa bath. Here's an example. I can't get enough. Is watching a bathroom become beautiful and peaceful almost the same as relaxing in a soaker tub with jets? Um, almost? Ok not really. All I'm saying is, I'm coveting.
Recently, the schmoos were staying at a beach house with a briar patch in the back yard that housed countless critters. Our favorite backyard visitor (by far) was our bunny friend. He is this tiny little bunny who chose to eat his meals at the same time as us, so that we could watch and obsess over him while we ate. He even enjoyed the carrots we left for him by the briar. You know who didn't love our fawning over him? His mother. It's cool, we backed off. But not before capturing this awesome video of a bunny bath! Please enjoy.
Schmoo, since you are classy and work for a real business you probably use Outlook.
Since I work in a place where we have to buy our own computers and chairs, I use Google Calendar. I have always hated it since I use a paper planner as well and inevitably I'll write down something on one and omit it on the other.
That has all changed recently. Why? Because Google Calendar now allows me to add pieces of flair to events. If I'm going to a happy hour, I can put a little martini glass by the event name. If I'm teaching, I can put a little book next to the event name. Most importantly, on the day you're coming to visit I can put a big smiley face and on the day you're leaving I can put a big frowny face.
I had an interesting conversation with a friend today. It was in reference to the types of adjectives men use to describe women. Let's face it, words like "cute", "pretty", and "hot" are a little lackluster. They're the equivalent of being referred to as "baby" by a stranger. You're not the kind of person who has a problem with that? Then get out of here.
This conversation began at a sandwich shop as this song blasted over the speakers:
Leaving the commentary on this hilarious trainwreck of a masterpiece to you, schmoo.
At any rate, this is a call to action. One- or two-syllable adjectives just don't cut it. Using the word "sexy" to describe a "booty" is a nice way to get a punch in the teeth. Three-syllable adjectives, however, harken back to a time before we even had words like "booty". Did you know that "bromance" is officially in the OED now?? Outrageous.
I'd like to think that there are people out there who still use three-syllable adjectives. Let's think of some now.
What are some others? Please, for the love of god, don't say "hump-worthy". That's a hyphenate. It doesn't count.
I read these comics/sites/blogs every day. You probably should too. I'll categorize them so you can select accordingly.
For the geek:
For the nerd:
More knitting things...
Even more knitting things....
In the event of emergency:
In the event of a "not knowing what lindsay lohan was wearing when she got out of rehab (the 1st time)" emergency:
When you spent two hours reading Perez Hilton and feel like a jackass:
More teacher stuff
What do you read every day?
Last night I attended a happy hour with former colleagues. I found that I liked them better as former colleagues. We laughed, we gossiped, we drank. Well, to be fair, I drank. A lot. And so did my former boss who is also my life coach/mentor/substitute parent/friend/etc. The other two women were not drinking: one was breastfeeding and the other is not a drinker. This trivial detail becomes significant later.
So we're sitting at a four-top table and I'm sitting across from my former boss. She's telling a hilarious story about attending a party at a couple's house, this couple being of the 22-year-old variety and recently married. She's getting louder, the story is getting funnier, and the wine is freely flowing.
She is attempting to tell a story about a dog jumping up on the dining room table and eating from a bowl full of potato chips. The host's response to this? To shoo the dog away and turn the bowl of potato chips around so that the non-contaminated chips were the closest to the guests. Gross, right? Hilarious, no? No. Because in the middle of this story, my boss shares that these were barbeque potato chips. As soon as this detail slips her lips one coworker (The one who was breastfeeding. The white one who lives in a log cabin.) interrupts and shouts, "Barbeque potato chips?? What is up with that? Who serves barbeque potato chips at a party? No offense." You guessed it. The "No offense" part was addressed directly to the fourth coworker (The one who does not drink. The one who, yes, is African American). She may as well have said, "Barbeque potato chips are so pedestrian and declasse. What kind of barbarian would serve them? I am looking right at you and clearly intending this for you, black coworker, but I hope you don't turn into an angry black lady and yell at me."
Perhaps at any other table there would have been an awkward silence, some tut-tutting, a diversion in the form of a magic trick. This was not any other table, however. This was our table. And I want you to remember how much wine the rest of us had consumed. I'm not going to tell you exactly how much. I'm going to tell you it was enough wine to make you want to send cryptic text messages to old boyfriends from a toilet stall, but not quite enough to make you call them and leave messages about how you've moved on and you never loved them anyway. That's not how you react when you're drunk? Then you're not doing it right.
At any rate, the barbeque potato chips comment is uttered. I react with some kind of wine spit-take and a loud "What the f-ck, coworker?!" (Ok, I may have just looked at her sharply) while my loud, life coach/former boss turns, yells, "Do you have any other racist sterotypes you'd like to put on the table or can I move on with my story?" We laugh. She cringes. The story moves forward while she-of-the-sterotype-perpetuating sheepishly tries to interject that she's not racist. Note to universe: If you find yourself explaining that you're not a racist, you are. And frankly, it's horrible to watch. It's like having to listen to a 22 year-old boy with Lady Gaga ringtones try to explain to you that he's not gay.
Moral of this story: 1) Do not spend time with coworkers outside of work unless there is alcohol involved (for everyone). 2) Delete phone numbers of potential DDRs (Drunk Dial Recipients) PRIOR to arriving at the bar. 3) Never let a ridiculous comment go unpunished. and 4) Perhaps most important of all: when attending a party never eat a soggy potato chip.
I showed your cat video to a coworker and said, "This is how my sister feels today." She said, "That's so funny because I have a cat image that expresses how I feel." Then I said, "Oh god, so do I."
We shared the images/videos. We laughed. We commiserated. Then we promptly went back to our desks keenly aware that we had just shared THREE different anecdotes involving cats. We don't even LIKE cats. And how many cat stories do you have to tell before you're a crazy cat lady? Oh, the horror.
But let's not think about that. I have included our videos/pictures for your viewing pleasure. And I feel compelled to say that we will be on our way to happy hour, promptly.
This is my coworker's life metaphor.
This is mine.
Ok, that title was a little misleading. I mean, it's the truth, but it leads you to an image of Marion Cotillard in sky-high platform pumps trotting along some Paris side street, cigarette in hand, pint-sized poodle trailing behind. Is that just me? Ok, maybe it is.
The point is, schmoo, that I wore your Louboutins to work today. I was prepared to address comments from coworkers ("Oh, these old things? They're vintage Louboutins. Aren't they fabulous? They're my sister's.). I must have angered the shoe god, though, because not only did no one compliment them, but I had to WALK to GEORGETOWN in them. It is 100 degrees here today and close to 100% humidity.
Yes, the shoe god is angry with me for my smugness about the shoes. It is right to love them, to admire them, to wear them with pride, but hubris comes with a price. That price is blisters and discomfort.
One schmoo in DC, the other in NYC. Where did the "schmoo" come from? Don't worry about it. Just enjoy the writing, ok? Jerks.